#rickety the field mouse

[eye-candy-film-enjoyer]

Wes Anderson Movies + Tv tropes part 6/12

Fantastic Mr Fox Edition

[demiclar]

Home

Home - Ao3

Crow returns to his apartment after a harrowing mission, but everything is going wrong. Saint brings him home.

(On Ao3 I have this as two chapters, but it only fits into one #destcember2022 prompt, so you get both chapters in one here on tumblr. Enjoy!)

Crow lets himself into his apartment with an exhausted sigh. His whole body trembles with the effort of just standing, staying upright and making basic, normally undemanding movements after three grueling days in the field. It’s rare that his scouting work becomes so physically abrasive, but he’s spent the last three days in a game of cat and mouse with what felt like an entire legion of Wrathborn. He’d hit them hard only to be ambushed by more when he least expected it. He’d had to send out a distress call to local Guardians to even repel their forces, and had retreated back to a sniper’s perch while the other Guardians pursued Xivu Arath’s minions. He’d had to lay prone to even shoot, his body too shaky for him to even aim his gun standing.

He’d climbed into his ship, wished it to take him to take them to the Tower and let the paracausal forces take over. He’d tossed off his armor and passed out on his bunk for the short ride back. He felt like a dead man walking for the entire trip back to his apartment. He still feels ready to collapse as he pushes the door shut behind him, locking it with trembling fingers.

The silence that meets him isn’t the balm he’s expecting it to be. For the past few weeks, Crow has been spending much of his time at Saint and Osiris’ apartment. Initially, it was to help out. When Osiris was unconscious, Crow would come by to keep Saint company, to take his mind off Osiris for a while. He’d bring food, or help Saint cook or clean. After Osiris woke, it was much of the same. He’d bring food, or offer to help with little chores or errands while Osiris and Saint were loaded down with work.

Now, however, his relationship with Saint and Osiris has grown to something warm and pleasant. That isn’t to say Saint didn’t care for him before, but now when Crow goes over to their apartment, it’s because they’ve invited him over, which they seem to do every other day, if not more often. They teach him to cook meals he’s never eaten before. He and Osiris discuss the Hive, and Crow’s scouting work. With Saint, he talks about the Eliksni, and how they might better help them adjust to life in the city. Saint and Osiris have invited him into their Dawning traditions, sharing meals, exchanging gifts, watching movies, baking cookies. They’re eager to share the festivities with him. One night, after Osiris had been introducing him to a series of city-made wines and Crow had drank a bit too much, Saint had coaxed him into taking the guest room bed for the night. After that, Saint adopted a way of offering the room up for the night, and Crow has begun to feel at home with Saint and Osiris’ roof over his head, their warmth and care surrounding him.

His apartment is so silent compared to theirs. It’s so dark, so cold. As a relatively young Guardian, his salary isn’t great. The best apartment he can afford that’s close enough to the Tower to be manageable is a tiny studio apartment. To the right of the door that leads in and out are the only two rooms enclosed in the apartment, his bathroom, with a rickety old sink that probably hasn’t been tended to since before the Red War, and a shower with shitty water pressure and hot water that only works half the time. The single lightbulb overhead flickers and goes out when he’s trying to shower, and the toilet has a clogging problem. Beside the bathroom is his storage closet, where he keeps all his weapons and armor. To the left of the door is his kitchen, mostly functional given that the most he uses it for is meals that only get about as extravagant as macaroni and cheese, or maybe a quesadilla if he has the time to make it. His bedroom is a loft that sits over the kitchen. The one dazzling feature of the apartment being the massive windows at the end of the space that look out on the city below. Unfortunately, he’s sure the view he doesn’t often have time to appreciate hikes up his rent considerably, and in the winter months, cold seeps through glass, so chilling he has to go to bed under every blanket he owns, and still he shivers.

The cold hits him as soon as he enters. The city outside is covered in a blanket of snow, but Crow can’t find the beauty in it, not when he’s so worn down by stress and exhaustion. He feels like he’s going to snap, or burst into tears. He lets Glint transmat his guns and armor away, grabbing a loaf of bread from the kitchen and checking over it only long enough to confirm it isn’t moldy before he tears a hunk of it off with his teeth. He grabs the half gallon of milk from the fridge and drinks straight from the carton, hoping the minimal sustenance will be enough to get him through his shower and to bed without passing out.

“Crow.” Glint’s voice is gentle when he appears beside Crow. He turns on the light in the loft, adding a layer of illumination where the only light previously had been the dim light in the fridge. Crow caps the milk and shoves it back inside.

“I’m tired, Glint. I just want to shower and go to bed.” He’s covered in dirt and grime. He’ll need to clean his armor before he wears it again, but even with it off his body, his underlayers are matted down by the mess too. Old blood from injuries since healed clings to his skin. The evidence of fighting had marred him so badly the doorman in the lobby had yelped in surprise when they’d spotted him entering. Had Glint not been hovering at his shoulder, they probably would’ve mistaken him for an ax murderer, rather than a Guardian covered in his own blood.

“Okay.” Glint agrees quietly, his voice hesitant. “I’m just worried about you.” Crow can feel it down the bond, but he brushes it aside rather than acknowledging his Ghost and the complex feelings bound up inside him. He’s too exhausted to even consider them.

He heads to the bathroom, stripping off his shirt as he goes. When he leans into the shower to start it, nothing happens when he turns the tap. Crow feels his body stiffen. He cannot deal with this right now. He leans back, looking up towards the showerhead. Just as he moves in front of it, a burst of icy water spurts from the tap, drenching his hair and his face before it stops completely.

“No fucking way.”

He tries the other taps in the apartment. The bathroom sink sputters for a moment but only a few drops come out of it. The same happens in the kitchen, and by the time he returns to the shower to check it again, the icy cold water in his hair has seemed to seep into his scalp. The apartment has never felt so cold around him, and he feels himself shudder. Tears prickle the backs of his eyes.

“Crow.” Glint’s voice sounds again, and he drifts into Crow’s view, his voice pinched in sympathy.

“What?” Crow snaps, unable to fight the vitriol in his tone.

This is just his fucking luck. He should have just stayed in the field, or in his ship. He could have taken a bath in some half frozen lake and slept it off in his sleeping bag, or in his bunk. He wants to crawl up to his bed and pass out but there’s still blood all over his skin and he’s not willing to make a mess that big, not when things are already going this badly.

Faintly, the sound of music reaches his ears, pounding bass followed by cheers and shouts. Stomping feet sound from above the loft, and Crow presses his back to the wall and sinks down to sit on the bathroom floor. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, but can’t hold back his tears.

“I’m going to call Saint.” Glint tells him.

“No, Glint, don’t–” His voice is choked with tears. He reaches out to stop his Ghost but Glint flits out of his reach. Within seconds, Crow’s faced with a projection of Saint, smiling towards him.

Saint’s smile disintegrates as soon as he lays eyes on Crow, his mouth falling open with clear concern.

“Crow, are you alright? I thought you’d be asleep by now.” The Titan’s voice is filled with worry. Distantly, Crow can make out Osiris’ voice, but he doesn’t catch his words.

“I’m–” He breaks off, rubbing hard at his eyes as he fights to stop crying. He gasps in a shaking breath against his will, and Saint visibly softens, his whole face pure sympathy and concern. “I just got back from the field and I haven’t slept in days. The water’s not working and it’s freezing in my apartment–”

The bathroom light overhead goes out, plunging Crow into darkness. A sob tears itself from Crow’s throat.

“Crow,” Saint’s voice is honey sweet, filled with warmth so opposite to the cold apartment around him, the tile floor biting into his bare feet and the wall against his back, the icy water still in his hair.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be bothering you with this, I didn’t mean for Glint to call you I just–”

He breaks off into hiccuping sobs. He has to close his eyes against the image of Saint in front of him.

“Stay there, Crow. I will come and get you.” Saint is already standing by the time Crow opens his eyes.

“No, Saint, you don’t have to–”

“I will. I’m coming, Crow. I’m going to take you home.”

Crow hasn’t managed to stop crying by the time Saint makes it to his apartment. In fact, he hasn’t really managed to do much of anything. The first bit of tears he let slip opened the floodgates to devastating sobs, and in the time that he’s been alone with Glint, Crow has collapsed onto his side on the bathroom floor and cried harder than he has since Spider beat him to death on a regular basis.

He feels like an idiot. He shouldn’t be crying, not over something as little as being deprived of a shower, some broken lights, and loud neighbors. But deep down he gets why he’s crying. He knows it’s about much more than the apartment, and the weight he’s feeling is as much in his control as it is beyond it. He’s exhausted, malnourished and dehydrated from being on the run from Hive for three days. He’s covered in blood and dirt, his adrenaline is crashing, and he’s still hung up on the fear of being stalked like prey. He can’t help that he’s crying. It makes sense that he’s crying.

Still, he hates himself for it. He hates himself for curling up on the bathroom floor, laying shivering on the cold tiles, bare from the waist up. The cold drives into his skin until he’s numb, and he sobs and gasps even as he hears Saint knock on the front door.

“Crow? It’s me. May I come in?”

He sends Glint, because he can’t manage to form words. He peels himself off the floor as his Ghost lets Saint into the apartment, even though Saint has his own key, given to him for emergencies. He’s managed to sit up by the time Saint crouches in the bathroom doorway—the room is so small the two of them would hardly fit together—but the soft look on Saint’s face sends him spiraling straight back into sobs.

“It’s alright, Crow.” Saint reaches out to him and Crow practically throws himself into the Titan’s arms. It says a great deal about how far their trust has come over the months they’ve known each other. Crow can’t think of anyone he’d really embrace without second thought, but Saint’s very being is comfort to Crow, and right now he needs all the comfort he can get.

Saint whispers soothing words to him, gathering Crow into his arms. He lifts him up, off the tile floor, slipping him into his arms like he weighs nothing, and he carries them from the tiny bathroom. Saint carries him up the staircase to the loft. He holds Crow with one arm while he sets a towel on Crow’s bed, no doubt having noticed the blood and dirt covering Crow like a second skin, then he sets Crow down on top of it. He cradles Crow’s face in his hands, his palms heavenly warm against Crow’s skin.

“I will help you into some new clothes, then I will take you home with me, yes?” Saint tells him gently, and Crow nods his assent. “You will wash up once we get there, but I do not want you to be so uncomfortable until then.”

Crow swallows hard, but he nods again. For as long as he’s known Saint, it’s still hard not to be blindsided by his generosity. He takes care of Crow as if he were a member of Saint’s own family, embraced and looked after without condition or expectation. Saint’s thumbs wipe away some of the tears on Crow’s cheeks.

A small stack of clothes appears beside Crow, Glint’s doing, and Saint thanks him even though Crow knows he should be the one thanking him, but Saint is ever patient, and constant with his care. He helps Crow out of his old, dirty layers, steadying him when his body shakes and shudders. He helps Crow dress in the new clothes, sliding thick socks onto his feet, helping him into pants and a sweater. There’s still grime underneath, but while they work, Glint transmats a bag onto the floor and fills it with more clean clothes, pajamas and regular clothes, wool socks and the sweater Saint had gifted to him as a Dawning present.

Once he’s dressed, Saint grabs the bag from the floor before Crow can pick it up, and he offers out a hand to steady Crow as he guides him out of the loft. When Crow tries to thank him, or to tell him that he’s alright, really—though he’s still teary eyed and breathing rough—Saint just holds him a little tighter, and shushes him quietly.

The walk to Saint and Osiris’s apartment isn’t long, but it feels like an eternity to Crow. Normally, Crow can walk over in less than ten  minutes. Their apartment buildings aren’t far apart, though Saint and Osiris’ is worlds nicer than Crow’s. They walk for five minutes at a slow pace before Saint lifts Crow into his arms again, and Crow must’ve started to doze off, because the next thing he knows, he’s enveloped in warm air, and the scent of home, Osiris and Saint’s voices in his ears.

“Crow?” Saint’s voice speaks softly in his ear. “I’m going to put you down now, alright?”

Crow manages a noise of understanding, peeling open his eyes to look around. He’s in Saint and Osiris’ bathroom, the tub already mostly full with steamy water. Osiris sits on the tub’s edge, using his hand to test the water’s temperature. Saint lowers him down, setting him on the bathroom counter. He pushes Crow’s hair from his eyes with a fond, sympathetic smile, and Crow can’t help the way he leans slightly into his hand.

“How are you feeling?” Osiris asks him, just as Crow feels his eyes slip closed. The effort to drag them back open is monumental.

“I’m tired.” He mumbles. “And my head hurts. I feel shaky.”

“You haven’t eaten anything in several hours.” Glint reminds him, and before Crow can bring up his little snack from when he first made it back to the apartment, he goes on. “The bread doesn’t count. You also haven’t slept more than six hours in the past three days, and I can’t correct for something like that without reviving you.”

“You will have a bath, you will eat something, and then you will sleep.” Saint tells him.

“I might fall asleep in the bath.”

Saint laughs quietly. “That’s quite alright.” He says, cradling Crow’s cheek with a hand. “I will look after you.”

He unties one of Crow’s shoes and pulls it off his foot. Crow reaches down to help, but he’s hardly untied the laces of his other shoe before Saint gently guides his hand away to do the rest himself. He pulls off Crow’s other shoe, then his socks, and pulls his sweater up, over his head.

“I will go heat up some food. Would you like soup? I believe we have some leftovers.” Osiris turns off the faucet once the tub is full, rising to his feet.

“Soup sounds great.” Crow lifts his head, offering both Saint and Osiris a weak smile. “Thank you for doing this.”

Osiris sets a hand on Crow’s knee, while Saint reaches out to hold his shoulder.

“You will always have a home here, Crow.” Osiris tells him, then gives him a smile. “Try one of the bath bombs, I believe you’ll find them enjoyable.”

A genuine smile crosses Crow’s face despite his exhaustion. A few days ago, Saint and Osiris fell into a debate of whether or not bath bombs were enjoyable, with Osiris for and Saint against, both eager to have Crow serve as a tiebreaker.

“I will.” Crow agrees.

“I will leave you to undress. I will come back to help you once you are ready, if that’s alright?” Saint asks him.

“I can–” Crow breaks off. Part of him wants to refuse, the part of him that needs to take care of himself and not show weakness, but his exhaustion is clinging to his bones, pressing down on him like lead weights. He’s not sure if he could even manage a whole bath on his own. He’s not sure he trusts himself not to fall asleep and drown. “Okay.” He agrees, giving Saint a small nod. “Thank you.”

Saint and Osiris leave the bathroom and Crow eases himself off the counter. He picks out a bath bomb from Osiris’ collection and sets it beside the tub, then slips out of the rest of his clothes. When he eases himself into the tub, the water is hot at first, but as he gets his aching limbs under the heat of the water, a sigh melts out of him, and he lays back against the end of the tub, his eyes slipping closed.

He luxuriates in the heat for a few moments before he retrieves his bath bomb and sets it in the water. It fizzes to life, filling the air with a citrusy scent, and Crow watches it dissolve. It clouds the water until it's opaque, but it makes his skin feel smooth and soft, and it might be the comfort in the face if his stress and exhaustion, but he’s pretty sure he agrees with Osiris on the subject.

Crow’s eyes are nearly closing when a gentle knock sounds on the door.

“Come in,” he calls, and Saint pokes his head in. Crow gives him a tired smile. “I’m so ready to fall asleep right now.”

Saint smiles back, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “Baths often have that effect.”

Crow’s whole body feels relaxed. His head still aches slightly, and his body still feels weak from hunger, but the utter anguish and stress that had driven him to tears earlier has faded in the face of Saint and Osiris’ care. His headache already seems to be subsiding when Saint sits on the edge of the tub beside him, tilting his head back to use a bowl to pour warm water over his hair.

Saint washes his hair, running his fingers over Crow’s scalp until Crow practically melts from the touch. He scrubs the blood from Crow’s face and neck, his arms, and his back, and Crow tends to the rest. By the time he’s clean, he feels ready to collapse, but Saint slips out and Crow forces himself to stay awake. He drains the tub and rinses himself off under the shower before he dresses in the pajamas Glint had packed him. When he makes it out to the kitchen, Osiris has a steaming bowl of soup ready for him, and Crow feels more loved than he’s ever been in his entire life.

“Thank you.” He tells Osiris as he sits down at the breakfast bar in front of the bowl of soup. He imagines he will have to tell them the whole story later, not on their insistence but on his own desire to explain, but neither Osiris or Saint ask him about it. They need no explanation, no reason for the warmth and comfort they provide. They offer it without question and Crow drinks it in.

Osiris smiles at him, and Saint wraps a blanket around Crow’s shoulders, hugging him through it.

Saint repeats Osiris’ words as he holds Crow close. “You will always have a home here.”

[sublimedevastation]

The Lost Son

1. The Flight

At Woodlawn I Heard the dead cry: I was lulled by the slamming of iron, A slow drip over stones, Toads brooding wells. All the leaves stuck out their tongues; I shook the softening chalk of my bones, Saying, Snail, snail, glister me forward, Bird, soft-sigh me home, Worm, be with me. This is my hard time.

Fished in an old wound, The soft pond of repose; Nothing nibbled my line, Not even the minnows came.

Sat in an empty house Watching shadows crawl, Scratching. There was one fly.

Voice, come out of the silence. Say something. Appear in the form of a spider Or a moth beating the curtain.

Tell me: Which is the way I take; Out of what door do I go, Where and to whom?

Dark hollows said, lee to the wind, The moon said, back of an eel, The salt said, look by the sea, Your tears are not enough praise, You will find no comfort here, In the kingdom of bang and blab.

Running lightly over spongy ground, Past the pasture of flat stones, The three elms, The sheep strewn on a field, Over a rickety bridge Toward the quick-water, wrinkling and rippling.

Hunting along the river, Down among the rubbish, the bug-riddled foliage, By the muddy pond-edge, by the bog-holes, By the shrunken lake, hunting, in the heat of summer.

The shape of a rat? It's bigger than that. It's less than a leg And more than a nose, Just under the water It usually goes.

Is it soft like a mouse? Can it wrinkle his nose? Could it come in the house On the tips of its toes?

Take the skin of a cat And the back of an eel, Then roll them in grease,- That's the way it would feel.

It's sleek as an otter With wide webby toes Just under the water It usually goes.

2. The Pit

Where do the roots go? Look down under the leaves. Who put the moss there? These stones have been here too long. Who stunned the dirt into noise? Ask the mole, he knows. I feel the slime of a wet nest. Beware Mother Mildew. Nibble again, fish nerves.

3. The Gibber

At the wood's mouth, By the cave's door, I listened to something I had heard before.

Dogs of the groin Barked and howled, The sun was against me, The moon would not have me.

The weeds whined, The snakes cried The cows and briars Said to me: Die.

What a small song. What slow clouds. What dark water. Hath the rain a father? All the caves are ice. Only the snow's here. I'm cold. I'm cold all over. Rub me in father and mother. Fear was my father, Father Fear. His look drained the stones.

What gliding shape Beckoning through halls, Stood poised on the stair, Fell dreamily down?

From the mouths of jugs Perched on many shelves, I saw substance flowing That cold morning.

Like a slither of eels That watery cheek As my own tongue kissed My lips awake.

Is that the storm's heart? The ground is unstilling itself. My veins are running nowhere. Do the bones cast out their fire? Is the seed leaving the old bed? These buds are live as birds. Where, where are the tears of the world? Let the kisses resound, flat like a butcher's palm; Let the gestures freeze; our doom is already decided. All the windows are burning! What's left of my life? I want the old rage, the lash of primordial milk! Goodbye, goodbye, old stones, the time-order is going, I have married my hands to perpetual agitation, I run, I run to the whistle of money.

Money money money Water water water

How cool the grass is. Has the bird left? The stalk still sways. Has the worm a shadow? What do the clouds say?

These sweeps of light undo me. Look, look, the ditch is running white! I've more veins than a tree! Kiss me, ashes, I'm falling through a dark swirl.

4. The Return

The way to the boiler was dark, Dark all the way, Over slippery cinders Through the long greenhouse.

The roses kept breathing in the dark. They had many mouths to breathe with. My knees made little winds underneath Where the weeds slept.

There was always a single light Swinging by the fire-pit, Where the fireman pulled out roses, Those big roses, the big bloody clinkers.

Once I stayed all night. The light in the morning came slowly over the white snow. There were many kinds of cool Air. Then came the steam.

Pipe-knock.

Scurry of warm over small plants. Ordnung! ordnung! Papa is coming!

A fine haze moved off the leaves; Frost melted on far panes; The rose, the chrysanthemum turned toward the light. Even the hushed forms, the bent yellowy weeds Moved in a slow up-sway.

5. "It was beginning winter"

It was beginning winter, An in-between time, The landscape still partly brown: The bones of weeds kept swinging in the wind, Above the blue snow.

It was beginning winter, The light moved slowly over the frozen field, Over the dry seed-crowns, The beautiful surviving bones Swinging in the wind.

Light traveled over the wide field; Stayed. The weeds stopped swinging. The mind moved, not alone, Through the clear air, in the silence.

Was it light? Was it light within? Was it light within light? Stillness becoming alive, Yet still?

A lively understandable spirit Once entertained you. It will come again. Be still. Wait.

by Theodore Roethke

[happylittledrabbles]

Sour, Then Sweet

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugo x Eijiro Kirishima

Rating: 18+ (DO NOT INTERACT IF UNDER 18)

Genre: Fluffy smut

Word Count: 7K

AO3

-

Kirishima used to like having sex with Bakugo...until he had to keep calling in sick every time they did it because Bakugo was so rough, it hurt doing Pro Hero work the next day. He avoids having sex with his boyfriend until Bakugo thinks that he isn't attractive anymore, causing a miscommunication between the two men. Kirishima eventually fesses up, and Bakugo reveals he's preferred romantic sex over rough the entire time.

Then, they try it out.

-

Eijiro Kirishima liked sex. Keyword: liked.

It’s not as if he’s completely averse to it now. No, he enjoys it—it’s very evident every time he does it. But, well, the effects of the deed afterward left much to be desired, and now, whenever Bakugo initiates, he can’t help but imagine the amount of pain he’s going to feel the next day. Bakugo is…rough. Very rough. Kirishima used to like it…the first few times. Really only the first time. But that’s probably because that was when he was between Pro Hero jobs and didn’t have to get out of bed the next day and do actual work.

