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jeongvision · 4 years

Text

make a wish

synopsis. jaehyun loves you very much; so much that he came over to your place at midnight to wish you a happy birthday. meanwhile, you also love jaehyun very much; so much that you think that he deserves a very special present from you even on your birthday.

pairing. boyfriend! jeong jaehyun ✗ fem! reader

genre. smut, fluff if you squint a little, established relationship au

word count. 2.9k

warnings. cursing, sexual themes (marking, fingering, choking, grinding, dirty talking, degradation, cum play, power play), some religious analogies

author’s note. make a wish english ver. is making me feel some type of way and jaehyun looking expensive in the mv is not helping me so i had to let it out somehow, so enjoy this thirsty work of art lmao

Today is your birthday, and all Jaehyun planned was to come over to your apartment at midnight with cake and sing you a happy birthday. After that, he’s all yours for the day. You’re free to do whatever you want, whenever you want with him for 24 hours. He was thinking maybe all you wanted to do is just stay in and cuddle while binge watching some netflix shows. Maybe order takeout if you’re feeling a little lazy to cook, and perhaps a few makeout sessions together here and there if you were feeling it. He could tell from your voice how exhausted you were from your work schedule based on the past couple phone calls.

What he did not expect however, is for you to be straddling his hips as you mark his neck up with purples and blues right after you blew out the candles.

And neither did you.

But that’s what makes it all fun, right?

You arrived at your apartment earlier close to 11 at night. work was tiring today. You work as a full-time cashier at a huge department store down the street. It was decent pay, enough to pay for your expenses and live life a little. You didn’t mind how demanding it could be sometimes, how customers can go from being exceptionally patient with your work to customers being absurdly rude to you for just breathing.

However, some of your coworkers called out for a week due to ‘personal reasons’, whatever that may be. Because of that, your manager has been scheduling everyone to work more to make up for all the missing shifts, including you.

You honestly didn’t mind it.

The only time you do is when it doesn’t allow you enough time to regenerate your social battery that you’ve been draining every night for the past two weeks. And every night before your shift ends, without fail, you always think to yourself how much you can’t wait to go home, take a nice, warm bath, and drift off to sleep, only for you to repeat the cycle again the next day. Oh, and maybe call up your boyfriend, if he was still awake, and talk about each other’s day for a bit.

But today is a little different— you finally get a day off to yourself.

You did your nightly after-work ritual: dinner, shower, bath, doze off a little, rinse, dry up, all that good stuff. But once you got dressed and finished blow-drying your hair, your doorbell rang exactly at midnight. You weren’t expecting any visitors this late, so it was reasonable that you were suspicious.

Who the hell? You were on high alert when you walked over to your front door, a wooden baseball in hand. When you went to take a look through the peephole, there was nothing but confusion all over your face. Why is Jaehyun here? As you pondered on, you noticed he held a beige box in both of his hands. As you peered closer you caught glimpse of the familiar label on its right side: it was from none other than your favorite bakery shop.

And that’s when it hit you.

It’s midnight.

You boyfriend is standing right outside your door, holding a box from your favorite bakery shop.

It’s your freaking birthday today.

You didn’t expect Jaehyun to be at your doorstep with a box of cake in his hands. In fact, you didn’t expect to see him at all on your birthday. You remembered him mentioning he had to work on your birthday. He felt bad that he couldn’t spend time with you. There’s always another day, love, you said to him.

And here you two are in the present: the candles have already been lit, birthday song have been sang, and the tiny smoke from the candles wafts through the air after you blew them out. Jaehyun told you that he called off work to spend the day with you and you were free to do whatever you wanted to do with him. You initially thought that spending the whole day inside lazing around would be the most perfect idea ever after all those strenuous hours at work.

But you had another idea in mind, an idea that stayed in the back of your mind after he sent you a scandalous text last week, stating all the things he wanted to do with you behind closed doors, away from public’s view. Of course he had to conveniently send it during your work shift and your nosy coworker just happened to peer over your shoulder reading the contents. It was all pure jest, my love, he said to you.

A joke it may be, but there’s no harm in making them come true, right?

Your arms are circled around his neck, legs stationed on either side of his legs with your ass planted firmly on his lap. You’re both sat on your living room couch, bodies pressed against each other with the cake long forgotten on your coffee table behind you. His hands are tucked underneath your shirt, caressing your soft skin.

As you continue to nip all over his neck, marking him up, he maneuvers his hands down to your rear, giving them a light squeeze. You sigh at his touch.

“Baby girl,” he grunts, “just what do you think you’re doing?”

You nip at a particular spot on his neck and he groans out loud. God, just the sound of him is enough for you to wet your panties. After licking down on his skin, you pull away from his neck and look down at your creation— there are blue and purple galaxies all over his throat, his lips are red and had a little swell to them from your sloppy makeout session earlier, and the eyes he looks at you with are filled with nothing but carnal lust for you.

You can’t help but feel pride burst in your chest because you did that. You made him, Jung Jaehyun, your boyfriend, look like that.

You gave him a lopsided grin, and he thinks to himself how he can’t wait to wreck you apart inside and out. “What does it look like I’m doing?” you cooed. You can feel his clothed erection poke at your thigh, pulsating underneath, so you grind on it teasingly, watching as his eyes roll back with his mouth open. “I’m just doing what my boyfriend wished for me to do through our text messages the other day. I wanted to show how appreciative I am that he came over and wished me a happy birthday.”

You face moves closer to his, your lips a breath away from his own. You lower your voice down to a whisper, “Is that wrong for me to do?”

He releases a throaty groan. You can feel him bucking up to gain some friction on his dick but you lifted your hips up a little from his lap. “Fuck,” he grunts.

You giggle softly at his reaction. You were never the one to take charge in bed. Jaehyun was always the one to initiate something and follow through with it. You didn’t mind it. In fact, you loved it. but the power you felt over him now was But you feel drunk on the feeling; you savored it, you felt intoxicated, and you wanted more.

Fuck it, screw those text messages. Let’s change it up a little, shall we? How about you take charge for the night?

But little did you know, that is exactly the opposite of what he was going to give you. It may be your birthday, but there’s no way in hell that you’re going to top tonight. You already mentioned those text messages he forgot about, and there’s no way he’s going to make you turn your words back on it.

Before you could even register anything, his right hand that was planted on your ass moves to your front where he cupped your clothed sex. You gasp, eyes blown out, hands now gripping onto his shoulders.

“O-oh!” you mewl.

And so, the reins have been handed over to him. As it should, he thinks. He smirks a little. His fingers rubs against your core at an agonizingly slow pace just to tease you a bit. He could feel the heat radiating off your body and wanted nothing more than to bask in it.

Just as he was about to move his hand away, you grab his wrist to hold it in place.

“Mm.. more..” you quiver.

He clicks his tongue. “Dirty little whore.”

After feeling how your thin shorts were starting to get drenched, he pulls his hand away from your grasp and shoves them inside your panties. Immediately, he can feel you dripping, his fingers and palm collecting all of your essence. His fingers deftly circle your clit before gliding them back and forth on your soaked folds.

Your mind is in a spiral.

“Holy fuck!” And holy, his fingers are, especially when he inserts two fingers inside your pussy. “O-oh my god, Jaehyun-n!”

He sadistically thrusts in and out of your entrance, his thumb stimulating your nub, your moans getting more fervent. “Acting all spoiled just because I’m letting you do whatever you want with me for your birthday. Just who do you think you are? Should I remind you who’s the one in charge here?” he growls.

You whimper at his words, shamelessly grinding yourself onto his hand as his other wraps snugly around the back of your neck.

He grins, face dangerously close to you now. “Now look at you, all fucked out from only my fingers. This pussy just can’t wait for me to fuck you nice and deep, huh? Is that what you want?”

You didn’t answer him, your mind too preoccupied from the bliss his fingers are giving to you. The sweat forming on your skin created a glistening sheen on your exposed collarbone, and all he wants to do is to just ravage it.

And he just might.

His hand wrapped around your neck tightens a little, sending more pleasure through your body and core.

“Answer me, slut.”

You cry out a little, “Y-yes.”

“Yes, what?”

You fail to swallow back your moans. “I-I want you to.. fuck me nice and- oh!”

His fingers hit that delicious spot inside you, your body jerking in response.

“Fuck you nice and what?”

Your sighs come out shakily, “Nice a-and.. deep, with your c-cock- oh my god!”

“God can’t save you now, fucking slut.”

He feels you tightening around his fingers, sending him to fasten his pace. Your grip on his shoulder intensifies, enough to painfully indent his skin. After a few more thrusts from his fingers, a coil inside you snaps, stars blurring your vision as a shockwave overtakes you. You did nothing to suppress your screams as your juices flowed out your core. His fingers continue to thrust in and out of you throughout your orgasm but finally stops as he sees you start to calm down.

Your breathing is erratic, trying to catch up after that earth-shattering orgasm you just experienced. After he feels you relax in his embrace, he lets go of your neck and rests it on your waist. He pulls his fingers out of your pussy and you shuddered at the loss of contact. Your cum slowly drips out of you onto your panties and shorts, some of it gliding onto your thighs where he can visibly see it.

God, does he want to have a taste. You’re definitely going to need some new shorts and undies now. With your half-opened eyes in a complete daze and your breathing evened out, he brings his fingers to your lips, staring dauntingly at your orbs.

“Suck.”

And you obliged. He pushes his fingers past your mouth and you suck on his fingers, tasting yourself. Your tongue swirls around his digits, all while maintaining eye contact with him.

He gravely groans at the sight. “So naughty..” He pulls his fingers away and takes hold of your chin, ravenously capturing your lips with his own, tasting a little bit of you in the process. Your tongue glides past his as he dominates your mouth whole. Your arms wrap around his neck once more, pulling him closer to your soul. His lips are always soft, and yet he kisses you as if he wants to devour you up until your knees buckled.

He breaks away from the kiss, a string of saliva connecting the two of you, and he maneuvers his way down to your throat.

Now it was his turn to paint your neck pretty.

“So fucking naughty for me,” he moans. As he assaults your neck, you rack your nails through his hair, gently pulling on its ends. You could feel him sigh onto your neck as a result of it. He honestly loves it when you pull onto his hair, almost a little too much.

After he was satisfied with his artwork, he looks back up to you and delicately pecks your lips. The corner of his mouth lifts, his dimples now on full display. “Happy birthday, baby.”

You tiredly giggle at the complete change in his demeanor. You were so in love with this man, and you would do anything to make him happy.

“Thank you, my love.”

He grins at you. And he was so in love with you, he would do anything to keep you happy.

He kisses you once again, this time with much more passion and purpose. He held onto your waist as you held onto his neck, enjoying each other’s presence. Afterr staying in each other’s embrace for some time, foreheads touching, a thought popped in Jaehyun’s head.

“You know, you never told me what you wished for.”

Oh, but what is there to wish for when your present is right in front of you?

You shrug your shoulders, “It’s nothing really.”

He tsks out loud, “Baby, we both know that’s a lie.” He moves away from you and leans forward to the side of your face. And all of the sudden, you feel him nibbling your earlobe, kitten licks in between.

You bite down on your lip, struggling to keep your composure together. Surely, you were still recovering from your last orgasm— the attention he was giving to you got you feeling aroused for him again.

He snickers gravely.

Oh how fucking sinful the sound of that is.

“Come on, baby girl. Just tell me. Maybe I can make your wish come true.”

The moan you just released was lecherous to him.

“Answer me, then you shall receive.”

The devil works hard, but Jaehyun works harder.

You quiver at his command. No matter how many times you were intimate with each other, you could never get used to all the dirty talk. Jaehyun was always clear-cut about his wants and needs, but you never were. Mot until you’re pushed on the spot like now.

You swallow down your embarrassment and meekly respond. “I-I.... suck you..”

He stops his teasing and backs up to look at you. “Hm? What was that?” His smirk returns. “I didn’t quite catch that. Speak up, baby. Use your words.”

You refuse to answer, but he pays no mind. You’ll eventually cave in, you always do.

“Baby, I’m waiting.”

You close your eyes and let out a sigh. “I didn’t wish for anything.”

“And why is that?”

You eyes opened up but you look away from his gaze, humiliation all over. Hou stammer over your words, “B-Because.. you’re my birthday wish.”

He lazily grins, bringing his left hand to cup your cheek. That’s when you decided to look up into his eyes. “And what do you wish to do with me?”

You gulp. “I want to.. suck you.”

“Suck where exactly?”

Fucking hell. He’s enjoying this way more than you are. Just who is getting their birthday present here? You groan out in a frustrated manner. To hell with this.

“Your cock. I want your cock in my mouth. O want your fucking dick in my mouth and I want you to use my mouth and fuck it like your own personal toy.” After realizing that you just said, you gasp and covered your mouth with both of your hands. You’re now embarrassed out of your mind, completely wanting the ground to just swallow you up.

You just said that to him, but Jaehyun found it quite adorable that you were capable of saying such things.

And so, he removes your hand from your face, grips on your wrist, and kisses you, a loud smooch throughout the room. After that, he places one of your hands onto his prominent bulge, painstakingly waiting for you attention this entire time. “Baby, you don’t have to say it twice.”

And you couldn’t have been quicker. You step off of him, assuming position with your knees on the floor. He hastily stands up from your couch and works on unzipping his jeans with your help. After pulling his dick out, your mouth waters. Veins aligned along its sides, red at the tip with precum leaking out.

He chuckles at you. “Aren’t you an eager little whore?”

Your eyes shoot up to his, eyes sinfully taking you in. “Just can’t wait to have my cock in your mouth, huh? Greedy little whore. zi bet all you want is my cum in your mouth.” He clicks his tongue.

With one hand on his member and the other holding onto the back of your head, you look down at his shaft. You feel him guiding your head towards him. With your mouth wide open, tongue splayed out for him, you could hear the grin in his voice.

“Happy birthday, baby girl. Now make a wish and blow.”

#jaehyun #nct jaehyun #jaehyun scenarios #jaehyun smut #jaehyun imagines #jaehyun x reader #jaehyun x oc #nct #nct 127 #nct imagines #nct smut #nct 127 imagines #nct 127 scenarios #nct 127 smut #jung jaehyun #jeong jaehyun #nct scenarios

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ridiculously-over-obsessed · 3 years

Photo

It’s very soft in here today ksgdlffh another nice and short one for today!!

Also on AO3!!!

FEBRUARY DRABBLES, DAY TWELVE - RING

Chloe watched Beca pace agitatedly in front of the bed, wearing nothing but the oversized t-shirt she had hastily thrown on because talking to DJ Khaled whilst she was naked felt ‘wrong and weird’.

“No- no of course. Yeah I guess I can do that… it’s just a bit sudden- no, no I’m really grateful. Yeah I’ll see you tomorrow then. Great. Thanks.”

Beca sighed heavily as she sunk onto the end of the bed, shaking her head a little as Chloe crawled down the bed to join her, arms draping over her shoulders.

“You really have to go tomorrow then?” She whispered, pressing a soft kiss to Beca’s cheek.

“Yeah.” Beca nodded, leaning back against Chloe as she rested her hands on her arms, “Off to tour Europe with Khaled without a thought to what I might have going on in my life…”

“Do you not want to?” Chloe frowned softly, running her fingers through Beca’s hair, “Because you don’t have to y’know Becs.”

“I know.” Beca smiled softly, “But I do want to Chlo, this is huge I- I would be stupid to pass this up. It’s just there’s this thing that just happened that I don’t want to screw up either…”

Chloe grinned as Beca turned her head to look at her, softly kissing her lips, “Do you think I’d let something as stupid as geography get in the way of us?”

“I mean you did fail maps…” Beca smirked, Chloe poking her in the ribs as Beca laughed at the look on her face.

“I’m serious Beca. I know that you’re going to be gone for a while with Khaled wanting to show you off around the world. Of course he would, you’re incredible. But that doesn’t mean that this…”

Chloe gently pulled Beca back onto the bed, straddling her waist as she looked down at her, eyes full of nothing but affection and love.

“Isn’t going to work. We’ll make it work Becs.” Chloe kissed her softly again, seeing the insecurity in Beca’s eyes as she pulled back.

“I could be away for months Chlo…” Beca whispered, sniffing softly, “I can’t ask you to wait for me like that, it wouldn’t be fair…”

“Beca…” Chloe shook her head a little, “There’s no-one else I want to be with, I wouldn’t be waiting for you, not like that… I’d be waiting for the woman I love to come home to me.”

Beca’s eyes clouded with emotion as she cupped Chloe’s face in her hands, “I love you too Chlo… but I just- I don’t want to mess this up by taking off on tour after only a weekend and expecting you to be waiting for me in New York, that just feels… shitty.”

Chloe frowned softly as she flopped on the bed next to Beca, playing with one of the rings on her fingers. It was a simple silver band engraved with a heart that her mom had given her on her eighteenth, a sweet trinket of unconditional love from her…

Chloe smiled softly as she slid it off her finger, rolling onto her side.

“Here.” Chloe lifted Beca’s right hand and slid the ring onto Beca’s ring finger, “It’s not a proposal, not yet, but it is a promise that I love you, that I will always love you no matter where you are or what you’re doing. I want to wait for you Beca, this is my choice. You are my choice.”

A tear slipped down Beca’s cheek as she turned to kiss Chloe, pulling her against her as she poured as much love and longing into the single action as she could.

“I love you Chlo.” Beca mumbled against her lips as they broke for air, “I love you so much. We’ll make it work. I’ll be back in New York before you know it.”

“Yeah you will.” Chloe agreed, nudging Beca’s nose with hers, “And I’ll try and come and see you while you’re touring… and there’s still the rest of tonight to create some very lasting memories for you to take with you.”

“Oh yeah?” Beca laughed softly as Chloe rolled on top of her, “I could live with that…”

#pitch perfect #pitch perfect fanfic #pitch perfect edit #bechloe #beca mitchell #chloe beale #fanfiction #my fic #february drabble challenge #fdc: day twelve

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starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

Note

Hey!!! I'm so glad you liked the blurb night idea :) 💞 Can I request a blurb with Peter bumping into the reader while she's kinda lost at times square and he's dressed as spiderman so he tries to flirt with you, but it makes you laugh instead?

I loved the idea hun, thankyou sm for helping me with this idea xxx

“You’re a guy?”

Pairing | Peter Parker x reader

Summary | based on the request

Warnings | mentions of crime, brief mention of death and drugs, mention of sex

2K blurb masterlist

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

“And there was this girl. She was really pretty, but-“ May quirked her head at her nephew, hardly understanding his blabber as he sped through his words like he was racing verbally against a cheetah, though, she was manage to uncover that particular sentence.

“Whoa, slow down kiddo.” His aunt laughed lightly, bracing her shoulders on his arms as he caught his overexcited breath. “How about you start from the beginning, and take a breath?” May had much practice with calming the boy down, she sincerely remembered how that night his parents had dropped him off, how worried he had been for them not to return. And they didn’t.

Peter bobbed his head in a eager nod, doing as he was recommended by his legal guardian, puffing the air in through his cheeks, as he inhaled and exhaled normally through his nose.“I was out patrolling the city, checking out for any bad guys, and then, I saw her...” her, the girl that had captured his attention, and distracted him from his friendly neighbourhood duties. She was much like a magnet, pulling his north face into her axis spinning world, distracting him from the things that he was actually meant to be ensuring did not happen on his watch.

“Weren’t you supposed to be patrolling?” The elder of the two quirked a brow, earning a splutter of a response from the teenager under her roof. She wasn’t a strict guardian concerning his heroic antics, though, she made sure to keep him on track for his own sake. Peter had quite the tendency to become overrun with stress from the amounts of responsibilities that he took on, and him being only young did not help the situation.

“I’m getting to that!” He was fast to defend himself, huffing his chest in as he prepared to tell May his story, from the beginning. It was quite the tale, he’d say, combined with the embarrassment of his own presence entangled in the random and friendly interaction that he had felt promiscuously lulled to create.

Queens, it was new to you. There were so many streets, filled to the brim with people that seemed to know where they were going. Unlike them, you didn’t, in fact, you’d go as far to admit that you were lost. Lost in a place that was known for the chaos that wrapped it off with a tarnished bow, and made the collateral practically fashion within its various newspapers that rounded every corner to divulge their companies’ obscure theories.

A panicked look struck your eyes, as you turned, shaking your head and pressing through the mass of citizens and finding an empty lot, scrolling through your phone, diverting your attention quickly towards google maps. It was the only thing that you could think of, it’d be a shame if you were to disturb one of the many passersby from their clearly packed schedule; you did not need that, nor berating them on your conscience.

“You lost or something?” A voice asked, making your shoulders jump as a figure, twisted in the colours red and blue, with a seam of black fell from the roofs above. Your heart rate imploded, more so when you realised who the mask wearing vigilante was. The wearer, although unknown, was infamous for the successions of saving lives that they had participated in, including defending the galaxy against outside threats.

It was Spiderman, the neighbourhood dubbed avenger, that tried their utmost to return stolen or lost bikes to their rightful owners, and protected banks from armed and overnight robberies. There was known to be something different about this particular hero, they were young and clearly had time to improve their skill set, for they were quite the clutz, and spoke significantly more to those he faced off against than what was necessary.

But this one hero, stood out amongst the rest. Not only was their suit designed by Stark technology, as you had written about in a work article, but it was far more concealing, and not to mention restricting, for the person beneath the red concoction to wear. Yes, you were in town for a new job, specifically to delve into the details that regards the world of heroes, and exploit all possible angles to how they deserved as much recognition for their stunts, as the president received for his noble speeches.

“I-“ you paused, think back over what you were preparing to say. It was without a doubt, that you had not expected the vigilante to appear in your spectacle gaze the first time that you stepped foot on the premises that he roamed, and protected. But here the spider enthusiast was, leaping down to stand beside you, burdening you with more knowledge that you could use, such as the person beneath was not as tall as you had expected, and there was definitely no way you could see their true eyes through the shallow white cases that covered them.