“Oh, my God, just tell him!” Mina would say whenever Kirishima would FaceTime her, but he’d just change the subject and promptly hang up.

There’s no way in hell he’s going to talk about something as embarrassing as a sore butthole or the fact that his hips feel so rickety that he has to call in sick for work. Actually, he’s had to call in sick every single time they have sex. The fading hickeys on his neck don’t get the chance to fade away before being replaced with a fresh set; usually, that’d be very sexy to the Pro Hero, but when he has to go out as a venerated public figure, being seen by children and old people, it’s very much not desired. Mina lent him her concealer, saying “It does the trick” with a wink, but Pro Hero work isn’t exactly conducive to keeping makeup looking flawless. Thankfully, Pro Hero work is conducive to explaining away the scratches and “bruises” on his chest and neck.

Bakugo is genuinely concerned whenever Kirishima has to call in sick, but the redhead just pushes him out the door saying that he was fine; he just isn’t feeling it that day. But the excuses are running thin. There are only so many times he can call in sick without losing his spot in the top ten of Pro Heroes, and above all, he needs to help people. He can’t help but turn on the TV and watch in horror as depressing story after depressing story popped up on the news, all while lying on his side because sitting on his ass hurt too much.

So…he’d started turning down sex. And never initiating it. Well, he’d stopped initiating for a while. But he’d never turn it down. Now, before getting home, he’d use his trip home to think of all the excuses he could use when he climbed into bed with his boyfriend later that night if Bakugo was in the mood. He knows a simple ‘no’ would satisfy the blond and earn him a forehead kiss before being left alone, but…he still feels guilty. Therefore, the excuses came rolling in.

“Ah, sorry, just ate a big burrito.”

“I just took a shit. Ha.”

“Look over there! Oh, no…our potted plant broke. Gotta fix that.” (Kirishima pushed it off the dresser.)

“I’m really sweaty from work…no, it’s not sexy. No—a villain pissed on me, too.” (They had not.)

Bakugo, instead of being sexually frustrated, has been panicking. The main worry on his mind hasn’t been “Fuck, blue balls again?” Rather, it’s been “Is Eijiro not attracted to me anymore?” He hasn’t put on any weight. In fact, he’s gotten more muscular as an effect of his Pro Hero work. U.A. was challenging, especially with the League of Villains always up their asses, but at least they had their teachers and other Pro Heroes looking after them. Now it’s all up to him. He thought this feeling of losing control would stay at work, but clearly, it’s followed him back home because he can’t get a grip on Kirishima. Any time he thinks he’s figured Kirishima’s feelings out or gotten him close to talking about his feelings, he slips right out of his hands and locks himself behind a door, both metaphorically and physically. He’s already losing control and stamina in his Pro Hero work; the last thing he wants is for that to happen to his relationship.

Bakugo’s frustration boils to a point after a particularly hard day when he comes home and sees Eijiro on the couch, and instead of his boyfriend greeting him with a hug and a kiss, he stiffens and looks over his shoulder with a weary smile.

“What’s wrong with you?” Bakugo shouts, throwing his hands up in the air as he kicks off his boots. His anger subsides immediately when he sees Kirishima’s face fall, and he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “No, that came out wrong. I mean, why have you been acting weird?”

Kirishima frowns, visibly confused. “Weird? What do you mean?” He gets up from the couch and pads over to his boyfriend, his hands nervously laced together in front of him.

Bakugo’s scowl deepens, his eyebrows furrowing in the middle of his forehead. He snaps his arm forward, motioning to Kirishima’s hands. “I mean, you won’t even touch me. Why are you acting so nervous every time I get close to you?” He steps forward, and Kirishima takes a step back. Bakugo’s heart falls to his feet, cementing them to the ground. He’s paralyzed.

“See?” he adds with the smallest voice he’s used in a while.

It’ll be painful for Kirishima to explain why he’s been avoiding sex. But it’s even more painful to watch his boyfriend, who is usually so full of gusto, look like a timid mouse before him, pleading with him to explain himself. Kirishima never thought that communication would be this hard. It’s so simple out on the field: “Uravity, on your right!” “The villain is heading west down Third Street!” It’s short, informational, and unimportant in the long scheme of things. But relationships are a whole ‘nother level.

“I—” he starts, but panic sets in and closes his throat to any speech.

“Spit it out!” Bakugo’s hair is standing on end, and he lets out a long breath. “C’mon, Eijiro. You’re treating me like a villain here.” He hesitates before asking quietly, “Are you not attracted to me anymore?”

Kirishima’s chin dimples as he tries to hold back tears. He’d never thought that he had been hurting Bakugo, too. But clearly, he had, to the point of the other thinking he isn’t attractive. That is the most ludicrous thing he’s ever heard. So ludicrous, in fact, that out of pure spite, his mouth opens to offer the explanation once and for all.

Kirishima groans from frustration. “No, that’s not it at all! You’re still the most attractive man ever! Like, the first time I saw you, I was like ‘wow.’ Then when I saw you blow stuff up, I was like ‘wow.’ Like, you went kablam and kaboosh! It was so cool! What’s there not to be attracted to?”

Bakugo scowls. “Then why won’t you have sex with me?! Why do you keep putting things off? If you don’t want to do it anymore, that’s fine. I guess.” He begins to stutter out his next sentence before stopping to recollect himself. “I just want to know…if I did anything wrong.”

Kirishima’s never seen his boyfriend so downtrodden. He’s desperate to put a smile back on his boyfriend’s face, but the only way to do that would be to have sex with him, and well…

He purses his lips before coming clean. “You didn’t do anything wrong, I promise! I’m sorry, Katsuki! It’s just…you’re…” He looks up from the floor to meet Bakugo’s eyes, the blond’s ruby eyes darker than usual. Kirishima inhales sharply and balls his hands into fists by his sides, finally yelling, “You’re too rough!”

When he has the courage to open his eyes, they reveal a thoroughly confused Bakugo. His head is cocked, and his scowl has morphed into a straight line.

“…What?” Bakugo asks, lifting his hands up to look at them. “Like…my voice? Or how I act?”

“Uh…” He’s gone this far. Time to come clean. Kirishima rubs the back of his neck awkwardly and groans before saying, “In…in bed. You’re too rough in bed.”

It’s comical how quiet the two men are and how quickly they meet eyes. They just stand there, staring at each other for what feels like eons before Bakugo takes a step forward, an unreadable expression on his face.

“I’m too rough…in bed,” he repeats, and Kirishima feebly nods.

“I’m sorry for letting it drag on for so long; I know that isn’t really manly of me. But I didn’t…I didn’t know how to tell you. It’s embarrassing, but I can’t do it anymore. My ass hurts so much after, and—and the hickeys and bruises are embarrassing, and—”

Kirishima is silenced by the softest pair of lips upon his own, a mere brushing of lips together. He barely would have noticed had his vision not been clouded by a flurry of spiky blond hair and blushed tan skin. His hands are up in the air, unsure of what to do with them, until they come to rest on Bakugo’s shoulders, his fingertips digging gently into the hard muscles underneath them.

“You fucking idiot,” Bakugo whispers underneath his breath before diving in for a deeper kiss, making sure to keep it passionate but gentle. He lets his hands roam Kirishima’s torso with a feather-like touch before resting them on his hips, giving them a tender squeeze to let the other know that none of his words have any bite. But Kirishima has known that for a long time. Ever since they first met at U.A., while everybody feared Bakugo, Kirishima knew there was something else under the surface. And there was. Pure, unadulterated love.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Bakugo asks, pulling away for a short second before going back to kissing. “You should’ve told me.” Kiss. “Why don’t you ever tell me anything?” Kiss. “Now I feel like an asshole.” Kiss. “You’re the asshole for not telling me, asshole.” Kiss.

“If only you’d let me talk!” Kirishima exclaims with a laugh, cupping a hand over Bakugo’s mouth to stop any further kisses for a moment. “I know, I am the asshole. But it’s humiliating, Katsuki! Admitting that your butthole hurts? Why the hell would I ever tell anybody that? Especially after doing hard anal the day before? Mina laughed in my face—”

“You told Mina and not me?!” Bakugo roared, tearing Kirishima’s hand from his mouth. “You are dead. You’re fucking dead. You both are dead, you and that purple shitbag.”

Kirishima has to hold back a chuckle. “She’s pink.”

Bakugo’s head whips back to his boyfriend, his eyes flaming hot. “Not the point!”

Kirishima laughs again and cups the sides of Bakugo’s face, which is now a mild shade of red. He leans forward and plants a butterfly kiss on the tip of his nose, drawing himself back with a soft smile on his lips. “I’m sorry, Katsuki. Seriously. I really should’ve told you. I just figured that you really like rough sex and didn’t want to get in the way of that. We can still do it…just on a weekend or a day off so I can recover.”

“No, no.” Bakugo wipes Kirishima’s hands off his face and laces his own fingers through his boyfriend’s, dropping their hands between them. “We’re not doing that anymore. Unless you want it. I just…”

Now Bakugo’s face is the shade of the hot sauce in the fridge. He suddenly understands why Kirishima was so embarrassed now. Talking about sex is…embarrassing. Their first time, while sentimental, is not something he wants to remember often. In fact, his brain only brings it up when it wants him to cringe, like on a random patrol down the block. Full of misunderstandings and miscommunications, it was a jumble of body parts and weird fluids and Kirishima’s head hitting the headboard so hard he got a lump afterward. Well, the misunderstandings and miscommunications clearly didn’t stop there because they are in the same situation—just without the jumble of body parts and weird fluids. Not yet, anyway.

Bakugo inhales like Kirishima did, using the short time to build up the courage. “I thought you were the one who liked it rough. You seemed…really turned on that one time in the love hotel. With all the, uh, handcuffs…and stuff. So I just…kept on doing it like that.”

Kirishima’s eyes are wide as an owl’s, and he tries not to bite through his lip with his sharp teeth with how hard he’s attempting at not laughing.

“You based…our entire sex life off one time where I seemed particularly turned on?” Kirishima asks, his voice wavering as the laughter tries to butt in. “Is that what the logic was in your head?”

Bakugo yanks his hands back to himself and starts toward the bathroom. “Shut up, you idiot! Forget I ever said anything.”

“No!” Kirishima practically throws himself at his boyfriend, wrapping his arms around the other’s waist. “No, I think it’s adorable. You just wanted to make me happy, right?”

Bakugo stiffens before relenting with a nod.

Kirishima rubs his cheek against Bakugo’s back and grins. “You know, I was so excited that one time because of when you weren’t rough. When I had the blindfold on and I couldn’t see you, and you slowly dragged your fingers over me…” He mimics what he’s saying on Bakugo’s chest, stroking his pecs with the tips of his fingers. He lifts them up to the skin above the deep V of his costume, feeling the warmth of Bakugo’s skin skyrocket.

“That’s what made me so excited,” Kirishima explains. He begins to step away from Bakugo, but his hands are firmly kept against Bakugo’s chest by the other’s grip on them.

“Don’t move.” Bakugo’s voice is strong but with a needy undertone. He turns around in Kirishima’s arms, his eyes looking down at their feet. “I’m sorry.”

Kirishima chuckles. “That’s not something I hear every day. This is a cause for celebration.”

Before Bakugo can retaliate or stomp away in a fit of rage, Kirishima stands on his toes, kissing the firecracker on the forehead. “There’s nothing to apologize for. You’re still my favorite manly man.”

Bakugo manages a smile despite his previous bitterness and nods. “I’m gonna go shower.”

Kirishima nods along with him. “I’ll shower after you. Mind throwing a frozen pizza in the oven while I’m in there for dinner?”

Bakugo’s smile fades, and he hums absentmindedly as he turns around to go to the bathroom. “Yeah, sure.”

Kirishima’s smile fades as well at that response. Hadn’t everything been resolved? Why was his boyfriend still acting like that?

His worries continue for the better part of the evening, especially when Bakugo steps out of the shower and doesn’t say anything in passing before flopping on the bed and going on his phone. Kirishima tries to share a smile with him, or even just a glance, but there is no contact. He frowns to himself and goes to shower, his mind swirling with panic the entire time he’s in there. Once he’s done, he steps out and wraps a towel around his waist before walking into the bedroom. However, he doesn’t walk two steps in before he spots Bakugo sitting at the foot of the bed, smoothing the throw blanket down.

“Babe, what’s going—”

“Eijiro, c’mere,” the blond says, his voice gruff but sincere. He pats the spot next to him, and Kirishima obeys, nervously fumbling with the towel as he sits down. Bakugo places a hand over his boyfriend’s hands to still them and looks up with a gaze of pure love and admiration. His eyes rake over Kirishima’s body, the tan skin still dewy from the shower and his stringy hair framing his angular face. He truly is the manliest man, Bakugo thinks before biting back a snicker. That is clear evidence that he’s been spending too much time with the redhead: he’s even starting to think like him.

Maybe that isn’t such a bad thing.

“Eijiro,” Bakugo starts but hesitates. He clears his throat before saying, “Y’know, I like rough sex, but I’ve always been more of a romantic guy. Um, like…” He sheepishly scratches the back of his head, his eyes refusing to meet Kirishima’s. “Candles…or rose petals. Or…like, soft music. I don’t know. But…I—I like that more.” He bites his lip. “Especially with you.”

Kirishima’s eyes are wide as saucers. He knew that Bakugo didn’t always act like the rude stereotype people make him out to be, but never in a million years did he think that he would purposefully like lovey-dovey sex. He didn’t like fucking—he liked making love. Just the thought gives Kirishima butterflies, which are now running rampant in his stomach. He places a hand over it to stop the feeling from going down too far, but the look in Bakugo’s eyes makes it seem as if that isn’t so bad.

“I…I want to try it,” Bakugo finishes, twiddling his thumbs anxiously for his boyfriend’s response.

However, he doesn’t even need to think about it. He replies, “Then let’s try it.”

Now Bakugo’s eyes are wide, his head turning slowly to meet Kirishima’s determined gaze. He wants to laugh at how adorably resolute his boyfriend looks. Instead, he whispers, “Eijiro,” but he doesn’t finish his sentence, letting it trail off as he leans forward and touches his top lip with Kirishima’s. Both their eyes are lowered, their breaths quickening and their heart rates jumping.

Kirishima closes the gap and nearly falls into their routine foreplay of smashing lips and roughly tearing their clothes off each other like hungry animals. It’s strange doing it so slowly; he’d never felt Bakugo so vividly before. He can taste the strawberry lollipop some kid probably gave him on the street. He can feel every wrinkle, every cut on his bottom lip from how he’d anxiously bite it. The kiss has no teeth, no sharpness at all. Just the soft smacking of their lips and their warm breaths against each other’s chins.

It feels juvenile, all of it. As if they’re going to have sex for the first time and getting to know each other’s bodies. Bakugo lifts his hand and hesitates before gingerly placing it on Kirishima’s chest.

Cute, Kirishima thinks of Bakugo’s nervousness.

“You can touch me, Katsuki,” he whispers, guiding Bakugo’s hand to press firmly into his chest. He’s certain Bakugo can feel his heartbeat going at the speed of a hummingbird’s, but he’s not embarrassed. It’s perfect: it shows how much he’s enjoying this without him having to voice it.

“Okay,” Bakugo replies and returns to kissing, cupping Kirishima’s pec in his palm and giving it a tender squeeze.

“Mm,” Kirishima breathes, breaking the kiss.

Bakugo’s face was already red, but now it’s horridly scarlet at the mere sound of the soft groan. He’s also nervous; he knows that Kirishima will tell him—now that they’ve worked everything out communication-wise—if he’s being too rough, but the panic still lingers.

“Good?” he asks.

Kirishima can tell Bakugo’s being overly cautious, and all he does is direct his boyfriend’s hand to go lower down his torso, letting out another shaky breath. “Y-yes,” he replies, his eyelids heavily lidded. “Good.”

Bakugo nods, and they return to kissing, the one thing both know how to do softly by now. It’s everything else they need to learn how to do. One step at a time. The only “rough thing” they do is when Kirishima playfully nips at Bakugo’s bottom lip with his sharp teeth, eliciting an irresistible groan out of the other.

Bakugo laces his fingers with Kirishima’s and gently pushes him down onto the mattress, never breaking their lip-lock as he turns to settle himself between his legs. While one hand is secured in his boyfriend’s, he uses the other to roam Kirishima’s body, of which he had missed for far too long. He caresses his soft stomach, feeling the strong muscles underneath the thick skin. He runs his fingers down his black happy trail (he burst out laughing the first time he saw it, saying “So the carpet doesn’t match the drapes?” earning a swift kick to the head). His fingers’ journey is stopped by the towel, and Bakugo separates from Kirishima to look down at him for approval.

“Yes, Katsuki,” Kirishima mumbles, his breaths already heavy with anticipation. “Touch me.”

Bakugo smiles and slips his fingers underneath the towel, his hand bumping into Kirishima’s cock only a few centimeters down.

“You’re that excited for me?” Bakugo asks, gripping Kirishima and drawing out a shrill gasp from him. “I’m flattered.”

Kirishima’s about to say something before he’s cut off by his own moan once Bakugo begins pumping his hand, his head falling to the side and his free hand coming up to cover his mouth. He bites his knuckles as Bakugo’s lips fall to his jaw, then to his chin, then to his neck, leaving his skin prickling and pink wherever those lips fall.

The knuckles provide the bare minimum of sound dampening, his voice still echoing off the sides of their bedroom as Bakugo’s stroking gets faster and his kisses grow more feverish. He resorts to draping his forearm over his eyes, squeezing his eyelids shut underneath the darkness his arm provides. If he’s going to be heard no matter what he does, then he’ll hide whatever embarrassing expressions he’s making. Usually, the foreplay and sex go by so quickly, there’s no time to even look at each other. But he can feel Bakugo’s eyes on him, on his body, and the thought makes him squirm.

“Before you say anything, no hickeys, got it,” Bakugo says after pulling away from kissing. He takes a moment now that he’s hovering over Kirishima to admire his body as it is. Usually, they went too fast to savor each other’s bodies. For instance, he didn’t know his boyfriend had a freckle in the middle of his sternum. Or that his nipples are slightly mismatched—but are gorgeous all the same. Or how his stomach expands then contracts erratically to compensate for his hurried breaths.

“You’re beautiful,” Bakugo whispers, diving in to kiss Kirishima’s jaw.

Kirishima chuckles before letting out another soft moan. “I’m a man, you’re supposed to call me handsome.”

“You’re a dumbass,” Bakugo replies, tweaking Kirishima’s nipple playfully and earning a surprised yelp and displeased grumble. “A beautiful dumbass.”

“I’m going to harden and crack you across the face.”

“But you’re already hard.”

“Hey-!” Before Kirishima act out his promise, Bakugo tightens his grip on him and strokes him even faster, pressing his thumb into the head and smearing the precum around it. “A-ah!”

Kirishima shivers, but Bakugo isn’t done with his compliments, even though his boyfriend thinks he doesn’t deserve them.

“Beautiful nose,” Bakugo says, kissing the tip of Kirishima’s nose that’s peeking out from underneath his forearm.

“Beautiful cheek.” Kiss.

“Beautiful jaw.” Kiss.

“Beautiful neck.” Kiss.

“Beautiful chest.” Kiss.

“Beautiful stomach.” Kiss.

Bakugo sits back on his haunches as he pulls the towel away completely, revealing the rest of Kirishima’s body. Another shiver racks Kirishima’s body at all the compliments, his legs self-consciously shutting closed at all the love. He isn’t used to being looked at. To being revered. Of course, Bakugo compliments him, but it’s usually laced with an insult or said begrudgingly. Not like this. Not so easily. Not so…tenderly. It’s…nice. The butterflies are at full speed now, and he’s feeling dizzy as he watches Bakugo continue to press kisses into his skin. Probably because all the blood in his body is draining into his dick. With each compliment, his head gets fuzzier.

“Cute dick,” Bakugo says, which brings Kirishima’s mind back to fully functioning.

He tosses his arm off his face and sits up to look at his boyfriend staring up deviously at him from between his legs, his cock right in front of his face. “What? Not beautiful? Cute?” he exclaims, his voice breaking.

“Yeah, now shut up,” Bakugo says, pushing Kirishima back onto the bed and giving the head a kiss before the redhead can retaliate.

“T-that’s playing—ah! D-dirty…” Kirishima says before dissolving back into his moans.

Bakugo snickers and gives his cock another lick before kissing the tops of Kirishima’s thighs, delighting in seeing them flinch at the touch. “Beautiful thighs.”

He lifts Kirishima’s leg to his shoulder, all the while still pumping him vigorously.

“Beautiful calves.” Kiss.

He kisses the top of Kirishima’s foot. “Beautiful feet.”

“You’re into feet now?” Kirishima asks with a half-laugh, half-gasp.

Bakugo doesn’t answer. He knows that what he’s about to do will be funnier than anything he could say. He licks a trail from Kirishima’s ankle, putting down his leg in the process, to his thigh, watching with satisfaction as his boyfriend’s back arches off the bed. Without giving Kirishima time to recover, he engulfs his cock in his mouth, nuzzling his nose into the black happy trail before coming up for air.

“T-too fast!” Kirishima cries out, his forearm pressing down on his face while his other arm was outstretched, his hand fisting Bakugo’s spiked blond locks. “I’m gonna come…”

“From just that?” Bakugo teases. When he feels Kirishima’s legs tense underneath him and try to close, he forces them back open, leaning forward to give the tip another kiss. “C’mon, Eijiro, I thought I knew you better.”

But what Bakugo is really thinking is: If this is what it takes for him to come so easily, no wonder it took him so long when we were doing it rough before.

He makes his way back to Kirishima’s cock and lays his tongue flat against the base before licking up the shaft, giving special attention to the head before doing the whole routine again. He takes it into his mouth again and, using the spit pooling at the base, wets his fingers and circles Kirishima’s entrance.

Wait, he thinks, stopping himself. That’s too rough.

He lifts himself from his mewling boyfriend, reaching over to the nightstand and retrieving a condom and the lube bottle rarely used since they get to the deed so quickly, there’s barely any time to stretch.

Fuck. I’m an idiot. No wonder Eijiro was complaining about the pain. It must’ve hurt like a bitch.

He coats his fingers in a generous layer of lube and lowers himself back onto Kirishima, rounding his entrance tantalizingly.

“Katsukiii!” Kirishima whines, his hand back in Bakugo’s hair. “Please!”

“Patience, babe,” Bakugo replies nonchalantly. “Didn’t you say you wanted it slow?”

“Not this slow!” the other exclaims from underneath his forearm. His legs spread apart to make room for his boyfriend, his body language much more communicative than his words.

Bakugo is about to tease Kirishima some more before he gives in and works in a finger, spreading Kirishima’s walls and pumping it back and forth. He’s just as needy and impatient; sure, he loves some romantic lovemaking, but damn, did he want the main course.

“Does that feel good?” he asks, looking up at his boyfriend while he busies his mouth with his cock.

Kirishima feebly nods. “Getting t-there.”

“Just have to find the right spot,” Bakugo whispers to himself, using Kirishima’s moans and sighs as a guide to where his prostate is. He has a vague idea; however, yet again, they went too fast for him to properly know where it is.

He inserts another finger, scissoring Kirishima open while trying to find his spot at the same time. All the while giving him a blowjob. Why hadn’t he done this earlier? The delicious moans and cute exclamations and sultry expressions Kirishima’s releasing is addicting, and Bakugo can’t picture their future sex life without any of it. Even though they’ll probably be having sex less often with how long the process is going to take now, it’s completely worth it.

“Yes!” Kirishima cries out, his back arching again and his head flying backward into the pillow. His legs begin to tremble the more Bakugo massages the bump raised from the velvety walls around it. “Katsuki—hnngh! Feels…so g-good…”

Bakugo puts all his energy into working Kirishima open so that he feels no pain the next day while paying special attention to that special bump, sending Kirishima into a pleasure-fueled frenzy.

Kirishima’s tripping over his own words, his tongue getting caught in “C-coming! I’m—"

“Not so fast,” Bakugo says after popping off his cock, slowing down his hand and slowly slipping it out. Kirishima lets out a high-pitched whine at the loss inside him, and Bakugo chuckles as he pushes himself back up to his boyfriend’s face and kisses his cheek. “Just a little more, baby. You can take it.”

Kirishima’s panting like a dog in heat at this point. The only reason he isn’t completely humiliated is because his forearm is his saving grace, but even that is taken away by Bakugo. He grips Kirishima’s wrist and uncovers his face once and for all, pushing his wrist into the mattress.

“I want to see your face,” he whispers in the other’s ear, giving the lobe a feathery kiss. Kirishima grumbles something under his breath but complies to his boyfriend’s request since, after all, how is he supposed to see Bakugo’s face and all his expressions if his eyes are closed?

Bakugo uses his free hand to lift the condom up to his mouth. He uses his teeth to tear the packaging, spitting out the corner and retrieving the condom from inside. He meets Kirishima’s eyes for the first time the entire night, which are dark with lust and wild from unadulterated pleasure. “Mind putting it on me?”

Kirishima’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly, but he eventually nods, pushing himself up by the elbows and taking the condom from his boyfriend’s fingers. He reaches forward, pinches the tip, and slides it on with ease, giving Bakugo’s cock a gentle squeeze and quick stroke to tease him back for everything he’s done.

“Fuck,” Bakugo mutters with a heavy exhale. He smirks and looks up at Kirishima, who’s now laying back down with his hands fisting the pillow underneath his head and his pink legs spread wide open in invitation. “You can be a little devil, can’t you?”

Kirishima lifts a hand to Bakugo’s face, drawing him closer until their lips are touching once again. Bakugo’s blond eyelashes tickle his cheeks, and he smiles. “Make love to me, Katsuki.”

Bakugo’s power trip is gone, replaced with highlighter bright red cheeks. That’s it. He’s going to only make love to Kirishima from now on, especially if it means this.

He nods; it’s the only thing he can do. He glides his hands into Kirishima’s, prying them from the pillow and pressing them into the mattress next to his shoulders. Their hands are so warm together, slick with sweat, their knuckles white from how tightly they’re clutching each other. Their hands are their anchors. Bakugo nor Kirishima can imagine separating them now.

“I love you,” Kirishima whispers, placing a butterfly kiss on the tip of his boyfriend’s nose. “So much.”

Bakugo smiles and presses his sweaty forehead’s into Kirishima’s. “I know.”

With that, he slowly slides inside, letting out a low groan at the sudden warmth and tightness surrounding him. Kirishima, on the other hand, is speechless. He’s confused; either it’s the combination of the lube and the stretching or he’s just gotten looser from all the rough sex, but…it doesn’t hurt. He just feels full, yet to feel pleasure, but if he shifts his hips a specific way, he’s certain he’ll feel it in no time. But it’s the lack of pain that he’s surprised about. He couldn’t be happier.

“You okay?” Bakugo asks from the crook of Kirishima’s neck, where he buried his face, his voice muffled by the soft skin underneath.

“Move,” Kirishima demands, moving his hips down and whirling them around. He’s left speechless again as Bakugo’s cock brushes against his prostate, his eyes wide and his nails digging into Bakugo’s knuckles. “Move, please.” He doesn’t want to rush it in case of injury, but damn, he’s on cloud nine.

Don’t need to ask me twice, Bakugo thinks. His hips move on their own, rocking forward slowly and drawing groans from both men. He starts up a languid rhythm, listening to the noises spilling out of his boyfriend’s cherry-red mouth both because it’s music to his ears and for any signs of distress. But there is none. Just begs and whines and mewls.

“Faster,” Kirishima pleads, his thighs clinging to Bakugo’s sides. Bakugo can feel them shaking, as well as the rest of Kirishima’s body. And he gladly complies, ramping up the speed, but it’s nothing compared to their fuckfests. Even though it’s slow compared to their other times, Kirishima is treating it as if he’s going a hundred kilometers an hour in terms of going absolutely crazy. His back is arching so much, his stomach meets Bakugo’s, their chests touching every time Bakugo pushes inside. His neck might break with how far his head is thrown back, allowing his Adam’s apple to protrude from his neck and dance along to every single moan and whimper that comes out like samba music.

“Yes, Katsuki—fee…ls s-so—nngh!” He dissolves into blabbers and incoherency, working his hands free from Bakugo’s to cling onto his back for dear life, leaving ugly red scratches along the way. “I want…I want—ugh!”

“Use your words, baby,” Bakugo murmurs, and Kirishima’s shoulders hike up to his ears at the warm breath on one of them.

“Mm… deeper, harder—” That’s all that comes out of Kirishima before he’s overtaken by moans again.

Bakugo works out his pace. Usually, he just goes fast. But Kirishima isn’t asking for faster anymore, he’s asking for deeper. Harder. Same speed, but just—

SMACK!

“GUH!” A guttural cry escapes Kirishima’s throat, and Bakugo groans along with the hard thrust. It echoed off the walls, the bed creaking to show its displeasure with the move.

“Yes! Like that! Just like that!” The scratches are numerous and ugly now, covering the majority of Bakugo’s back.

“Good boy,” Bakugo mumbles, pressing a kiss onto Kirishima’s forehead adorned by beads of sweat. “You did good. F-fuck.” Now Bakugo’s getting incoherent, unable to form a singular thought as he continues the punishing thrusts and slow pace. “You f-feel so good, baby, so good…”

“Close…I-I’m close,” Kirishima warns, crossing his ankles behind Bakugo’s back to push him even closer. He drops his hands from Bakugo’s back and cradles his face with them, bringing his boyfriend’s face back to being nose-to-nose with him. “God, I love you. Make love to me, Katsuki. Love me, love me, love me—”

“For the rest of my life,” Bakugo murmurs back against Kirishima’s lips. “For the rest of my goddamn life, I’ll love you.”

That’s all that Kirishima needs. Yes, the pleasure he’s receiving from his prostate being abused by Bakugo’s cock is more than enough to push him over the edge. But hearing his boyfriend, the man he wants to spend the rest of his life with, confirm that he in fact feels the same way and is using passionate sex to communicate that to him…it’s more than enough.

“Katsuki, I’m gonna come—I’m—!”

With one last snap of Bakugo’s hips, Kirishima’s done. White blurs his vision, his entire body racked with pleasure, tears, and electric pulses, both across his skin and deep in his muscles. His hair stands on end, goosebumps decorate his skin, his body is pink and glistening with a sheen of sweat, and his come is the last garnish on the eye candy that is Kirishima’s orgasm.

Bakugo would’ve come anyway from how tight Kirishima’s clamping down on him, but just the look of ecstasy on his love’s face pushes him over the brim. He buries himself deep inside Kirishima and grabs one of Kirishima’s hands on his face for support, burying it in the mattress. He rides through the demanding orgasm that commands his entire body, his hips continuing to snap forward because of the aftershocks, causing even more oversensitivity to torment his body. He feels the ends of his hair singe from how hot he’s burning, and he’s afraid that the intense orgasm will lead to him burning down the apartment.

“Fuck!” he growls, using Kirishima’s lips to silence himself.

“Katsuki, Katsuki…” Kirishima pants, trying to separate from Bakugo’s kisses. “I love you…”

The two men stay there for a few more moments catching their breath, Bakugo long since collapsed on top of his redhead. Their chests rise to meet each other, their skin sticking together like glue. Their hands are still joined together, making a nice imprint on the mattress. Everything about them is joined together.

Somehow, Bakugo finds the courage to push himself off Kirishima and pull out. Both men hiss with displeasure, the loss of warmth on Bakugo’s end and the loss of fullness on Kirishima’s end. He carefully rolls the condom off him and ties it at the end, tossing it in the trash and flopping onto his back. Kirishima immediately saddles up next to Bakugo, tossing a leg over Bakugo’s hips and laying on his chest.

“Thank you,” Kirishima mumbles, giving the skin underneath him a kiss.

“For what?” Bakugo asks then laughs. “For giving you the best night of your goddamned life?”

Kirishima laughs and hardens his fist to punch Bakugo playfully on the chest—delicately enough to not scar, but hard enough to hurt. And it does: it elicits a great yelp of pain from his boyfriend.

“No. I mean, yeah, but—I mean, there will be other nights—ugh, that’s not what I’m trying to say.” He props himself up on his elbow to look Bakugo directly in the eye, unhardening his fist to slide it up to cup his boyfriend’s cheek. “Thank you for understanding. For not making fun of me. I…” He sighs. “I regret not talking to you. I’ll always regret that. But I just wanted to make you happy and being rough seemed to make you happy. So, I went along with it.”

“Eijiro—”

“Let me finish,” Kirishima stresses. “You didn’t force me. I liked those times. But this…this is different. I’ll tell you what I’m in the mood for. I will let you know.”

Bakugo’s eyelids are heavy with fatigue, but he nods and runs a hand through Kirishima’s damp hair, shaking the hair into his boyfriend’s eyes with an amused smile. “Okay, babe. Just don’t pull that shit again.”

“I won’t, I promise,” Kirishima says. “Manly men don’t break their promises.” He winks before relaxing back into his boyfriend’s side. “I love you.”

Bakugo snorts and drapes a lazy arm over Kirishima’s waist. “I love you, too. Idiot.”

They’re both drifting off to sleep when Kirishima whispers, “Who would’ve known you’re just a big ol’ softie for lovey dovey sex in the end.”

Bakugo stares at the grinning redhead through the darkness.

“Ow! Okay, I get it, sorry! Stop burning me!”

…

When Kirishima awakes, Bakugo’s already left for the early shift he picked up from Ingenium since he’s sick. When Ingenium’s sick, that means something is really wrong with him since that nerd always clocks in, even if he has to wear a face mask because he’s hacking up his lungs from the flu.

He stretches his arms over his head, delaying the inevitable: the sharp pain in the ass from sitting up. He’s woken up with this pain one too many times, so he turns to slip off the bed instead of sitting up. However, out of habit, he sits on the edge of the bed to stand up, and he almost misses it before he stands up. His ass is fine. He has no pain. He feels nothing. It’s almost as if they didn’t have sex last night.

Did they? Yesterday feels like a fever dream, but that doesn’t make the fact that he feels no pain after sex any less real. He stands up, almost as if testing the waters, and walks around. No pain. He slips on some boxers, which includes lifting his legs, which also elicits no pain. He sits down on their ottoman. No pain. He gets in the shower to clean himself up, pressing his fingers inside himself. No pain, other than the usual sting from going in dry. No throbbing, no swelling, no puffiness. Nothing.

No more pain.

Kirishima has successfully had sex without needing to call in sick afterwards. And he’s ready to celebrate.

He cooks himself a giant breakfast fit for a king and goes out on patrol with a grin so big, it startles a few children. He knows his coworkers know that he got laid, but they don’t know why specifically he’s so happy about getting laid. He can actually walk. And use his Quirk without a flare-up of pain in his lower back. And he doesn’t need to worry about bruises or hickeys to cover up. Mina sees his joyful demeanor and tries to “accidentally” wipe away the concealer on his neck as a joke, only to reveal that there’s nothing to cover up.

“Did you even have sex?” she asks, and Kirishima gleefully nods.

“Yep.”

Mina’s eyes snap open. “What? How are you standing? Why didn’t you call in sick?”

Kirishima smirks and shrugs. “No pain.” He winks at his pink friend and throws her two finger guns. “I worked it all out.”

Bakugo, on the other hand, is suffering from taunts from everybody in his department. He has a relatively conservative costume compared to Kirishima’s, but his shoulders are still exposed for all the world to see as a spectacle. Kirishima made sure of that. They’re tattooed with angry red scratch marks, and anybody can see that they lead to a maze of many more rows underneath his shirt. Bakugo can’t even think of an excuse. Yes, a villain is an obvious excuse, but with how airy and normal he’s acting at the agency, anybody can infer what happened. He’s blowing up a lot less and isn’t using his Quirk on innocent bystanders to intimidate them.

“You should get laid more often,” one of the Pro Heroes in his agency mutters under his breath, and in return gets his eyebrows singed off.

But it’s true, and Bakugo can’t deny it. When he gets home, he finds Kirishima on the bed sitting back on his heels, his eyelids heavy and his sharp teeth tugging on his bottom lip in a smirk. He takes full advantage of the fact that his good behavior at work earned him a day off and that Kirishima got a day off from so efficiently handling villains by making love to his boyfriend all night. When Kirishima wakes up the next day to reveal, yet again, that he has no pain, he can’t help himself to a morning lovemaking session as well. And the cycle continues.

Eijiro Kirishima likes sex. Keyword: likes.

[celestialinent]

someday it will fit just right

on ao3

In 2 years, Steve would spend his first night truly hungry. In 5 years, he would stand in a cold little cemetery and bury his mother. In 8 years, he would deliver food to the silent Barnes family as they sat shiva. In 11 years, he would go into a tiny metal box and come out a freak. In 14 years, he would die.

But on April 17th, 1931, Steve Rogers woke up to Sarah Rogers singing in her clear voice, thrilled to celebrate her only son’s 13th birthday.

He and Fiona stumbled out from behind the thick curtain that cut the little nook at the far side of the flat where he slept. There were boxty and eggs on the table, and Ma wasn’t even tired, because she had three days off all in a row. He was still young enough not to question the luck. He wasn’t aware that Sarah had begged and traded with the other nurses to get the days, promising to work shifts no one wanted, knowing it would hurt their purse at the end of the month and doing it anyway to make her boy happy.

“Stiofán,” she greeted him, and Steve smiled. She only called him by his Irish name when she was in the best moods, and as he got older and the trouble he got up to got more bloody, that name was used less and less.

Fiona always slept as a cougar, because her furry bulk was the best thing to keep him warm in their drafty flat, but she usually changed before they even got out of bed. Big cats might be good for keeping little boys with dicky lungs, but they weren’t so good for navigating the tight space of the Rogers’s home. She didn’t change this morning, however.

Steve sent her a frown, even as he sidestepped her to get to the table.

Aodhan, perched on a rickety wooden chair to Sarah’s left, watched the pair with his intelligent brown eyes.

“How’s my wee man?” Sarah asked when Steve had sat. Fiona came to rest next to him, her big head almost as high as his. “Any big plans for today?”

Steve blushed. “Bucky and I were gonna go to the park,” he answered. But they’d planned that ages ago, before Ma had gotten the days off. And they were really only going because Bucky had heard from Teddy Russo that Theresa and Dot Bianchi would be there with their older sister Valentina. Bucky was absolutely dizzy for just about every girl in the Bianchi family.

To be honest, Bucky was dizzy for all the girls. He was 14 this year, and apparently, his Uncle Isaac had told Bucky that that was the age that “everything started to make sense” with girls. Whatever in the Sam-Hell that meant.

“We don’t have to, though,” Steve said. And he meant it. Spending a few hours watching Bucky watching dames didn’t sound like any fun, and it was his birthday, so if he told Bucky he wanted to do something else he wouldn’t be sore at him. “Bucky could just bring the girls over and we could play games or something.”

Even if Steve didn’t think spending his 13th birthday with Bucky’s little sisters was the best way to celebrate he wouldn’t want to exclude them. Bucky hated dragging Becca and Judy and Rachel along when they went places, but Steve thought the girls were just swell. He’d never had a sister or a brother, and never would most likely, so the novelty was nice.

Steve’s Ma just smiled. “No, no. You and Bucky should go. Bein’ thirteen is important, a leanbh . Before we know it you’ll be old and won’t get to spend all your time with Bucky Barnes.”

Steve wrinkled his nose. “Bucky and me’ll always spend time together, Ma,” he promised. “We’re friends forever.”

What was meant to be a reassurance, however, seemed to kill his Ma’s grin. She sent him a soft, sad look before tucking into breakfast. “I hope so, Stiofán. But don’t think you won’t get old.”

“I’m only thirteen, Ma!” Steve protested. Fiona leaned her head against his side sympathetically, and the weight of her sent him listing to the side for a moment.

“Fi, stoppit!” he giggled. “Why’re you so big?”

Fiona, looking contrite, seemed to shiver in her skin like she always did when she was trying to change shape. But instead of bursting into the air as a pigeon, or scurrying up his arm as a squirrel, she remained solidly feline and solidly big. Steve frowned, tipping his head forward to peer at her.

Aodhan and Ma both laughed. Steve turned a sharp, worried look to his mother.

“What?” he asked. Turning back, he said, “Fi, what’s goin’ on?”

“Oh, a leanbh ,” Ma breathed. “What did I say?”

Fiona giggled. “I can’t! Stevie!”

It took Steve a bit too long to understand the situation, but when he did he turned an incredulous stare on Fiona. “You settled so big ,” he laughed.

“Bit inconvenient,” Aodhan muttered behind his shaggy russet mustache, but he was grinning his doggy grin, as overjoyed as Sarah was.

“The size of a daemon doesn’t depend on the size of the person,” Ma reminded him. Steve knew that. He knew that Mr. Tonks, hulking as he was, had a little rabbit daemon, and everyone in the world knew that Marlene Dietrich’s daemon was a honking big bear, something the newspapers always thought was real funny.

“Boys at school are gonna have a field day,” Steve told her anyway. Nobody but Bucky seemed to understand why Steve walked around with a mountain lion for a daemon most of the time. Now that she’d settled, he could just imagine how they’d tease.

“The boys at school are silly little idiots,” Aodhan grumbled.

That sent Fiona and Steve into a fit of giggles that carried them through breakfast.

***

He’d been right about the boys at school.

When words got around that Steve’s daemon had settled, Tommy Wies came over to him at lunch as asked him if he thought it was funny that his daemon was four times the size of him.

Miriam, lounging at Bucky’s feet as a german shepherd, snarled at him, and Tommy laughed it off but he didn’t say another word to Steve all day. Unfortunately, Bucky couldn’t be around forever, and after last period, when Steve was gathering his papers from arithmetic, Bobby and Tony Gottardo ambled over.

The three of them exchanged some words, and it all ended with Bucky finding Steve getting his lights knocked out of him in front of the school. Fiona was snapping and yowling at the Gottardo’s daemons, and Bucky had to wade in and break the fight up with a solid-looking kick to Tony’s keister.

“God, some of these eye-talians really are dumb,” Bucky huffed after the boys had beat feet down the sidewalk. “How many times I gotta lay them out flat before they leave well enough alone?”

Steve sent Bucky a dark look. “You didn’t lay anyone out, Buck. Tony and Bobby are just babies.”

Bucky scoffed. “Maybe not that time, but last time, I made Bobby bleed so bad I just about called a doctor so’s I didn’t have to go on the lam.”

Fiona snorted. “You did no such thing,” she told him imperiously.

Miriam perked up. “If you asked Bobby, he just about got murdered in that fight.”

The four of them ambled their way back home, About halfway to Bucky’s flat, where they were stashing their school stuff and cleaning up before heading over to the park-Steve couldn’t very well go home now, not with a bloody nose-Miriam turned to Steve and Fiona and eyed them.

“What’s it like?” she asked.

It was crystal what she was asking. Miriam, even though Bucky was a year older, still hadn’t settled.

Fiona shrugged her big furry shoulders. “Boring, but nice. Feels right, like a pair of shoes that I’ve had few ages, so they fit real good. But I think I’ll miss flying.”

“Shoulda settled as a big bird,” Bucky laughed. “A bald eagle, or something. Or a hawk, to go with that big nose.”

Steve shoved at Bucky playfully. “Well, then Miriam should settle as a pig, to go with your nose.”

Bucky, vainer than Steve by a mile, reeled back, patting at his nose like he was checking that it was still as perfect as ever. He scowled when that sent Steve laughing.

“Fi shoulda been an elephant, to match your ears!”

“Miriam could settle as a beaver so you could have matching buck teeth,” Steve shot back, still laughing.

Bucky huffed, but Steve knew he wasn’t that sore.

They spent the rest of the walk joking and fooling around, and when they barrelled into the Barnes flat, Bucky had Steve under his arm, mussing up his hair with his knuckles.

Mrs. Barnes started fussing as soon as she saw Steve’s face, but luckily she didn’t threaten to tell his Ma, trusting that Steve wouldn’t hide it from her. She did make him sit at the dining room table, though, and allow her to clean him up a little. She didn’t have his Ma’s practice at nursing, but she’d raised Bucky, and the frequency with which her son was being pulled into scraps meant she was no slouch. Amos chittered the entire time, scolding them all for fighting just like he always did. The boys and their daemons ignored him, as they always did.

“The only thing I have to give you for your birthday is some advice, Steven,” Mrs. Barnes said lightly. “Stay out of trouble!”

Steve offered her a beatific smile, the smile he offered to teachers and shopkeepers and Mrs. Barnes whenever he was trying to pretend he wasn’t an absolute scoundrel. It drove Bucky up the walls; he called it his saintly smirk. “I try, Mrs. Barnes. Trouble just always seems to find me!”