That was something you could write about, and make various descriptive theories about. ‘Seeing in white vision, sparked by the purity that glazed their unknown signature irises, Spider-Man halts all with the sparing of their true self. They may have reasons for shielding their eyes, much like Daredevil, not needing to see when they are overcome with various other senses that convulse their body into attentiveness,” -no, that sounded absolutely terrible.

And not to mention, if you spread that horrid writing about, Murdoc would be ashamed of ever deciding to get your aid in uncovering the route of the villainous underworld, that had take over Hell’s Kitchen and turned it into their own ring for drugs and more. The battle of New York had many repercussions, that being one, another influencing you into the career choice of being said reporter that you now proclaimed yourself as.

“Yeah, I am.” You responded with the company of a smile, and Peter swore he could feel his heart convulse beneath his suit. It’s pace was vaguely rapid, disheartening him from thinking of any more to say, he was practically speechless. “I’m looking for New York Times, you ever heard of it?” Yes, he most definitely had, it was the average run of the mill newspaper company, though, he did not know that you intended to change that into something much more.

“Funnily enough I have.” He scratched the back of his head, his arm subconsciously flexing as he did so, feeling like he had failed as your eyes remained focused on the wideness of his suit’s intense eyes. “It’s about three blocks from here, I could take you there if you want, I have nothing more to do.” From his proclamation you quirked a brow, crossing your arms amusedly.

“Don’t you have a city to watch over?” You asked, watching as Spider-Man’s false eyes widened, and he visibly panicked, realising that you had been right. “I’ll find my way, I’ve been to New York, many a time, Queens is bound to be a piece of cake. Also, a map is always handy.” A shrug rippled off your shoulders, Peter watching and walking closer as he thought of something more to add to the initial acquainting conversation.

“I’m Spider-Man.” Inwardly, and beneath his mask, Peter cringed noting how his voice rose, and it could be perceived as boasting. That though was definitely not his intent in the slightest, but he worried of how it may have come across to you. He wasn’t sure how you may have read it as, but a swarm of relief filled his lungs as he watched the corner of your eyes crinkle up, humoured by the tone of his that had significantly heightened. “Im a guy by the way.”

He felt the need to state that, especially considering people’s perceptions in the past. But instantly after saying it, he was regretful, through, he had to admit, he enjoyed listening to you laugh, it was like a melody that he wanted to listen to until the end of time. “You’re a guy?” You released a dramatic gasp, aiding your phoney response. “Yeah, no. I completely thought that you were a girl.” Sarcasm, he had well gotten used to frequency of it thanks to Mr Stark, who... well, he wasn’t around any more.

“You’re funny.” He smiled, shaking his head whence he realised that you could not see his hidden expression. “I don’t know, maybe, would you like to go to coffee with me, if you have time before you have to get to the news place? I mean, I don’t drink that much coffee, I get told that if I have too much caffeine that I get a little hyper, but I mean, I’m trying to ask you out and I have a really bad track record of-“

“Sure.” You spoke, ignoring the map that had finally loaded onto the screen of your phone. It was to your luck that you weren’t required to make your presence known at the business until tomorrow, and there was always time to kill, so you thought screw it, and decided to find it so that you didn’t get lost the approaching day. “Are you going to be wearing that, or you know, take it off?” You pointed at him, making peter surprised.

“It’s not that kind of date.” He quickly responded. “I meant just for a drink, not to hook up in the back of an a- oh, you meant the suit, didn’t you.” With a roll of your eyes, you nodded, pursing your lips together, as Peter felt the rain of relief once more. “Oh, that’s good, not that I wouldn’t want to, you’re gorgeous, that just wasn’t my intent and I’m rambling again, aren’t I?”

“Basically.” You wrinkled your nose, with a laugh, the way you scrunched it up was adorable to Peter. “So I’ll meet you here in two hours, I’ll let you finish up your duties, and change into something that doesn’t make you look you’re wearing a thong, because I can tell you from experience that those things are not comfortable. That good for you Spidey?”

“That works.” He spoke, trying his best to contain his overflowing excitement, biting his lip to do so. “That definitely works.”

“Hi.” The familiar voice of Spider-Man spoke, and you turned around, watching as a young man, not much different in age from yourself rounded the corner. He was clothed in a blue and white chequered flannel, and grey jeans, and you had to say, that whilst the amazing Spider-Man was quite the sight, this was something else.

“Oh, I was waiting for a girl actually.” You informed him, clearly messing with him, as you walked closer, a stretching smile pinning up the corners of your lips. “But I guess you’ll do webslinger.” He could feel his heart racing, but he walked closer, watching as you eyed him, a stranger met with the sight of a vigilante unmasked. “Where to, red and blue?”

“There’s this really good place on main, they sell the best sandwiches. And trust me, once you buy from there, you won’t stop...” the two of you began to walk away together, and towards Peter’s secret destination, where the two of you learnt the others real name.

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writing-in-april · 4 years

Text

Georgia Peach

Spencer Reid x Gender Neutral Reader (Spencer POV)

Summary: Spencer sees Reader eating a peach and goes a little crazy.

A/N: this was a long time coming- ive been writing this oneshot for forever and I finally finished it! The original prompt is from @imagining-in-the-margins and I also incorporated a request for a pearl necklace from @sunlight-moonrise This fic was also written for @ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff so I could give them some gender neutral smut! Most of my fluff is gender neutral but until now I hadn’t dived into writing gender neutral smut. I’ll definitely be writing more in the future- I like writing stuff that is as inclusive as possible! There shouldn’t be any mistakes in terms of pronouns- I had a ton of people look at it, but if there is please message me!If you live in Georgia don’t forget to vote in the Georgia state runoff elections!

Warnings: Sub!Spencer, Topping from the bottom, Very slight food play, Face Fucking, Pearl necklace, Pubic sex (sorta), Unprotected sex

Main Masterlist Word count: 2.9k

I was pretty sure I was going to explode just from looking at Y/N. They weren’t doing anything that was infuriating, annoying, or even anything that most would consider sexual in nature. They had decided that a peach brought in by one of the Georgia detectives was the best way to relieve their parched mouth caused by the blistering heat. The mundane act of eating a peach combined with the deep v neck that adorned their figure was apparently enough to make my slacks uncomfortably tight.

Get it together Spencer.

My inner voice was slapping me upside the head repeatedly, trying in vain to break me out of the daydream I had found myself immersed in. I swept the sweat off of my brow while continuing to unabashedly stare at Y/N. I knew that I needed to draw my eyes away from Y/N and focus on the case file that was sitting on my lap. But, just as I was about to tear my eyes away from them they took a large bite of the delicate skin of the white peach causing juice to dribble down their chin.

I’m screwed.

Subtly was not a strong suit of mine. That became painfully obvious when my eyes widened to the max in an attempt to see every detail of the erotic picture I was painting in my mind. The picture became clearer in my mind as another bite was taken out of the supple fruit. The juice escaped their mouth again, however this time a new path was taken when the liquid fell past their chin. The drop of nectar slid down past the juncture of their collarbones, falling perfectly down the point of the v on their shirt, almost as if it was carefully planned and executed. My mind wandered further than I thought possible when images flashed before my eyes of Y/N covered in something different, but similarly sticky. I was so transfixed at the sight that I didn’t notice the coy smile being flashed my way from across the room.

“You alright Dr. Reid?” I could hear the coquettish voice but it sounded like it was 1000 miles away. Everything had become muffled, the only sound I could clearly hear was the thrumming of my heart beat in my ears. I gulped hard, trying and failing to distance myself from my thoughts.

A loud snap in front of my face from the culprit of my dirty thoughts cleared my mind just enough to refocus on the person in front of me. The visage of Y/N still had me in a haze of lust that I couldn’t shake but, I did find some strength within myself to respond, “Y-yeah I’m alright Y/N just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Nnn-Nothing, don’t worry about it.” My tone had risen to a high pitch and that along with my stuttering instantly gave away that something was brewing in my head. And, Y/N was good at reading me, they’d always been able to pick out how I felt in a few sentences or less. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d picked up how turned on I was right away.

Yeah, I’m totally screwed.

It was now so silent you could hear a pin drop. I tried to slow down my breathing that had picked up some minutes ago due to the mounting tension in my trousers. Sadly, despite my efforts I could not calm down, my trousers still felt way too tight and now everything felt hot. My face was probably bright red right now from the burning heat coursing through my veins, which would just end up being another signal to Y/N that something was amiss.

I tugged at the edge of my collar trying another way to reduce tension in my body as now the skinny tie I wore felt too tight on my neck. Immediately my mind jumped away to- I wish their hand was on my neck.

During my efforts to ease the tension in my body I must have failed to notice the fact that Y/N was still staring at me. A shudder was sent down my spine when I finally peaked my eyes up from the hands that held the peach to their eyes which felt like they were boring into my thoughts and reading everything.

I wanted to crawl into a hole and never leave. There was no doubt in my mind Y/N had sensed my arousal by now and I’m pretty sure I looked even brighter than a cherry as I started to stumble out an apology. I couldn’t even get one full word out before they had set down the offending fruit and made their way over to me. The chair that I had been sitting in was a swivel chair which Y/N took full advantage of by spinning me around to face them. Their chest was bent over to come down to my sitting form but instead of focusing where their face was my eyes were firmly fixated again on the sliver of skin still glistening with the juice from the peach.

I just wanted to lick it off.

My mind had again been so lost in lust that I didn’t notice that they were now so close to me that I could feel their breath mixing with my own and all my mind was focused on was tasting the sweet nectar that I knew still sat on their tongue. Like a man possessed I tried to lean forward hungrily at Y/N to relieve the undeniable but silent tension we had created. However, suddenly my arm was being pulled out of the conference room by them leading me down the path to the archive room. The city we were stationed in for the case was definitely behind technologically, so much so that they still kept all their files on paper. The old files from cold or closed cases were then schlepped into this forgotten archive room that I was being led to like a lost puppy by Y/N.

I stumbled in after Y/N into the archive room that was pitch black. They dropped their hold on my hand as soon as the door shut behind me making me grope around in the dark looking for some guidance. I heard the distinctive click and their skin was then illuminated by the glow of the singular lightbulb that hung in the center of the small room that Y/N turned on.

“Do you want this Spencer?” They said while strutting over slowly to me, I apprehend the offer of being able to back out but it was an offer I would definitely not be taking. As soon as my head nodded in agreement their mouth was on mine in the most blissful kiss I had ever had the pleasure of taking part in.

The taste of our tongues intermingling was overwhelmingly peach as I was finally able to get a taste of Y/N. Their movements were much more calculated compared to my sloppy desperate attempt to control the kiss. With practiced ease they dominated and I willfully surrendered to whatever Y/N wanted me to do to them. A shudder came into my bones as Y/N pressed me up into the nearest walland then untucked my shirt to run teasing little circles with their left hand over my hip bones.

The kiss was cut way too short in my opinion as they released my lips and then teasingly put their thumb into my mouth. I swirled my lips around their thumb with an intense pout, I tried to look as pitiful as possible, trying to coax them to stay right there with me. Unfortunately they pulled away from me altogether and then sauntered over to where the short filing cabinets were sat in the room, making my pout deepen further then I thought possible .

“Aww- don’t pout you’ll get what you want.” They said before leaving me, the mocking tone in their voice only making me pout harder. Any complaint I had died in my throat when they pushed their pants and underwear down swiftly. They obviously had a better understanding of the fact that this tryst had to go quickly- and hopefully quietly. The closest filing cabinet to Y/N then became a prop for them to balance so they could bend over seductively. And with a simple crook of their finger I was over behind them ready to service them the best I could. My pants undone and pulled down enough to pull my cock out, jerking myself slightly so I was fully hard and ready to wrap them around me.

Wait. Was this really happening?

I questioned myself as I pushed into them from behind slowly wanting to savor every moment I had with Y/N wrapped around me and- also to also convince myself that this wasn’t a wild figment of my imagination. However, my long drawn out thrust was cut short by Y/N pushing their hips back against me taking me all the way down to the hilt. As soon as I was fully sheathed inside of them I started to rock my hips into theirs with little whimpers falling from my lips. If I had been in a different state of mind, one that wasn’t desperately trying to seek release, I would have probably flushed red in embarrassment at the noises I was making.

“Oh! Good Boy, Spencer.” They groaned out as I picked up the pace, my hands then briefly left their hips to pull them back so their back was flush against mine. The change in angle of my thrusts seemingly made Y/N’s pleasure skyrocket, the praises that they had been giving out to me being muddled down into moans that they muffled with their hand. I could tell their release was close when they let their head drop backwards into the crook of my neck and began to meet my thrusts vigorously.

A deep guttural groan came out of my chest as Y/N wound their other arm around behind them to tug on my hair as they came to their release. Pure bliss fell across Y/N’s face along with a lazy smile while they rode out the waves of their release. I kept rocking my hips forward to prolong their pleasure but my own release was beginning to brew within me.

Y/N reached behind to rest their hands on top of mine, they had been gripping into the sides of their hips roughly enough that there were sure to be bruises. They had me pull out, I almost thought they weren’t going to let me finish and began to beg with a long drawn out whine. Y/N flashed me another one of their devilish smirks, no doubt in response to my whimpers. Another pathetic beg slipped past my lips before my mind went completely blank as soon as they dropped to their knees.

“Fuck- Spencer I want you to fuck my face.” A sharp and sudden groan tore through me at their words, I swear Y/N was going to be the death of me. I bobbed my head up and down nodding as quick as I could, probably a little too eagerly but, I couldn’t find it within myself to care. “Like I said- you’ll get what you want.”

Y/N then spit in their hand and started to jerk me off slightly- I could honestly cum like this and be completely satisfied. But, then they moved forward and licked up the length of my shaft before slightly sucking on my tip.

The feeling of their mouth just enveloping my tip made me feel like I had died and gone to heaven.

Holy shit this was really happening.

A choked moan started to fall from my mouth before I quickly tried to stifle it by biting into my fist. My other hand was manipulated by Y/N to rest at the back of their head, a nonverbal queue to let me know I could start doing what they wanted and fuck their face.

The thrusts I started off with were quite soft and shallow, even though they had requested that I do this to them I still never wanted to hurt them.

I almost pulled them off of me when I heard a soft gagging as the tip of my dick hit the back of their throat, but they held their own throat down on me making a high pitched whine that didn’t sound like it could come from me came falling from my lips.

After getting the chance to fuck Y/N and now their mouth was around me, I was going to finish embarrassingly quickly. My thrusts started to falter, I could feel my release in the base of my spine, threatening to spill at any moment.

“W-where can I-” I tried to stutter out before finishing, though I failed miserably, my approaching orgasm stifling the words.

Luckily, Y/N understood perfectly and pulled off of me to answer, “I want you to cum on me my chest, face, neck- wherever you want.” A deep seated groan rumbled through my chest at their words while they jerked my length. Y/N worked kisses up my thighs bringing me teetering on the edge about to fall into a pool of euphoria. When they pressed a kiss to the tip of my cock I fell into my orgasm and became blinded by the pleasure. I was fortunately still able to keep my eyes open to see Y/N get covered with the fruits of their labor. It was a filthy sight that made my eyes widen and my pupils blow wider then they had ever been before.

A few moments passed as we both caught our breath, each for different reasons. My gaze was still fixated on how my release had fallen over Y/N. Specifically I fixated on the spot where some had fallen down their chest right down where the v of their shirt had been before- right where the juice had slid down.

“Well I should’ve thought this through more… I don’t have anything to clean myself up.” Y/N gasped out in giggles breaking out of the dominant role that they had fallen into earlier which broke me out of the daze I had been in. I looked at them with endearment, I loved every facet of Y/N’s personality.

“I-I’ll be right back I’ll find something.” I stuttered out while basically stumbling back into my clothes. Before tripping out of the room to try and locate some tissues I did my best to make myself appear presentable again, taming my curls, smoothing out my shirt, and tucking it back into my slacks.

“You forgot something.” Y/N called out to me just as I was about to scurry out. Still naked and unclean, they held my belt up by one finger and had a teasing little smile on their face that was nothing but trouble. I walked up and quickly snatched the belt back and began to loop them through my slacks. My head was tilted down, suddenly growing shy at the sight of Y/N even though I had been the one to make them look so depraved in the first place.

“Now come on Spencer, stop being so shy. You weren’t shy 2 minutes ago.” The way they bit their lip at the end of the teasing remark made me want to get down on my knees and worship them. Sadly, work was calling both of our names pulling us out of our own little world that we had created in this dark, small- and slightly dusty archive room.

I gained back a little bit of my lost confidence and moved forward to envelop Y/N in a kiss, one that was much softer than our previous ones. The taste of the kiss still felt like a drop of golden sun from the peaches, albeit tainted with something a little more salty now.

“You taste good.” I said with a shy but knowing smirk before biting my lip. “You look good too but- you also look like trouble.”

“Yes, but you quite like trouble” They remarked in amusement before shoving me closer to the door, “Go on now, I can't stay naked covered in your cum for the rest of the day.”

“It would be a pretty sight though.” I said cheekily, slipping out of the room quickly to avoid one of their shoes being thrown at me in fake annoyance. As I left the room to hunt down something to clean Y/N up so we could go about the rest of our work day I came to a conclusion.

I quite enjoy trouble- and peaches.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds smut #mgg #matthew gray gubler #matthew gray gubler x reader #matthew gray gubler fanfic #matthew gray gubler smut

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actress4him · 3 years

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Overexposure - New Ideas

(Prompt #17 for Summer of Whump)

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Warnings: lady whumpee with male whumper, creepy/intimate whumper, captivity, referenced beating, noncon touching (non-sexual), forced stripping (non-sexual), restraints, stress position

It’s only a few days after the exhibit, a few days after the brutal beating Ellery received for trying to ask for help, when the door to her room flies open and he’s standing there with that smile on his face. The smile she hates more than anything. The smile that says she’s about to suffer even more.

“Good morning, Princess.” Lucas strolls into the room - the cell, really, just a tiny corner of the basement built expressly for the purpose of keeping her inside. “In the midst of the fallout from your misguided attempt the other night, I failed to mention how much of a success the exhibit was. Everyone adored you.”

Her skin crawls at the thought, but she knows better than to respond by now. Instead she pulls her knees up to her chest, hugging them to herself as if she can keep him away.

“I’m getting plenty of sales, too. So many people who want to have our beautiful artwork all for themselves.”

She knows better than to respond, but she can’t help it. The image of those photos hanging on someone’s walls, or being hidden away to look at secretly… “Guess they’re just as sick as you are.”

All of her muscles tense up as soon as she says it, expecting him to lash out. But he must be in an awfully good mood, because he simply ignores the outburst, pacing toward the tiny table with his hands clasped behind his back.

“I’ve been getting requests, too. Some from patrons at the last exhibit, others from people who have seen my previous work.” He turns, leaning up against the table, eyes roving over her body in the way he does when she knows he’s imagining ways to torture it. “Seems like there’s a whole collection of people out there who love...well, I keep hearing the word ‘whump’, but...basically, they draw all kinds of inspiration from what we’re doing. And now they’d like to see something...a little less refined, a little more...hm, how do I say it? A little more...raw. Primitive.”

The smile creeps back onto his face. “It’s something I’ve never done before, but I’m certainly up to the challenge. I’ve got ideas already. And I have a feeling once I get started I’ll be quite inspired to keep going.”

No wonder he’s in a good mood. He’s in his creative zone, which means a nightmare of a day for her. And it’s so soon, she’s still healing, her body isn’t ready.

He won’t care about any of that, though.

“Alright, come on, chop chop! Up to makeup we go.”

It’s one of the few instances when she’s allowed out of the basement, so she tries to enjoy it. If she cranes her neck as they come to the top of the stairs, she can catch a glimpse of green and sunlight through a sliver of window, and overall the rooms upstairs are much brighter. It’s a refreshing change.

Lucas’ assistant, whose name she’s never bothered to learn, is ready and waiting in the usual spot with her makeup and hair tools. It’s the one thing that he doesn’t do himself. Ellery expects the same treatment for the bruise around her eye - now turned a sickly yellow - as it got for the exhibit, but it’s ignored. Instead the assistant focuses on eyeliner, mascara, and a little bit of lip color. The basics, meant to make her features pop in the photos, nothing fancy. Maybe that’s what he meant by ‘raw and primitive’. She can certainly hope that it’s nothing worse, though hope has done her a fat lot of good so far.

“You want her hair pulled back at all?” the assistant asks.

Lucas, who has been lurking the whole time, watching the process, steps forward and runs thick fingers through her long black hair. She doesn’t bother to suppress a shudder and a look of disgust, but doesn’t try to pull away, either.

“Yeah. Go ahead and put it up, something simple, though. Simple and messy. I might take it down partway through, we’ll see.”

It’s brushed back into a ponytail with lots of strands hanging down around her face, and the top is fussed over until it’s perfectly, believably messy. The assistant looks up to Lucas for approval.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s good. I like it. Okay, moving on.”

This is the point where her starting wardrobe is usually chosen. She stands, waiting while he scrutinizes her current outfit of a baggy white t-shirt and black cotton shorts.

“Take that off, remind me what you have on under it.”

Ellery’s face flushes scarlet. She hates this, hates obeying and hates demeaning herself for him, but last time she refused to take off the clothes herself he just did it for her, and that was so much worse. And it’s not like he’s actually interested in her, not in that way. She was so incredibly afraid of that for a long time. But no, to him she’s not a person for him to want. She’s a piece of art, a canvas, a sculpture. A thing. All he’s thinking of is how he can best use her to create the ‘masterpiece’ he has in mind.

So she slips the t-shirt off over her head. Stands in just her sports bra and shorts with her cheeks burning and wishes that she could melt into the floor and cease to exist.

The expression that comes over his face is nothing short of delight. “Ooh, this is so much better than I was expecting.” He practically trots over to her, eyes on her bare stomach, and reaches out to brush his fingers along the tender, aching skin. She flinches, instinctively pulls back, but he only latches onto her waist, digging his fingers into a myriad of bruises. “This is fantastic. Just what we need for today. So glad I gave you these already.”

Gave her. Like the beating was a gift. She doesn’t need to look down to know that her torso is pretty much one giant bruise, she can feel it just fine.

“Yep. That’ll be perfect. Leave it just like that. No sense in covering up any of this beauty.” He strokes his fingers across her stomach one more time before stepping back to admire the whole thing. “Alright, thank you, Jordan. Let’s get back to the studio.”

The studio - aka the basement. Back down to the cold concrete walls and the artificial lights. She can’t help but slow, just a little, as they pass the room with the window, trying to get one more little peek of the outdoors. She pays for it with his hand coming to land on the back of her neck, squeezing tightly, promising much more pain if she doesn’t keep walking.

The area of the basement that Lucas uses to take her photos isn’t much to speak of, especially today when the white backdrop is rolled up at the ceiling. It’s just an expanse of grey, but it haunts her nightmares.

“Alright.” Lucas is practically giddy with excitement. “I’ve got so many ideas I don’t know where to start. No, scratch that. I do know where I want to start.” He turns to his shelf of props and rummages through a box, pulling out several pieces of metal with chains draping in between.

The dread that had been swirling in Ellery’s stomach all morning suddenly solidifies into something heavy, a stone that simultaneously pulls her down into the floor and threatens to make her sick. She can’t do this again. She can’t. The pain of being stretched into positions her body was never meant to be in, the humiliation of being photographed in the most vulnerable state possible...and now it’s even worse, because she’s already in pain from being beaten.

Lucas is at the far wall, tinkering with his contraption, using existing bolts and screws from previous sessions to attach things to both the wall and floor. “Come here,” he says after a few minutes, and it’s the last straw.

Something inside of her crumples.

“Please…” It comes out as no more than a trembling whisper, but it catches his attention anyway. “Please don’t, I can’t, I can’t, please…”

Sighing heavily, he walks toward her, boots clomping out her doom on the concrete floor. “I thought we were past this, Princess. You’d been doing so well.”

She opens her mouth, to say what, she doesn’t know, it’s all pointless anyway, but before a sound makes it past her lips his fist is connecting with her temple. Her world is reduced to black and pain and falling. When her vision returns, the room whirls around her, Lucas’ face up above hers dipping and bobbing in a way that makes her stomach churn, and her head throbs. She can tell she’s being dragged, though, by the ankle over to where he wanted her.

Rough hands grab her by the arms and heft her to her feet, and the room goes spinning again. Her back is pressed up against the wall, concrete blocks cold on her bare skin, and Lucas wraps an arm around her waist to lift her slightly. She gasps as he puts pressure on the ribs she’s pretty sure are broken.

A second later, something thin and cool falls across her throat, and after he fiddles with something just under her ear for a moment, Lucas steps back and leaves her to settle down onto her bare toes. They just barely touch the floor enough for her to rest her weight on, the metal across her neck digging slightly into her skin and threatening to cut off her air. She tries not to notice him watching her as she struggles to adjust her feet to push herself a little higher.

“Nice. I love it already. Actually, hang on, I’m also loving the disoriented look you’ve got going on right now. I need a shot of that.”

He grabs his camera and gets right up in her face. Ellery automatically squeezes her eyes shut, hating that lens, hating the thought of anyone else seeing her like this, but all she gets for it is his finger poking her in the ribs. Her eyes fly open as she cries out, and the camera clicks. Once, twice, three times.

“Ooh, I don’t know which one of these I like best.” He studies the screen with a grin, flipping back and forth through the shots. “The hazy, disoriented look I was going for, or the gasping in pain. And the restraint around the neck really sets it off. Fantastic. Okay, moving on.”

Bending down, he picks up the rest of the metal pieces, the ones with the chains attached. While she wasn’t paying attention it seems he had hooked one end of the chains to the floor, several feet out in front of her, and now he brings the other end to her. She only finds out what it is for sure when he yanks her hands away from the wall where she had been attempting to help support herself and clamps it around her wrists. The shackles pull her arms out in front of her, naturally making her body want to lean forward, too. But if she gives into the pull, or if her feet get tired and try to lower, she’ll choke.

Lucas stands back to admire his work. “Yes. Just as good as I had hoped. And you’re already starting to get that wild look in your eyes, too. I think if I leave you here for, oh -” he checks his phone -“around thirty or forty-five minutes, I’ll really get the desperation I’m looking for. Maybe an hour. We’ll see.”

With that, he turns and heads for the stairs. As the echo of his footsteps dies out, Ellery finally lets the tears start to pour down her cheeks. She can’t spare the focus to stop them anymore, anyway. All of her concentration until he decides she’s done is going to have to be on staying balanced so she doesn’t die.

Disclaimer: I don’t think people who like whump are “sick”. Obviously, I am one of them. Now, if there were actually people like Lucas out there who hurt real people for whump’s sake, then yeah. They would be considered “sick”. But of course, Lucas’ patrons don’t know what he’s really doing...or do they...?

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump17 #collared and shackled #overexposure #ellery the model #whump #whump writing #lady whump #lady whumpee #creepy/intimate whumper #captivity whump #nonconsensual touching tw #forced stripping tw #restraints tw #stress position tw #whump photography #original fiction

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druidx · 3 years

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Family Treasures

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go (2015) Context: A friend linked me a TAG fic with the most perfect description of Lasagna I have ever read. I then got carried away and read nearly every fic she recommended to me... and then I figured I should watch the 2015 version of Thunderbirds (having only seen fragments of the original ‘60s show as a kid)... and then this happened. I’ve also been leaning heavily into the subtext thing still, so constructive criticism, with subtext in mind, is welcome on this piece. Words: 1700 CW: Injury mention, worried people, minor maudlin thoughts Tagged: @viawrites-andacts @strosmkai-rum @scribeofred Read on AO3

Kayo paces. Her sleek leather boots sink into the plush carpet of Tracy Island's lounge. She has been grounded by injury, left to recover while the Tracy boys are out there doing what they do best. She trusts them; knows they know what they're doing, knows they can handle themselves... But it doesn't help. Her fingers itch to activate the comms, but she doesn't. The boys don't need her micromanaging, and she trusts John to forward anything if he thinks she can assist... But still, the ache remains.

Those leather boots softly tap as she reaches the parquet flooring, and Kayo finds herself standing in front of Jeff's desk. It's a big, sturdy, mahogany thing. Impish sunlight glints off the polished surface, winking and laughing. It makes her think of Virgil. The sun drifts behind a cloud, and the laughter vanishes. She turns away.

Her steps lead her to the portrait of Thunderbird One, and the nicknacks beside it. Her eyes slide over the portrait – seen a hundred times before – to an antique barometer on the shelves. And there is Scott: Quicksilver in a glass; carefully controlled vim and daring. She pictures him in freefall, madcap laughter stolen by the rushing wind. The thought of his pack failing at fifty thousand feet is enough to have her leaning against the wall, head reeling like she's nosediving, seconds before the impact that has left her arm in a sling, and Thunderbird Shadow a pile of scrap.

Kayo huffs out her indignation at her weak and maudlin thoughts, wrenching back from the wall. She pinwheels away, her boots marking out time on the parquet as she passes in front of the vast window. Outside the sun glimmers off the swimming pool. Bright. Cheery. Such a laughable contrast to the storm inside. She wishes it were raining, dark skies and tempestuous winds. The bowl of forget-me-not blue is almost mocking in its temptation. She closes her eyes, breathing deeply, and brings herself back to ground level.

Kayo finds herself in the far corner of the lounge, at a kitschy '60s coffee table tucked into the fold of the room. On its surface sits a porcelain pug, which reminds her of Sherbet – and, by extension, his owner. It appears delicate – a dainty conversation piece; but her foot knows it is sturdier than one might think. Her eye catches on a woollen beanie, abandoned next to the pug – and she scowls; Lady Penelope has Parker to keep her from serious trouble. Kayo's brothers are up there without their usual safety net.

She turns back, pacing towards the piano. She plays only a little; her mother insisted, to start with. But after a year of tantrums and sword fights, Mama Kyrano gave up. But the island is empty – even Grandma Tracy is on the mainland – and the house is too quiet.

Kayo sits down at the piano and raises the lid, leaning absently to the side as a small, spring-loaded, plastic frog sails over her shoulder – the latest victim in the ongoing prank war. Her fingers wander over the ivories, and she settles into picking out Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star in the upper third. As the sweet notes fill the air, Alan comes to mind – bright, lively, graceful; effortless as the rising music. Kayo lifts her head as if she might somehow see to the edge of space; see Thunderbird Three shimmering with star-stuff as if picked out in the silver, gossamer notes she plays. She dismisses the fanciful thought with a twitch of the lips, finishing the refrain.

As her hand falls still, she looks across the room, gaze drawn back to Jeff's desk. She remembers the moment he asked her to become his head of security – when Papa Kyrano retired. She'd not long returned from her last field stint with Mossad when he'd called her to the desk. His lips had asked her to help him protect the world; his eyes had asked her to protect his boys.

Kayo sighs, the guilt of disappointing the indomitable Jeff Tracy laying heavily over her shoulders. She closes the lid and turns on the stool, intending to resume viewing life through the plate-glass barrier, when her foot nudges the plastic amphibian, abandoned on the floor. She picks the thing up, lips quirking at the cartoonish features – the bugging eyes and wide, red grin – and is inexplicably reminded of Gordon. Kayo places it on the piano, where it wobbles, brilliant green out of place on the ebony-silk surface. Three birds, two star-men, but only one squid-boy. She purses her lips and tries to tell herself the unease this thought causes is about lack of process redundancy. Perhaps she should expand her skillset in an aquatic direction...

She stands with purpose and walks over to the nook in which sits Goron's transport chute. But as Kayo reaches over to activate the chute, a flicker of something catches her eye. Her free hand is already fumbling for her stun-gun when the interloper reveals itself: a long-legged tropical spider has found its way into the aquarium. It flails and panics, and she wonders if it might drown. But even as she watches, it's already hoisting out of the water and building a complicated nest in the corner of the tank. Kayo watches it work, watches its ingenious use of resources in an unfamiliar environ, watches it engineer a refuge... and thinks of Doctor Hackenbacker. Distracted from her previous thought, Kayo turns away from the chute access, making a note to tell Gordon about the spider. She doesn't think it's a threat to the fish, and the lid is a four-handed affair. Besides, knowing Gordon, he'll want to coddle the thing before he releases it.

Instead, Kayo climbs to the mezzanine. Somewhere in the aether, a stack of security reports grows ever larger, but she is unable to read them, to even consider distracting herself with them at a time like this. Worry still fills the well of her stomach, bilious and vile. There are too many close calls, too many near misses. Too many times she's snatched one of her brothers from certain doom. She's so useless here. Idly, she picks up a blown-glass paperweight. Does John ever feel like this? she wonders as she stares into its nebulaeic swirls. Drifting high above them, like a flame-haired malāk – a messenger of God – with his brothers so far from his grasp, does John ever feel powerless? She wonders how he does it: how he can stay so removed from the action, remaining so calm. She wonders how he manages the silent panic that maybe this is the mission someone does not come back from.

The glass has chilled her hand, chasing phantom skeins of cold and fatigue through her body. Kayo carefully replaces the paperweight and makes her way back down the stairs. She settles into the sofa lining the conversation pit, a hand falling to her side as she allows her body to sink into the plush stuffing. Something rough touches the side of her hand, and Kayo fishes out a blackened cookie from where someone – Gordon or Alan, most likely – has stuffed it between the sofa cushions. Kayo screws up her nose, making a noise of revulsion. It's been at least a week since Grandma Tracy tried baking again. Mouth still in a down-curve of disgust, she leans to put the cookie on the table but finds herself pausing as the light sluices across its dark, oleaginous, undulating surface. It reminds her of the Iceland mission and the pictures of cooling magma Doctor Hackenbacker proudly showed off – and his lecture on igneous rocks. Created by fire, he'd said, melded and reforged into something tougher. Used the world over – even here on the island – as foundations. Unshakable and resistant to all the world could throw. It makes her think of the island's second foundation, of all Grandma Tracy has been through, and yet still stands firm and loving despite it.

She wishes any of her extended family were here, now. Like that spider, Kayo feels out of her depth, could do with someone strong, cheery, soothing; a solidity under her feet. But they are not.

Kayo is a woman who knows when her limits have been met. The island is empty, there's no one around to witness the break caused by cracks of worry, pain and fatigue. Her lip wobbles, vision growing hazy with tears. She gives a small sob, then another, allowing herself the luxury of a little cry.

"Kayo?" She sniffs, swatting at her eyes, and looks up to see Alan's hologram looking down at her, eyes pinched with worry, tone edging towards frantic. "Kayo, is everything okay? John-" "John," comes the even tone of the auburn-haired man who appears next, "should be more careful about what side remarks he makes while on comms to his worry-wart little brother." He rolls his eyes. "Sorry to disturb you, Kayo. But your telemetry did do something unusual a few moments ago-" "Kayo? Alan pinged me. What's your status?" Scott cuts in, as if they are in the sky and all is normal. Before Kayo can say anything, Lady Penelope appears, the picture of decorum and class as usual. "I'm sure it was nothing. Isn't that right, darling? Just a little wobble, eh?" her Ladyship says. "'Wobble'?" asks Gordon, from where he and Brains cluster behind the pilot of Thunderbird Two. "What the hell does- Hey!" Kayo's lips twitch in amusement, as Gordon rubs his head from where Virgil has given him a brotherly love-tap. "It means: keep your nose out, squid-boy," Virgil tells him. "Is everything okay, Kayo dear?" says Grandma Tracy. "John asked me to- Oh," she adds, looking at the packed comm channel. "Well, it looks like you all beat me to the pinch." She smiles and rubs the back of her neck. Kayo looks over her family with a swift, critical eye. Apart from Gordon's head, they all appear healthy and uninjured. Relief floods through her, loosening tense muscles. Her wry amusement turns into a full-blown smile. "I'm alright," she says. "Like Penny said, it was just a little wobble. Everything is F.A.B."

#writing #tanusha 'kayo' kyrano #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fandom #constructive critism welcome #wandering words

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whump-town · 4 years

Text

Nation Of Two

(Hotchniss/Hotly, language warning)

(You can also read the full text here)

It’s no secret that Emily Prentiss and Aaron Hotchner make a great team. Nearly in sync in every way possible. To outfits and biology- it’s fairly uncommon to stumble upon two people who seem to share everything in common and yet nothing at all. Mild-mannered to a short fuse, wildly protective, and a force to be reckoned with and yet what had created those similarities could not separate them more.

At the same time, Morgan had never seen two people get under each other’s skin as often as those two. In one breath, they’re moving in tandem the next arguing over a cup of coffee. Communicating through a single glance shared across a busy room and then at each other’s throats.

Dave had just broken up one of their more heated arguments. Given the profanity riddled sarcastic retort Emily had thrown as a final blow, Morgan could make a fairly educated guess that they were arguing about the headache Hotch is attempting and failing to hide.

Arguments over injuries and ailments always procure the worst scenes. They get heated, worse so when Hotch is the injured party in their das reich der zwei. Their Nation of Two- the dream team, in it together till the end of the line. The line, of course, being injuries. They want to protect everyone and when that spotlight finds itself pointing at one of them, it creates a unique kind of challenge.

A pain in the ass.

“Reid,” Hotch’s rough baritone breaks through the precinct. “You’re with me,” he announces, his dark eyes purposely flicking to Prentiss. “We’re going to the dock.”

Reid realizes he’s now been roped into this. Going with Hotch means he’s siding with Hotch and like a fool, he’s only got one option. He sets the marker in his hand down on the table and sends Rossi a panicked look- knowing he’s the only person who can help him at this point.

The older man offers him a short shake of the head- great, he’s really screwed.

Prentiss’ jaw clenches as she glares at Hotch, her fist clenched at her side. What point is he proving right now? Look at me, Aaron Hotchner, all buff and big because I’m going to get an ear infection going outside in the snow without any protection for my busted up ears! So manly, so cool.

Fuck him.

She hopes he gets an ear infection, it would only serve him right. Asshole.

Picking up Reid’s discarded pen, she sets back to her work. At least this way one of them would be getting something done.

__________

“Hotch?”

The snow had started coming down harder once they got in the car. Reid had learned a long time ago that as sensible as his boss was, one of the largest mistakes you could make around him was getting in a car while the man was angry. And as worrisome as the car ride had been- the tall, lanky creature standing on the dock is shaping up to be worse.

“FBI!”

Reid blinks, just watching in confusion, and fear as Hotch keeps his solid pace up.

“Identify yourself.” No one’s supposed to be on that dock. Hence the yellow tape wrapped, practically, all the way around it. If he could see the tape through the snow then surely so could the figure.

Hotch comes to a staggering halt, fingers itching to draw his gun.

“Step closer,” the figure shouts over the snow, “and I’ll slit this little bastards throat.”

A father-son duo… admittedly, Hotch wasn’t expecting this. “Just let him go,” Hotch replies, evenly. His hands raise, slowly, making sure everything stays just as it is. “We can talk- tell me your name?” The kid looks no older than sixteen and terrified. Trembling.

“I'm not going to jail!” The man shouts, “those girls had it coming! They deserved it!” The father jerks the boy closer, his son’s body covering his. “Now, fuck off!” He pulls them closer to the edge.

Hotch’s heart is thundering in his chest, he’s really not in the mood to watch a father kill his son. “Just- Just-” he falters and that’s all it takes. Hotch shouts in horror as the father throws both himself and the son over the ledge. He’s aware of Reid shouting his name but he tears off for the desk. The whole way losing articles of clothing- his phone, his gun, his jacket-

The water hits like a punch, stealing the air from his lungs. He breaks the surface and his face burns from the freezing water and the wind. He shakes his hair out of his face, searching for blood or hair or- His eyes zero in on a small splash, a hand breaking the surface.

He dives back under, muscles burning as he forces his way through the water. There’s a mass of murky movement, two bodies in motion. Hotch struggles to tell son from father for a moment- a moment too long. A hand reaches out and grabs his leg, puling him down too and he knows.

With all the force he can manage he kicks down at the hand, a sickening water muffled snap coming to his ears. Hotch wraps his arms around the smaller figure, his lungs burning and body growing tired. He kicks them up but there are other limbs connecting with the soft tissues of his body. The cold has numbed his body and he doesn’t feel the pain that should be coordinated with those blows.

His head breaks the surface and all he feels is pain. Up his sides, in his lungs, and his face. “Stop-” his head goes back under the water, a wave knocking them back under and over. He has to fight harder to get them to the surface and the body in his arms turns limp- like a ragdoll.

This time Hotch’s head breaks the surface and there’s no pain. Just numb, soft cold. Hotch hooks his arm under the kid’s armpits, resting his head on Hotch’s chest. He lays on his back and starts to kick, starting the exhausting and long trip back to dry land.

“I see him!” It’s Reid, his voice edged with panic. “Hotch! Keep swimming you’re almost there!”

A wave hits and Hotch is forced back under. His body stops fighting, for a moment his brain screams but his body just sinks. It’s not even a fight. The water stops feeling like water- it’s warm and… well, somethings just can’t be explained. His body is detached, his thoughts slowing.

Jack-

The water fills his lungs and the blur of the world turns black.

Emily-

Sharp pain in his chest-

Burning lungs, his eyes shoot open looking and seeing nothing. Water and stomach acid burning the back of his throat and on his back he chokes- the water starting to slip back down into his lungs when he’s seized by his belt and shirt sleeve, heaved up onto his side.

He gags, chest burning as water is forcibly removed from his lungs. He attempts to struggle away but it’s to no avail. His body is not responding.

There are hands all over him, burning warmth spreading through his veins. Like lava. “Hello Agent,” an unfamiliar face greets. Hotch just stares at the other man as he’s vaguely aware of being laid on his back. A large hand cradling his neck. “Your friend told me dove in that water,” both men’s eyes wander to the dock and the waves crashing into it. “You suicidal or something,” the medic says with a shake of his head, “ or just stupid brave?”

The Emily in his head answers “stupid brave” but Hotch can’t manage anything more than a wheezing breath. It’s taking all he has to manage that. The medic keeps talking, going on about how Hotch is either crazy lucky or an unusually good swimmer.

“Reid?” He croaks, his head feels heavy, wrong but he can see a familiar blur in a sea of red vehicles. How? How did he get out?

The medic stops his talking and frowns down at his patient. “Is that the scrawny one?”

Hotch swallows thickly and nods.

The medic nods back, “he’s okay. Looks a bit like a drowned rat but he saved your ass.” He motions with his head to their left, just slightly up the bank. Reid is sitting on the bumper of an ambulance, a shock blanket around his shoulders. “He’s a tough kid, though.”

Hotch keeps his eyes locked on him, assessing the situation. Reid is stronger than he gives him credit for.

A sudden weight is placed on the center of Hotch’s chest, a foot on his sternum. To his own ears his cry of pain is muffled. Vaguely, he’s aware of the sound of a monitor making frantic noises, the medic’s voice drowning in with it. Someone shouts his name but the black encroaching on his vision is too much. He succumbs to the lava in his veins.

__________

Morgan knocks at the open door, hoping to draw Reid from his silence. “You okay, kid?” The nurse had said he was fine. They thought he was in shock but his core temperature hadn’t dropped that much thanks to the EMTs fast work at warming him up. That hadn’t spurred him to say anything though.