Mrs. Barnes and Amos hmmphed in unison, and Bucky snorted.

“Bucky, I expect you back home in time for supper. It might be Steven’s birthday, but you still have school tomorrow.”

“Yes, Ma,” Bucky and Steve chorused. She scowled and shooed them out of the house.

Steve shook his head. “She didn’t even notice Fiona’s settled,” he scoffed. “Guess Steve Rogers walking around with a puma for a daemon is just common sense to her.”

“Sure it is, pal,” Bucky drawled easily. “You may be short, but you’re just about the loudest guy I know. You’re bigger inside than out, is all. You ain’t no mouse.”

“What do you think you’ll settle as?” Fiona asked Miriam, who’d taken Fiona’s new size as an opportunity to be lazy, and shifted into a strange little lizard, riding on her back. She had the air of a haughty little queen that way, and Steve couldn’t help but smile at the smug little lizard smile she was sporting.

Miriam was quiet for a moment as she and Bucky shared a thoughtful look.

“A dog, probably,” Bucky answered first. “Most folks have dog daemons.”

Fiona shook her head. “You’re not most.”

Steve blushed a little at that. Bucky wasn’t most folks. Bucky was brave and handsome and kind and strong. Bucky talked a big game about how Steve was bigger on the inside, but honestly, Steve thought Bucky’s beautiful outside matched his insides. It was no wonder that all the girls at school had started taking real long looks at Steve’s best friend. There was something about the air around Bucky when he got real excited about a new song. When he laughed it was like his whole face opened up and you could see the damn sun shining out his eyes.

Miriam would settle as something even grander than a mountain lion. She’d be a real noble bird, maybe, because of Bucky’s sharp eyes, or a peacock cause of how nice his face was. Or maybe a wolf, like James Connolly had had.

“A horse, maybe,” Miriam said.

It was funny, because Steve couldn’t see that at all. Miriam had never been a horse in her life. Hell, none of them had ever seen a horse in their lives. But Steve was picturing Bucky astride a huge destrier, dressed like a knight, and it made him laugh so hard he almost gave himself an asthma attack. “You are a real horse’s ass,” he gasped.

“Maybe I’ll be something real strange,” Bucky said, and he was still smiling, but it looked pained. “Something odd, that’ll scare off anyone tryin’ to give us a hard time.”

Miriam shivered, shifting rapidly. She was a spider first, fearsome and black, before she draped over Fiona’s back as a big brown snake. It was followed by a strange hairless cat, a blind and eerie bat. Finally, Miriam clambered to Fiona’s rump, a brown little thing with huge, luminous golden eyes. Her small triangle ears sat at the sides of her head like horns, and a long tail that curled over her chest.

Steve blinked. “What are you?” he asked. Miriam only stared up at him.

“So one in a book of daemons once. Like a monkey, sorta. Strange, right?” Bucky murmured.

“She’s beautiful, Buck,” Steve assured him. “Very beautiful.”

Bucky shrugged and picked up his pace like he was eager to see the Bianchi sisters. Like the discussion was unimportant.

Steve felt distinctly that he’d missed something in the exchange, and Bucky was disappointed in him.

[fromthewifecage]

Imagine Kombants sees Reader with bunches of cats

I LOVE kitties, all kitties, ALL of them. So do Erron Black, Johnny Cage, Nightwolf, Bi-Han and Kano. As usual Kano is last so if you don’t like him then you don’t have to read that one.(Yeah I kinda got over excited writing this and went a bit crazy. The Johnny Cage one is inspired by a scene in Red Dragon/Hannibal.)Hope this is ok, if not then feel free to throw a shoe at me.

Erron Black: (So this I actually took from a stupid Cowboy/Victorian Lady (called Clementine) thing I’ve been writing. It’ll never be finished because it needs to be probably 50k words or more, but this bit I liked writing. Erron’s trying to be a better man, got caught up trying to save a kids life, but the kid died, and Erron’s pretty cut up about it. Yes it’s not the reader with a bunch of cats, it’s about Erron with a cat, but the other Kombatant’s scenarios definitely the reader with kitties!! Please don’t hate me.)

Arms slid around his waist, her body pressed hard to his back and enveloped him in a much needed embrace. His head drooped forward, shoulders slumping, his head in his hands. He’d tried his best, hadn’t he? But it wasn’t good enough, never was. He was a God-damned failure.To his eternal shame his eyes prickled with the threat of tears. He hadn’t cried since Ma had screamed at him for crying over the body of a barn cat. The large ginger cat had been Erron’s only friend since he’d had first found the cat. He’d first seen it sat upon a dark brown saddle in the barn, the saddle’s leather gleaming from the earlier oiling. The cat paused between washing its ears to stare, and when Erron held out a hand it took a moment to sniff at his fingertips before going back to its wash.

Erron had named the cat Peter and they’d quickly become firm friends. Peter would chase after mice and spiders, batting at them with a large ginger paw until he got tired of the chase and quickly killed them. Erron would bring Peter scraps of meat and cheese filched from the larder as a reward. Erron would often find half a mouse in one of his boots, Peter obviously thinking Erron was too skinny and needed fattening up, and Peter was right, Ma was far too stingy with her portions. If Erron had been judged to ‘deserve sleeping outside’, usually after answering his Ma back or being caught filching from the larder, then Erron would climb the long rickety ladder to reach the hay loft, and spend the night with Peter on his chest, purring happily.

They’d been friends for 3 long summers until Erron had gone into the barn at the end of a particularly hot and long day helping in the fields. Ma found Erron sobbing over Peter’s stiff and lifeless body, and dragged him back into the house by his ear, beating him harshly for caring about “that ginger shit more than you care about the rest o’ us.” It was true, so Erron didn’t put up a fight as he took his hits. He merely filed away the hate with all the other times she’d beat him, hurt him, scorned him and neglected him, so when years later, he stood by Ma’s bed as she took her final breaths with cancer riddled lungs, he shed no tears.

Erron sat there, fighting with the sadness of not being able to save the child, until the small bedchamber was dark enough that he could barely see his own hands. Clementine still held him, had made no protest or whispered fake platitudes that he’d get over it or he’ll feel better soon. She’d let him take the time he needed.

More after the cut! (these ones really are about the reader with kitties, promise!)

Johnny Cage: Johnny is more excited than you are for your birthday. His grin has been extra sparkly for the entire past month, and each hint about what he’s got for you has been more ridiculous than the last. You keep trying to tell him you don’t want a fuss, and to not spend more than £20 on a present, but it’s like telling a child they have to eat their broccoli if they want ice cream for afters. He’s not going to eat the broccoli, he’s sneaking into the freezer as soon as your back is turned.

He wakes you up extra early, despite your protests that it’s your birthday and you want to sleep. In the end he picks you up and carried you into the shower, washes your hair and refuses to leave the bathroom until you brush your teeth. He doesn’t stop singing ‘Happy Birthday’ either. Even when you threaten to leave him he doesn’t stop being annoyingly amazingly cute.

He blindfolds you in the car (the driver starts to get worried that you’ll ruin the seat leather but Johnny calms them down with promises there’ll be no sex in the car) and does his best to confuse you with increasingly remote landmark spotting. Quite how you’ve gone from home to the Louvre, past the Pyramids via the Lin Kuei Temple, you have no idea. Eventually he leads you from the car, your hand tightly in his grasp and a hand on your shoulder so you don’t stumble.

As you walk to your secret destination you hear all sorts of animal and bird sounds, chirruping, squeaking (including a couple of gasps from some humans along with “OMG it’s Johnny Caaaaaaaaaaage” whispered under their breaths), some growling, even trumpeting.“Surprise!” Johnny stage whispers as he unties your blindfold, leaving you blinking in the dim light.

Before you is a scene from one of your very best daydreams. A room full of lion cubs, each one rolling, biting, investigating, chewing or playing with it’s brothers and sisters. A hand clasps over your mouth when your heart bursts with joy, Johnny chuckling and letting you know that the kitties are so little that they’ll be scared by squeals of happiness. The zookeepers are more than happy to let you play with the cubs, showing you how to feed the furballs, how to hold them and cuddle them.

You spend the rest of your birthday in lion cub heaven. Johnny takes so many photos of you surrounded by the kitties that his photo groans, and of course you take a bunch of him with the cubs too, he’s just as excited by the balls of fluff and teeth as you are and he almost cries when it’s time to go home.

Best. Birthday. Ever.

Nightwolf: The man is an expert on nature in all its forms. He can live self sufficiently from a small plot of land, he built his own home and keeps not only real animals happy, but spirit animals too. An ideal day for him would be to tend to his crops and land during the day and spend the evening surrounded by his animal and human companions.You’ve spent significant time with Nightwolf, and he’s grown not only to love you, but trust you to share his life and loves. Hana took a while to warm up to you, but will now sit on your shoulder almost as happily as she will with Nightwolf (it took many batches of mini pancakes for her to get to this stage, and now she demands you make her some food whenever you cook).

Nightwolf is in the kitchen when he realises you’ve run out of salad ingredients. The evening air is warm and sweet, the frogs by the small creek are noisily calling for mates, and the idea of a short walk to the vegetable plot to stretch your legs before dinner sounds appealing. Hana follows you out the door, first taking to the sky and circling the house, then drops down to land upon your shoulder, tugging at strands of your hair in her own way of looking after you. As you gather some lettuce Hana squawks and flaps her wings, then flies over to a patch at the very end of the plot, squawking some more. You call out to her, maybe one of the frogs has got lost?

But it’s not a frog you find, it’s even cuter than that. It’s a tired stripy cat with large ears, surrounded by the smallest of kittens, each one latched to a teat. You gasp excitedly and whisper to Hana to go fetch Nightwolf. Hana gives one final indignant squawk, then flies off, returning on the shoulder of the beautiful man you love.

“Welcome back Koko, it is an honour to meet your children.”

Nightwolf greets the cat as a friend, and your heart melts a little more for this wonderful man. He asks you to stay with the kitty family whilst he returns to the house to fetch some things. Koko watches you with sleepy eyes, trusting that since Nightwolf trusts you, you aren’t a threat. You don’t reach for the kittens, they are far too tiny to play with, but you make a wish upon the stars that you’ll get to play with them when they’re a little older.

Nightwolf returns carrying one of the chicken coops he’d been mending and with blankets in a backpack. He sets up a little home for the cats in the dark corner of the vegetable plot. You’ll be able to visit the kittens whenever you like (with Koko’s permission of course).

Yay for kittens!

Bi-Han: The man might be a deadly (the Lin Kuei are NOT ninjas) ninja assassin, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a heart. As a trained spy he has to take notice of everything, no matter how innocuous it seems, so he knows more about you than you know about yourself. So he knows that you’re getting a little lonely in his absences, and recently, he’s been absent a lot more due to an influx of contracts.

You’ve tried so hard not to show your loneliness, thinking it would upset Bi-Han and make him consider breaking off your relationship to try to save you from more pain, and that has crossed his mind. Then he looked upon his life and decided that he didn’t need anything but you, and that no matter how often you were apart, it was the together that mattered.

It was early morning, the blood of his latest target swirling down the sink as he scrubbed himself clean, when his phone blinked with a new message from you. His smile curling the corner of his mouth when he sees that you’ve sent yet another cat picture, this one of 2 kittens wearing ninja outfits with the caption “You and Kuai!” Bi-Han is about to flick back up through the conversation to where you’ve sent some pictures of yourself rather than kittens, when his smile widens as an idea pings into his head.

You’re woken by a cold gentle kiss to your forehead, a brush of icy fingers across your cheek when you stir then wake with a happy yawn.

“You’re home!”

You sprint to the bathroom to first wee then brush your teeth, sprinting back to jump into Bi-Han’s fierce embrace. When he doesn’t immediately tug off your pyjamas you’re puzzled, the man is normally insatiable. He laughs at your pout and tugs you into the living room where he nods towards a box resting on the table.

“Happy Tuesday!”

His grin is huge when you squeak upon looking inside the box to find two kittens curled around each other. It widens even further watching you cry with happiness when the kittens wake to first sniff you, then immediately demand attention. He pulls out his phone and takes some pictures, seeing you this excited has to be recorded.

Yay for kittens!

Kano: The big burly scary Australian beefcake actually has a soft spot. You.

You’ve heard the stories, the ones about him scaring someone so much they wet themselves and when Kano laughed at their fear they burst into tears. About the time he had someone skinned alive and thrown onto the street. Kano could be a Bond villain, he already has the one-eye thing down, he had the comfiest squidgiest chair for his desk (it swivelled so Kano could spin around when he got bored), all he needed was a cat for him to stroke when watching a Special Forces member wet themselves.

You’d gone to the animal shelter to pick up a cat for him (he’d laughed at your idea then shrugged.

“I already got my kitten, but if you want a kitty, I ain’t gonna stop ya.”

Then he’d pulled you into his arms and kissed you until you forgot how to breathe.)

At first you were going to adopt the fluffy white cat with the huge blue eyes, she was gorgeous, but it was when you were walking to the corner of the room to discreetly take a phone call when you saw the 2 kitties that had been forgotten by everybody. They sat by their small window, peering out into the world they’d never get to experience again. One of the kitties had lost a leg, the veterinary nurse later telling you she’d been attacked by an enormous dog and had carried on fighting even when she’d lost the leg. The other had only 1 eye, again, having lost it in a fight. Your heart went out to these sweet brave kitties, and you knew you could give them the best home.

“What you got there, love?”

Kano stood in the doorway, bare chested as usual, huge 'sexy-as-hell' grin as usual.

“I couldn’t leave them, no-one wanted them and they’re all little.”

Kano looked from you down to the kitties exploring every nook and cranny of the bedroom, tails twitching secret messages to each other as they couldn’t believe that they were finally out of the shelter. He chuckled then strolled over to you to wrap you up in a huge embrace.

“Think that one wants a cyber eye?”

[ducktracy]

157. the fella with the fiddle (1937)

release date: march 27th, 1937

series: merrie melodies

director: friz freleng

starring: mel blanc (fiddling mouse), billy bletcher (grandpa mouse, tax collector), berneice hansell (grandchildren)

one of the handful of titles spelled erroneously with the blue ribbon issue, and despite being not being shown BECAUSE of the reissue, this is master animator ken harris’ first animation credit. he joined the crew with freleng’s little dutch plate back in 1935, but only got a credit until now! harris was one of the top animators at WB, if not the top, and for great reason. on another note, mel gets another substantial role as the eponymous fella with the fiddle. a grandfather tells the story about a greedy mouse posing as a blind person to collect some extra cash. but, like always, there’s a twist. 

open to the abode of j. field mouse, as indicated by the mailbox outside his tree home. inside, the presumed mouse lounges in his armchair, chuffing on a cigar, perusing a newspaper, trying to relax while his grandchildren run and scream and play around him. peace was never an option. suddenly, the ringing of a bell outside signals for all the children to congregate by the window.

even though it’s night, the ringing is the telltale chime of the ice cream man. the kids crowd around their grandfather, begging for a nickel. “grandpa, give us a nickel, grandpa!” the grandpa happily obliges, tossing a nickel out in the middle of the floor for the kids to catch. perfect way to get those little brats away! the kids dogpile one one another, scrambling to get access to that beautiful silver coin. in the midst of their struggle, the coin rolls away from the fight, falling into a crack between the floorboards. 

the once chipper grandfather looms over the kids wirh a frown. “so, you WILL be greedy!” he shakes his head. “now i’ll tell you a story about a mouse who WAS greedy... and came to a band end.” a bit of a stark transition in the grandfather’s demeanor, but you can’t have the exposition taking all day.

“‘twas the fella with the fiddle.” grandpa pantomimes a fiddle, with the appropriate sound effects. he lays out the beginning of the story, telling the children that the fiddling fella bought a violin, playing until his arms got sore and breaking 100 strings or more (the children whistle in impressed awe). the choice to incorporate the sounds of a fiddle with each pantomime was a good one at that. fun fact: friz freleng was a classically trained violinist!

while the grandpa recounts the story, the surroundings melt away into the actual fella with the fiddle. mel blanc provides the vocals, singing the criminally catchy song (that’s often been used as a motif for porky in cartoons such as the blow out and little beau porky.) this is definitely one of my favorite merrie melody songs. mel’s falsetto as he sings “the girls say ‘oh!’” is hilarious, and just the first of MANY falsettos in his career. the fella with the fiddle appears to be blind, sporting sunglasses and even posting signs that read HELP THE BLIND. one passerby in particular is especially curious, a seedy fellow who waves his hand in front of the fella with the fiddle’s eyes. no reaction. filled with twisted glee, the passerby reaches into the donations cup, when the fella with the fiddle knocks him on the knuckles with his bow with the utmost nonchalance, continuing his song. wonderful comedic timing.

after the song is over, the fella with the fiddle hobbles his way home, using his cane to guide him along. he reaches his shack of a home, when suddenly he lifts his glasses, whipping around the house corners to ensure he has no followers. some blind guy! as to be expected. with the coast clear, the mouse puffs out his chest and strolls inside. even better than the blind fake out is his interior fake out: his worn down shack is lavishly furnished with chandeliers, rugs, gilded furniture and the like, a fitting accompaniment of “with plenty of money and you” to further the mouse’s wealth status.

but friz doesn’t stop there. the mouse's butler bids him good evening, the mouse dropping his sunglasses in his top hat and offering them to the butler to stow away. the mouse changes in the closet, now donning a tuxedo (gotta make yourself comfortable at home!) as he strolls across the living room to access his safe. a looney tradition we’ve been seeing since the goopy geer days in 1932. the mouse opens his safe, and the one behind it, and then the wooden safe behind THAT one. friz maintains his comedic momentum as the mouse takes out a long sock, the top closed off like another safe. genius.

content, the mouse situated himself at the dining table, eagerly opening the safe. a sea of gold coins pour out onto the table, and the mouse runs his fingers through them, letting the gold shower himself and the table. did you know he’s rich? just a hunch. suddenly, a few aggressive knocks on the door. the mouse freezes. “who’s there?” billy bletcher’s voice rings loud and clear behind the door. “it’s the tax assessor!” 

we get a taste of our first mel blanc scream as the mouse repeats dubiously, “tax assessor? ...TAX ASSESSOR!?” i gotta say, while mel is subdued in this cartoon in comparison to future roles, he’s certainly versatile. it’s like friz wanted to see what he was capable of: singing, doing low grunts and womanly falsettos in said song, and now screaming. the whole package! mel does a wonderful job as the mouse. not the most memorable role, but it’s something.

what launches next is an epic transformation sequence, ever so fittingly accompanied by a rousing rendition of “country boy” as the mouse desparately scrambles to hide his lavish lifestyle. he scoops his money back into the sock, throwing it back in the safe(s) and locking it up tight, then rushing to transform the interior. reversing walls, flipping portraits, pulling ragged curtains, replacing pianos with stoves, couches with rickety beds. the animation of the mouse turning the wall around to reveal the bed is particularly nice. a great, high energy sequence, and that accompaniment of “country boy” makes it all the better.

meanwhile, the tax collector grows increasingly impatient, pounding on the door. finally, the mouse, now donning his poor man’s disguise, allows him inside. he puts on his best act. “good evenin’! could you spare a dime for a cup of coffee?” the tax collector obliges by dumping the ashes of his cigar in the mouse’s outstretched palm. “so, you’re a poor guy, eh?” stalling’s minor key rendition of the title song does wonders to add to the apprehension and slyness of the scene, accentuated when the mouse spots one of his shiny gold coins still perched on top of a table in plain sight. the mouse retrieves the coin as fast as he can, a sly grin on his anxious face as the tax collector ogles at him.

nevertheless, the invasion begins. the tax collector parks himself on a rickety old chair, and receives quite a surprise when the floorboard spins 360 degrees beneath him. floored, the inspector jumps up. “what’s goin’ on here?” more questions raised as he leans against a button, the stove now spinning in the same way, nearly revealing the grand piano on the other side of the wall. friz does a lovely job with the build up and suspense. still funny, but definitely drawn out and apprehensive. 

“say, what kind of a joint is this anyway?” the spinning room reaches its full gag potential as the interior goes haywire, hectic speeds of flashing walls, furnishings, and so on. certainly feels like something from one of tex avery’s cartoons at MGM, not even warner bros! the speed and comedic timing is in tip top shape and makes for a hilarious, fresh, ahead of its time gag. i’m impressed watching this in 2020--i can only imagine being a moviegoer in 1937! i believe this is ken harris animation.

friz’s momentum is insanely strong in this cartoon. he keeps outdoing himself with his own gags, and the payoff is very strong (a trend that would continue throughout his entire career. he and chuck jones had very satisfying and hilarious payoffs!) terrified, the tax collector darts out of the house, breathing a sigh of relief. ever so slowly does he pull out a bottle of whiskey from his jacket, tossing it away. absolutely genius. 

in order to fake out the fake out, the tax collector pretends to storm away as audibly as possible. with a shady grin, he slides back to the door. inside, the mouse is reverting his shack back to its old, lavish self. the jiggle of the doorknob serves as morse code to the mouse, who suddenly realizes he still has company. in a flurry, he restores his shack to its country, rickety glory, just in time to flash a sheepish grin to the angry tax collector barging in. pissed, he takes his leave once more.

fed up, the tax collector begins to march away, when a giant cat (these ARE mice) stops him in his tracks. terrified, the tax collector scrambles through the junkyard, creating his own path in all of the cans, the cans falling back down. the cat merely looks on. while this gag is seemingly useless, it IS one of the earliest blackout gags we’ve seen (the screen fading to black after). all of the directors would use blackout gags, but i’ve noticed friz and chuck especially loved their blackout gags.

at peace, the greedy mouse rifles through his golden coins in ecstasy once more. yet, once more, he has company. not the tax collector, but the cat. to lure him out, the cat places a golden coin in a mouse trap (good) and positions it by a mouse hole. greedy is the mouse, but not too smart... or is he? friz fakes us out as the mouse darts through the traps, snagging the coin and running back inside with it in his clutches. i was honestly expecting the obligatory merrie melody chase scene, so this was a GREAT surprise.

now, the cat opts for a gold crown instead, placing a crown on one of his teeth and winking knowingly at the audience. the cat whistles, pointing to its tantalizing tooth. the mouse tries to fight the urge, dramatically posing in resistance, but the urge is just too overwhelming. the mouse runs out and back in with the tooth... and only the tooth. no crown to be found. finally, the mouse runs back into the cat’s mouth for a third and final time. the cat’s got him. we see the last of the greedy mouse, who desperately pounds against the closed jaws of the beast from inside, but to no avail. such is the life.

back to the grandpa mouse, lounging in his armchair as he finishes the story to his enraptured grandchildren. one of the curious mice piques up “did he eat him ALL up, grandpa?” grandpa answers in the affirmative, that yes, he did. suddenly, we’re treated for a surprise: one of the grandchildren notices a shiny, gold tooth hanging from the grandfather’s pocket. iris out as the kid grimaces, blowing on a party streamer to signal that the alibi is baloney.

this is one of the most enjoyable merrie melodies we’ve seen so far, at least for me. don’t let the simple looks fool you--this isn’t another standard friz freleng cartoon. i was already excited going in, seeing as mel had a big role and that the song was so damned catchy, but i didn’t think it would nearly be as funny as it was. friz was on an absolute roll in this one--his momentum never stops. revealing the blind mouse isn’t blind at all, living a lavish lifestyle, or the gag where the tax collector throws out his bottle of whiskey after the ever changing interiors... this is a great cartoon that throws a ton of curveballs at you. not that tex avery is the end all be all of animation, nor is he the only good one at the studio (all of the directors at this period are phenomenal, i love them all and have really grown to respect friz’s work a LOOOOOOT more), but the avery influence has rubbed off on friz and tashlin. the merrie melodies are funny, sardonic, the disney roots crumbling before our very eyes. this is one of the funniest cartoons i believe we’ve seen. is it the funniest ever? absolutely not, and it probably stands at being mediocre compared to the other fantastic cartoons looney tunes entails. but for these reviews, it’s important to keep that 1937 mindset, trying to view it with fresh eyes and comparing it with the past instead of the future (though i do like to draw my connections.) absolutely check it out! go watch it now!

link!