He hasn’t said a word since they pulled him from Hotch.

Reid keeps rocking himself, knees tucked to his chest and arms around his shins. He’s still freezing and it’s all his fault. He should have been faster.

“Hotch!” The adrenaline is pumping back through Ried’s body, knees and hands shaking as he watches the waves hit the side of the dock but Hotch’s head doesn't come back up. There are no bubbles coming to the surface, no signs of a fight happening below the surface. “Hotch!”

It’s been a minute but when Hotch dove in he was under for nearly two.

Seventy-six seconds.

Even if Hotch is a good swimmer-

Reid pulls his jacket off, stripping layers of clothing from his skin. This is such a bad idea. So bad. 911 has been called, back-up is on it’s way but that’s no good if Hotch drowns.

“I hate this job,” he mumbles, staring into the water. “I hate it. I hate it. I hate it! I hate it!” He tears into it, knowing that this is bigger than his slight aquaphobia and the freezing sting of the water on his skin. “Hotch!” He takes a deep breath and plunges into the water.

It hurts. Burns. It’s like a thousand hypodermic needles kissing his skin.

He pushes his hair from his face, scanning the water. Looking back to the dock he estimates he needs to go about five more feet to his right. Using long strokes he cuts through the choppy water, a wave hitting his face. He has to stop and recover, blinking the sting from his eyes. “Hotch!”

And it’s still freaking snowing.

Reid is begging Hotch to pop up. To hear his deep voice berate Reid for getting wet too.

He hates this job.

Reid dives under the next wave, forcing his eyes to open under the water. He’s afraid to see what he’ll find. His fingertips hit something hard and covered- hair! Reid pushes himself down further, lungs burning but he’s found someone and he can’t come up yet.

He wraps his arms around the trunk of the other person- his brain supplying Hotch was wearing a white buttoned down shirt and the hurt digging into his skin is blunt like a button. He kicks with all his might but the body- Hotch- doesn’t move. His lungs are under too much pressure and with a silent cry he kicks himself up the surface.

“Argh!” He screams into the air, lungs burning in an entirely new way. He takes two deep breaths, treading water to gather his breath. He can’t give up. He goes back down. His panic is driving his heart rate up, making his oxygen last in even shorter amounts.

His hands connect and he has to remind himself to save the energy of being happy. ‘Come on’, he pleads. Reid tucks Hotch closer, one armed wrapped around his chest and the other extended above his head. Feeling for where the water breaks to air.

Every muscle in his body is screaming. Lactic acid building up in his muscles and if he had the air to he’d scream in anguish.

His fingers sting and with a new burst of energy Reid’s head emmerages from the water. He gasps for water, his cold cramped fingers losing their grip for just a fraction of a second. Hotch slips from his grasp but Reid’s scream is muffled by the waves crashing around them.

They’re going to die and it’s his fault.

He’s crying, tears streaming down his numb cheeks. He has to stay level headed, he has to fight.

That’s what Hotch would do.

Right, Hotch.

Reid pulls him closer, flipping him into the rescue position. Head above water, breathing or not- it has to be enough. Hotch won’t forgive him, ever, if Reid saves Hotch to leave behind that boy. A killer or not.

The water is well beyond cold enough to, hypothetically, protect from brain damage.

Reid has to pray that's enough.

He goes back under. His lungs hurt nearly as soon as his head goes under, the cold water hitting his forehead is strangely… nice. The rest isn’t.

It’s harder. All of it.

The current twists him, his muscles tired from swimming. If he can’t find this kid soon, they’re all going to drown.

A wave above crashes hard, it’s force pushing him down.

He sees nothing.

It’s all just black and freezing.

He kicks into something and whirls around, finding flesh and hair. Reid pulls but the kid doesn’t move. For a moment, Reid nearly leaves him. His lungs are burning, his body exhausted, and with a long fight still ahead… The bodies had hesitation marks. Shallow marks where someone young- someone incapable of murder had done as requestied but not whole heartidly.

The kid isn’t a murderer.

Reid kicks upwards with all his might, his head feeling like it’s going to explode.

He breaks the surface and could sob with relief at the sight of the shore lit up with emergency lights. “Help!” His voice croaks, breaking. There’s no way they can hear him. Reid pulls the kid so he’s on his back, just as he had Hotch, and begins to tug them both in the direction of Hotch’s freely floating body. “Help!”

He rolls onto his back, taking a wave to the face. He recovers quickly, a new surge of adrenaline working through him. His limbs are shaky but working. “Alright,” he says to himself, floating for a second to gain control. “Let’s do this.” He grabs the back of Hotch’s collar and the kid’s shirt and kicks with everything he’s got. Hoping that the waves hitting his face can push him towards the shore.

“Kid-”

Reid flinches, his whole body recoiling. He blinks slowly raising his head in confusion. “M-Morgan?” He looks around him, surprised to find hospital tile and not the wet sand he’d left Hotch on. “What-” his mouth is impossibly dry, his body still cold.

Morgan takes a step closer to him, weary. In nothing but a hospital gown and a pair of hospital socks Morgan can see his friend’s bony body. It’s no surprise he didn’t hold up well in the freezing water- he doesn’t have any fat on his body to keep him warm!

“I brought you some clothes,” Morgan lifts Reid’s bag up. He sets it down on the bed beside Reid, allowing him easy access to the clothes. What he’s not expecting is for Reid to start crying. For a moment he’s just struck, he has no idea what to do. He takes a tentative step closer, putting his hand on Reid’s shoulder. “Hey,” Morgan gathers him up in his arms, holding him close. “Kid, what the hell? What's wrong?”

Reid shakes his head, pushing his face into Morgan’s warmth. He just wants someone alive, someone warm to hold him. “I’m sorry,” he sobs. All he can think about is Hotch. “I tried, I did!”

Morgan pats his back, “what do you mean? What are you talking about?”

Reid’s chest heaves, his sob taking him by surprise. “Hotch!”

“Oh,” Morgan pauses for a moment, not sure what all he should tell Reid. “Kid, Hotch is…” fine might be an overstatement. A little rough but- “Hotch is sitting down in the ICU with Emily, right now.” He rubs Reid’s back, shushing him gently. “Kid, he’s fine. Hotch is gonna be fine.”

Reid pulls his head back, “what?”

That can’t be true. Reid saw.

The EMT pulled the buttons on Hotch’s perfect white shirt open. His chest bare and unmoving, as pale as the snow under his back. CPR wasn’t working. Reid saw. His ribs were bending under each compression but nothing was working.

He was dead.

Reid saw. Hotch was dead.

__________

“We caught the pulmonary edema early,” the doctor promises them. His tone is light, hopeful. “He’s on a course of diuretics to clear his lungs and on oxygen until his stats come back up but he’s already doing much better.” He nods his head, clearly happy to give them a good prognosis. “There was some irritation in his right ear so I want to start him on a course of antibiotics for that, to get ahead of the ear infection.”

Emily snorts, both her hands coming up to cover her mouth but her shoulders are still shaking with the force of her laughter. It’s a horrible moment of reacting to news the wrong way but an ear infection? “I’m so sorry,” she manages to force her palm against her lips. Forcing her smile down. “I’m- I really am sorry for that I don’t-”

The doctor holds his hand up in a clear sign of acknowledging her apology. “It’s perfectly fine,” he reassures her. “Everyone has different reactions to these sorts of things.” His smile is a strange mix of sadness and amusement as he recalls giving grimmer news than this to families and garnering a similar reaction. “I assure you, it’s not the first time someone’s laughed.”

Emily isn’t sure whether to feel reassured or sick. She lowers her hands and wipes at the bottoms of her eyes, beyond the point of caring if she looks like a raccoon or not. “Is he- Can you take me to him?”

The doctor looks at the little group behind her, all looking equally as eager to his patient. “It’s against protocol to let all of you back, yet, but I can let one of you back.” There was a name, someone Agent Hotchner had managed to call out for. “He was asking for a-a…” he can’t remember the name though. “An Emma or-”

“Emily.”

The doctor nods, “yes. He asked for Emily.”

“Well,” Emily looks back at the other’s. Swallowing the lump in her throat she says, “I’m Emily.”

The doctor claps his hands together, “well, then come with me.”

Emily looks back over her shoulder once- to JJ and Rossi being left behind in the waiting room- and offers them a small wave. Smiling sadly when they wave back.

“He was alert when I went in a few minutes ago,” the doctor tells her, coming to a sudden stop. “Try not to get him too worked up-”

She’s partially aware of what he’s saying from then on out but her attention is on the man on the bed. The man intently watching her from under the oxygen mask across the bridge of his nose. The doctor pats her shoulder, offering a smile and she nods and smiles back despite not having a clue what he’s just said.

Stepping into the room, she hesitates for only a moment before taking his hand and sitting on the edge of his bed. “Hey.” He’s cold to the touch and she sets to rubbing his fingers between her own to warm them up. “How do you feel?” With her distraction in place, it’s easier to ignore the obvious pain in her chest. Tight and wrong.

He’s too pale for even him, shivering under the layers of shock blankets and heating pads pressed around his body, but he offers her a warm smile. Reaching up with fingers that are still too cold to work properly, he fails to pull the mask from his face. She pulls it down for him, tucking it under his chin.

“Hey,” his voice is weak, hoarse from disuse. “I got an ear infection,” he rasps at her, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

She keeps the mask pulled back for a moment longer, leaning in and kissing him tenderly. She runs the side of her finger along his jaw, clenching her teeth in a failed attempt to hold her tears at bay. Carefully, she places the mask back on his face. Feeling a sick twist in her stomach because she’s glad it drowns out the sound of his labored breathing. “Serves you right.”

He smirks at her, a goofy lopsided little thing. Oxygen deprived or still cruising on his adrenaline high he says something, intangible between his slurred exhaustion and the hiss of the oxygen over his face. She makes just enough of it out to lift the mask back up and asks, “did you ask me if I’d still love you if you were deaf?”

It’s hardly the time to be having “would you still love me” hypotheticals when he’s hardly awake. Especially when his breathing is still so rough and if it gets any worse it’ll be her fault. Then she’ll have to kiss her visitor’s pass goodbye. Still, she can’t help but love him and his stupid questions.

He nods.

“I think so,” she places the mask back down. She runs her hands through his hair, smiling as he curls himself closer to her. “I mean, you don’t listen to me now, what would change?” She chuckles after she says it and he wraps his arms around her waist, pulling at her. That’s when her chest gets tight, her emotions bubbling up as he frowns up at her with those big old sad eyes.

She almost lost him. Permanently. This time there would be no Paris for recovery, Afghanistan for penance- just permanent goodbyes where the last things they said to one another were cruel misguided words. Things that didn’t matter because that’s how the world works.

The credits cut before the movie’s over.

Romeo and Juliet isn’t a love story.

And he dies on a dock.

No more Sunday’s spent in his backyard. The two of them tangled in a hammock meant for one person. A book balanced on his chest, his voice a deep rumble and the only sound in the world- “ I had taught myself to covet nothing. It was not a loathing of death that froze me. I had taught myself to think of death as a friend. It was not heartbroken rage-”

No one could properly replace him.

She’d never felt this comfortable with another human being. To try on clothing, twirling in place to show him that it not only has pockets but it swishes when she moves. How many men would look up from whatever teen magazine quiz he was reading and raise an eyebrow in approval? Noting she also wouldn’t have to shave above her knee in it either.

He pushes the mask away, twisting the flimsy plastic from his face. “Come here,” he manages, breathless. “Let me hold you.”

She’s momentarily adamant to get too close. He’s hurt and tired and- pulling her closer. “Fine but only for a minute,” she caves and she always caves when it comes to him. It takes a minute to work around the machines and the wires, then moving so she’s not laying on him. “I mean it, Aaron.” She tucks her head closer to his chest, breathing in the natural scent of him. Just Hotch.

“You scared us,” she whispers against his chest.

She’s close enough now that he can smell her conditioner. “I scared myself.” It’s not like drowning was something he was looking to do.

Emily looks up at him, turning her head on his shoulder. “Let’s not do that again then?”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” his voice is rough again, breathing ragged.

She reaches up and pulls the mask back over his face. Gently raking her nails through the hair at the side of his ears. “Get some sleep, huh?” He’s just a big softie and she knows that playing with his hair is going to put him out like a light. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

“Promise?” he mouths, eyes dropping already.

And how is she gonna say no? “Always,” she whispers. She holds him closer, scratching at his head.

She’s waiting for his soft snore but now she wraps him up in her arms. Enjoying his proximity. He may be a stupid man but that’s what she signed up for.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #spencer reid #derek morgan #hotchniss #hotly

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periminkle · 4 years

Text

Orphic | 04

After moving into your own place, it seems life is finally going your way; the path to independence leading you to a quaint suburban town where even the grass seems to grow a little greener. Although a shocking encounter leads you to believe that perhaps appearances can be quite deceiving.

pairing: hybrid!jk x reader (first person)

genre: hybrid au, angst, fluff

word count: 7.6k

rating: PG-15

warnings: swearing, descriptions of blood and cleaning wounds, mentions of cannibalism (o.o)

author’s note: mMMm setting deadlines is effective but exhausting, so the pacing of this might be a bit weird? also im def not late bc it’s still sunday in some timezones so ;))

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I stared intently at the grungy nick in the otherwise spotless wall, mind racing a mile a minute.

The better half of the last hour had been spent pacing back and forth, gaze unmoving from the unconscious man in fear of missing the twitch of a finger or the flutter of an eyelash. His complete stillness persuaded me to check on his pulse frequently, glad to feel the faint, yet steady, beat beneath layers of smooth skin.

When I received a second call from my cranky saviour to inform me that he was nearly here, I forcefully sat myself down and practiced that infamous square breathing that every zen yogi swore by. By the persistent bouncing of my knee, it was evident that the yogis had failed me.

Rain was pounding down in thick sheets onto the pavement outside and at this point I was convinced the world had it out for me, using every trick in the book to further complicate this surely doomed rescue mission. Nonetheless, I optimistically hoped that the incoming storm would soon subside.

My unfortunate lips dealt with the brunt of my merciless canines, rendering the skin raw by the time a distinctive series of raps against the sturdy door caught my attention. It was the very same pattern in which I’d regularly knock on the door to the cleaning storage, craving the company of someone other than the three musketeers I’d gotten to know better than my own blood.

Although I ordinarily would be enthusiastically welcomed and greeted with nothing less than a wide, heart-shaped grin, the circumstances now were undoubtedly exceptional. Thus, the crinkle between his brows and the disgruntled glare fixed on my sheepish smile were to be expected.

Needless to say, Hoseok was not impressed.

“What the hell?” the typically friendly janitor barked out, huffing out his frustration at having his slumber disturbed. “You do know that it’s almost two in the morning right? How did you even get in here? Why couldn’t this wait for tomorrow?”

His hair stuck up in a multitude of different directions, evidently having rolled out of bed, slipped on a jacket and came to my rescue. The wrinkled, blue horse character on his pajama set eased some of my nerves at the familiarity of its nose, in the shape of Hoseok’s smile that was, understandably, nowhere to be found with the current circumstances.

I gripped the distressed male by his lithe shoulders, imploring him to slow down. “I’m not coming in tomorrow. Listen, this is gonna sound absurd but—”

His eyes drifted past my smaller form and I firmly shook at his torso to prevent him from spotting the other man. “Hey! Eyes down here.” A hint of curiosity bled through his agitated exterior when he focused on my stern exterior once more. “You can’t freak out, okay?”

Hoseok shrugged his approval, murmuring, “Yeah, I get it, directly disobeying the head researchers is pretty satisfying and all, but did you really have to drag me into this? Especially when you know I start early on Saturdays?”

At the reminder of his strict schedule, I withered marginally as I originally hadn’t intended to involve him at all. A shameful appreciation began to eat away at my conscience, grateful for his presence in spite of my outrageous request. I wouldn’t know what to do if Hoseok hadn’t come through and in my eyes, he remained an angel who was too good to be true.

“I’m sorry, I promise this is really important.” I brought my arms back to my sides, glancing down at my feet in order to organize my swirling thoughts. “I wouldn’t call you if it wasn’t an emergency.”

What I didn’t notice while lost in my reverie was Hoseok’s rebellious stare, wandering over the injured man’s form. “What the fuck?” He gently shoved me aside, stumbling deeper into the laboratory. When he was planted by the stranger’s table, he repeated, “What the actual fuck?”

My head tipped back in exasperation, disappointed that not even my last minute backup strategy was going according to plan. “Hobi, please.”

I could practically envision the gears whirring in his head, a natural reaction considering the mutant in front of him. When he finally craned his neck back to me, he mumbled with wide eyes, “Say sike right now.”

“Stop talking for two seconds.” I groaned, marching up to position myself between the janitor and the table in an attempt to calm him down. Immediately upon noticing his trembling digits, I reached out to clasp them within my own quivering hands. “Listen, this experiment they’re conducting? From what I know, it’s all some screwed up excuse to inject animalistic characteristics of their choosing into humans. And their track records point to a lot of predator species.”

“Predators? Wha—why would they even want to create a predator-human hybrid?” Hoseok took a tiny step back and out of the fear that he would flee, I fiercely clamped down onto our conjoined limbs.

“I don’t know yet,” I faltered. “But, honestly, I couldn’t care less because of how unethical they are in their approach to this project.” At his puzzled expression I somberly gestured to the unmoving lump in the corner, willing myself to postpone any tears for a safer location.

Hoseok must have connected the dots at the midnight black shade of fur peeking out underneath the fabric matching the colour of the hybrid’s ears and tail, as his stare hardened and his breathing began to even out from the rapid pace it was at before. “I’ll need more details later on, but let’s get him out of here first.”

At his command, I retracted from Hoseok's hold, scoping out the rather barren area for something other than the masses of files and papers strewn about. “You think we can carry him together?”

Simply comparing the difference in size between the stranger and Hoseok, there was no doubt the copious, hulking mass of muscle outweighed my friend’s slimmer figure. Our combined strength would have to somehow prove formidable against his bulky body.

Hoseok’s grimace spoke volumes about his faith in that idea, although there wasn’t much of a choice considering the alarming time crunch and our limited accessibility to other parts of the laboratory. Due to my blind confidence in the ostensibly foolproof scheme I constructed, the only cameras shifted were directly located in the path from the front entrance to the changing room to the upstairs lab.

Oh, how I was regretting that naivety now.

Using an abandoned stretch of fabric that had been stuffed into one of the drawers I rummaged through earlier, I covered his immobile body with the thin cover to provide some decency and act as a layer of defence against the torrents outside.

While Hoseok stood directly behind his head, leaning forward to loop his arms underneath the hybrid’s triceps and around his chest, I grabbed each of his ankles, cradling them to my abdomen. Even with our best efforts to avoid any of his wounds, there was no way to avert the countless scratches and bruises that littered every inch of visible skin. We counted on the sanguine belief that he wasn’t conscious enough to feel any of it, reluctant to use any tranquilizers when we weren't aware of how much juice they’d already injected him with.

“On the count of three?” Hoseok asked.

With a nod, I tightened my hold and widened my stance. “One, two,” after taking a generous inhale, I heaved, “three!”

The two of us managed to maneuver the stranger down the length of the dingy hall before we were forced to gently place him onto the ground, desperate to grant our aching muscles the break they demanded. Currently, construction was being done on the elevator, which meant that the flight of stairs was the next obstacle to be tackled.

I lost the brief, but fierce, battle of rock-paper-scissors and endured the frightening prospect of marching down the stairs backwards—in the dark. All because Hoseok was unwilling to sacrifice the slightest bit of his comfort for the both of us to step sideways.

It was safe to say the stairs themselves took ten minutes to clear.

On the first floor, we were able to cross over to the main entrance in a breeze thanks to the spacious nature of the lobby. After scurrying to Hoseok’s car and laying the hybrid in the back seat, I returned to the lab to dutifully lock up the front door and jogged back to the vehicle.

Hoseok sent me a befuddled brow lift from the front seat when instead of the passenger’s side, I hesitantly stood a stride away from the driver’s door. “He’s fine, hurry up already so we can get out of here.” He motioned to the space beside him with the flick of his chin, his bed head dancing along with the movement. “It wouldn’t look too great if anyone caught us right now, especially with the man-cat knocked out cold in the back. Plus, the lab just radiates spooky vibes at night, look at my goosebumps!”

“Okay, okay, give me a second,” I grunted, opening the door to the back seat as I bowed inside to avoid a painful meeting with the roof of the vehicle. While gripping the back of the stranger’s skull with one hand and his upper back with the other, I lifted his torso and slipped inside. Tenderly, I placed his head on my lap.

“What are you doing?” Hoseok stared at me through the mirror, evidently unnerved by my proximity to the man. “He could literally wake up at any minute and there goes your throat!”

“Or he could get juggled around from your shitty driving and open his injuries again,” I countered, “which I think is a lot more likely, no?”

He scoffed, taking full offence to my jest. “Never mind. I hope he throws you out the damn window for calling my driving anything less than spectacular.”

The rush of excess blood coursing through my veins as a result of my overactive heart pounded in my head, nearly loud enough to block out the boisterous revving of the engine echoing throughout the empty lot. Tires squeaked against the pavement, jolting the hunk of metal into action as we sped away.

“Where were you thinking of leaving him?” he asked, taking a breath before mumbling, “that is, if you thought about this at all.”

“Hobi!” My jaw dropped dramatically at his not so subtle jab, shaking my head as I commented, “You’ve been hanging around Yoongi too much lately. I mean, all this sass couldn’t have come from nowhere.”

He slowed down behind the only other car in sight, flicking on his signal to turn. “Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not, I was just commenting on your drastic change in behaviour,” I rebutted, crossing my arms across my chest at his determination to aggravate me tonight. “For your information, I actually planned this out for weeks; who do you think got the key card to the upstairs lab, the keys to the building itself, moved all the cameras—

Despite the leather seat between us, I knew he was sporting a sly smirk, for his conceit was bleeding through his supercilious tone. “And who begged me for help halfway through this ingenious plan?”