[peachywise]

nullify

an umbrella academy fanfiction // klaus hargreeves x reader 

- part i: the introduction || part ii ⋆ part iii ⋆ part iv ⋆ part v ⋆ part vi ⋆  more parts to be released 

- synopsis: A child and a ghost whisperer walk into a diner. Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, but really it’s just the start of an odd, slightly painful night. Turns out they need you and your power to do something, and Klaus seems way to thrilled and fascinated by you and what you can do. (takes place after the events of the first season) 

- notes: lmao how long has it been since i wrote a fic?? too long thanks anyways the reader is they/them pronouns and everything is pretty vague description wise for inclusivity and shit!! also even though this is klaus x reader focused ~romance~ wise i’ll be writing a shit ton with the reader interacting with the other guys like this part is deadass just as focused on number five as it is klaus. let me know if you guys want this as a series??? i won’t write more parts if people aren’t down but i left it open-ended so it could be a series but honestly, it’d be fine as a one-off too so read what you will k love you bye. tw for swearing

link on ao3 

________________________________________

“Isn’t that a health code violation?” 

Looking up from your book you'd been reading for the past half hour, you heaved a heavy-handed sigh. Sitting on the back counter of the dead dinner you worked at was the least of this shitty establishments problems. “I’ll be sure to let the rats in the kitchen know of your concerns,” you replied simply. 

Dog-earring the page of your book, you set it down beside you. Hopping off, you stepped forward towards the counter as the kid who just entered sat down on one of the stools, planting himself with a look of clear repugnance as he eyed his surrounding subtly. Resting your elbows on the counter, you propped your head on your hands and gave a friendly grin, “I’m sure they’d be happy to whip up some Mickey Mouse pancakes, special just for you.” 

His face though perfectly deadpanned couldn’t hide the slight tick of annoyance in his eyes. “Just get me a black coffee,” he muttered. 

“Coffee will stunt your growth.” 

“You’ll be stunted if you keep up this horrible customer service.”

“Ouch,” sarcasm dripped from your tone as you raised your hands up in mock defeat, “the kitten’s got a bit of a bite there, doesn’t he?” 

Quite honestly, your day was now veering on to a particularly delightful route you hadn’t expected when you first woke up this morning. You suddenly believed some sort of divine karma was finally rewarding you with some quality entertainment. He could banter— a bit on the aggressive side, but you would take what you could get out of the interaction. You knew it wasn’t going to last long. 

“Look, are you going to give me the coffee or are you just going to stand around all day uselessly taking in the air that could be breathed in by more deserving people?” 

Oh, so he’s got knobby knees and wit to match. 

Letting a slow amused smile cross your face as you gave a lazy curtsy, you casually made your way over to the fresh pot and grabbed one of the porcelain white mugs, giving him a knowing look as you poured a good ‘ol black cup of joe. Setting the pot back down, you sauntered your way back over still holding the smile. The kid rolled his eyes, reaching out a hand as he impatiently said, “thank you,” in a refined and expertly practiced condescending manner. But you didn’t hand it to him. No, instead you casually leaned back against the back counter and took a long sip of the burning hot liquid. 

Well, the little tyke certainly did not like that. 

In what was an actually flash of blue light before your eyes, the kid vanished from his place on the rickety red vinyl stool and was beside you a moment later, ripping the mug from your hand with such force that caused the liquid to spill over the sides, scorching your hand and splashing it on your already grease stained, 50’s themed uniform. So, he was words and action. You could respect that. 

“What, no screaming? Not even another smartass comment?” He half-heartedly asked, his eyebrow quirked slightly as he studied you. It was like he was waiting for some sort of delayed reaction from his little magic trick. While yes, it was a little jarring to see it in the flesh for the first time, the moment he had walked through those glass doors you expected a bit of a ‘powerful’ confrontation.

You knew he was Number Five. You knew he was a part of that Umbrella Academy. 

“You know who I am,” he stated in his all brilliant glory. Well, look at that. Seemed he was a real Sherlock as well as a tiny space hopper.  

Easily taking the cup of coffee back, wincing slightly as the cold air pressed against the new burn you tried to seem unfazed about, you took a sip and mumbled against the rim of the cup, “I’m a bit surprised you’re here and actually alive, but it’s easy to remember a face that hasn’t aged a day." Setting the mug down on the counter, you pressed a hand to your hip and questioned, “how is that exactly? Did you run from home just to make yourself immortal? Found yourself an Edward Cullen to bite you or something?” 

Now, you’ve had people look at you like you were stupid before, but no one with a talent such as him. Even though he was looking up at you, he still mastered that beady squinty little look that read ‘you’re the joke of the earth’. Precious. 

“I don’t know who Edward Cullen is, but I’m not immortal, and I don’t have time to explain the whole story to you in detail. Let’s just say I got stuck in time.” Doing his little magic flash again, he appeared back on the other side of the counter, continuing to speak as he added, “Is anyone else here? I assume you’d rather show me what you can do without anyone else around.” 

Ah, yes. What you could do. So that was why he was here. Part of you wondered if someday it would happen. That’s why you knew who he was when he first walked in after all. You kept tabs on all of them, at least a bit. Yeah, the whole “Umbrella Academy” was famous for a little while when you were a kid, but most people had since forgotten them and the kids in the academy had grown up and had become almost unrecognizable. Well, apart from Five. And maybe Allison, but hell, she was famous for a while different reason now. 

Like the others, you were born October 1st 1989 to a completely unexpecting mother who got the shock of her god damn life. If you were 9 months pregnant in under a minute flat, you’d probably be pretty shocked too. However, you were just stunned that something as odd as that could actually happen and result in you getting powers.

Unlike the others, when your parents were approached by professor evil monopoly Reginald Hargreeves, your mom rejected anything he offered in favor of her miracle baby. She was certain she was the new Virgin Mary despite absolutely not being a virgin and refused to give up that title up. At least at that moment, she didn’t want to anyway.  

“You managed to figure out where I worked, and I assume at this point you know my name,” you started, “so why don’t you just tell me what I can do and let me know why you're here so I can turn you down and get back to my book.” Gesturing your hands around the extremely empty diner, you breathed, “I’m a very busy person as you can see.” 

Five didn’t say anything, instead just giving you an almost thoughtful look. You didn’t trust it one fucking bit. 

Quicker than you would have expected out him, he reached over and picked up one of the plates on the counter and threw it your way with such force you wondered for a second if the reason he'd been missing for so long was because he’d taken up a passionate love affair with baseball. On instinct, damn the treacherous thing, your body chilled as a static feeling pushed out of you, surrounding you in a soft, nearly invisible blue bubble-- your force field. The plate bounced right off and landed on the floor, shattering lamely and loudly. 

It was legal to kill a kid who had been missing for years, right?

“Can’t you play a game of catch with the poor kid?” Came a new drama-dripped voice in the door, the little bell ringing softly as he spoke. “His father was a sociopath who didn't pay him any mind, he’s very stunted as you can see. So desperate for the affection and attention of strangers.” 

Klaus. He’d been harder to track over the years, but from the feather collared jacket and lack of shirt, you could spot the eccentricity of him miles away. 

Taking on a protective stance, you moved from behind the counter and positioned yourself in front of Five, stage whispering to him, “careful, looks like one of the kitchen rats got out. They’re very diseased.”

Klaus tilted his head to the side, his mouth snapping open and his eyebrows rising up in stunned amusement. Pointing at you, he turned his attention towards Five and stated, “I’m wounded! This seems to be going on spectacularly, don’t you think?”

Shaking your head with a slight grin, you started to speak to ream five out for throwing a freakin’ plate, but your words died off on the tip of your tongue when your gross ass boss pushed open the doors to the kitchen, his loud, gritty greased voice shouted, “what did you break out here?” His spine went rigid a bit when he seemed to finally note the presence of two other people, but his eyes quickly glanced at the shattered plate and his face continued to get splotchy and red. “Is that your kid who broke it? Jesus, that’s coming out of your paycheck.”

Wow, that 50 cent shitty plate? How would you ever survive? 

Hands slipped around your neck in a hug as Klaus propped his chin on top of your head, his attention fully on your boss. “I’m so sorry sir, you know how it is with kids, gotta get all those angst and deep-seated feeling out somehow. Yesterday we found out he’s been pretending the family cat was his girlfriend. Had to take him to the hospital to get those scratches on his little friend checked out, if you know what I mean,” he smiled, moving away from you to pat the clearly seething Five on the head. 

Before the kid could say anything or do something that would get you in more shit, you plastered your own happy little smile on and bent down beside him, wrapping your arms around his shoulder as you continue to address your boss. “He was just upset because he found out I told his teacher about his little bed wetting problem.” Five ripped your arm away with incredible force and stepped away from you both. Sighing dramatically, you rested the side of your face on your palm and slightly shook your head, adding, “It’s so hard, I just don’t know where we went wrong!” 

Klaus snickered behind you, while your boss looked properly petrified and regretful about having walked in on the whole ordeal at all. 

“Just uh-- forget about it. Clean it up okay?” 

Giving him a wink and you stood back up, you flicked your wrist in a lazy salute. “You got it, Boss Man.” He couldn’t turn back around and get back to the back room fast enough. 

Turning the face the two once again, Klaus grinned as he said, “brilliant work,” raising his hand for a knowing high five. You happily obliged. 

“Was that really necessary?” Five ground out from between his teeth, as you shot him back an incredulous look. “Was it necessary to throw a plate at me?” you retorted, fully not expecting him to reply with, “Yes. It was the only way I could make sure you had a force field.” 

Smartass.

Running your hand through your hair tiredly to get it out of your face, you crossed your arms again and didn’t bother to argue anymore. “Just tell me what this is about.” At this point, you were tired and really just wanted to get back to your quiet night. Klaus was also giving you a once over every thirty seconds and you weren’t quite sure what he looked so bloody excited and anxious about. 

“I have a theory, and I’d like to test it out,” Five said. Klaus quickly interjected with, “and I’m one of the test subjects,” wiggling his eyebrows as he did. 

Narrowing your gaze, you questioned “one of?” 

“Well, it requires you, but before I explain, to what extent can you use your powers? Have you done anything more than just deflect things off your field?”

You shook your head, confusion still clouding your words. “That’s all. Some guy tries to knife me? He bounces off. Sometimes I get lucky and he stabs himself in the process. It’s a simple thing. 

“How many times has someone tried to knife you?” Klaus asked with a small snort, but Five cut him off with a great little bomb of information. “I’ve done some calculations on how your power works, and I think that if someone like us was in the field with you it might nullify our powers.”Huh.

“And... math makes you think that?” 

Five rolled his eyes. You got the idea he did that a fair bit. “I want to test out to see if that’s true, so if you will,  please conjure up your field around you and Klaus and we’ll see if it works on him.” 

Flashing your eyes to Klaus who almost seemed to jitter with excitement, your eyes got slightly wide when you asked, “wait, there’s a ghost here? Like right now?” You swiveled your head around like you would actually be able to see it.  

Klaus nodded his head. “Ben, meet Y/N, Y/N meet our brother Ben.” Pressing a hand to his heart, he added, “forever in our hearts and forever by my side. I am his saving grace.” Turning his head abruptly, he quickly said, “shut up,” to the air-- or Ben, rather-- slicing his hand in a silencing sound. 

Raising a hand hesitantly, you gave a flick of your wrist in that direction, squeaking out a small, “Hi Ben.” 

“If you two idiots are done,” Five muttered, but you stopped him as you said, “three idiots. It’s rude to dismiss Ben’s presence. You're his brother, be respectful.” Five ignored you. “The sooner we test this, the sooner we can leave.”  

Oh, now he was speaking your language. 

Shaking out your shoulders, you widened your stance and clapped your hands, saying, “alright, let's go.” Klaus gave some excited little claps as he stepped to your side, telling Five, “field trips are always so much fun!” 

Taking in a deep breath, you let the energy seep out of you until that familiar snap surrounded you, this time entrapping not on you, but Klaus as well. 

The smiling man quickly went silent. 

“So,” you started hesitantly, turning to study his face. “Did it work?” 

Multiple emotions seemed to cross his features, and it revealed to you certain hopelessness and vulnerability that was so unfamiliar to you and what you had known about him. It dawned on you at that moment that you had no idea what this meant. To him. To Five. Christ, nerves started to wrack through your body when you realized they could be having you do this just to try and kill you because they see it as some sort of ridiculous threat. Still, that seemed unlikely. No, they needed it somehow. 

And as Klaus turned towards you, looking at you as if you were some wonderous figure and not just some crappy diner waiter working two jobs just to get by, you realized that whatever they had been searching for, they had found. Whatever Klaus had been searching for, he had found. 

“They’re gone.” 

His voice was just a fraction above a whisper, but it sent a chill across your skin as his intense gaze once again studied you with incredible fascination. But as he took a step forward, his hand oh-so-gently reaching for your hand, your focus went away and the force field fell, all the sounds and senses of the real world hitting you all at once. 

Five was staring at you both with an odd look you didn’t quite know what to think of. 

“Alright."

Clearing your throat, you took a small step back as the fog cleared out of your head, stating back a dull, “huh?” 

“We’ll be at your apartment in the morning. Get ready to meet the others.” 

Wait, what the fuck?

“My apartment? You guys haven’t even explained what you guys want from me!” You blurted, moving your head rapidly as you looked back and forth between the two. 

“I’ll explain everything tomorrow,” was all Five said, as both him and Klaus began moving towards to door, clearly content with what they came here to do. Well, that was nice for them. They could sleep soundly as you sat up in bed all night looking up fucking umbrella academy conspiracy theories to try and convince yourself what happened here was actually real. 

“There’s no way in hell you’re getting those Mickey Mouse pancakes now!” You shot back as he exited the door, huffing as you turned around to go clean up the plate.

Then something smacked hard on the back of your head, landing on the ground with a little rattle. 

“Oopsie.”

Spinning around, gripping the back of your head, you were about to yell obscenities at Klaus who’d just thrown a spoon of all things, but he was already halfway out the door calling behind him, “I thought your little bubble would just appear like a party trick, bye!” 

Idiots. Idiots had just taken over your life. 

[sebtheromanianprince]

The Bath Bomb Soldier (Pt.1)

Summary: In a joke of cosmic proportions, you are mysteriously gifted a bath bomb that when used, gives you your very own super soldier. 

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 2,088

A/N: I couldn’t get this out of my head so this is what I came up with at 3 am. I’m kinda just rolling with what comes to me. The only warnings so far are some swearing and a bit of nakedness. We’ll see how many parts this turns out being. (If you like it please reblog so I know to keep writing!)

It had been a long and trying day of serving rude people at the grocery store. Ringing customers up and keeping a smile plastered on your face, even when you wanted nothing but to tell them all to fuck off, was a feat of Herculean proportions. It didn’t help that you were struggling to pay off your school loans and on top of that you were trying to support your family back in New Jersey. And here you were, living in the Middle of Nowhere, Idaho just to go to school at the cheapest college around. Growing up poor was a real disadvantage, and one you couldn’t wait to be rid of.

Not that you were particularly materialistic, because you weren’t. From a young age you learned to appreciate the important things in life, like the people that loved you. But love didn’t pay the bills, and loneliness weighed all the more when you lived alone in a worn little apartment. On occasion you were visited by a stray cat, when the moon was high in the sky and the surrounding fields were bathed in its light. And sure enough, this was one of those nights, because as soon as you stepped inside, you could hear the familiar meows of the stray at the back kitchen window.

You shut and locked the front door behind you before shrugging off your coat and flipping the lights on as you walked down the hall. Tugging your apron off, you draped it and your coat on a kitchen chair and dropped your purse on the rickety little dinner table with your car keys. Your lips quirked into a small smile as you set eyes on your visitor’s face. The cat’s white fur shone in the moonlight, it’s amber gaze impatient. It watched intently as you made your way forward and cracked the window open. In a lithe bound, the feline jumped inside and began sniffing about the floor. Finding no immediate morsels, it meowed and rubbed its head against your ankles.

“So my little beggar returns. Not that I mind feeding you, but when are you gonna bring me a gift for my trouble?”

The cat merely flicked its tail and looked up at you expectantly. Shaking your head, you crouched and petted it softly behind the ears. A soft mewl came from it before an intense purring started up from the center of its chest. Your hand moved down to massage at its angled cheeks and the cat pushed its little white head against your hand. It was moments like these that you were grateful that this creature decided you were worthy of seeking out. You had tried to keep it before, but the cat would not have its freedom hindered nor would it accept a collar. It was a mysterious little thing, but friendly. You had no clue where it went most of the time but you were nonetheless delighted it returned, even if it was just for food.

“Alright, how about some grub little one,” you whispered. “I could eat too. It’s been a hell of a day.”

Making sure you didn’t step on your furry friend, you cracked open the fridge and pulled out a half gone can of cat food along with a tupperware of last night’s chicken and rice. You stuck your dinner in the microwave for a minute and emptied the rest of the cat food into a cheap blue food bowl. After a few minutes, you were settled on the old brown couch in the living room with the cat nosing at your thigh. Chuckling, you set its dish on the floor near you and then switched on the bulky tv sitting atop a sagging tv stand. You’d acquired most of these through a garage sale for cheap, so you couldn’t really complain about their state. It had saved you a good amount of money.

A commercial on the screen threw pale light into the living room, lengthening the shadows along the far corners of the room and under the small coffee table where your drink sat. Folding your legs up Indian style, you tucked into your dinner quietly. The sound of enthusiastic licking told you the cat was also enjoying its meal. You looked up from your food in time to see the commercial end and a movie start up. A man with dark brown hair and blue eyes appeared on screen, the lower half of his face obscured by a black tactical mask.

“Check it out, Moonlight,” you said to the cat excitedly. “It’s the Winter Soldier.”

Flickering light danced on the walls as the Winter Soldier fought a shell-shocked Steve Rogers within the confines of the television. You forked another mouthful of rice into your mouth, avidly watching the beautifully choreographed fight. It always did funny things to your insides when the Soldier strutted after his target, hair blowing across the murderous look in his pale blue eyes. Sometimes you’d think about what it would be like to have that look directed at you, not with the intent to kill, but to consume. Other times, daydreams about how you would help the Winter Soldier heal flitted through your mind, especially on the slow days at work. They were nothing but the dumb fantasies of a lonely girl though.

As you watched the story unfold, you told Moonlight all about him. His full name, age, and the many things that had befallen him. You talked through several other commercials and the emotionally charged scene when the helicarriers are falling. A sudden weight makes you pause and you look down to see the cat sniffing at the remnants of your chicken.

“Am I boring you?” you ask, moving your tupperware away. Amber eyes follow it, and an exasperated yowl complains at your actions.

You sigh at the tv, watching a drenched Bucky turn and walk away from a half-drowned Captain America. “You know, I wouldn’t mind having him around. At least then my life would not be so mundane.”

Moonlight crawls across your lap and sticks its head into the plastic container, taking up a piece of chicken. You roll your eyes and set it down on the couch cushion next to you.

“Fine, take it. At least get me a half dead mouse as thanks. I’d take the Winter Soldier too, but that’s not within your power, is it?”

You unfold your legs and kick off your tennis shoes, the relief making you curl your toes until they audibly crack. With a slow, content breath leaving your nose, you lie back against the arm of the couch just as the shorthair hops onto the floor. It scampers off in the direction of the kitchen and you can only assume it’s letting itself out through the still open window. That’s how the visits usually go anyway, and without a second thought you continue watching the rest of the movie. You’re not sure how much time has passed, or when you dozed off, but you’re woken up by a light bop on the stomach and the crinkle of plastic.

“Huh?” you mumble sleepily.

You crack your eyes open to find a plastic wrapped bath bomb on your belly. It’s black, with a smattering of silver glitter all over. It looks like the night sky compressed into a sphere. Bewildered, you look around to find the origin of the bathtime accessory but see nothing out of the ordinary. Frowning, you pick it up and examine it. You don’t remember buying a bath bomb. They weren’t exactly cheap, and you couldn’t indulge in such a luxury. Still, here it was. What did you have to lose by using it? A relaxing bath sounded like a great idea before crawling into bed. You made your way to the kitchen, bath bomb in hand, and shut the window before turning off the lights.

           Then, as you walked tiredly to your bedroom, you drew up a mental list of things to get done tomorrow on your day off. There was laundry to be done, some grocery shopping, and a little bit of cleaning. You also had to get a new can of food for Moonlight. That cat wouldn’t let you hear the end of it if you didn’t have food waiting when it deigned to stop by again. You set the bath bomb on the bed and undressed. Dropping your work uniform in the hamper next to your closet, you made your way to the bathroom attached to your room. You flicked on the lights and pulled back the shower curtain to reveal your bathtub. It was old fashioned in that it was not attached to the wall, but it did come with a detachable shower head. It must have been added earlier when the owner tried to touch up the place to rent it out.