My jaw clenched shut, astounded at his cheeky retorts. At first, I was unsure of how the relationship between the jovial custodian and the chilly facade that Yoongi donned among strangers would progress, but judging by the sheer number of occasions in which I’d walked into a room with the two chatting away—gummy smiles all around, it seemed to be advancing better than expected.

“Whatever, you came anyway.” I sank back into my seat, careful not to disturb the comatose man peacefully resting on my thighs. Hopefully he was narcotized enough to remain oblivious to the various disturbances around him and would only rouse when the sun made an appearance.

Hoseok blithely sneered, pressing harder on the pedal as he spun the steering wheel to the right. “Yeah, well it’s kind of hard not to when you claim that Hyunho’s going to sue your ass for thousands of dollars.”

“And was I wrong?” I recalled our earlier conversation, where I hadn’t yet mustered up the courage, much less the patience, to confess to the details of my crimes. In a panicked state, I simply presented the consequences which would follow Hoseok’s absence—Hyunho’s wrath.

“No, now you’re just gonna get your ass handed to you by Namjoon and Yoongi,” he countered. “But I guess you’ll save some money while you’re at it.”

Merely the thought of their reactions to my late night escapade made me want to shrivel up in a ball. “Who said I’m going to tell them?”

“You’re not telling them?” The car slowed as he gradually came to a graceful stop behind a red light, turning his torso to face me with the help of his hand on the central console. “You know better than to release the man-cat, he’ll just get caught again.”

Rolling my eyes like a petulant child being scolded, I muttered, “I’m not releasing him.”

“But you can’t deal with him on your own either!” he snapped, the lack of sleep shortening his tolerance. After a pause to regain his senses, Hoseok rapidly shook his head and twisted back to focus on the empty roads ahead.

"Listen," I gritted out between my teeth, my own temper flaring. “I think you’re forgetting that I was well aware of the fact that I would be housing some kind of animal for a while, just didn’t know he would be this big.”

“Or this dangerous? This costly?” His firm grip on the wheel tightened, knuckles turning white as his emotions boiled over. "You’re not prepared to deal with him, I'll just take him back to my place."

A puff of air escaped my throat at his ridiculous solution, stating, "You live with your sister. There's no way she won't find out."

"Like you're any better off," he quipped, staring me down through the rearview mirror. "You live alone. If he were to do anything to you, we’d be none the wiser about it."

"Well, we can't risk anyone discovering his existence. There's no other way.” By watching the stranger’s chest rise and fall with each elongated breath, I was able to simultaneously avoid Hoseok’s prying eyes and collect my own thoughts.

While impatiently waiting for his arrival back at the lab, my mind had trudged through copious possibilities, overwhelmed with the pressure to choose the right one. Eventually, I came to the disconcerting conclusion that, be that as it may, the most secure option remained to bring him back to my place.

I reassured, "Don’t worry, I cleared out my bedroom so that there’s nothing in there that could potentially be used as a weapon. We'll secure him down, lock the door, and I'll camp out in the living room."

"Y/N, we don't have any clue what this guy is capable of,” Hoseok stressed, worry colouring his voice as he sharply gesticulated with his free hand. “Hell, look at him! He has cat ears, Y/N, and do not get me started on his tail.”

I stole a glance at the accused appendage in bewilderment, unsure of why that aspect was at the forefront of Hoseok’s concerns regarding the mutant boy. “What’s wrong with his tail?”

“My point is,” he accentuates, “we have no idea what we’re dealing with here. What if he has some kind of monstrous super strength and his diet consists of human flesh? He could probably rip right through any restraints and bam! That'll be the end of you."

I held my tongue at ridiculing his absurd speculations when some sort of man-cat hybrid was currently strewn across the back seat of Hoseok’s run-down Corolla; a dim display exposing the current, ungodly hour of the early morning.

“Do you have any better ideas?" Although my question was met with radio silence, we steadily continued on the potholed path headed away from my house. I spoke up again, "Where are you taking us?"

"We're going to Namjoon's place, and we're gonna think of a better alternative all together."

"Hoseok," I seethed, fists clenching next to my thigh. "He'll make us take him back. We're already too far in to go back now."

The car jerked violently due to the bumpy road and being suddenly reminded of the wounded boy, I shot out to grab at his thin waist in order to nail him to the seat. Despite my best efforts, crimson liquid soaked through the thin blanket and I cursed under my breath.

"I can't leave you there alone with him!"

"Please, we'll be careful." A beat passed as I greedily inhaled the fresh air flowing in through my open window, gathering ideas to negotiate. "I'll stay awake the whole time and I'll text you every hour."

Regardless of my pleas, the car kept at its incessant pace to Namjoon's apartment. Sweat began to accumulate at my temples at the unsure fate of what censure awaited me. To distract my nerves, I gripped the fabric that covered the man’s body, tugging it over his shoulders to rest just below his chin while pressing a bunch into his side in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

Past the low hum of the vehicle, a gentle utterance met my ears. I lifted my head to inquire whether the sound was merely a figment of my fatigued imagination when Hoseok repeated, "Every half hour."

My eyes widened, darting to examine his stoic expression from the rearview mirror. "Yes! Yes, yes of course. I can even do every ten minutes if that’s what you want." I shrugged my shoulders, pointing out, "I'll be up all night anyway."

"No, I'm good. Unlike some of us, I don't deserve to be punished for my crimes and would like to salvage the little sleep I can get," he declared as he performed a U-turn at a wide intersection.

My grin expanded exponentially at the change in direction. "Suit yourself."

I allowed my thoughts to clear, tracing a clear droplet on the window as it raced to engulf another, merging into one, larger globule that ran down the smooth expanse until it was out of sight. Unknowingly, I mindlessly carded my fingers through the stranger’s dampened strands; more so for my own comfort than for anyone else.

Before I knew it, we’d arrived at my quaint cottage and with the addition of another individual residing under its roof, the place seemed tinier than ever. Hoseok and I shuttled him over to my bedroom as gracefully as we possibly could, aiming to avoid whacking into any obstacles along the way.

Other than his lengthy legs knocking into two door frames, we were clear.

The second his back met the rigid mattress, we collectively released a weighty exhalation from the excessive exertion that strained both our physical and mental states. Although the chances of the stranger waking up now were low, seeing as he was out like a light throughout the whole journey, I hurried to collect the sturdy ropes that I purchased in advance.

“Ooh, you’re into some kinky shit, huh Y/N?” Hoseok quipped, taking the material from my hands.

My eyes rolled back at his stupid antics, glaring at the pleased crinkles forming next to his drooping eyes. “Ha ha, very funny. Now help me tie him up, so I can kick you out of my house.”

“And what’re you gonna do to him when I leave?”

Snatching the rope that he stole from me, I shoved Hoseok to the side by pressing against his firm bicep—which definitely carried more than his fair share of the hybrid on the way here—and grumbled, “Guess If you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself.”

Hoseok burst into a short fit of contagious laughter, invoking a couple quiet giggles that I was unsuccessful in fighting down. As he raised the stranger’s arms to the bed frame, I looped the braided, nylon material snug around each of his wrists. Along the way I checked to ensure that the restraints weren’t too tight before moving onto his ankles to repeat the process. Luckily enough, his height stretched the entire length of my minuscule bed with his feet dangling off the ledge.

“Tell me you brought more tranquilizers in case?” Hoseok asked immediately upon securing the last knot. Throughout a tedious explanation on how foolishly lax I was behaving with the hybrid, he went back to inspect my handiwork, tugging the ends of the cords closer together into a grip that nearly cut off the hybrid’s blood flow.

Over his nagging, I sneaked a victorious grin as I displayed the syringes I’d nabbed from the lab. He spent a few more minutes fiddling with various safety measures consisting of the pepper spray he stealthily retrieved from my purse, the bedroom door’s lock and an air horn that he remarkably pulled out of his coat’s pocket. Although it was questionable if the blaring sound would awaken even my closest neighbours due to the sheer distance between our houses, I didn’t dare attempt after imagining old Sangmin marching over here on his rickety cane to bark my ears off.

Refusing to bother expending effort on pondering over the rationale behind Hoseok’s little magic trick, I blithely shooed him out before any more ridiculous objects could be plucked out of his jacket.

The last straw was his finger approaching the sensitive button on said air horn. Unwilling to face the consequences of his brash actions, I slammed the front door closed behind Hoseok, the space suddenly void of his rowdy antics. I wearily blinked the drowsiness out of my eyes, the stillness and tranquility of the early hours slowed my heart rate from the fast paced, action packed night.

My sock-clad feed padded their way back to the bedroom, snatching my phone out of my black hoodie to fiddle around with an app that I discovered upon moving out. In order to relay my continued existence to my family, I scheduled texts to be sent every week, which would prove useful at this time as well. Knowing my own forgetful nature, one update to Hoseok would slip my mind, and either four, furious men would burst through every available entrance or I would have the whole police force upon my front steps in minutes.

To prevent such a disastrous event from taking place, I tampered around with the settings and added the fretting male to the list.

I halted in my tracks when faced with the mundane sight of the four walls where I spent most of my sleeping hours, not a hair out of place other than the addition of the injured hybrid on my dirtied bed. The crimson stains jolted me into action, retrieving my brand new first-aid kit and finding it hilariously ironic that the dressings were going to be used on the very same criminal that broke in to steal such supplies.

In order to fight off any cold that could have possibly slithered its way past the weak barrier draped over his body, I peeled the flimsy, sodden cover off and replaced it with a puffy comforter. Traversing through the storm that continued to rage outside definitely put a strain on his already weakened state, and his pale countenance wasn't very reassuring.

I slid the blanket down to access the sullied wound at his rib cage and grabbed a couple pads of gauze to firmly press onto the area. Thankfully, some blood had already begun to coagulate around the edges, so I didn’t have to wait too long for the trickling stream to cease. With a clean towel, I wiped the surrounding skin to get a better look at what I was dealing with, grimacing at the bruises forming galaxies across the jagged edges of ripped skin.

He was in worse shape than either Hoseok or I could have predicted. At this realization, the fleeting worry that he might succumb to the severity of his wounds grew, festering a nasty doubt in my mind.

Deciding whether to clean the laceration commenced another strife within the whirlwind of emotions inside my head, but I poured a few drops of antiseptic onto a cotton ball anyway, fearful of infection. As I tried my best to carefully dab the soaked material across his wounds, I peered up at his face to search for signs of consciousness.

My eyes involuntarily softened at the small cuts littered across his neck, travelling past his jaw and over the slopes of his hollowed cheeks to his forehead, which was partially hidden under his dark locks. When the cotton was thoroughly besmirched with a blend of bright crimson and a muddy brown, I drenched another and advanced up to other regions after the more serious lesions were taken care of.

A closer look at his sinewy torso allowed me to examine the scars scattered all around, mostly clustered around his upper arms. Absentmindedly, I wondered whether their appearances were linked to the cruel methods of the laboratory. How had he gotten within their clutches in the first place? For how long was he suffering under the justification of being an experiment?

What were they trying to accomplish with him?

My mind raced with all the different possibilities of what could have brought the hybrid into this situation in the first place, and before I knew it, I was pushing back the disheveled strands on his forehead to clean the last of his cuts. There were definitely more on his dorsal side, but I wasn’t willing to undo his restraints and flip his hefty weight over on my own. I would either wait until he woke up or ask Hoseok to stop by again after his shift.

In my current position, I was close enough to feel his warm breath fanning across my skin, observe the tiny brown mole under his lip and how utterly breathtaking this man was underneath the cuts that marred his skin. He was undoubtedly attractive at first glance, although I wasn’t able to appreciate his masculine features while under the stress of saving him.

Once every laceration in my reach had been disinfected to the best of my limited abilities, I swiftly bandaged his side again and stuck Spider-man themed band aids onto the smaller cuts in memory of the Hello Kitty ones that decorated his body earlier. I settled back on the chair, admiring my handiwork and fighting back the looming threat of dormancy that approached with every elongated blink. My head leaned back as I crossed my arms, thinking that a little snooze never hurt anyone.

I was blind to the cocoa orbs drinking in the darkness.

The bright light streaming in through the numerous cracks between my blinds prodded my eyelids apart, pupils struggling to adjust past the groggy haze of an unexpected slumber. Rather than revelling in the bountiful energy supplied by a restorative nap, an obnoxious cramp in my neck made its presence known alongside the bleak, obstinate tingle of dormancy that lingered within every tightened tendon, pulsating throughout my entire body.

Although the pain gradually ebbed away after I rolled my head around in wide semicircles, I knew from experience that the ache of sleeping in an uncomfortable position would linger.

Gold streaks were painted on the hardwood floor as a result of the sun’s harsh rays, a stark contrast to the dusk of a few hours ago. As I began to fuzzily recollect the memories from yesterday, I spotted the growing number of discrepancies between the room I’d seen before I closed my eyes and now, from the open door to the ruffled sheets, devoid of any sign of life.

Fortunately, I seemed to be in the same position, seated on the tough chair that I snoozed off in a few hours ago. However, I found it odd that it was particularly difficult to do much else than squirm around, and that was when I realized the problem lied in the nylon material tied around my wrists and ankles, binding me to the furniture.

A cold dread washed over me, much like a freezing bucket of ice being poured over my head. The hybrid escaped.

Well, at least he didn’t exact his fallacious revenge on my sleeping form.

“Awake?”

I squeaked at the whiplash that followed the movement of my head twisting a second too quickly, intent on identifying the furtive speaker. My eyes widened exponentially at locating the muscular hybrid, black ears twitching at my cry and tail swishing in curiosity. Being clad in only boxers, I shifted my gaze away out of instinct, a fiery blush overtaking my features despite having ogled the man’s ripped physique before.

It felt completely different when he was unconscious and my only intent was to treat his multitudinous wounds though.

He slowly blinked, clearly finding my astonishment puzzling with the bewilderment laced in his orbs. Waving a large palm in front of my face to get my attention on him, he calmly said, “No hurt.”

The tight rope that currently hindered my motion was definitely the same one that had been previously occupied with restraining the hybrid to the bed. Yet the very same male stood in front of me, free as a bird. “H-how did you get out?”

Instead of answering verbally, he extended his defined arms out to the side, imitating the position he was tied up in, then robustly swinging both limbs towards one another. So he broke through those thick, durable ropes with sheer strength and willpower. Comforting.

The tranquilizers laid scattered across the floor, much too far to even consider reaching them.

“Where’s your blanket?” I questioned, suppressing the tremor in my voice as I found it outrageous that my throat was still intact at this point. There was no guarantee that he wasn’t harbouring any motives to rid the world of my presence, but the fact that he wasn’t actively making any moves to rip my heart out was a good sign.

The mop of dark chestnut swayed along in the same direction that he tilted his head over to; a habit revealing an emotion that I couldn’t place on the stranger. “Warm. No like.”

His broken English revived a flurry of trepidation. I recalled the night of the break-in, the terror and hysteria that I’d buried away under the incorrect pretense that a burglar never hits the same house twice.

I didn’t know if that sentiment applied to kidnapping the criminal and using your place as his hideout, as well.

As I noisily gulped, I felt his stare dart to my esophagus and in a wild panic, my wide eyes met the doe-like curve of his own. The hybrid edged closer to my trembling form before treading past me, out of sight. I closed my eyes in preparation.

This is it. Goodbye world, it was pretty shit while it lasted.

I heard the rustling of fabric behind me and silently applauded the man for thinking of a quick and easy suffocation to reduce the amount of clean up afterwards.

His bare feet slapped against the floor, trekking over to my front again. When a couple seconds passed and none of my airways were blocked nor was there any piercing pain to be felt, I cautiously cracked an eye open to see the stranger standing there, the puffy blanket from before wrapped around his broad shoulders.

“Good now?” he inquired with a bunny-like smile.

My jaw dropped slightly as I nodded, attempting to formulate a sentence but coming up empty. The stark contrast between the brawn enveloping his body and his innocent features threw me in for a loop. This must have been part of his grand scheme to ruthlessly murder me—lulling me into a false sense of security before executing me on the spot.

Outwardly, the hybrid appeared to possess more human features than his animal counterpart, leading me to wonder which instincts ruled over the other. Was he more level-headed and rational or was he unable to suppress his bestial instincts? Did he get sudden, violent mood swings or go on occasional, bloodthirsty rampages?

The lack of knowledge I had regarding the man, who had somehow gained the upper hand through his brute strength, was worrying. A tinge of regret for not skimming through a few files on said hybrid before Hoseok’s arrival made me softly curse under my breath.

As I shifted in place, I was reminded of my own predicament. “So, uh, any chance you’ll let me go?”

With his broad grin still on full display, he made his refusal clear by shaking his head back and forth. It was worth a try. “Not fair. I tied, now you tied.”

His childish logic caught me off guard and a bark of laughter shook my stiff shoulders, marginally relaxing at the prospect that he might postpone the bloodshed for a later time. The mystery laid in how he could distinguish my harmless intentions from the head researchers’ diabolical ones. Maybe it was the lab coat?

I made a mental note to never wear my own lab coat in front of him.

A grumble snapped me out of my reverie. I observed the stranger’s startled features as he glanced down at his abdomen, then, unabashedly, back up to my face. Recalling his screams of horror back at the lab, the barbaric treatment he received there was indisputable and based on his raging stomach, I guessed that it had been a while since he’d eaten anything of substance.

Of all times, Hoseok’s ridiculous words of the hybrid’s diet consisting of human grade meat played back through my brain and jitters erupted over my limbs, wanting to please the man before he was picking his teeth with my freshly cleaned bones.

“Hungry?” I prodded, pushing other priorities to the side in favour of feeding the rumbling beast.

His dark orbs immediately lit up with pure, unadulterated glee. The hybrid gracefully tied the ends of the fabric around his neck like a cape and rounded closer to me with mirth written across every crease on his countenance.

Unsure if his giddiness was attributed to the assumption that I was offering up the meat lining my organs, I squirmed in protest, attempting to cause a ruckus in order to spur his excitement towards another source of protein in the fridge.

Not having much choice in the matter with my limited range of motion, I watched in worry as he scurried out of sight again. “Hey, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here and—”

Despite being prepared for his unpredictable nature, a yelp flew past my lips when I was effortlessly lifted into the air, chair and all. His forearms caged my thighs as he gripped the bottom of the seat, hot pants of air blowing onto the back of my neck from his position.

His elation was practically tangible as he flew past the open doorway and sped off through the foyer. He must have ventured deeper into the house while I was blissfully unaware, since his strides towards the kitchen were filled with nothing but confidence in every step.

Hastily, I spat out, “I’m not that delicious, trust me! My budget’s been pretty strict this month, so I’ve just been eating junk, and I don’t imagine that’ll taste very go—”

The force holding me upright loosened when we reached the fridge, permitting my feet to find the floor. “Dee-lee-shiz?” He tried to imitate, turning to point straight at me.

“No! No, no, not delicious.” I corrected, violently shaking my head.

His outstretched arm retracted to his side, staring like a hawk at my chin tipping towards the metal cooling box behind him, and I repeated, “Delicious.”

As he flung the door to the refrigerator open, nearly ripping it right off its hinges, he yelled, “Dee-lee-shiz!”

Utter fascination at the chilled temperature and the rather meager array of food etched onto his features, sending relief through my veins. I encouraged him to ravage the tenuous stock of food while simultaneously rejoicing at successfully having deterred him from eating me alive.

Packs of eggs, blueberries, condiments, and essentially anything within his reach was hauled out, forming a growing heap on the countertop. When a zucchini found its way into his grasp, he took one puzzled look before chomping down on one end. I wasn’t too sure how raw zucchini would taste when eaten as though it were a cucumber, but he seemed pleased enough to take another bite that resounded throughout the space with a loud crunch.

I reclined back into the stiff chair, content on observing the ravenous hybrid empty my fridge and taking an occasional nibble on snacks that piqued his interest. Although, his grab at the bundle of raw chicken was when I decided to voice my concerns. “Ah, that has to be cooked!” At another tilt of his head, I explained, “You could get sick if you don’t cook it.”

By his furrowed brows, I deduced the concept flew over his head, but he threw the package onto my lap anyway and peered down expectantly. “Cook.”

“You tied me up, remember? I need some mobility to cook.” I tugged at my subdued arms to demonstrate my current inaptitude.

He hummed in thought, enveloping his lower lip between his lengthy canines as he weighed the pros and cons of being able to consume the meat by setting me loose. Finally, after clearly expressing how torn he was between his hunger and his teasing, it seemed that he’d come to a conclusion when he latched onto my left forearm.

Just as I was about to jib that I was no longer on the menu, a searing pain ripped across my wrist. I hissed through my teeth with my fists clenched as I teared my tender arm out of his grip, protectively cradling the limb to my chest.

He flinched away from the sound, taking a step away from my defensive form. At the sight of my disgruntled frown, he withered into himself, chin to his chest while I examined my sore wrist, whimpering at the edges of the flaming red, torn skin. I was a second away from viciously reprimanding him for the bruise that was more than likely to form by tomorrow, but one look into his guilty, fearful eyes made me pause.

With his strength, there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that he possessed the ability to do much worse, which didn’t seem to be his intent from all the fretting—ears tucked into the crown of his head and tail hanging low. As he seemed to be repenting without a chiding needed on my end, I redirected to a softer approach. “It’s fine, just be more gentle next time, okay?”

“Mm,” he complied weakly, his prior enthusiasm having substantially deflated. Before I could dismiss the topic and entice him with more food, he knelt down to my ankles, gripping the rope with both hands this time as he effortlessly tore the material apart, careful not to graze my legs in the process.