            It was a mix of old and new, and for that you found it charming. You left the tub to fill with steaming water as you went back to your room and grabbed your favorite red towel from the closet. It softly hugged your curves when you wrapped it around your body and tucked the corner snuggly to keep it in place. Lifting your arms, you gathered your hair up in a loose twist on top of your head. Then, thinking ahead, you grabbed a pair of panties and a threadbare Nasa shirt to sleep in. With sleepwear and bath bomb in hand, you returned to the bathroom and shut off the water. The bath was little over half full. Already you could feel yourself slipping into a drowsy contentment, the steam in the room making you loose limbed.  

           Setting down your clothes on the sink’s counter, you unwrapped your prize. The bath bomb shimmered prettily in the glow of the bathroom light. It fit easily in your hand, and smelled pleasantly woodsy, with slight lemongrass undertones. Looking forward to a night of comfort, you dropped it in the middle of the bathtub. It splashed lightly and then began to bubble and froth under the surface of the water, the black color bleeding outwards. You watched, mesmerized as the specks of glitter danced on the little waves made by the bubbling bath bomb. Excitement took over, and you hooked your towel on the bar mounted next to the tub before climbing feet first into the hot water. Your eyes slid shut in bliss as you sank down, but then immediately flew open when your stretching legs hit what felt like a firm chest.

           The first thing you saw was a dimpled chin, covered in scruff, then other details hit you at once. A large man, fully clothed in black leather battle gear. Intense blue eyes. Shoulder length, dark brown hair. Pink flushed lips. Your knees drew up together as the space in the tub suddenly became nonexistent. Two long arms draped over the sides of the bath, the left one made of shiny metal. And on either side of your ribs was stuffed a muscular thigh. Your ear-splitting scream echoed in the confines of the small bathroom as you scrambled to pull yourself out of the cramped tub, kicking the man in the chest in the process. You covered your chest with one arm while your other grasped at the lip of the bath, twisting to get your legs up under you.

           WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE F-

Your mind reeled at the unexpected intrusion, your throat becoming raw from continuing your shrill, panicked screams. The man’s legs moved up, and it seemed to you he was also trying to stand, which made your terror grow tenfold. In your haste to get away from him, you miscalculated the distance to the floor and slipped face first over the side, smacking wetly onto the ground in a graceless sprawl. You lay stunned on your stomach for a moment from the impact, during which you heard the sloshing of water as the man stood and stepped out next to you. 

Your face scrunched up in pain, your breath coming in quick pauses between your loud cries as you scrabbled at the tiled floor. In a corner of your mind the scraps of the intruder’s appearance were piecing themselves together into a familiar picture. You looked over your left shoulder to see him bend towards you before pulling you up to stand against his chest, his hand warm against your slick arm.

           “Stop screaming,” the Winter Soldier rasped.

[supacutiepie]

Dorian’s Song of Bees

The singularly most indulgent headcanon fic I’ve ever messed around with writing lmao. In which I get emotional and make a lot of shit up for Dorian for funsies and bc i just wanted him to raise bees dammt. 

The witching hour had fallen across the estate, and throughout its various rooms and halls there was the sullen hush of sleep. Even the late evening servants had retired, and left naught but burning embers in the fireplaces to flicker in the din.

It was the perfect hour for mischief and escape. But at Ten, one saw more  mischief in their actions than escape- or at least, practiced more mischief than escape. At the time, the idea of running away was something magical all in itself, and not something inherently necessary to one’s well-being.

But these weren’t thing a young boy pondered as he slipped out of bed, quiet as a mouse. A boy decides whether or not he will wear shoes with his cloak, if he will weather thin pants soaked from the fresh dew of soft grass. He decides that no, not shoes. Because shoes ruin the magic. A boy decides the best route is the route well followed, silently tip-toeing around the halls and using only moonlight and the soft sympathetic magic of embers to guide his way.The estate was large and austere, so to a little boy it was an adventure to sneak about unseen. The shadows painted funny faces onto the marble floor, but he was never afraid.

This was the Pavus’ Estate House, the largest of four different properties and homes. And little Dorian Pavus didn’t care about any of the luxuries if they didn’t suite his very specific interests. He much preferred the Thalrassian Estate House, his others parents home. It was smaller, but filled with books and spells and people who breathed magic with every step. In this home, with it too-large space and no-too-filled bookshelves, it felt empty. Void of the magic Dorian so deeply yearned to understand.

He’s magic portal lay through the kitchen, tucked into the servants hall that ran the perimeter of the building’s main rooms. The kitchen was always a detour, and it was still pleasantly warm as he snagged some soft rolls and jam for his favorite snack. The kitchen was the oldest part of the house, and he like to imagine that if he simply stood with his bare feet on the hearth-warmed stones that plausibly  he could feel the decades of simply hearth magic layered into the stone and wood.

When he was eight, he’d snuck one of the servants keys into his pocket and never regretted it. He doesn’t know if they ever noticed, or if someone had let the crime go unanswered...but he refused to give up his precious key.

The door opened silently into the main conservatory. It was a spacious room, filled from tile to ceiling with so many plants and herbs that Dorian also felt in awe when he stepped inside. It was warm in the room, and the night sky twinkling in from the glass roof did little to cool it off. There was probably a magical solution, or just a very practical one, but Dorian liked to think it was all magic.

He carefully walked through the room using the utmost diligence to avoid stepping on wayward tendrils of delicate plants. His mother would maybe excuse the late night excursions, but if he harmed one of her precious plants he’d never see the light of day again. He also wouldn’t forgive himself because he adored these plants. He’d lived in this room as much as any other room his entire life.

He pauses by the slowly swaying pot of foxtail-cotton. It’s a stiff stemmed plant that flowers in clusters of soft white almost-cotton. The leaves of the plant range from red to silver, and curl playfully like the tails of their  namesake. Dorian isn’t sure where his mother found such a plant, or why she only has this one sample, but he love the bright colors and soft blossom.

He says his hellos to the little plant before  making his way out of the conservatory and into the wam mid-summer evening. Outside was always just as awe-inspiring. The garden was ripe and in full bloom, with heavy bundles of Roses and Peonies wafting thick scent into the air. The path split off in many directions and with each came new scents and sights to indulge in. The garden path itself as a soft gravel lined by Marigolds and Chrysanthemums, each bloom heavy and shivering in the faint breeze that came rushing over from the nearest cliff on the other side of the estate. It tinkled the dainty windchimes set high into tall Oak and Sycamore trees, and it set the heavier wooden chimes off in low thnk thnk thnks.

He dashed to and fro, hiding behind the hedge and trellis’. With careful peeks his looked at the windows facing out to the garden. Seeing each on still darkened, he giggled with boyish glee and sprinted out into the garden.

At night, what was glorious became divine. Little fire-bugs danced through the leaves, and the  more enchanted plants seemed to sway to a gentle merry tune. Out here, there was no need for wondering about one’s place in their home. Or worrying about a future they couldn’t yet imagine. Out here, a little boy could twirl under the stars and let his magic sing out and entwine with the roots and stems of beautiful plants and foliage.

He danced across this natural ballroom gracefully, until he was past each wonderful plant and stood at the edge of the estate’s main property. His pants were soaked and smelled of grass and lilacs, and his hands had been sprinkled with pollen and nectar.

This is perhaps his only favorite thing about his father’s estate.

The cliff at the edge of the estate drops down into the Nocen Sea, and the ever tumultuous water provided a constant mist of sea salt and loam, whose scent lingered even before one came to front gate. But there are its peak, the cliff seemed to hum with the power of the ocean that which crashed upon its crags. Near the edge of the cliff-face, standing old and weathered, is what remains of a ground-wardens home.

At some point, before the Pavus family took control of this estate- someone once lived in this small cottage and oversaw the general maintenance of the grounds. This duty had been personally retired by Aquinea, in favor of her own personal grounds keeper taking over the task and residing in the main estate with the rest of her favored staff.

This left the cottage untouched for many years, leaving it to become a guest home for less desirable or more solitary guests of the estate.

But to a young and impressionable Dorian Pavus, it was the closest thing to heaven’s fields.

He walked up to the front door and hummed something genial and merry. A jaunty little tune he’d heard from the cooks whilst stealing sweets between lessons. He loved this house, and its nostalgic austerity. It was simple and nothing like the rest of the estate gold lacquering.

It was built to weather the storm, and the old wood held fast against the roughest upheavals. It was the perfect place for a young mage to hid away.

The key to the back door fit this lock, and it was a discrepancy that Dorian hoped nobody would ever notice.

The small cottage was neatly squared away for guests. But it was also largely abandoned. The floor was unswept, but had no obvious stains of trackings. The shelves undusted, but with no obvious need to dust in the first place. The downstairs was meant for simple necessity and hospitality- and held little to no personal charms. It selt of old dust and books but also of fresh sea mist and driftwood. It was serene.

When he was eight, he had a little streak of sneak-thieving. It was something he’d caught onto when he could no longer bare to stand in his lessons and be chastised by his father. He took to hiding when he could, and sneaking about when he knew he should have been practicing those destruction spells his father oh so valued.

But he was a little boy, who wanted nothing more than to join his mother in her garden. Something of which his father detested.

It was one such hideaway that he found another key, and another such tantrum which led him to use it.

He’d made a mistake, been to careless, and had earned quite the wrath of both father and teacher. In a fit of tears he fled from the estate and went as far back as he could until his pounding heart came to the rushing cliff face.

The cottage then was just an empty set of rooms to explore, but it became his refuge when he couldn’t face his father. It was by chance, pure happenstance, that he went up the stairs for the first time that same day.

The upper room was once an observatory, but with disuse it was free to be locked away and left forgotten. It was there that Dorian truly felt the power of the suns rise and fall.

When he was eight, it was a mostly empty room with a beautiful balcony and large clean windows. When he is ten, it’s his own personal grotto.

In the two years since finding it, he’s packed an entire generation of plants into that small place. Vines grow from planters off the floor onto the walls, with handmade rickety trellis’ to cling to. Different kinds of vines twirling together and reaching towards the always open balcony.

The floor space had been converted from smooth wood to dirt and ceramics. Pots and planters lined up in rows from one wall to the next. An old fainting couch was shoved the side and sat between two large pots of foxglove and larkspur, with the large sunroof sitting directly above it.

There was a telescope, but long forgotten its wonder when it took up space- so e’d dismantled it himself and stowed the pieces under a large wooden desk which became his personal botany table. It was covered in notes and journals, hand drawn pictures of plants and foliage studies. His hand was messy, but through the months he’d shown significant improvement with his research skills.

The room was drenched in his own magic, and the various plants and flora reacted to him instantaneously. Tendrils of ferns and soft petalled stems bowed as he approached, the leaves swaying out to brush against his hands as he examined them all. Some of the vines seem to peel away from the walls, slowly unfurling and playfully falling  to land against his temple. He always laughs and gently pushes them back into their anchorings, then flits away to the next plant.

There are plants in this room that his own mother wouldn’t know, because he had grown each one with his own hands and his own magic.

From below, there was a hum. But once the stairs were ascended that hum became a steady thrumming beat that bounced off the wood and tiles. It’s epicenter was past the balcony doors, and with each step closer the buzzing got louder and stronger.

In a heartbeat the room shifted, and thousands of small golden insects came swarming about the room and centered around the boy.

Where most would be frightened, Dorian simply laughed and opened his arms to the swarm. Thousands of bees, each one singing their song whispered against him. All taking turns to land on him and leave him with their scent. He greeted them happily, “My lovely girls!”

He ran his hands through the air and felt the ticklish wonder of millions of little legs and hairs brushing his skin. And then with a simple gesture,the careful roll of his shoulders, the bees rescinded and went about patrolling the room or returning to the hive. There were little hives all around the room, places for the large colony to settle into once they outgrew the main hive box.

“Ah, there you are my dear…” he spoke gently and raised his closed hand. Sitting on his knuckles was the largest of his hive, the oldest as well. His Queen was a darling example of proper domestication, and he adored her greatly. She was calmer than all the rest and sat patiently waiting for him to gently pet her with his pinky finger.

“You’re looking lovely today.” He spoke to the Queen like one would speak to their oldest friend, for more casual and honest than he’d ever spoken to another human. He took his precious passenger with him out to the balcony to inspect the main hive box. Once outside, the wind seemed to materialize from nothing, so the little queen moved from one perch to the next- nestled against the fibers above his heart. With great care Dorian looked into the box and examined the various odds and ends of the hive, taking note of the many new larva and the honey he would need to collect upon his  next day visit.

He’d only been growing this colony for a year and a half, but his bees adored him sincerely. It was in part due to the enchantment he had learned and placed on the Queen. A simply domestication spell many used to create lifelong companions from the more common pets of society. With the spell at hand and a few tweaks here and there, Dorian had made it possible to create a bond with the Queen, and then from there the rest of the colony followed.

He was in all honestly, Very proud of himself. The Estate’s foliage benefited the most from this symbiotic relationship, and throughout the year the Pavus Gardens were the envy of Minrathous. He was Very proud.

The bond was solid too, Dorian knew that every little piece of his Queen was dedicated to her keeper. And he adored her just as much.

With a little flourish the boy produced a jar of watered down syrup from his person, he dipped the tip of his pinky into the mixture and deftly re-lidded the jar before offering the digit to the insect against his chest. Without pause the Queen accepted the gift, far past needing the bribe of the enchantments spell to be coaxed into cooperation.

The boy sat upon a stack of crates and looked out at the ocean with open eyes,”I had another dream my dear. I woke up and I just had to come tell you about it.” The bee moves from pinky to knuckles again, and then she settles in the crook of his ring finger. “It was the lighthouse of course. And just as always I saw the path down to it’s gates. But this time I actually got to the gates!” he was excited about this new development, it had been one of the most vivid dreams he’d had to date.

“On the way down, I was stopped by the most beautiful flower…” he sighs and recalls the image in careful detail. “It was golden, like freshly polished gold coins. Big fat petals with prettiest blush as they all connected. The filament was the cleanest white though. You’d love it, it looked like a perfect throne.” He hummed and gently swayed with the breeze.

“It must be a lily breed, that large shape. But the colors spoke of rosacea. And the smell, I could  smell it my dear...it was wonderful.” he beamed at the whispering Queen and watched her dance in shared excitement. “I’m going to find it, and I’ll make it if I must.” he nods resolutely before ushering the bee back to his lapel and reaching for his carefully stowed away sketchbook.

While the use of the cottage wasn’t quite secret, what exactly he did in the cottage was his knowledge to have alone. The book contained every sketch he’d ever made since he’d begun his herbology research. It was his way of not only channeling but training his primary magic without the scrutiny of his father at his back.

------ PRIMARY MAGIC

-----

When Dorian was five, he awoke from the most awful dream. The little boy had been so frightened that when his eyes opened, they were filled with bitter tears. And his small voice had been screaming out from the darkness so sharply that when he tried to call for help all that came out was a hoarse shout.

Entirely juxtaposed to his nightmare was the waking world in which he found himself.

His room had exploded. Every corner from top to bottom had been filled with foliage. From thick brambles to soft petalage, not an inch was spared by the sudden explosive burst of magick. His bed frame was covered in a heavy layer of honeysuckle and laurel, and the smell was so thick and cloying that he could taste it past his tears. The covers themselves had been covered, soft emerald moss and delicate purple flowers that haloed around his head and saturated his pillows with a sleepy, heavy scent.

If it had been any other occasion, he would have been delighted. As it was, he was still deathly afraid.

He was choking on his sobs when his ‘Keeper’ can rushing into his suite. She was half awake herself, but the alarm coming from her ward was enough to wrench her to awareness quickly.

She had been at his side since the moment he entered this world, deftly filling in for his mother when she had been too exhausted and weakened by birth to properly care for him past those first precious minutes. And beyond that time, when it was simply easier to pass the little boy off to available hands when he became too much to handle for the mother.

Her name was Amaranthine, and she was by far the most well treated and cared for of the Pavus’ servants and slaves. Something that at first had carried over as a Thalrassian motif, but quickly morphed into something more sentimental as time went by and she more of it with the young Pavus heir.

So much time in fact, that it was “Ama!” he shouted for through his terror- neither parent coming to mind in his time of need.

The boy clung to elf, who gently rocked him back and forth and hushed his frantic sobs. She had of course been shocked to see his room turned into a personal greenhouse, but living with powerful mages often dulled one’s sense to magical wonderments.

His parents were as well conditioned, but only one was pleased.

His Mother had rushed in at a servants beckon, and upon entering the room her eyes went wide with amazement. Soft reverence in every touch as she examined the petals and stems that seemed to root from non existence. She was delighted by the growths, already her mind tripping over itself for answers.

Halward however, was not pleased at all. The man called for every single growth to be removed and destroyed. His outrage was palpable, but Aquinea’s stubborn was of equal measure. She demanded that the flowers be preserved, and that what could would be planted in her personal garden. A large portion of these flowers didn’t even grow in the Imperium and she refused to waste such a perfect opportunity for study. Halward had scoffed, “Study? It’s an abomination!” he cried and in a rage he started ripping vines from the walls. He was shouting and cursing, incensed that his heir would be wasted as some botanist instead  of the proud Altus he was born as.

One’s primary magic was one’s first step to power. Halward Pavus had come into his magic at Ten, when he set his Mother’s old apple tree ablaze the day its roots tripped him. Aquinea Thalrassian’s first spell was ice, to the utmost dismay of the poor servant who had tried to wake the girl from a nightmare when she was eight. The hand at her shoulder had been frozen solid…

In the world of the Imperium, Fire, Ice, and Electricity were considered high schools of combat magic, and deemed therefore to be standard for high ranking families to have as their primary magic. Mid ranked magic was Healing, Spirit Work, and the more Physical, like force magic. Aesthetic magic ranked low but not nearly as low as botany. Growing flowers could not make a strong magister, it would never make a strong archon.  

Dorian was only five years old, and barely an hour into his magic- when his father began hiding pieces of him away from the rest of the world. This wouldn’t connect until many years later, and it certainly didn’t register to a scared little boy still clinging to his nurse with fright. His horror amplified by the fighting between the adults he was supposed to find comfort from.

It wasn’t until after they left that he found his comfort, quietly telling his keeper what the dreams had shown him.

She had to curl around him, tucked into a spare bed chamber while the room was cleared of the residual magic and foliage. She was humming something soft and kind, and coaxed the truth from him easily.

“I saw...the fade,” he whispered. Terror still laced his voice and the woman paused. “The...the real fade,” a violent shudder wracked his little frame and he hid his face against her neck. “There..there were demons  and spirits and...and..”his voice hitched and he started to sob again. “Oh...Ama they were so scary...they..they tried to take me and I was so scared…”he sobs and his Keeper does her best to calm him, but she was frightened dreadfully for her precious ward.

It was a startling fear, to hear a child had gotten so close to the fade and faced it alone. She wanted to soothe away his fear and protect, but how could she protect him from within his own mind?

His little voice spoke up again, and it chilled her deeply. “I saw...auntie..she was there too…”

Dorian’s Aunt had been the adventurous sort. But as such, she died rather tragically. Lost to the world forever after a simple expedition went completely south and her body was never seen from again. No one had been sure of her demise..and yet…

“She was so cold…” he touched his check with wide frightful eyes. “Her hands were so cold...like mother’s magic. Ama gently covered his hand in her own and held him tighter. “She didn’t look all there...like only half of her was colored in…”

A spirit. The spirit of his dead aunt. What in Maker’s name that meant the elf had no clue but it still unsettled her.

“What happened my dear? After she touched you?” She smoothed his hair and tilted his face to meet hers. He frowned,”She...she told me to go home. She kissed my head like you do when it’s bedtime- and then I was falling...and I woke up…”

He shivered again and tucked back into her, and she was left to silently worry about what this would mean for her charge.

For a while, it had meant he was just deeply connected to his magic. His father seemed, satisfied, at the news. Ama had taken her worry straight to the heads of the family with further concern for Dorian's safety in his sleep. So young, it was incredibly likely that he was in danger from possession and spirits. If he was already being accosted by such horrid creatures, surely it meant his mana reserves where deep and his magic was bound to be quite powerful regardless of his primary attributes.

But when it became clear it was more than simply a prodigal level of magic reserves, that something far more powerful fueled his dreams...that’s when it became apparent Dorian was something entirely unpredicted.

It became clear when Dorian happily recalled the most wonderful dream he had had. He recounted in full colorful detail how he’d been walking along the most beautiful beach, and that he walked until he came upon the most grand and enchanting lighthouse.

[caeliri]

Summerglen

Nights in Summerglen were near silent, save the whisper of wind in the leaves and the moan of bending boughs. Songbird fluttered off to their nests and though bush-tailed foxes in black coats were said to roam the wildwood that hugged the province possessively, they moved as unheard as unseen through the rooted paths. When the sun slid behind the trees, the citizens of Summerglen slipped inside their homes and hunkered down to wait out the dark, and dream their dreams, and greet the dawn when at last it came sputtering through the gaps in the great trees.

Caeliri arrived hours before the sun, hair bound in braids that looped around the back of her skull and left tufts of wild tangerine free-flying in the whipping wind and shoulders hunched high around her ears. Arbiter’s hooves clattered against the uneven cobblestones, every collision a thundercrack of steel on stone, and though the sound echoed in the narrow streets, not a flame flickered to life in the ivy-circled windows, not a single set of shutters creaked apart, and no doors opened to offer curious eyes a peek at disturbance.

There was no one - save the Innkeep of The Hungry Hound himself, roused from sleep by the signature, rhythmic rap of her knuckles against the double-doors of the innfront - to witness the young dame in her disheveled state, and though his own eyes were heavy-lidded with sleep, the Innkeep ushered her in and to her rented room and right away to bed. Not that she went to bed - she was too old to be babied, too high of station to heed the words of strangers, especially when their concerns aligned with those of family and friends who had been met with deaf ears.

She did not sleep - against all advisement, she worked. And worked. And worked. Requests for aid, reports from the field, and personal affairs - there were days past when she dreaded the drudgery of paperwork, but now it kept her idly hands active and her wandering mind fixated on something palpable, something she could wrest some measure of control over. It was a poor coping mechanism - one gleaned from the Oracle, that had served the elder mender just about as well as it served Caeliri now - and poorer for a person would could not rightly judge their limits.