A shiver crawled down my spine at the display of power, mentally noting that there was probably enough strength in his fingers to flick my stunned form across the room; yet the man proved his duality by proceeding to grab one loose end of his makeshift cape and gently tie it around my unscathed wrist. “No run.”

Surprisingly enough, I hadn’t made it a break for it as soon as I was liberated. Although I sustained minimal injuries, he expressed his remorse and made no moves to consume my flesh, which was another good sign. As more time passed, he was revealing to be more and more of a passionate bunny stuck in a wrestler’s body.

After all, I hadn’t gone through all the trouble of kidnapping him just to sprint at the slightest sign of trouble. I confirmed, “No run.”

Some of his original ardour reappeared at my acknowledgement, along with a faint giggle that evoked a tiny smile on my own face. I figured that with his minimal experience revolving around homemade dishes, simply slapping on some salt and pepper to flavour the meat with a side of boiled vegetables would suffice. Thus, I took the package from my lap and got to work.

Cooking with another, rather useless, individual essentially attached at the hip was difficult, to say the least. In the beginning, the man fired question after question, curious about every ingredient and spice going into the dish, but after realizing that he lacked the correct vocabulary to obtain the information he sought, he became a silent observer.

Basically, he followed me around like a lapdog while munching on another zucchini to occupy his restless hands.

After pulling him around left and right, occasionally giving a soft tug on the blanket when he would unintentionally zone out, I finally threw all the components into a single pan, deciding to serve a simple stir-fry. With only the expanse of the puffy fabric between us, I was constantly elbowing the hybrid while mixing the ingredients together, which I considered a redeeming form of payback for his carelessness with my arm.

While the mouth-watering scent of lunch wafted around, he extended the wrist connected to mine, sidestepping over to the island to fish for a bag of baby carrots before coming to stand next to me by the stove. Spotting my stare, he flashed another blinding grin and I couldn’t help but imagine long, bunny ears extending off the top of his head, his slender tail replaced with a fluffier ball of fur at the back. That seemed to better suit his ardent personality.

The chicken gradually changed colour as the exterior of the vegetables softened, and I brought the meal along with the chair by the fridge over to my tiny two-person table, prompting him to take a seat in front of the steaming plate. I expected him to ravenously dig in and devour every crumb, yet he refused to move a muscle, staring out the glass doors to the backyard and into the forest instead.

“I hurt.” He stumbled over his words, somberly bringing his gaze to my cocked brow. “No mean to hurt.”

Thinking back to the scuffle that seemed eons away at this point, I flashed a reassuring smile his way, explaining, “I get it, you were injured. Um, I was kind of mad at first because you broke my door and everything,” I offhandedly gestured towards the broken contraption, “but I forgive you.”

“No.” He clenched his jaw, analyzing the surface of the table as if the words he was searching for were etched on the surface. “Now. Sorry now, too.” To drive his point home, he delicately grabbed the arm not wrapped in the blanket, streaks of red decorating my wrist like a tight bracelet.

I hummed my understanding. “Ah, I told you it’s fine already,” I reassured, patting his hand.

Content at my acceptance of his makeshift apology, he began to dig into the chicken. His nose twitched at the unfamiliar taste, but he made no complaints. Anything was better than nothing, in the end.

I let him enjoy his food for a bit before asking, “Did you have a name? Something like J3?”

His eyes went back to scanning the outdoors, the sound of his chomping coming to an abrupt halt when he spotted a sad lump on the porch.

“Bud?” he inquired, the light glimmering in his irises.

The nickname stumped me, as I had difficulty imagining Hyunho or Minzy affectionately calling their experiment ‘bud’. “What are you talking about? Is that your name?”

His finger poked out to the cylindrical pile of tuna outside, then back to himself, “Bud.”

Befuddled now more than ever, I tried to laugh it off and nodded my head towards the plate again, silently advising him to continue eating.

Unfortunately, he didn’t seem too keen on evading the topic, whimpering in frustration at either my lack of understanding or his incapability of properly communicating due to the language barrier. His unending appetite was going to be put on hold for this. As he stood up, the chair behind him screeched, and he clutched on to the blanket, pulling me towards the back door.

Refusing to allow history to repeat itself, I rushed ahead to slide the hairband off and pushed the door open, allowing him to slip through. I figured that when the man drifted off to sleep tonight, I could replace the rapidly decaying tuna in hopes that my kitty would visit again.

While I was lost in thought, he undid the knot connecting the two of us and sprinted into the forest.

His back disappeared within the thickets fencing the towering maple trees and I froze in place, my jaw going slack in an ugly mixture of bafflement and betrayal, believing that he had simply taken advantage of my hospitality then ran off. Although, all attempts at making sense of the hybrid’s actions were cut short when familiar noises of horrifying, crackling sounds met my ears, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end.

When the underbrush twitched, leaves fluttering from the movement of an animal hidden within their cover, a sinking feeling entered my chest. And that was the moment I met the vibrant, emerald eyes that had dug their own space within my heart.

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook scenarios #jungkook imagine #jungkook x reader #jungkook au #jungkook hybrid au #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #bts imagine #this chap gave me an aneurysm and a half

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love-sapphirerose · 4 years

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Yashahime: Princess Half-Demon Episode 16 Review

https://www.animenewsnetwork.com/review/yashahime-princess-half-demon/episode-16/.168486

I got a bad feeling about "Double-Edged Moroha" from the moment it started. You'd think, given that last week's episode randomly decided to break away from the story to have a flashback story time with Riku, that the show would take even a scant minute or two to establish things like context and pacing: Where the girls are. Why they are there. Some vague idea about how long it has been since that godforsaken misadventure with the Rapey Mountain Arsonist. You know, the simple stuff that helps the audience figure out what the hell is going on. But no, it doesn't even take a couple of seconds for Yashahime to start screwing up the most basic rules of “How to Tell a Coherent Story”, as we're plunged right into the middle of some anonymous mountain valley or something, with Moroha staring down Yawaragi, telling her cousins that there's some major beef going back three whole years that needs settling. If you don't recognize who this woman is, she's one of the Wolf Tribe members who has appeared exactly one time in the series before now, in a single frame from the very end of last-week's episode.

It honestly feels like something got supremely screwed up in the show's pre-production, and the Yashahime staff realized that they needed to cut an episode right out of the middle of the run, so they took the final scenes from the episode that led up to this climactic showdown between Moroha and Yawaragi, cut everything else that came before it, and slapped it on to the beginning of “Double-Edged Moroha”. Maybe that would explain the seemingly arbitrary placement of the Big Reveal episode from last week? The way it was written meant it could have been aired at almost any time and made an equal amount of sense (read: Not a whole lot), and the only information from “Farewell Under the Lunar Eclipse” that ties into “Double-Edged Moroha” at all is that Moroha ended up with Kouga and the wolves when her parents got sucked into the Black Pearl. If we hadn't gotten that single shot of Moroha being left to the wolves by Hachi, then “Double-Edged Moroha” would have come across as completely nonsensical. As it stands, it's now only 95% nonsense, which is technically an improvement. Good job, I guess?

If you couldn't tell, this was yet another episode of Yashahime that made me absolutely furious with how poorly written and executed it was, but in order to fully explain why, I'll need to cover the events of “Double-Edged Moroha” in chronological order, because the flashback-structure of the episode is stupid and pointless. We begin with the very last flashback, which shows us how Yawaragi attempted to train Moroha in the art of mastering her demonic transformations. We later learn that Kagome apparently placed a seal on these powers in some scene that we never got to actually see because the show was too busy failing at Towa and Setsuna's backstories, but Yawaragi decided to give Moroha the power to transform into Beniyasha with the rouge. Yawaragi then spends years yelling at Moroha for relying on the rouge too much and warning her about how too many transformations will result in her becoming a permanently bloodthirsty monster, so, uh, great call there, Yawaragi. Really thought that one through.

Anyways, one of the days Moroha goes berserk with her Beniyasha self and ends up calling down the wrath of a horde of

terribly-animated Birds of Paradise

before passing out. Instead of doing the logical thing and running away, Yawaragi just sort of stands there and decides they're screwed. That's when a weasel man (who is very helpfully named “Weasel Man”) wanders into frame from literally nowhere and offers to sell Yawaragi the Armor of the Iron Rat he's wearing, so that she can blow up the Birds of Paradise and whatnot. Not only is the completely random appearance of this obviously sketchy weasel not draw Yawaragi's suspicions at all, she also doesn't seem to find it odd that the guy can't even remove the armor himself without getting another person to unlock it with a key. Keep in mind that, for the entire duration of this stupid, stupid conversation, Yawaragi could have very easily just run away from all those birds and hid in a cave or something, but no, she casually takes the armor from the weasel, and wouldn't you know it, the darned thing is cursed to eventually crush its wearer to death unless they pay an exorbitant fee to the smithy rats for another key.

This is, to put it mildly, a very silly chain of events that do not paint Yawaragi in the smartest light, but we just have to roll with it, because that set of Iron-Rat Armor is precisely why Moroha has found herself sold into indentured servitude for the last three years. You see, Yawaragi decided that Moroha needed to complete the “crucible of Kodoku”, which has the eleven-year-old fighting a horde of demons in a spooky cave by herself to…get stronger, and master fighting without relying on Beniyasha, somehow? Yawaragi claims that Moroha needs to absorb the powers of the strongest demon in the cave, but she definitely did not do that, and we've never seen any of these so-called disastrous consequences of the Beniyasha transformation so far, which makes the entire venture basically pointless for our little heroine. For Yawaragi's part, the whole thing seems to have been an excuse to do some gambling with Jyubei, because she previously lost a bunch of ryou in the demon gambling house, which one apparently has to travel through in order to even get to the Crucible of Kodoku; also she needs, like, thirteen Ryou in order to buy a key for the armor that is going to eventually kill her. All of this leads to Jyubei offering to buy Moroha as his own little bounty-hunting slave, which Yawaragi accepts instantaneously, and there you have it: The ridiculous, contrived, and ultimately meaningless explanation for why Moroha has been trying to buy her way out of debt for three years.

Then, the second flashback, which is actually the most recent chronologically, shows us how it took Yawaragi three whole years to get to that damned hidden village of rats, only to discover that Konton arrived just beforehand and killed all of them. Whoopsie! We even get a nice shot of a dead rat mother cradling the corpse of her rat child – a weirdly dark moment that Yashahime certainly hasn't earned or anything – just to remind you that these Four Perils are super evil and powerful (despite the fact that they keep getting their asses kicked by a trio of teenagers who can barely be bothered to acknowledge their existence). Konton makes a deal with Yawaragi that he'll hand over the key if she kills Moroha and the others, and she accepts. “But!” Yashahime then asks, “Is she really going to betray her adopted daughter figure? Or is Yawaragi preparing Moroha for the final and most important lesson of her training?”

The answer is clearly supposed to be that second one, but Yashahime is just so goddamn bad at even the simplest character writing that the point doesn't land. Throughout all of these flashbacks, Moroha and Yawaragi have been dueling one-on-one, with Towa and Setsuna being told to sit uselessly on the sidelines, and Yawaragi keeps insisting that Moroha use her “creative imagination” to beat her, instead of relying on the rouge. This kind of falls flat when Moroha's victory just comes from her busting out a new special move, the Crimson Dragon Wave, which is neither a creative or imaginative resolution to the fight. Every Yashahime fight boils down to some combination of the girls' different special attacks, so why is this any different?

Way late in the episode, Konton suddenly teleports into the fight to gloat at Yawaragi. Nobody else really notices or acknowledges Konton's arrival, though you'd think this is the point where Towa and Setsuna would get off their butts and do something, because it isn't like Moroha's honor would be besmirched by kicking Konton's ass again. The show even forgets to include Konton in the next couple of shots of Yawaragi reacting to Moroha's attacks, even though it is absolutely critical that he be standing right behind her, because when Moroha unleashes the Crimson Dragon Wave, she whips behind Konton to hold him down in an act of self-sacrifice.

Here's the kicker, though: The guy can teleport. Yawaragi just saw him do this, and not thirty seconds earlier! So it shouldn't be surprising to anybody when Konton uses his Rainbow Pearl powers to teleport out of Yawaragi's arms and escapes anyways while the other girls throw some useless attacks at him. So, to recap: The audience learns that Yawaragi created the whole issue of Moroha's Beniyasha transformation in the first place, and she then spent years fruitlessly attempting to undo the problem, including purchasing a deadly set of cursed armor from a random weasel that was traipsing about the forest one day. All of this led to Moroha being sold to Jyubei, which was ultimately pointless because Yawaragi just ended up being coerced into attacking Moroha by Konton, and the one thing that might have made this entire cavalcade of terminally stupid decisions worthwhile – killing Konton – ended up being foiled by random Rainbow Pearl Powers. In other words, absolutely nothing of importance was learned, the girls are not one step closer to any of their goals, and Moroha inadvertently murdered Yawaragi for no reason. It is positively stunning when Yawaragi dies, and the show has the gall to play the moment off like some huge, emotional payoff…except Moroha is more or less fine by the time the credits roll.

Good Lord, this show is continuing to outdo itself in all of the worst ways. I won't damn it with the non-score of Episode 14, because “Double-Edged Moroha” at least has some halfway-decent looking action to try and distract you from how bad everything else is. I did, however, spend far too much time teaching myself how to use image-editing software so I could slap together this dumb meme that perfectly sums up my feelings about Yashahime at the moment. That said, it was probably more time and effort than anybody working on the show spent going over its sorry excuse of a script.

#anti yashahime #anti hanyo no yashahime #anti towa #inuyasha

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ahouseoflies · 4 years

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The Best Films of 2020

I can’t tell you anything novel or insightful about this year that has been stolen from our lives. I watched zero of these films in a theater, and I watched most of them half-asleep in moments that I stole from my children. Don’t worry, there are some jokes below.

GARBAGE

93. Capone (Josh Trank)- What is the point of this dinner theater trash? It takes place in the last year of Capone's life, when he was released from prison due to failing health and suffered a stroke in his Florida home. So it covers...none of the things that make Al Capone interesting? It's not historically accurate, which I have no problem with, but if you steer away from accuracy, then do something daring and exciting. Don't give me endless scenes of "Phonse"--as if the movie is running from the very person it's about--drawing bags of money that promise intrigue, then deliver nothing in return.

That being said, best "titular character shits himself" scene since The Judge.

92. Ammonite (Francis Lee)- I would say that this is the Antz to Portrait of a Lady on Fire's A Bug's Life, but it's actually more like the Cars 3 to Portrait of a Lady on Fire's Toy Story 1.

91. Ava (Tate Taylor)- Despite the mystery and inscrutability that usually surround assassins, what if we made a hitman movie but cared a lot about her personal life? Except neither the assassin stuff nor the family stuff is interesting?

90. Wonder Woman 1984 (Patty Jenkins)- What a miscalculation of what audiences loved about the first and wanted from the sequel. WW84 is silly and weightless in all of the ways that the first was elegant and confident. If the return of Pine is just a sort of phantom representation of Diana's desires, then why can he fly a real plane? If he is taking over another man's soul, then, uh, what ends up happening to that guy? For that matter, why is it not 1984 enough for Ronald Reagan to be president, but it is 1984 enough for the president to have so many Ronald Reagan signifiers that it's confusing? Why not just make a decision?

On paper, the me-first values of the '80s lend themselves to the monkey's paw wish logic of this plot. You could actually do something with the Star Wars program or the oil crisis. But not if the setting is played for only laughs and the screenplay explains only what it feels like.

89. Babyteeth (Shannon Murphy)- In this type of movie, there has to be a period of the Ben Mendelsohn character looking around befuddled about the new arrangement and going, "What's this now--he's going to be...living with us? The guy who tried to steal our medication? This is crazy!" But that's usually ten minutes, and in this movie it's an hour. I was so worn out by the end.

88. You Should Have Left (David Koepp)- David Koepp wrote Jurassic Park, so he's never going to hell, but how dare he start caring about his own mystery at the hour mark. There's a forty-five minute version of this movie that could get an extra star from me, and there's a three-hour version of Amanda Seyfried walking around in athleisure that would get four stars from me. What we actually get? No thanks.

87. Black Is King (Beyonce, et al.)- End your association with The Lion King, Bey. It has resulted in zero bops.

ADMIRABLE FAILURES

86. Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (Cathy Yan)- There's nothing too dysfunctional in the storytelling or performances, but Birds of Prey also doesn't do a single thing well. I would prefer something alive and wild, even if it were flawed, to whatever tame belt-level formula this is.

85. The Turning (Floria Sigismondi)- This update of The Turn of the Screw pumps the age of Miles up to high school, which creates some horny creepiness that I liked. But the age of the character also prevents the ending of the novel from happening in favor of a truly terrible shrug. I began to think that all of the patience that the film showed earlier was just hesitance for its own awful ending.

I watched The Turning as a Mackenzie Davis Movie Star heat check, and while I'm not sure she has the magnetism I was looking for, she does have a great teacher voice, chastening but maternal.

84. Bloodshot (David Wilson)- A whole lot of Vin Diesel saying he's going to get revenge and kill a bunch of dudes; not a whole lot of Vin Diesel actually getting revenge and killing a bunch of dudes.

83. Downhill (Nat Faxon and Jim Rash)- I was an English major in college, which means I ended up locking myself into literary theories that, halfway through the writing of an essay, I realized were flawed. But rather than throw out the work that I had already proposed, I would just keep going and see if I could will the idea to success.

So let's say you have a theory that you can take Force Majeure by Ruben Ostlund, one of the best films of its year, and remake it so that its statement about familial anxiety could apply to Americans of the same age and class too...if it hadn't already. And maybe in the first paragraph you mess up by casting Will Ferrell and Julia Louis-Dreyfus, people we are conditioned to laugh at, when maybe this isn't that kind of comedy at all. Well, don't throw it away. You can quote more--fill up the pages that way--take an exact shot or scene from the original. Does that help? Maybe you can make the writing more vigorous and distinctive by adding a character. Is that going to make this baby stand out? Maybe you could make it more personal by adding a conclusion that is slightly more clever than the rest of the paper?

Or perhaps this is one you're just not going to get an A on.

82. Hillbilly Elegy (Ron Howard)- I watched this melodrama at my mother's encouragement, and, though I have been trying to pin down her taste for decades, I think her idea of a successful film just boils down to "a lot of stuff happens." So in that way, Ron Howard's loss is my gain, I guess.

There is no such thing as a "neutral Terminator."

81. Relic (Natalie Erika James)- The star of the film is Vanessa Cerne's set decoration, but the inert music and slow pace cancel out a house that seems neglected slowly over decades.

80. Buffaloed (Tanya Wexler)- Despite a breathless pace, Buffaloed can't quite congeal. In trying to split the difference between local color hijinks and Moneyballed treatise on debt collection, it doesn't commit enough to either one.

Especially since Zoey Deutch produced this one in addition to starring, I'm getting kind of worried about boo's taste. Lot of Two If by Seas; not enough While You Were Sleepings.

79. Like a Boss (Miguel Arteta)- I chuckled a few times at a game supporting cast that is doing heavy lifting. But Like a Boss is contrived from the premise itself--Yeah, what if people in their thirties fell out of friendship? Do y'all need a creative consultant?--to the escalation of most scenes--Why did they have to hide on the roof? Why do they have to jump into the pool?

The movie is lean, but that brevity hurts just as much as it helps. The screenplay knows which scenes are crucial to the development of the friendship, but all of those feel perfunctory, in a different gear from the setpieces.

To pile on a bit: Studio comedies are so bare bones now that they look like Lifetime movies. Arteta brought Chuck & Buck to Sundance twenty years ago, and, shot on Mini-DV for $250,000, it was seen as a DIY call-to-bootstraps. I guarantee that has more setups and locations and shooting days than this.

78. Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga (David Dobkin)- Add Dan Stevens to the list of supporting players who have bodied Will Ferrell in his own movie--one that he cared enough to write himself.

Like Downhill, Ferrell's other 2020 release, this isn't exactly bad. It's just workmanlike and, aside from the joke about Demi Lovato's "uninformed" ghost, frustratingly conventional.

77. The Traitor (Marco Bellochio)- Played with weary commitment by Pierfrancesco Favino, Tomasso Buscetta is "credited" as the first informant of La Cosa Nostra. And that sounds like an interesting subject for a "based on a true story" crime epic, right? Especially when you find out that Buscetta became a rat out of principle: He believed that the mafia to which he had pledged his life had lost its code to the point that it was a different organization altogether.

At no point does Buscetta waver or even seem to struggle with his decision though, so what we get is less conflicted than that description might suggest. None of these Italian mob movies glorify the lifestyle, so I wasn't expecting that. But if the crime doesn't seem enticing, and snitching on the crime seems like forlorn duty, and everything is pitched with such underhanded matter-of-factness that you can't even be sure when Buscetta has flipped, then what are we left with? It was interesting seeing how Italian courts work, I guess?

76. Kajillionaire (Miranda July)- This is another movie so intent on building atmosphere and lore that it takes too long to declare what it is. When the protagonist hits a breaking point and has to act, she has only a third of a film to grow. So whispery too.

Gina Rodriguez is the one to inject life into it. As soon as her motormouth winds up, the film slips into a different gear. The atmosphere and lore that I mentioned reeks of artifice, but her character is believably specific. Beneath a basic exterior is someone who is authentically caring but still morally compromised, beholden to the world that the other characters are suspicious of.

75. Scoob! (Tony Cervone)- The first half is sometimes clever, but it hammers home the importance of friendship while separating the friends.

The second half has some positive messaging, but your kids' movie might have a problem with scale if it involves Alexander the Great unlocking the gates of the Underworld.

My daughter loved it.