The sky was lightening by the seventh time she’d read her mother’s letter, and still, she failed to find the proper words to respond. Northrend felt a lifetime ago - so much had changed in her life, so much she did not desire to speak of, and the rift between her and her mother grew ever more cavernous by the month, despite attempts to bridge it. They clashed still, each vying to maintain their own sense of order in their lives - Siildore tried to be the mother Caeliri had long needed and wanted, but Caeliri had grown beyond the need for such heavy-handed parenting.

Mostly.

Her sea-green eyes were shadow-rimmed when at last she put pen to paper, the gentle scritch of the gilded tip of her fountain pen against the parchment lost beneath the dull thud of approaching footsteps and the soft crackle of Grace’s flames; the letter was written with haste and set aside to be sent, just in time for the door to her rented room in The Hungry Hound to swing open and reveal her Captain of the Guard, Liadove Winterthorn. Grace cast the man a dubious look as he entered, and fluttered from the edge of Caeliri’s desk to the perch Lirelle had gifted her for Winter’s Veil, her still-growing talons curling around the patterned metal as she settled in, away from the still-strange man.

Bleary-eyed, the man muttered something to the Innkeeper at his back, something shockingly akin to, “‘m not a scullery ma-- okay,” and when he turned in full his gauntleted hand held a delicate teacup filled to the brim with a piping hot drink, balanced tenderly atop a tiny glass plate.

Smile blossoming wide, Caeliri swept a hand through her hair to remove it from her face, and eagerly took the tea cup in hand.

Half-dressed in armor fit less for combat and more patrolling, Liadove drew a hand down his face to shake the sleep away, readying himself for polite conversation. Beneath her desk, Caeliri slipped a bare foot forward to press her toes against the chair across from her, sliding it noisily across the floor just a few inches towards him, until it was out of her reach without slouching down into the base of her chair - which she refrained from, not for propriety, but because she had a hot drink in hand that would end up down her shirt if she tried. Small breasts or not, she liked what she had, and didn’t want to sear them straight off.

Drawing a deep breath, Liadove settled down into the chair, and brushed a tuft of auburn hair away from his eyes and fought back the temptation to stretch out a kink in his neck, sure it would crack and crunk and seem entirely brutish and ill-suited for political discussion; for a moment, he forgot who he was talking to.

“We weren’t expecting you back so soon, Dame Dawnsworn. When I said you shouldn’t tarry long on the matters of Summerglen, I didn’t mean for you to make a midnight ride,” he chuckled, refraining from mentioning the fact today was meant to be his day off.

Caeliri set down the enchanted tea cup - flinching, as always, at the gentle ‘tink’ of glass on glass, despite knowing the Greenseer’s magic made the delicate cup invulnerable - and caught the tip of her tongue between two canines. “Apologies, I had the time, and as you suggested I not wait,” she chirped, dancing around her reason for a hasty arrival. “Did you enact the vote?”

Darting from pleasantries to business wasn’t her usual fair - for a moment, Liadove’s brow dipped slowly inward, but he willed his face to smooth into a bland, if not slightly bemused, mask. “Against better judgement,” Liadove reminded, brushing a swath of chestnut hair over his shoulder, “and as you commanded. The tally has been returned.”

Blinking, Caeliri twisted the tea cup, fingers dancing over the dappled designs of painted, prancing rabbits and leaping lynxes as she waited for the man to finish - but Liadove said no more, and fixed his attention on his wedding band, twisting it idly, watching the soft light of dawn roll over it’s rough-hewn surface.

Silence settled in between them, and Caeliri lifted the cup to her lips once more, and sipped the sweet drink - coffee, not tea, she hated tea - loud enough to fill the room with the indelicate sound of slurping.

Liadove’s eyes flicked back up from his fingers, and he stared at the young dame before him, his lips slowly pulling into a flat line and his eyes growing wider by the second. Elven ears were incapable of staying still in lieu of the sounds she made.

A solid forty-five seconds passed before Liadove lifted his brows. “Really?” Folding his hands in his lap, the man shifted in his chair, somewhere between amused and annoyed. “Do you even have any coffee left?”

Still slurping, Caeliri tipped her cup backwards, towards Liadove, to show the mouse-brown liquid within - still steaming, still overloaded with so much cream and sugar it was barely even coffee anymore - and wiggled her tangerine brows.

“Shocking,” he drawled, leaning back in his seat, “that’s not very ladylike.”

All at once, Caeliri stopped slurping, and grinned at him over the rim of her teacup, tired eyes at last beginning to glimmer with a fragment of her usual delight. “I’m a Dame, not a Lady~” she lilted, settling her elbows on the edge of the rickety desk, much to Liadove’s dismay - both for the action itself, and the way the desk buckled beneath her slight weight.

“It’s all the same--” “Noooo, else they wouldn’t be hailed differently. Nobility is a ladder-”

“Even so,” he snorted, “my point was that you should stop.”

“Well, you weren’t giving me the answer I was looking for,” Caeliri chirped, ears flicking idly.

“So you intended to annoy me into it?”

“Mmmm~,” not quite a yes, but not a no.

Liadove felt his pulse pound behind his own tired eyes and slowly let them close. Patience was a virtue, and though his Dame claimed a kinship with the Light and all it’s varied dignities, at times it certainly felt like he was dealing with a toddler.

A very bright, very charming, very frustrating toddler.

“The tally, Mister Winterthorn,” Caeliri smiled so wide the force of her upturned lips scrunched her nose, and brought the cup again to her lips, threateningly.

“One-hundred for marching with Lord Truefeather to the Oakvale and beyond, and seventy-five for the road.”

Caeliri’s face fell so fast it might have made a shattering sound, save the fact flesh couldn’t clink and clatter like glass, and her features were - blessedly - contained within the confines of her face, even if only just. “We have one hundred soldiers,” she stated, voice taut and high. “One hundred standing, trained soldiers.”

“Mmm,” Liadove kept his tongue firmly between his teeth, confirming without offering disparagement or encouragement or affixing personal opinion to the statement. Anything beyond the scope of raw reality was stripped and cast away. “Trained may be a stretch - they are standing, though.”

“...There are eight hundred citizens in Summerglen,” Caeliri pressed, shoulders rising high as her ears slowly wilted back.

“Eight hundred and two - there were two births since your last visit,” he commented, eyes askance.

She’d spent enough nights in the company of the Ranger-Captain to know when someone danced around an answer they did not want to give - and she did it enough herself these days to be privy to the ways in which a conversation cold go askew without being rude or blatant. Liadove lacked the venom-laced looks of Lord Firestorm, and though he handled his dance with the same subtle grace of the man she adored, Caeliri saw in him no threat, no reason not to press and push and - sweetly - bully the answers out of him. Besides, if keeping company with the Ranger-Captain had taught her anything, it was persistence, and the benefits it reaped in time.

“Where did the rest of the votes go? There were only two options.”

Again, the man shifted in his chair, abandoning the idle attention given to his wedding band to fixate on the dossiers laid out on Caeliri’s ramshackle desk. “Technically, there were always three options.”

That made Caeliri’s brow come crashing down, twisting into a tight knot right above the bridge of her pointy nose. “What?” She set her glass down again - too hard, this time, hard enough to ‘clink’ and make her flinch, but as ever, the enchantment held - and planted her palms flat on the desk. “What do you mean?”

“There are two options on the ballot,” he explained, words slow and selected with care, “and then, there is always the option of… not casting a vote at all.”

Melting into her chair, the blob formerly-known-as-Dame-Dawnsworn stared at her Captain of the Guard, lips pressed into a pathetic pucker. “You mean over five-hundred people didn’t cast votes at all?”

“No, no,” Liadove assured, his attempt to soothe the smarting young woman quickly slain by the hasty addendum, spurned on by the pleading curiosity that blossomed in Caeliri’s sea-green eyes, “... some wrote in their own answers.”

Pensive now, Caeliri waited for him to offer the answers born of the citizens creativity, but they never came. Perhaps for the best.

Clearing his throat, Liadove carried on, words hastened. “The citizens of Summerglen are not at all used to change, Dame Dawnsworn. Your arrival was enough of a shake up for them, and now you’ve altered old ways -”

“For the sake of fairness-” Caeliri’s voice canted upwards, trying to skirt above Liadove’s deeper rumble, but the crystalline notes of her voice were ground down beneath the gravel of his voice -

“-old ways that they’re hardly used to anyways-”

Narrowing her eyes, more for the sake of a thundering confusion that coursed through her head than disbelief or distaste in Liadove’s revelation, Caeliri’s nose scrunching up for an entirely different reason, “...Then how can they be so attached to ‘old ways’, there hasn’t even been a Kintari serving here for near fifty years-”

“-don’t disparage tradition on the basis that newness is inherently better-”

Caeliri sputtered, caught off by the switch; “Wh-- I’m not -- I’m just saying --”

“--the point remains that if you’re going to challenge the status quo, you must do it boldly-” Both their voice were raising now, each battling to pin their point above the other’s, neither sounding particularly mad, but both vested in their view, and scrambling to make it known.

“.. You just said I upset the status quo, and if I upset it at all, that means I did do it boldly, or there would be no upset--” Caeliri, at least, spoke more in confusion, the twist of conversation beyond her understanding - she was grappling, still, with the thought that anyone could see her actions as anything less than just and fair, as she had meant them to be. An open vote seemed the simplest, most amenable solution to where allocated funds should go - she struggled, still, to understand how a simple gesture of good faith and willingness to work astride the people of Summerglen could be taken as something divisive or careless or weak or otherwise anything beyond what she had intended.

“--All told,” Liadove rose his voice high, cresting above Caeliri’s and stealing the conversation with a near yell, before settling into something softer towards the end, “They don’t see you as a part of their community, and thus they don’t respect you. When you ask of them an extra task, they’re unlikely to follow through - especially when they see you do not wield a forceful hand.”

When Caeliri spoke, her voice guttered low and childlike, the same half-guilty, half-yearning voice of a toddler trying to pose an argument they knew they’d long-lost, “But I act with the authority of Lord Truefeather - he appointed me, and there’s no word or record that Summerglen has ever stood opposed to the Truefeather’s reign and rulings.”

“You govern them in law, perhaps, but the ballot was not law - you asked them a matter of opinion, and by and large their opinion is thus; they do not respect you, yet. They respect Lord Truefeather because he is their Lord, and his family has governed them for ages untold. Lord Telchis Truefeather may not cast as frightful of a shadow as his father, but he has years of military service beneath his belt, accolades and honors abound; the Dawnspire has been his home since his birth, and there are those in this village - though they’re just as aged now - who remember him as a boy. He is beloved, he is known - you are not. You’re not even from the Dawnspire.”

Silenced now, Caeliri sat herself up in her chair, all foolishness cast aside in favor of trying to reclaim some measure of decorum; she’d been silly to let it slip away at the first. Her eyes flicked down to the desk, to the dossiers and documents strewn across it’s surface. They were histories and ancestries and legal forms, the portents of Summerglen laid out alongside her work for the Sunguard. Splayed open above it all was Elleynah’s book on Thalassian peerage, a hefty tome Caeliri had been chewing through for weeks. It was, as of yet, unfinished, but she’d made good headway and it came with her wherever she went. Melancholy settled itself on her shoulders, a shroud of doubt and despair - she fought, so long, in the Sunguard to prove her worth and assure her place, to foster the respect of her peers without losing herself to the static, stoic mold many wanted her to fit into. Now, it felt as if all that work was undone - here in Summerglen, she had to start anew. Whatever reputation she carried with her from the Sunguard resonated with the soldiers the province had at their disposal, but the townsfolk still failed to see it.

Caeliri was drawn from her thoughts but the flutter of flaming wings and the warm wash of Grace’s flame-wreathed body pressed against her neck. Fattened by the magics of the mages in Dalaran, Grace was a significant weight on her shoulder now, but her warmth made the mender smile and pull her eyes up from the desk. She leaned into the bird’s affectionate nuzzle, letting the phoenix pick and peck at the loose strands of hair that had long fallen from her haphazard braids.

Liadove took a breath, ready to continue, but an errant thought derailed him -- “...Where are you from, anyways?”

“The - uh - the - N-orth,” she sputtered the words back awkwardly. Where did she come from, exactly? She’d grown up on Sunstrider Isle, but technically she was born in Northrend - but if she claimed the High Confessor’s lineage then she came from further south… or was it east? She wasn’t entirely sure where she fit in the picture, wasn’t sure what area to hail not as home but as her root, and settled for the vagaries of a direction.

It wasn’t a very good answer. Blinking slowly, Liadove drew his gloved hand along his brow. “...Right. I don’t mean to discourage you, merely explain the situation as I hear and see it.”

“I know,” pressing her eyes shut, Caeliri swept a hand through her hair again, sighing softly, the motion met with an angry trill from Grace - the phoenix was displeased at having her work undone, and began again the careful maneuvering of Caeliri’s cinder-touched hair. “You mean well, and I thank you for you counsel. Without you, I’d have no idea how to connect to the citizens of Summerglen. I have no desire to be some lofty figure doling out judgements and rulings and upsetting their lives - Summerglen is my responsibility, but so too do I want it to be my home.” Lifting her hands, Caeliri cupped the air in front of her, as if holding something precious in her palms, something as of yet intangible, but vast, “I want, more than anything, to foster this community towards something good and prosperous--”

“Then you already know what you have to do.”

Her fingers loosened, relenting the imaginary force she’d held to the silence that settled in between them. Both their eyes slid away to the window, where through the wavering limbs of great trees and beyond the burgeoning sunbeams, on a high hill overlooking the town, sat the estate house of Hallowhearth. The home had all the opulence of the Evergrove, cast in white stone and ivy-wrapped, its front-facing gardens and planters were overflowing with untamed flowers that - paired along side the half-wild gardens of the town itself - barely seemed out of place.

“Whatever has kept you bound,” Liadove began, softer now, “and at bay, you must relent it. Stand strong astride the citizens of Summerglen, here, where you belong.”

Where she belonged - she’d heard that sentiment too much of late. Caeliri pressed her eyes shut so tightly her pulse began to riot in her skull, thunderous and vicious - at least it drowned out the phantom fragments of conversations cast against the low-light of candles and stars. It had been part of her oath, to shear off all else that bound her from her duty, to lay down her wants and dreams and desires in favor of serving a better purpose beyond herself. This was her promise; she couldn’t forget that.

Her chest swelled in several deep, soothing breaths, and she nodded, slowly. “Thank you, Liadove,” she murmured, lifting up her glass once more - her coffee had cooled to the point it was no longer that enjoyable, and she winced as she sipped it - and draining it. “You can return home - I know what must be done, and I will see to it.”

For a moment, protest rose on his face - no doubt some suggestion for her to take to her bed instead, and rest - but he knew enough of the young Dame to realize his opinion would go unheeded, and he had no desire to waste breath. Raising his hand in a crisp salute, Liadove excused himself from the room, content enough with the thought that he might return to his bed and sleep away some part of mid-morning to stave off any other commentary.

With the man’s departure, Caeliri turned her chair away from the desk and towards the window, the motion upsetting Grace for a moment; paid for the offense with a wing upside her head and an earful of angry trills. Curling her legs up into the chair, she sipped her lukewarm coffee and stared at the white stones of Hallowhearth shattered front, tracing the edges where the once glimmering glass had cracked and crumbled, and the divets and dinks in the downed columns that littered its lawn - the act of vandals, no doubt. Her thoughts bounded back and forth between the future - the high hopes, the expectations, the fears, the doubtless follies that would follow her forever - and the past, and all that she had been denied in it. For so long she’d been content to stand on the outer edges and take what was given to her, happily, without drive or desire to reach out and seize anything for herself.

Her knighthood had been the first step in righting that, in acting of her own accord to seem her fantasies made real. Despite the challenges that came with it - and the lingering doubt that, perhaps, she’d bitten off more than she could chew, perhaps, she’d made a mistake - it was a fruitful choice, and thus far had served her well in grander terms than her personal life. In the wake of her choice, she’d spent months idle, with open palms, hoping again for something she desired to fall into them - and it had not come, and she had waited long enough. Nothing of worth came to eager palms that did not reach for the object of their desire.

Hallowhearth was her home, and it was time to take what belonged to her.

Mentions: @felthier | @forever-afk | @lissanaria | @retributionpriest | @stormandozone

[ebvarlin-blog]

Caleb; Draft 2

Note: Things in bold are things I’m considering changing.

The sun was setting and Caleb slinked below it. Brushing through the trees like a whisper tickling a neck, he paused and sat on his haunches. Low voices drifted towards him as he watched like a great white shark, complete with dark dead eyes. Perfect, he thought. He shifted and the leaves on low-hanging branches rustled. 

A group relaxed on the brown, patchy, grass. Caleb observed as two of them stood and danced. Notes of laughter floated in the air as dresses twirled. Through the round cotton holes, Caleb watched. The wind rushed and he was motionless as the leaves beat a tattoo on his shoulders. 

Four bare feet danced over the ground, disturbing what little grass remained. One of the girls was sat down, his eyes darting towards her. Brown hair flowed down her back, and one strap had fallen off her shoulder. His gaze followed her slender back, until he saw how her hips widened. He raised his camera and snuck a photograph.

Shrieks, and his gaze flicked up. The others were in a pile, tussling in the grass. A few more. He raised his camera again. Under the cover of the trees he was invisible, dressed in all black. The girls didn’t leave until the moon was rising. 

Crawling backwards, Caleb stood when he was clear of the shrubbery. Around him were tall trees with thin trunks and thinner branches. Leaves crunched as he strode. Orange, red, and dark yellow, curling as they died. Grasping at the crown of his head, he tugged the mask off, stuffing it into his back pocket. 

He had sandy hair, a round nose and dull muddy eyes. Trudging forward, Caleb stalked between the trees. His car sat at the side of the road. A car trundled past. He waited before leaving the forest, standing behind one of the thin trunks. He watched it disappear around a bend in the road, and hurried to his car. 

The gravel driveway crackled under his tires. He tugged the handbrake, removed the key, and the low rumble of the engine ceased. The door of his Imp creaked as he opened it, and stepped out. 

He pulled the ring on a can of Carling, and poured it into a glass. The head frothed over onto the kitchen counter. Slurping at it, Caleb carried it to his desk. He clicked the mouse. 

The monitor illuminated his face, and he typed. Geraldine71. Routinely, he plugged a cable into his camera and waited. He drank. A few clicks, and the girls were on his computer, blown up from the small screen of his camera. Blurred reds and oranges singed the edges of the pictures. 

He perused the photos, and he drank. 

The alarm screeched. His finger pushed the off button, and Caleb sat up. The covers fell from his pallid chest. He swung his legs out, and sat at the edge. Staring forward, he looked at the unused dressing table. His face glowered back, lips a straight pink pale line and ears that were flat to his head. Standing, he flicked the switch on the light on the dressing table. Caleb was lit up by patchy half-working lights. He turned it off. 

The kettle shuddered and shook; steam gushed from the spout. One mug sat on the counter. Slippers brushed the floor, and the boiling water sloshed through the teabag. Caleb peered at the garden. Brambles grew through bushes, spiked branches reaching toward him. Flowers wilted, dead and dying in their beds. The tree had shed its leaves; naked. Caleb dumped the teabag into the sink.

Buttoning his baby blue shirt, he lifted the collar. Caleb tightened the tie around his neck. 

He typed. His fingers stabbed at the keys as though each had insulted him. The din of the office around him plugged his ears. Phones rang, keyboards chattered, people milled. Caleb typed. 

‘Caleb?’

He grunted an acknowledgement.

‘Do you want me to send over the Cramwell story?’ asked Tom. Caleb looked up from his keyboard. Tom was standing in the open doorway of his office. Don’t remember leaving that open. He was young, had swept back auburn hair; freckles dotted his cheeks. 

‘Have you finished it?’ he asked, his dull brown eyes boring into Tom’s sparkling blue.

‘Yeah; all done,’ replied Tom with a proud smile.

‘Send it over,’ said Caleb. Tom turned and Caleb thought he saw a skip in his step. ‘There had better not be any mistakes!’ Tom didn’t hear. He settled back into his typing, and sent back the article, frustrated. 

The Crunch. It was stuck in limbo, floating along in mediocrity. Caleb looked out from his office with its glass walls at the large sign opposite. The title of the website hung there in bold black letters, a full-stop sitting at the end. Caleb leaned back in his expensive executive chair, and stared at the ceiling. He tried to see patterns in the ceiling tiles but it was chaos in off-white. Tom’s email arrived with a pleasant ping.

Caleb stood over the shoulder of his sub-editor, Jemima, watching her arrange pictures of a celebrity; blurred leaves lived at the edge of the intrusions. He told sub-editor the composition was good, and to liaise with Tom to complete the article. The office sound had died out, his staff gone for the day. 

He closed his office door and collapsed into his desk chair. He regretted the decision to have a modern glass interior. There was nowhere to hide in the office, save for a bathroom stall. The space was open-plan, with a collection of desk where his staff spent their days. Turning his back on the emptiness, he looked out over the river and the city south of it. The water rushed along, bringing several boats with it. Two had small sails, one streaked with a splash of blue, the other plain. There was a tug, orange and white. He could see the captain; rotund and wearing overalls, the clasps gleaming. The tug pulled a barge. It was covered by a dark tarpaulin. Caleb wondered what it carried. His best guess was fish from the nearby harbour. 

His gaze followed the tug until it was out of sight, hidden by one of the bridges spanning the river. He spun again. Caleb looked past his dim monitor with its perpetual bouncing screensaver to the empty office. One of the chairs had its back to him. Sarah would usually sit there. He imagined the girl from the night before. Caleb could see her dark locks spilling down her back, and they shifted, blown by an imaginary breeze. He blinked and she was gone. 

Caleb was in front of his computer. Glass of beer in his left hand, mouse in his right. Click, a picture. A woman, tall in dark heels, his eyes raked over her. Click. A young man, square jawed and broad shouldered, in deep red swimming trunks. Click. A girl, dark hair tumbling down, obscuring her neck. Click. Geraldine. Click. Nothing.

The passenger-side door didn’t creak. Caleb clambered over the gearstick, and got out. His camera was swinging from a strap around his neck. He pushed the car door shut with a gentle thump. The tall thin trees surrounded him. Leaves crackled and crunched underfoot. The mask was soft, dark in his hands, and he pulled it on. Dirty blond hair covered his eyes. Caleb stuffed a hand into the mask and pushed it away. He set off through the forest, looking for the field on the other side. 