74. The Lovebirds (Michael Showalter)- If I start talking too much about this perfectly fine movie, I end up in that unfair stance of reviewing the movie I wanted, not what is actually there.* As a fan of hang-out comedies, I kind of resent that any comedy being made now has to be rolled into something more "exciting," whether it's a wrongfully accused or mistaken identity thriller or some other genre. Such is the post-Game Night world. There's a purposefully anti-climactic note that I wish The Lovebirds had ended on, but of course we have another stretch of hiding behind boats and shooting guns. Nanjiani and Rae are really charming leads though.

*- As a New Orleanian, I was totally distracted by the fake aspects of the setting too. "Oh, they walked to Jefferson from downtown? Really?" You probably won't be bothered by the locations.

73. Sonic the Hedgehog (Jeff Fowler)- In some ways the storytelling is ambitious. (I'm speaking for only myself, but I'm fine with "He's a hedgehog, and he's really fast" instead of the owl mother, teleportation backstory. Not everything has to be Tolkien.) But that ambition doesn't match the lack of ambition in the comedy, which depends upon really hackneyed setups and structures. Guiding Jim Carrey to full alrighty-then mode was the best choice anyone made.

72. Malcolm & Marie (Sam Levinson)- The stars move through these long scenes with agility and charisma, but the degree of difficulty is just too high for this movie to reach what it's going for.

Levinson is trying to capture an epic fight between a couple, and he can harness the theatrical intensity of such a thing, but he sacrifices almost all of the nuance. In real life, these knock-down-drag-outs can be circular and indirect and sad in a way that this couple's manipulation rarely is. If that emotional truth is all this movie is trying to achieve, I feel okay about being harsh in my judgment of how well it does that.

71. Beanpole (Kantemir Balagov)- Elusive in how it refuses to declare itself, forthright in how punishing it is. The whole thing might be worth it for a late dinner scene, but I'm getting a bit old to put myself through this kind of misery.

70. The Burnt Orange Heresy (Giuseppe Capotondi)- Silly in good ways until it's silly in bad ways. Elizabeth Debicki remains 6'3".

69. Everybody’s Everything (Sebastian Jones and Ramez Silyan)- As a person who listened to Lil Peep's music, I can confidently say that this documentary is overstating his greatness. His death was a significant loss, as the interview subjects will all acknowledge, but the documentary is more useful as a portrait of a certain unfocused, rapacious segment of a generation that is high and online at all times.

68. The Witches (Robert Zemeckis)- Robert Zemeckis, Kenya Barris, and Guillermo Del Toro are the credited screenwriters, and in a fascinating way, you can see the imprint of each figure on the final product. Adapting a very European story to the old wives' tales of the American South is an interesting choice. Like the Nicolas Roeg try at this material, Zemeckis is not afraid to veer into the terrifying, and Octavia Spencer's pseudo witch doctor character only sells the supernatural. From a storytelling standpoint though, it seems as if the obstacles are overcome too easily, as if there's a whole leg of the film that has been excised. The framing device and the careful myth-making of the flashback make promises that the hotel half of the film, including the abrupt ending, can't live up to.

If nothing else, Anne Hathaway is a real contender for Most On-One Performance of the year.

67. Irresistible (Jon Stewart)- Despite a sort of imaginative ending, Jon Stewart's screenplay feels more like the declarative screenplay that would get you hired for a good movie, not a good screenplay itself. It's provocative enough, but it's clumsy in some basic ways and never evades the easy joke.

For example, the Topher Grace character is introduced as a sort of assistant, then is re-introduced an hour later as a polling expert, then is shown coaching the candidate on presentation a few scenes later. At some point, Stewart combined characters into one role, but nothing got smoothed out.

ENDEARING CURIOSITIES WITH BIG FLAWS

66. Yes, God, Yes (Karen Maine)- Most people who are Catholic, including me, are conflicted about it. Most people who make movies about being Catholic hate it and have an axe to grind. This film is capable of such knowing wit and nuance when it comes to the lived-in details of attending a high school retreat, but it's more concerned with taking aim at hypocrisy in the broad way that we've seen a million times. By the end, the film is surprisingly all-or-nothing when Christian teenagers actually contain multitudes.

Part of the problem is that Karen Maine's screenplay doesn't know how naive to make the Alice character. Sometimes she's reasonably naive for a high school senior in 2001; sometimes she's comically naive so that the plot can work; and sometimes she's stupid, which isn't the same as naive.

65. Bad Boys for Life (Adil El Arbi and Bilall Fallah)- This might be the first buddy cop movie in which the vets make peace with the tech-comm youngs who use new techniques. If that's the only novelty on display here--and it is--then maybe that's enough. I laughed maybe once. Not that the mistaken identity subplot of Bad Boys 1 is genius or anything, but this entry felt like it needed just one more layer to keep it from feeling as basic as it does. Speaking of layers though, it's almost impossible to watch any Will Smith movie now without viewing it through the meta-narrative of "What is Will Smith actually saying about his own status at this point in his career?" He's serving it up to us.

I derived an inordinate amount of pleasure from seeing the old school Simpson/Bruckheimer logo.

64. The Gentlemen (Guy Ritchie)- Look, I'm not going to be too negative on a movie whose crime slang is so byzantine that it has to be explained with subtitles. That's just me. I'm a simple man. But I can tell you that I tuned out pretty hard after seven or eight double-crosses.

The bloom is off the rose a bit for Ritchie, but he can still nail a music cue. I've been waiting for someone to hit "That's Entertainment" the way he does on the end credits.

63. Bad Hair (Justin Simien)- In Bad Hair, an African-American woman is told by her boss at a music video channel in 1989 that straightening her hair is the way to get ahead; however, her weave ends up having a murderous mind of its own. Compared to that charged, witty logline, the execution of the plot itself feels like a laborious, foregone conclusion. I'm glad that Simien, a genuinely talented writer, is making movies again though. Drop the skin-care routine, Van Der Beek!

62. Greyhound (Aaron Schneider)- "If this is the type of role that Tom Hanks writes for himself, then he understands his status as America's dad--'wise as the serpent, harmless as the dove'--even better than I thought." "America's Dad! Aye aye, sir!" "At least half of the dialogue is there for texture and authenticity, not there to be understood by the audience." "Fifty percent, Captain!" "The environment looks as fake as possible, but I eventually came around to the idea that the movie is completely devoid of subtext." "No subtext to be found, sir!"

61. Mank (David Fincher)- About ten years ago, the Creative Screenwriting podcast spent an hour or so with James Vanderbilt, the writer of Zodiac and nothing else that comes close, as he relayed the creative paces that David Fincher pushed him through. Hundreds of drafts and years of collaborative work eventuated in the blueprint for Fincher's most exacting, personal film, which he didn't get a writing credit on only because he didn't seek one.

Something tells me that Fincher didn't ask for rewrites from his dead father. No matter what visuals and performances the director can coax from the script--and, to be clear, these are the worst visuals and performances of his career--they are limited by the muddy lightweight pages. There are plenty of pleasures, like the slippery election night montage or the shakily platonic relationship between Mank and Marion. But Fincher hadn't made a film in six years, and he came back serving someone else's master.

60. Tesla (Michael Almereyda)- "You live inside your head." "Doesn't everybody?"

As usual, Almereyda's deconstructions are invigorating. (No other moment can match the first time Eve Hewson's Anne fact-checks something with her anachronistic laptop.) But they don't add up to anything satisfying because Tesla himself is such an opaque figure. Driven by the whims of his curiosity without a clear finish line, the character gives Hawke something enigmatic to play as he reaches deep into a baritone. But he's too inward to lend himself to drama. Tesla feels of a piece with Almereyda's The Experimenter, and that's the one I would recommend.

59. Vitalina Varela (Pedro Costa)- I can't oversell how delicately beautiful this film is visually. There's a scene in which Vitalina lugs a lantern into a church, but we get several seconds of total darkness before that one light source carves through it and takes over part of the frame. Each composition is as intricate as it is overpowering, achieving a balance between stark and mannered.

That being said, most of the film is people entering or exiting doors. I felt very little of the haunting loss that I think I was supposed to.

58. The Rhythm Section (Reed Morano)- Call it the Timothy Hutton in The General's Daughter Corollary: If a name-actor isn't in the movie much but gets third billing, then, despite whom he sends the protagonist to kill, he is the Actual Bad Guy.

Even if the movie serves up a lot of cliche, the action and sound design are visceral. I would like to see more from Morano.

57. Red, White and Blue (Steve McQueen)- Well-made and heartfelt even if it goes step-for-step where you think it will.

Here's what I want to know though: In the academy training sequence, the police cadets have to subdue a "berserker"; that is, a wildman who swings at their riot gear with a sledgehammer. Then they get him under control, and he shakes their hands, like, "Good angle you took on me there, mate." Who is that guy and where is his movie? Is this full-time work? Is he a police officer or an independent contractor? What would happen if this exercise didn't go exactly as planned?

56. Wolfwalkers (Tomm Moore and Ross Stewart)- The visuals have an unfinished quality that reminded me of The Tale of Princess Kaguya--the center of a flame is undrawn white, and fog is just negative space. There's an underlying symmetry to the film, and its color palette changes with mood.

Narratively, it's pro forma and drawn-out. Was Riley in Inside Out the last animated protagonist to get two parents? My daughter stuck with it, but she needed a lot of context for the religious atmosphere of 17th century Ireland.

55. What She Said: The Art of Pauline Kael (Rob Garver)- The film does little more than one might expect; it's limited in the way that any visual medium is when trying to sum up a woman of letters. But as far as education for Kael's partnership with Warren Beatty or the idea of The New Yorker paying her for only six months out of the year, it was useful for me.

Although Garver isn't afraid to point to the work that made Kael divisive, it would have been nice to have one or two interview subjects who questioned her greatness, rather than the crew of Paulettes who, even when they do say something like, "Sometimes I radically disagreed with her," do it without being able to point to any specifics.

54. Beastie Boys Story (Spike Jonze)- As far as this Spike Jonze completist is concerned, this is more of a Powerpoint presentation than a movie, Beastie Boys Story still warmed my heart, making me want to fire up Paul's Boutique again and take more pictures of my buddies.

53. Tenet (Christopher Nolan)- Cool and cold, tantalizing and frustrating, loud and indistinct, Tenet comes close to Nolan self-parody, right down to the brutalist architecture and multiple characters styled like him. The setpieces grabbed me, I'll admit.

Nolan's previous film, which is maybe his best, was "about" a lot and just happened to play with time; Tenet is only about playing with time.

PRETTY GOOD MOVIES

52. Shithouse (Cooper Raiff)- "Death is ass."

There's such a thing as too naturalistic. If I wanted to hear how college freshmen really talked, I would hang out with college freshmen. But you have to take the good verisimilitude with the bad, and good verisimilitude is the mother's Pod Save America t-shirt.

There are some poignant moments (and a gonzo performance from Logan Miller) in this auspicious debut from Cooper Raiff, the writer/director/editor/star. But the second party sequence kills some of the momentum, and at a crucial point, the characters spell out some motivation that should have stayed implied.

51. Totally Under Control (Alex Gibney, Ophelia Harutyunyan, Suzanne Hillinger)- As dense and informative as any other Gibney documentary with the added flex of making it during the pandemic it is investigating.

But yeah, why am I watching this right now? I don't need more reasons to be angry with Trump, whom this film calmly eviscerates. The directors analyze Trump's narcissism first through his contradictions of medical expertise in order to protect the economy that could win him re-election. Then it takes aim at his hiring based on loyalty instead of experience. But you already knew that, which is the problem with the film, at least for now.

50. Happiest Season (Clea Duvall)- I was in the perfect mood to watch something this frothy and bouncy. Every secondary character receives a moment in the sun, and Daniel Levy gets a speech that kind of saves the film at a tipping point.

I must say though: I wanted to punch Harper in her stupid face. She is a terrible romantic partner, abandoning or betraying Abby throughout the film and dissembling her entire identity to everyone else in a way that seems absurd for a grown woman in 2020. Run away, Kristen. Perhaps with Aubrey Plaza, whom you have more chemistry with. But there I go shipping and aligning myself with characters, which only proves that this is an effective romantic comedy.

49. The Way Back (Gavin O’Connor)- Patient but misshapen, The Way Back does just enough to overcome the cliches that are sort of unavoidable considering the genre. (I can't get enough of the parent character who, for no good reason, doesn't take his son's success seriously. "Scholarship? What he's gotta do is put his nose in them books! That's why I don't go to his games. [continues moving boxes while not looking at the other character] Now if you'll excuse me while I wait four scenes before showing up at a game to prove that I'm proud of him after all...")

What the movie gets really right or really wrong in the details about coaching and addiction is a total crap-shoot. But maybe I've said too much already.

48. The Whistlers (Corneliu Porumboiu)- Porumboiu is a real artist who seems to be interpreting how much surveillance we're willing to acknowledge and accept, but I won't pretend to have understood much of the plot, the chapters or which are told out of order. Sometimes the structure works--the beguiling, contextless "high-class hooker" sequence--but I often wondered if the film was impenetrable in the way that Porumboiu wanted it to be or impenetrable in the way he didn't.

To tell you the truth, the experience kind of depressed me because I know that, in my younger days, this film is the type of thing that I would re-watch, possibly with the chronology righted, knowing that it is worth understanding fully. But I have two small children, and I'm exhausted all the time, and I kind of thought I should get some credit for still trying to catch up with Romanian crime movies in the first place.

47. Borat Subsequent Moviefilm (Jason Woliner)- I laughed too much to get overly critical, but the film is so episodic and contrived that it's kind of exhausting by the end--even though it's achieving most of its goals. Maybe Borat hasn't changed, but the way our citizens own their ugliness has.

46. First Cow (Kelly Reichardt)- Despite how little happens in the first forty minutes, First Cow is a thoughtful capitalism parable. Even though it takes about forty minutes to get going, the friendship between Cookie and King-Lu is natural and incisive. Like Reichardt's other work, the film's modest premise unfolds quite gracefully, except for in the first forty minutes, which are uneventful.

45. Les Miserables (Ladj Ly)- I loved parts of the film--the disorienting, claustrophobic opening or the quick look at the police officers' home lives, for example. But I'm not sure that it does anything very well. The needle the film tries to thread between realism and theater didn't gel for me. The ending, which is ambiguous in all of the wrong ways, chooses the theatrical. (If I'm being honest, my expectations were built up by Les Miserables' Jury Prize at Cannes, and it's a bit superficial to be in that company.)

If nothing else, it's always helpful to see how another country's worst case scenario in law enforcement would look pretty good over here.

44. Bad Education (Cory Finley)- The film feels too locked-down and small at the beginning, so intent on developing the protagonist neutrally that even the audience isn't aware of his secrets. So when he faces consequences for those secrets, there's a disconnect. Part of tragedy is seeing the doom coming, right?

When it opens up, however, it's empathetic and subtle, full of a dry irony that Finley is already specializing in after only one other feature. Geraldine Viswanathan and Allison Janney get across a lot of interiority that is not on the page.

43. The Trip to Greece (Michael Winterbottom)- By the fourth installment, you know whether you're on board with the franchise. If you're asking "Is this all there is?" to Coogan and Brydon's bickering and impressions as they're served exotic food in picturesque settings, then this one won't sway you. If you're asking "Is this all there is?" about life, like they are, then I don't need to convince you.

I will say that The Trip to Spain seemed like an enervated inflection point, at which the squad could have packed it in. The Trip to Greece proves that they probably need to keep doing this until one of them dies, which has been the subtext all along.

42. Feels Good Man (Arthur Jones)- This documentary centers on innocent artist Matt Furie's helplessness as his Pepe the Frog character gets hijacked by the alt-right. It gets the hard things right. It's able to, quite comprehensively, trace a connection from 4Chan's use of Pepe the Frog to Donald Trump's near-assuming of Pepe's ironic deniability. Director Arthur Jones seems to understand the machinations of the alt-right, and he articulates them chillingly.

The easy thing, making us connect to Furie, is less successful. The film spends way too much time setting up his story, and it makes him look naive as it pits him against Alex Jones in the final third. Still, the film is a quick ninety-two minutes, and the highs are pretty high.

41. The Old Guard (Gina Prince-Bythewood)- Some of the world-building and backstory are handled quite elegantly. The relationships actually do feel centuries old through specific details, and the immortal conceit comes together for an innovative final action sequence.

Visually and musically though, the film feels flat in a way that Prince-Bythewood's other films do not. I blame Netflix specs. KiKi Layne, who tanked If Beale Street Could Talk for me, nearly ruins this too with the child-actory way that she stresses one word per line. Especially in relief with one of our more effortless actresses, Layne is distracting.

40. The Trial of the Chicago 7 (Aaron Sorkin)- Whenever Sacha Baron Cohen's Abbie Hoffman opens his mouth, the other defendants brace themselves for his dismissive vulgarity. Even when it's going to hurt him, he can't help but shoot off at the mouth. Of course, he reveals his passionate and intelligent depths as the trial goes on. The character is the one that Sorkin's screenplay seems the most endeared to: In the same way that Hoffman can't help but be Hoffman, Sorkin can't help but be Sorkin. Maybe we don't need a speech there; maybe we don't have to stretch past two hours; maybe a bon mot diffuses the tension. But we know exactly what to expect by now. The film is relevant, astute, witty, benevolent, and, of course, in love with itself. There are a handful of scenes here that are perfect, so I feel bad for qualifying so much.

A smaller point: Daniel Pemberton has done great work in the past (Motherless Brooklyn, King Arthur, The Man from U.N.C.L.E.), but the first sequence is especially marred by his sterile soft-rock approach.

GOOD MOVIES

39. Time (Garrett Bradley)- The key to Time is that it provides very little context. Why the patriarch of this family is serving sixty years in prison is sort of besides the point philosophically. His wife and sons have to move on without him, and the tragedy baked into that fact eclipses any notion of what he "deserved." Feeling the weight of time as we switch back and forth between a kid talking about his first day of kindergarten and that same kid graduating from dentistry school is all the context we need. Time's presentation can be quite sumptuous: The drone shot of Angola makes its buildings look like crosses. Or is it X's?

At the same time, I need some context. When director Garrett Bradley withholds the reason Robert's in prison, and when she really withholds that Fox took a plea and served twelve years, you start to see the strings a bit. You could argue that knowing so little about why, all of a sudden, Robert can be on parole puts you into the same confused shoes as the family, but it feels manipulative to me. The film is preaching to the choir as far as criminal justice goes, which is fine, but I want it to have the confidence to tell its story above board.

38. Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets (Turner Ross and Bill Ross IV)- I have a barfly friend whom I see maybe once a year. When we first set up a time to meet, I kind of dread it and wonder what we'll have to talk about. Once we do get together, we trip on each other's words a bit, fumbling around with the rhythm of conversation that we mastered decades ago. He makes some kind of joke that could have been appropriate then but isn't now.

By the end of the day, hours later, we're hugging and maybe crying as we promise each other that we won't wait as long next time.

That's the exact same journey that I went on with this film.

37. Underwater (William Eubank)- Underwater is a story that you've seen before, but it's told with great confidence and economy. I looked up at twelve minutes and couldn't believe the whole table had been set. Kristen plays Ripley and projects a smart, benevolent poise.

36. The Lodge (Veronika Franz and Severin Fiala)- I prefer the grounded, manicured first half to the more fantastic second half. The craziness of the latter is only possible through the hard work of the former though. As with Fiala and Franz's previous feature, the visual rhymes and motifs get incorporated into the soup so carefully that you don't realize it until they overwhelm you in their bleak glory.

Small note: Alicia Silverstone, the male lead's first wife, and Riley Keough, his new partner, look sort of similar. I always think that's a nice note: "I could see how he would go for her."

35. Miss Americana (Lana Wilson)- I liked it when I saw it as a portrait of a person whose life is largely decided for her but is trying to carve out personal spaces within that hamster wheel. I loved it when I realized that describes most successful people in their twenties.

34. Sound of Metal (Darius Marder)- Riz Ahmed is showing up on all of the best performances of the year lists, but Sound of Metal isn't in anyone's top ten films of the year. That's about right. Ahmed's is a quiet, stubborn performance that I wish was in service of more than the straight line that we've seen before.

In two big scenes, there's this trick that Ahmed does, a piecing together of consequences with his eyes, as if he's moving through a flow chart in real time. In both cases, the character seems locked out and a little slower than he should be, which is, of course, why he's facing the consequences in the first place. To be charitable to a film that was a bit of a grind, it did make me notice a thing a guy did with his eyes.

33. Pieces of a Woman (Kornel Mundruczo)- Usually when I leave acting showcases like this, I imagine the film without the Oscar-baiting speeches, but this is a movie that specializes in speeches. Pieces of a Woman is being judged, deservedly so, by the harrowing twenty-minute take that opens the film, which is as indulgent as it is necessary. But if the unbroken take provides the "what," then the speeches provide the "why."

This is a film about reclaiming one's body when it rebels against you and when other people seek ownership of it. Without the Ellen Burstyn "lift your head" speech or the Vanessa Kirby show-stopper in the courtroom, I'm not sure any of that comes across.

I do think the film lets us off the hook a bit with the LaBoeuf character, in the sense that it gives us reasons to dislike him when it would be more compelling if he had done nothing wrong. Does his half-remembering of the White Stripes count as a speech?

32. Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (George C. Wolfe)- This is such a play, not only in the locked-down location but also through nearly every storytelling convention: "Where are the two most interesting characters? Oh, running late? They'll enter separately in animated fashion?" But, to use the type of phrase that the characters might, "Don't hate the player; hate the game."

Perhaps the most theatrical note in this treatise on the commodification of expression is the way that, two or three times, the proceedings stop in their tracks for the piece to declare loudly what it's about. In one of those clear-outs, Boseman, who looks distractingly sick, delivers an unforgettable monologue that transports the audience into his character's fragile, haunted mind. He and Viola Davis are so good that the film sort of buckles under their weight, unsure of how to transition out of those spotlight moments and pretend that the story can start back up. Whatever they're doing is more interesting than what's being achieved overall.