Gazing out of the bushes, the field was deserted. He checked his watch. Still early. The moon was faint in the pink evening sky. Caleb settled into the bushes, sitting crossed legged on the dry ground. He waited. Even the bushes were starting to succumb to the autumn. Soon they’d barely hide him. 

Caleb waited, and waited. Waited some more. Checked his camera, flicking through old photos he’d yet to delete from the memory card. The scroll wheel clicked. Two men. Then, a bunch of students out on the town, one man being held up by two others. They wore clothes as tight as the man’s arms clutching his friends. 

He wrapped his arms around his body, holding himself like he used to hold his wife. Caleb looked up as the grew darker until the moon was a white crescent, high in the sky. Nothing stirred on the field. Caleb sighed, and shoved himself up. He stumbled and fell out of the bush, his foot caught on a thick branch at the root. He cried, and there was a snap like a branch breaking. Crumpled in the open, he pushed himself up. The lens of his camera hung by a tangle of electronics. Cursing, he stood.

Fuck this. 

His little Hillman Imp was freezing when he was back inside. Caleb rubbed his hands together and dropped his broken camera on the passenger seat. He rotated the key a half-turn and twisted the dial on the dashboard. The heater roared at him through tiny vents, and he was blasted with cool air. Caleb snatched up the camera. He flicked on the interior light. 

The body looked fine, he thought. Though the lens was irreparable. He pulled at it until it broke off, detaching what remained from the body of his camera. The heat was dry, blowing into his face. He turned it down a notch, and set off. The lights illuminated the road before him. His rickety old car swallowed up the black tarmac, and cat’s eyes gleamed at him. Caleb turned on the radio. Skip, skip, skip; settled on a talk show.

‘… and this was what lead to the downfall of print media,’ said a voice, deep and full of righteousness.

‘I wouldn’t say it’s dead, any more so than radio is “dead”,’ replied a more level voice, soft, like a breeze you welcomed during a heatwave.

‘But you two would both agree that it’s declining?’ asked a moderate voice.  

Caleb’s eyes darted to the side of the road, where a figure was holding out a hand. A thumb was stuck up. He drove past, and watched through the rear-view. They dropped their arm and leaned their head back, staring at the sky. They might’ve been shouting but Caleb couldn’t hear over the blasting heater or the continuous blabber of the radio. He put on the brakes and flicked his hand down on the indicator stalk. Stopped at the side of the road, Caleb watched the figure hurrying to the car through the rear-view mirror. 

The door opened. 

‘Going to the city?’ There was barely enough light to see him. He sounded young and male. 

‘Near,’ replied Caleb.

The man got in. Caleb snatched the camera so the hitchhiker wouldn’t sit on it. He tossed the broken camera onto the backseat. The door shut and Caleb drove.

‘Thanks,’ said the man, ‘would’ve hated to walk. I’m Darren.’ He offered a hand. Caleb crossed his arms and shook it.

‘Caleb. It’s not a problem. Headed that way anyway.’ 

Darren held his hands to the vent on the far left of the dashboard. Caleb looked at him sideways. Overhead, lampposts passed and he could catch glimpses of Darren’s profile. His nose was sharp and long, with thin lips, an underbite, a weak chin, and patchy stubble. 

‘Got anywhere to stay tonight?’ asked Caleb, breaking the silence.

‘Um, no idea. Didn’t really plan…’ Darren ran a hand through wavy hair and Caleb caught his nervous glance.

‘You can stay at my house,’ suggested Caleb. What are you doing?! he screamed to himself. 

‘It’s okay, you don’t have–’ 

‘No bother at all, you can sleep in the spare room,’ continued Caleb, staring straight ahead as he drove. Stopped at a junction, went left. 

‘That’s kind of you, thanks,’ replied Darren.

Caleb opened the door to the spare bedroom. It hadn’t been used since his daughter had left. It was plain now, she’d taken most of the things she wanted. The wardrobe and drawers were empty, shelves devoid of books and her small film collection. A poster was askew on the wall, corners ragged. A boyband posed in it. 

‘Here you go,’ said Caleb. Darren entered, looking around. Caleb turned away then paused. ‘Oh, door doesn’t close, by the way.’ 

He could hear Darren turning on the old bed. The springs cried and screeched at every roll. Staring at the ceiling, he waited for the sound to stop. The digital clock was red. 01:13. When Caleb thought it was safe. He’d not heard springs for half an hour. He got up, and padded down the hallway.

The door was ajar. Darren had tried to close it. Caleb peeked his head in. Darren was on his back. His chest naked, and the duvet had bunched around his middle. He wasn’t muscled, and some hair grew on his stomach. It tapered into a thin trail going south and leading Caleb’s eyes. He took a soft step deeper into the room. His heart pounded against his ribs. All he could hear was blood coursing through his body like a raging river. 

He reached for the duvet. 

[petrichorate]

The Yiddish Policemen’s Union: Thoughts

The Yiddish Policemen’s Union (Michael Chabon)

Chabon is really great at writing descriptions. So great that he often describes the same scene or object in three or four different ways before moving on—his images are beautiful, but I equate it to something like eating too much candy. 

I personally didn’t really like this book, even though the premise is really interesting—it’s an alternate reality novel, set in a Sitka, Alaska which has turned into a haven for Jewish refugees. While Sitka sits on the verge of “Reversion,” which threatens the residency of its inhabitants, detective Meyer Landsman sets out on a new homicide case which exposes far more than he initially expected. But I felt that the plot didn’t move fast enough for me—even though almost every scene eventually fit a new piece of the puzzle into the crime case, I just didn’t feel a strong connection with the characters or story. I chalk some of this up to personal preference, since the others I read this book with really enjoyed both the plot and the writing style. I prefer novels that intertwine narrative and some deeper message about human nature, and I felt like that type of more profound inquiry was lacking for me in The Yiddish Policemen’s Union. 

While the quotes I picked out from this book are not as representative of experiences that really spoke to me, there were some notable descriptions that I wanted to remember: 

“An old man, pushing himself like a rickety handcart, weaves a course toward the door of the hotel.”

“They shake hands again. This conversation is the equivalent of Landsman’s kissing the mezuzah, the kind of thing that starts out as a joke and ends up as a strap to hang on to.”

“Brennan studied German in college and learned his Yiddish from some pompous old German at the Institute, and he talks, somebody once remarked, ‘like a sausage recipe with footnotes.’”

“Then he holds out his hand to be sniffed. The dog clambers back into a sitting position and reads with his nose the transcript of the back of Berko’s hand, babies and waffles and the interior of a 1971 Super Sport.”

An example of, I think, too many comparisons in one paragraph: “The shammeses have interrupted their game in its dense middle stages with the Russian, playing White, holding an unassailable knight outpost. The men are still caught up in their game, the way a pair of mountains gets caught up in a whiteout. Their natural impulse is to treat the detectives with abstract contempt they reserve for all kibitzers. Landsman wonders if he and Berko ought to wait until the players have finished and then try again. But there are other games in progress, other players to question. Around the old ballroom, legs scratch the linoleum like fingernails on a chalkboard. Chessmen click like the cylinder turning in Melekh Gaystik’s .38. The men—there are no women here—play by means of steadily hectoring their opponents with self-aspersions, chilly laughter, whistling, harumphs.”

“The red-rimmed eyes widen. Wonder mingles with horror as Mr. Litvak intensifies his study of Landsman, searching for some proof of this unlikely claim. He turns a page in his pad and pronounces his findings in the matter. Impossible No way Meyerle Landsman could be such a lumpy old sack of onions ‘Afraid so,’ Landsman says. What are you doing here terrible chess player ‘I was only a kid,’ Landsman says, horrified to detect a creak of self-pity in his tone.”

“Rabbi Heskel Shpilman is a deformed mountain, a giant ruined dessert, a cartoon house with the windows shut and the sink left running. A little kid lumped him together, a mob of kids, blind orphans who never laid eyes on a man. They clumped the dough of his arms and legs to the dough of his body, then jammed his head down on top. A millionaire could cover a Rolls-Royce with the fine black silk-and-velvet expanse of the rebbe’s frock coat and trousers. It would require the brain strength of the eighteen greatest sages in history to reason through the arguments against and in favor of classifying the rebbe’s massive bottom as either a creature of the deep, a man-made structure, or an unavoidable act of God. If he stands up, or if he sits down, it doesn’t make any difference in what you see.”

“‘Mendel had a remarkable nature as a boy. I’m not talking about miracles. Miracles are a burden for a tzaddik, not the proof of one. Miracles prove nothing except to those whose faith is bought very cheap, sir.’”

“Landsman watches her walk across the dining area to the doors of the Polar-Shtern Kafeteria. He bets himself a dollar that she won’t look back at him before she puts up her hood and steps out into the snow. But he’s a charitable man, and it was a sucker bet, and so he never bothers to collect.”

“The Granite Creek Big Macher outlet died about two years ago. Its doors are chained and along its windowless flank where Yiddish and Roman characters once spelled out the name of the store, there is only a cryptic series of holes, domino pips, a braille of failure.”

“Then Batsheva Shpilman lifts her veil. The body is frail, perhaps even gaunt, but it can’t be with age, because the fine-featured face, though hollow, is smooth, a pleasure to look at. She has wide-set eyes of a blue that wavers between heartbreaking and fatal. Her mouth is unpainted but full and red. The nostrils in her long, straight nose arch like a pair of wings. Her face is so strong and lovely, and her frame so wasted, that it’s disturbing to look at her. Her head sits atop her veined throat like an alien parasite, preying on her body.”

“‘Go on. Nu. Your son was shot. In a way that— Well, to be frank, ma’am, he was executed.’ Landsman is glad for the veil when he pronounces that word. ‘Who by, that we can’t say. We’ve learned that some men, two or three men, were looking for Mendel, asking around. These men might not have been very nice. That was a few months back. We know he was using heroin when he died. So, at the end, he felt nothing. No pain, I mean.’ ‘Nothing, you mean,’ she corrects him. Two blots, blacker than black silk, spread across the vail. ‘Go on.’”

A really strange comparison: “Her hair is the colorless color of a sheet of foil under a wan light.”

“Spiro’s tone is not quite pitying but prepared to turn that way if necessary.”

“His voice seems to spend too long bouncing around in his chest before it emerges. The words come out thick, poured with a slow ladle.”

“The wastebasket is a thing for children, blue and yellow with a cartoon dog cavorting in a field of daisies. Landsman stares at it for a long time, thinking about nothing, thinking about children’s garbage and dogs in cartoons. The obscure unease that Pluto has always inspired, a dog owned by a mouse, daily confronted with the mutational horror of Goofy.”

“Landsman considers the things that remain his to lose: a porkpie hat. A travel chess set and a Polaroid picture of a dead messiah. A boundary map of Sitka, profane, ad hoc, encyclopedic, crime scenes and low dives and chokeberry brambles, printed on the tangles of his brain. Winter fog that blankets the heart, summer afternoons that stretch endless as arguments among Jews. Ghosts of Imperial Russia traced in the onion dome of St. Michael’s Cathedral, and of Warsaw in the rocking and sawing of a café violinist. Canals, fishing boats, islands, stray dogs, canneries, dairy restaurants. The neon marquee of the Baranof Theatre reflected on wet asphalt, colors running like watercolor as you come out of a showing of Welles’s Heart of Darkness, which you have just seen for the third time, with the girl of your dreams on your arm.”

[ebvarlin-blog]

Caleb; Draft 1

Notes: Words and phrases I’ve bolded are things I wanted to look at changing as I wrote them.

The sun was setting in the sky and Caleb slinked below it. Brushing through the trees like a whisper tickling a neck, he paused and sat on his haunches. Low voices drifted towards him as he watched, a pair of white pricks in the dark. Perfect, he thought. He shifted and the leaves on low-hanging branches rustled.

A group relaxed on the brown, patchy, grass. Caleb observed as two of them stood and danced. Notes of laughter floated in the air as dresses twirled. Through the round cotton holes, Caleb watched. His chest rose and fell, and he was motionless as the leaves beat a steady tattoo on his shoulders.

Four bare feet danced over the ground, disturbing what little grass remained. He focused his attention elsewhere. Brown hair flowed down her back, and one strap had fallen off her shoulder. His eyes followed the taper of her back, until he was staring into the dirt. He raised his phone, made sure it was on silent, and snuck a photograph.

Shrieks, and his gaze flicked up. The others were in a pile, tussling in the grass. A few more. He raised his phone again. Caleb stayed still, though. Under the cover of the trees he was invisible, dressed in all black. The girls didn’t leave until the moon was rising. 

Crawling backwards, Caleb stood when he was clear of the lower branches. Around him were tall trees with thin trunks and thinner branches. His shoes crunched leaves as he strode, orange, red, and dark yellow. Grasping at the crown of his head, he tugged the mask off, stuffing it into his back pocket.

He had sandy hair, a round nose and dull muddy eyes. Trudging forward, Caleb passed between the trees. His car sat where he left it at the side of the road. He waited before leaving the forest, standing behind one of the thin trunks. A car trundled past. He watched it disappear around a bend in the road, and hurried to his car.

The gravel driveway crackled under his tires. Pulling the handbrake up, Caleb turned the key in the ignition, and the low rumble of the engine ceased. The door creaked as he opened it, and stepped out.

Inside, he pulled the ring on a can of Carling, and poured it into a glass. The head frothed over onto the kitchen counter. Slurping at it, he carried it to his desk where he wiggled and clicked the mouse.

The monitor illuminated his face, and he typed. Geraldine71. Routinely, he plugged a cable into his phone and waited. He drank. A few clicks, and the girls were on his computer, blown up from the small screen of his phone. In some photos, blurred reds and oranges singed the edges of the pictures.

He clicked slowly through them, and he drank.

His finger pushed the off button, and Caleb sat up. The covers fell down from his sallow chest. He swung his legs out, and sat at the edge. Staring forward, he looked at the unused vanity. His face glowered back, lips a straight pale pink line and ears that didn’t stick out enough. Standing, he flicked the switch on the vanity, and the lights lit him up. Some didn’t work. He turned them off.

The kettle shuddered and shook; steam gushed from the spout. One mug sat on the counter. Slippers brushed the floor, and the boiling water sloshed through the teabag. Caleb looked into the garden. Brambles grew through bushes, the spiked branches looked as if they were reaching toward him. Flowers wilted in their beds, and the tree had shed its leaves. Caleb dumped the teabag into the sink.

Buttoning his baby blue shirt, he lifted the collar. The tie slipped around and he held out the left side. He folded the right over it, and pulled it through the hole. Caleb tightened it around his neck.

He typed. His fingers stabbed at the keys as though each had insulted him. The din of the office around him plugged his ears. Phones rang, keyboards chattered, people milled. Caleb typed.

“Caleb?”

He grunted an acknowledgement.

“Do you want me to send over the Cramwell story?” asked Tom. Caleb looked up from his keyboard. Tom was standing in the open doorway of his office. Don’t remember leaving that open. He was young, had red hair that was swept back and freckles that dotted his high cheeks.

“Have you finished it?” he asked, his dull brown eyes boring into Tom’s sparkling blue.

“Yeah; all done,” replied Tom with a proud smile.

“Send it over,” said Caleb. Tom turned and Caleb thought he saw a skip in his step. “There had better not be any mistakes!” Tom didn’t hear. He settled back into his typing, and sent back the article, frustrated.

The Crunch. had not been the huge success he had hoped, but neither had it flopped. Caleb looked out from his office with its glass walls at the large sign opposite. The title of the website hung there in bold black letters, a full-stop sitting at the end. Caleb leaned back in his expensive executive chair, and stared at the ceiling. He tried to see patterns in the artex but it was confusion in off-white. Tom’s email arrived with a pleasant ping.

Caleb stood over the shoulder of one of the sub-editors, watching them arrange pictures of a celebrity. He noticed a few tell-tale hints that the photographer had lingered in some nearby shrubbery. He told sub-editor the composition was good, and to liaise with Tom to complete the article. The usual annoying office sound had died out, with most of his staff gone for the day.

He closed his office door and collapsed into his desk chair. The decision to have a modern glass interior was one he regretted. There was nowhere to hide in the office, save for a bathroom stall. Turning his back on the assorted empty desks, he looked out over the river and the city South of it. The water rushed along, bringing several boats with it. Two had small sails, one streaked with a splash of blue, the other plain. There was a tug, orange and white. He could see the captain, rotund with braces keeping his trousers up. The tug pulled a barge. Caleb wondered what was in the barge as it was covered by a dark tarpaulin. His best guess was fish from the nearby harbour.

His gaze followed the tug until it was out of sight, hidden by one of the bridges spanning the river. Spinning in his chair once more, he looked past his dim monitor with it’s perpetual bouncing screensaver to the empty office. One of the chairs had its back to him, and it was where Julie would usually sit. Now he imagined the girl from the night before. Caleb could see her dark locks spilling down her back, and they shifted, blown by an imaginary breeze. He blinked and she was gone. 

Caleb was in front of his computer. He had his glass of beer in his left hand, mouse in his right. Click, a picture. A woman, tall in dark heels, his eyes raked over her. Click. A young man, square jawed and broad shouldered, in deep red swimming trunks. Click. A girl, dark hair tumbling down obscuring her neck. Click. Nothing.

The passenger-side door didn’t creak. Caleb clambered over the gearstick, and got out, a camera swinging from a strap around his neck. He pushed the car door shut with a gentle thump. He was back between the tall thin trees. More leaves had fallen since his last visit, and they crackled and crunched underfoot. The mask was soft in his hands, and he pulled it on over his head. His dirty blond hair was pushed down over his eyes. Caleb stuffed a hand into the mask and pushed it away. He set off, passing through the forest, looking for the field on the other side.

Gazing out of the bushes lining the edge the field, he saw it was deserted. No matter. He checked his watch. Still early. The moon was faint in the pink sky. Caleb settled into the bushes, sitting crossed legged on the dry ground. He waited, dull eyes staring. Even the bushes were starting to succumb to the autumn. Soon they’d barely hide him.

Caleb waited, and waited. Waited some more. Checked his camera, flicking through old photos he’d yet to delete from the memory card. The scroll wheel clicked. Two men. Then, a bunch of students out on the town, one man being held up by two others. They wore tight smiles and tight clothes.

The moon was high in the sky, a white crescent. Nothing stirred on the field. Caleb sighed, and shoved himself up. He stumbled and fell out of the bush, his foot caught on a thick branch at the root. ‘Ah!’ he cried, a crack sounding alongside his cry. Crumpled in the open, he pushed himself up. The lens of his camera hung by a tangle of electronics. Cursing, he stood. Damn this.

His little Hillman Imp was freezing when he was back inside. Caleb rubbed his hands together and dropped his broken camera on the passenger seat. Turning the key, he started the engine and turned the heater on full blast. It roared at him through tiny vents, and he was blasted with cool air. Waiting for the car to warm, Caleb snatched up the camera. He flicked on the interior light and observed it.

The body looked fine, he thought. Though the lens was irreparable. He pulled at it until it broke off, detached what remained from the body of his camera. The heat was dry, blowing into his face. He turned it down a notch, and set off. The lights illuminated the road before him. His rickety old car swallowed up the black tarmac, and cat’s eyes gleamed at him. Caleb turned on the radio. Skip, skip, skip; settled on a talk show.

‘… and this was what lead to the downfall of print media,’ said a voice, deep and full of righteousness.

‘I wouldn’t say it’s dead, anymore so than radio is “dead”,’ replied a more level voice, soft, like a breeze you welcomed during a heatwave.

‘But you two would both agree that it’s declining?’ asked a moderate voice.   Caleb’s eyes darted to the side of the road, where a figure was holding out a hand. A thumb was stuck up. He drove past, and watched through the rear-view. They dropped their arm and leaned their head back, staring at the sky. They might’ve been shouting curses but Caleb couldn’t hear over the blasting heater or the incessant blabber of the radio. He put on the brakes and flicked his hand down on the indicator stalk. Stopped at the side of the road, Caleb looked into the rear-view again.

The door opened. 

‘Going to the city?’ There was barely enough light to see him, but Caleb thought he sounded young, and male. 

‘Near,’ replied Caleb.

The man got in. Caleb snatched the camera the hitchhiker wouldn’t sit on it. He tossed the broken camera onto the backseat. The door shut and Caleb drove.

‘Thanks,’ said the man, ‘would’ve hated to walk. I’m Darren.’ He offered a hand. Caleb crossed his arms and shook it.

‘Caleb. It’s not a problem. Headed that way anyway.’

Darren held his hands to the vent on the left of the dashboard. Caleb looked at him sideways. Overhead, lampposts passed and he could catch glimpses of Darren’s profile. His nose was sharp and long, with thin lips that barely protruded, a weak chin, and patchy stubble.

‘Where do you want dropping off, got anywhere to stay tonight?’ asked Caleb after a while in silence.

‘Um, no idea. Didn’t really plan…’ Darren ran a hand through his wavy hair and glanced at Caleb.

‘You can stay at my house,’ suggested Caleb. What are you doing?! he screamed to himself.

‘It’s okay, you don’t have–’

‘No bother at all, you can sleep in the spare room,’ continued Caleb, staring straight ahead as he drove, stopped at a junction, took a left. He barely looked at Darren.

‘That’s kind of you, thanks,’ replied Darren.

Caleb opened the door to the spare bedroom that hadn’t been used since his daughter had left. It was plain now, she’d taken most of the things she wanted. A poster was askew on the wall, held by Blu-Tack, corners ragged. A boyband posed in it. 

‘Here you go,’ said Caleb. Darren passed him, and looked around. Caleb turned away then paused. ‘Oh, door doesn’t close, by the way.’

He could hear Darren turning on the old bed. The springs cried at every roll. Staring at the ceiling, he waited for the sound to stop. The clock was red with 01:13 when Caleb thought it was safe. There hadn’t been any sound for over half an hour. He got up, and padded down the hallway.

The door was pushed to. Darren had tried to close it anyway. Caleb peeked his head in. Darren was on his back, his chest naked with the duvet bunched around his middle. He wasn’t muscled, and some hair grew on his stomach tapering into a thin trail leading south. Caleb took a soft step deeper into the room. His heart pounded against his ribs and all he could hear was blood coursing through his body.

Stretching out his hand, he grasped the duvet and pulled it down.