31. Another Round (Thomas Vinterberg)- It's definitely the film that Vinterberg wanted to make, but despite what I think is a quietly shattering performance from Mikkelsen, Another Round moves in a bit too much of a straight line to grab me fully. The joyous final minutes hint at where it could have gone, as do pockets of Vinterberg's filmography, which seems newly tethered to realism in a way that I don't like. The best sequences are the wildest ones, like the uproarious trip to the grocery store for fresh cod, so I don't know why so much of it takes place in tiny hallways at magic hour. I give the inevitable American remake* permission to use these notes.

*- Just spitballing here. Martin: Will Ferrell, Nikolaj (Nick): Ben Stiller, Tommy: Owen Wilson, Peter: Craig Robinson

30. The Invisible Man (Leigh Whannell)- Exactly what I wanted. Exactly what I needed.

I think a less conclusive finale would have been better, but what a model of high-concept escalation. This is the movie people convinced me Whannell's Upgrade was.

29. On the Rocks (Sofia Coppola)- Slight until the Mexican sojourn, which expands the scope and makes the film even more psychosexual than before. At times it feels as if Coppola is actively simplifying, rather than diving into the race and privilege questions that the Murray character all but demands.

As for Murray, is the film 50% worse without him? 70%? I don't know if you can run in supporting categories if you're the whole reason the film exists.

28. Mangrove (Steve McQueen)- The first part of the film seemed repetitive and broad to me. But once it settled in as a courtroom drama, the characterization became more shaded, and the filmmaking itself seemed more fluid. I ended up being quite outraged and inspired.

27. Shirley (Josephine Decker)- Josephine Decker emerges as a real stylist here, changing her foggy, impressionistic approach not one bit with a little more budget. Period piece and established actors be damned--this is still as much of a reeling fever dream as Madeline's Madeline. Both pieces are a bit too repetitive and nasty for my taste, but I respect the technique.

Here's my mandatory "Elisabeth Moss is the best" paragraph. While watching her performance as Shirley Jackson, I thought about her most famous role as Peggy on Mad Men, whose inertia and need to prove herself tied her into confidence knots. Shirley is almost the opposite: paralyzed by her worldview, certain of her talent, rejecting any empathy. If Moss can inhabit both characters so convincingly, she can do anything.

26. An American Pickle (Brandon Trost)- An American Pickle is the rare comedy that could actually use five or ten extra minutes, but it's a surprisingly heartfelt and wholesome stretch for Rogen, who is earnest in the lead roles.

25. The King of Staten Island (Judd Apatow)- At two hours and fifteen minutes, The King of Staten Island is probably the first Judd Apatow film that feels like the exact right length. For example, the baggy date scene between a gracious Bill Burr and a faux-dowdy Marisa Tomei is essential, the sort of widening of perspective that something like Trainwreck was missing.

It's Pete Davidson's movie, however, and though he has never been my cup of tea, I think he's actually quite powerful in his quiet moments. The movie probes some rare territory--a mentally ill man's suspicion that he is unlovable, a family's strategic myth-making out of respect for the dead. And when Davidson shows up at the firehouse an hour and fifteen minutes in, it feels as if we've built to a last resort.

24. Swallow (Carlo Mirabella-Davis)- The tricky part of this film is communicating Hunter's despair, letting her isolation mount, but still keeping her opaque. It takes a lot of visual discipline to do that, and Claudio Mirabella-Davis is up to the task. This ends up being a much more sympathetic, expressive movie than the plot description might suggest.

(In the tie dispute, Hunter and Richie are both wrong. That type of silk--I couldn't tell how pebbled it was, but it's probably a barathea weave-- shouldn't be ironed directly, but it doesn't have to be steamed. On a low setting, you could iron the back of the tie and be fine.)

23. The Vast of Night (Andrew Patterson)- I wanted a bit more "there" there; The film goes exactly where I thought it would, and there isn't enough humor for my taste. (The predictability might be a feature, not a bug, since the film is positioned as an episode of a well-worn Twilight Zone-esque show.)

But from a directorial standpoint, this is quite a promising debut. Patterson knows when to lock down or use silence--he even cuts to black to force us to listen more closely to a monologue. But he also knows when to fill the silence. There's a minute or so when Everett is spooling tape, and he and Fay make small talk about their hopes for the future, developing the characters' personalities in what could have been just mechanics. It's also a refreshingly earnest film. No one is winking at the '50s setting.

I'm tempted to write, "If Andrew Patterson can make this with $1 million, just imagine what he can do with $30 million." But maybe people like Shane Carruth have taught us that Patterson is better off pinching pennies in Texas and following his own muse.

22. Martin Eden (Pietro Marcello)- At first this film, adapted from a picaresque novel by Jack London, seemed as if it was hitting the marks of the genre. "He's going from job to job and meeting dudes who are shaping his worldview now." But the film, shot in lustrous Super 16, won me over as it owned the trappings of this type of story, forming a character who is a product of his environment even as he transcends it. By the end, I really felt the weight of time.

You want to talk about something that works better in novels than films though? When a passionate, independent protagonist insists that a woman is the love of his life, despite the fact that she's whatever Italians call a wet blanket. She's rich, but Martin doesn't care about her money. He hates her family and friends, and she refuses to accept him or his life pursuits. She's pretty but not even as pretty as the waitress they discuss. Tell me what I'm missing here. There's archetype, and there's incoherence.

21. Bacurau (Kleber Mendonca Filho and Juliano Dornelles)- Certain images from this adventurous film will stick with me, but I got worn out after the hard reset halfway through. As entranced as I was by the mystery of the first half, I think this blood-soaked ensemble is better at asking questions than it is at answering them.

20. Let Them All Talk (Steven Soderbergh)- The initial appeal of this movie might be "Look at these wonderful actresses in their seventies getting a movie all to themselves." And the film is an interesting portrait of ladies taking stock of relationships that have spanned decades. But Soderbergh and Eisenberg handle the twentysomething Lucas Hedges character with the same openness and empathy. His early reasoning for going on the trip is that he wants to learn from older women, and Hedges nails the puppy-dog quality of a young man who would believe that. Especially in the scenes of aspirational romance, he's sweet and earnest as he brushes his hair out of his face.

Streep plays Alice Hughes, a serious author of literary fiction, and she crosses paths with Kelvin Kranz, a grinder of airport thrillers. In all of the right ways, Let Them All Talk toes the line between those two stances as an entertaining, jaunty experiment that also shoulders subtextual weight. If nothing else, it's easy to see why a cruise ship's counterfeit opulence, its straight lines at a lean, would be visually engaging to Soderbergh. You can't have a return to form if your form is constantly evolving.

19. Dick Johnson Is Dead (Kirsten Johnson)- Understandably, I don't find the subject as interesting as his own daughter does, and large swaths of this film are unsure of what they're trying to say. But that's sort of the point, and the active wrestling that the film engages in with death ultimately pays off in a transcendent moment. The jaw-dropping ending is something that only non-fiction film can achieve, and Johnson's whole career is about the search for that sort of serendipity.

18. Da 5 Bloods (Spike Lee)- Delroy Lindo is a live-wire, but his character is the only one of the principals who is examined with the psychological depth I was hoping for. The first half, with all of its present-tense flourishes, promises more than the gunfights of the second half can deliver. When the film is cooking though, it's chock full of surprises, provocations, and pride.

17. Never Rarely Sometimes Always (Eliza Hittmann)- Very quickly, Eliza Hittmann has established herself as an astute, empathetic director with an eye for discovering new talent. I hope that she gets to make fifty more movies in which she objectively follows laconic young people. But I wanted to like this one more than I did. The approach is so neutral that it's almost flat to me, lacking the arc and catharsis of her previous film, Beach Rats. I still appreciate her restraint though.

GREAT MOVIES

16. Young Ahmed (Jean-Pierre Dardenne and Luc Dardenne)- I don't think the Dardennes have made a bad movie yet, and I'm glad they turned away from the slight genre dipping of The Unknown Girl, the closest to bad that they got. Young Ahmed is a lean, daring return to form.

Instead of following an average person, as they normally do, the Dardenne Brothers follow an extremist, and the objectivity that usually generates pathos now serves to present ambiguity. Ahmed says that he is changing, that he regrets his actions, but we never know how much of his stance is a put-on. I found myself wanting him to reform, more involved than I usually am in these slices of life. Part of it is that Idir Ben Addi looks like such a normal, young kid, and the Ahmed character has most of the qualities that we say we want in young people: principles, commitment, self-worth, reflection. So it's that much more destructive when those qualities are used against him and against his fellow man.

15. World of Tomorrow Episode Three: The Absent Destinations of David Prime (Don Hertzfeldt)- My dad, a man whom I love but will never understand, has dismissed modern music before by claiming that there are only so many combinations of chords. To him, it's almost impossible to do something new. Of course, this is the type of thing that an uncreative person would say--a person not only incapable of hearing the chords that combine notes but also unwilling to hear the space between the notes. (And obviously, that's the take of a person who doesn't understand that, originality be damned, some people just have to create.)

Anyway, that attitude creeps into my own thinking more than I would like, but then I watch something as wholly original as World of Tomorrow Episode Three. The series has always been a way to pile sci-fi ideas on top of each other to prove the essential truths of being and loving. And this one, even though it achieves less of a sense of yearning than its predecessor, offers even more devices to chew on. Take, for example, the idea that Emily sends her message from the future, so David's primitive technology can barely handle it. In order to move forward with its sophistication, he has to delete any extraneous skills for the sake of computer memory. So out of trust for this person who loves him, he has to weigh whether his own breathing or walking can be uninstalled as a sacrifice for her. I thought that we might have been done describing love, but there it is, a new metaphor. Mixing futurism with stick figures to get at the most pure drive possible gave us something new. It's called art, Dad.

14. On the Record (Kirby Dick and Amy Ziering)- We don't call subjects of documentaries "stars" for obvious reasons, but Drew Dixon kind of is one. Her honesty and wisdom tell a complete story of the #MeToo movement. Kirby Dick and Amy Ziering take their time developing her background at first, not because we need to "gain sympathy" or "establish credibility" for a victim of sexual abuse, but because showing her talent and enthusiasm for hip-hop A&R makes it that much more tragic when her passion is extinguished. Hell, I just like the woman, so spending a half-hour on her rise was pleasurable in and of itself.

This is a gut-wrenching, fearless entry in what is becoming Dick and Ziering's raison d'etre, but its greatest quality is Dixon's composed reflection. She helped to establish a pattern of Russell Simmons's behavior, but she explains what happened to her in ways I had never heard before.

13. David Byrne’s American Utopia (Spike Lee)- I'm often impressed by the achievements that puzzle me: How did they pull that off? But I know exactly how David Byrne pulled off the impish but direct precision of American Utopia: a lot of hard work.

I can't blame Spike Lee for stealing a page from Demme's Stop Making Sense: He denies us a close-up of any audience members until two-thirds of the way through, when we get someone in absolute rapture.

12. One Night in Miami... (Regina King)- We've all cringed when a person of color is put into the position of speaking on behalf of his or her entire race. But the characters in One Night in Miami... live in that condition all the time and are constantly negotiating it. As Black public figures in 1964, they know that the consequences of their actions are different, bigger, than everyone else's. The charged conversations between Malcolm X and Sam Cooke are not about whether they can live normal lives. They're way past that. The stakes are closer to Sam Cooke arguing that his life's purpose aligns with the protection and elevation of African-Americans while Malcolm X argues that those pursuits should be the same thing. Late in the movie, Cassius Clay leaves the other men, a private conversation, to talk to reporters, a public conversation. But the film argues that everything these men do is always already public. They're the most powerful African-Americans in the country, but their lives are not their own. Or not only their own.

It's true that the first act has the clunkiness and artifice of a TV movie, but once the film settles into the motel room location and lets the characters feed off one another, it's gripping. It's kind of unfair for a movie to get this many scenes of Leslie Odom Jr. singing, but I'll take it.

11. Saint Frances (Alex Thompson)- Rilke wrote, "Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us." The characters' behavior in Saint Frances--all of these fully formed characters' behavior--made me think of that quotation. When they lash out at one another, even at their nastiest, the viewer has a window into how they're expressing pain they can't verbalize. The film is uneven in its subtlety, but it's a real showcase for screenwriter and star Kelly O'Sullivan, who is unflinching and dynamic in one of the best performances of the year. Somebody give her some of the attention we gave to Zach Braff for God's sake.

10. Boys State (Jesse Moss and Amanda McBaine)- This documentary is kind of a miracle from a logistical standpoint. From casting interviews beforehand, lots of editing afterwards, or sly note-taking once the conference began, McBaine and Moss happened to select the four principals who mattered the most at the convention, then found them in rooms full of dudes wearing the same tucked-in t-shirt. By the way, all of the action took place over the course of one week, and by definition, the important events are carved in half.

To call Boys State a microcosm of American politics is incorrect. These guys are forming platforms and voting in elections. What they're doing is American politics, so when they make the same compromises and mistakes that active politicians do, it produces dread and disappointment. So many of the boys are mimicking the political theater that they see on TV, and that sweaty sort of performance is going to make a Billy Mitchell out of this kid Ben Feinstein, and we'll be forced to reckon with how much we allow him to evolve as a person. This film is so precise, but what it proves is undeniably messy. Luckily, some of these seventeen-year-olds usher in hope for us all.

If nothing else, the film reveals the level to which we're all speaking in code.

9. The Nest (Sean Durkin)- In the first ten minutes or so of The Nest, the only real happy minutes, father and son are playing soccer in their quaint backyard, and the father cheats to score on a children's net before sliding on the grass to rub in his victory. An hour later, the son kicks the ball around by himself near a regulation goal on the family's massive property. The contrast is stark and obvious, as is the symbolism of the dead horse, but that doesn't mean it's not visually powerful or resonant.

Like Sean Durkin's earlier film, Martha Marcy May Marlene, the whole of The Nest is told with detail of novelistic scope and an elevation of the moment. A snippet of radio that mentions Ronald Reagan sets the time period, rather than a dateline. One kid saying "Thanks, Dad" and another kid saying, "Thanks, Rory" establishes a stepchild more elegantly than any other exposition might.

But this is also a movie that does not hide what it means. Characters usually say exactly what is on their minds, and motivations are always clear. For example, Allison smokes like a chimney, so her daughter's way of acting out is leaving butts on the window sill for her mother to find. (And mother and daughter both definitely "act out" their feelings.) On the other hand, Ben, Rory's biological son, is the character least like him, so these relationships aren't too directly parallel. Regardless, Durkin uses these trajectories to cast a pall of familial doom.

8. Sorry We Missed You (Sean Durkin)- Another precisely calibrated empathy machine from Ken Loach. The overwhelmed matriarch, Abby, is a caretaker, and she has to break up a Saturday dinner to rescue one of her clients, who wet herself because no one came to help her to the bathroom. The lady is embarrassed, and Abby calms her down by saying, "You mean more to me than you know." We know enough about Abby's circumstances to realize that it's sort of a lie, but it's a beautiful lie, told by a person who cares deeply but is not cared for.

Loach's central point is that the health of a family, something we think of as immutable and timeless, is directly dependent upon the modern industry that we use to destroy ourselves. He doesn't have to be "proven" relevant, and he didn't plan for Covid-19 to point to the fragility of the gig economy, but when you're right, you're right.

7. Lovers Rock (Steve McQueen)- swear to you I thought: "This is an impeccable depiction of a great house party. The only thing it's missing is the volatile dude who scares away all the girls." And then the volatile dude who scares away all the girls shows up.

In a year short on magic, there are two or three transcendent moments, but none of them can equal the whole crowd singing along to "Silly Games" way after the song has ended. Nothing else crystallizes the film's note of celebration: of music, of community, of safe spaces, of Black skin. I remember moments like that at house parties, and like all celebrations, they eventually make me sad.

6. Crip Camp: A Disability Revolution (Nicole Newnham and James Lebrecht)- I held off on this movie because I thought that I knew what it was. The setup was what I expected: A summer camp for the disabled in the late '60s takes on the spirit of the time and becomes a haven for people who have not felt agency, self-worth, or community anywhere else. But that's the right-place-right-time start of a story that takes these figures into the '80s as they fight for their rights.

If you're anything like my dumb ass, you know about 504 accommodations from the line on a college syllabus that promises equal treatment. If 2020 has taught us anything though, it's that rights are seized, not given, and this is the inspiring story of people who unified to demand what they deserved. Judy Heumann is a civil rights giant, but I'm ashamed to say I didn't know who she was before this film. If it were just a history lesson that wasn't taught in school, Crip Camp would still be valuable, but it's way more than that.

5. Palm Springs (Max Barbakow)- When explaining what is happening to them, Andy Samberg's Nyles twirls his hand at Cristin Milioti's Sara and says, "It's one of those infinite time-loop scenarios." Yeah, one of those. Armed with only a handful of fictional examples, she and the audience know exactly what he means, and the continually inventive screenplay by Andy Siara doesn't have to do any more explaining. In record time, the film accelerates into its premise, involves her, and sets up the conflict while avoiding the claustrophobia of even Groundhog Day. That economy is the strength that allows it to be as funny as it is. By being thrifty with the setup, the savings can go to, say, the couple crashing a plane into a fiery heap with no consequences.

In some accidental ways, this is, of course, a quarantine romance as well. Nyles and Sara frustratingly navigate the tedious wedding as if they are play-acting--which they sort of are--then they push through that sameness to grow for each other, realizing that dependency is not weakness. The best relationships are doing the same thing right now.

Although pointedly superficial--part of the point of why the couple is such a match--and secular--I think the notion of an afterlife would come up at least once--Palm Springs earns the sincerity that it gets around to. And for a movie ironic enough to have a character beg to be impaled so that he doesn't have to sit in traffic, that's no small feat.

4. The Assistant (Kitty Green)- A wonder of Bressonian objectivity and rich observation, The Assistant is the rare film that deals exclusively with emotional depth while not once explaining any emotions. One at a time, the scrape of the Kleenex box might not be so grating, the long hallway trek to the delivery guy might not be so tiring, but this movie gets at the details of how a job can destroy you in ways that add up until you can't even explain them.

3. Promising Young Woman (Emerald Fennell)- In her most incendiary and modern role, Carey Mulligan plays Cassie, which is short for Cassandra, that figure doomed to tell truths that no one else believes. The web-belted boogeyman who ruined her life is Al, short for Alexander, another Greek who is known for his conquests. The revenge story being told here--funny in its darkest moments, dark in its funniest moments--is tight on its surface levels, but it feels as if it's telling a story more archetypal and expansive than that too.

An exciting feature debut for its writer-director Emerald Fennell, the film goes wherever it dares. Its hero has a clear purpose, and it's not surprising that the script is willing to extinguish her anger halfway through. What is surprising is the way it renews and muddies her purpose as she comes into contact with half-a-dozen brilliant one- or two-scene performances. (Do you think Alfred Molina can pull off a lawyer who hates himself so much that he can't sleep? You would be right.)

Promising Young Woman delivers as an interrogation of double standards and rape culture, but in quiet ways it's also about our outsized trust in professionals and the notion that some trauma cannot be overcome.

INSTANT CLASSICS

2. Soul (Pete Docter)- When Pete Docter's Up came out, it represented a sort of coronation for Pixar: This was the one that adults could like unabashedly. The one with wordless sequences and dead children and Ed Asner in the lead. But watching it again this week with my daughter, I was surprised by how high-concept and cloying it could be. We choose not to remember the middle part with the goofy dog stuff.

Soul is what Up was supposed to be: honest, mature, stirring. And I don't mean to imply that a family film shouldn't make any concessions to children. But Soul, down to the title, never compromises its own ambition. Besides Coco, it's probably the most credible character study that Pixar has ever made, with all of Joe's growth earned the hard way. Besides Inside Out, it's probably the wittiest comedy that Pixar has ever made, bursting with unforced energy.

There's a twitter fascination going around about Dez, the pigeon-figured barber character whose scene has people gushing, "Crush my windpipe, king" or whatever. Maybe that's what twitter does now, but no one fantasized about any characters in Up. And I count that as progress.

1. I’m Thinking of Ending Things (Charlie Kaufman)- After hearing that our name-shifting protagonist moonlights as an artist, a no-nonsense David Thewlis offers, "I hope you're not an abstract artist." He prefers "paintings that look like photographs" over non-representational mumbo-jumbo. And as Jessie Buckley squirms to try to think of a polite way to talk back, you can tell that Charlie Kaufman has been in the crosshairs of this same conversation. This morose, scary, inscrutable, expressionist rumination is not what the Netflix description says it is at all, and it's going to bother nice people looking for a fun night in. Thank God.

The story goes that Steven Spielberg and George Lucas, when constructing Raiders of the Lost Ark, sought to craft a movie that was "only the good parts" with little of the clunky setup that distracted from action. What we have here is a Charlie Kaufman movie with only the Charlie Kaufman moments, less interested than ever before at holding one's hand. The biting humor is here, sometimes aimed at philistines like the David Thewlis character above, sometimes at the niceties that we insist upon. The lonely horror of everyday life is here, in the form of missed calls from oneself or the interruption of an inner monologue. Of course, communicating the overwhelming crush of time, both unknowable and familiar, is the raison d'etre.

A new pet motif seems to be the way that we don't even own our own knowledge. The Young Woman recites "Bonedog" by Eva H.D., which she claims/thinks she wrote, only to find Jake's book open to that page, next to a Pauline Kael book that contains a Woman Under the Influence review that she seems to have internalized later. When Jake muses about Wordsworth's "Lucy Poems," it starts as a way to pass the time, then it becomes a way to lord his education over her, then it becomes a compliment because the subject resembles her, then it becomes a way to let her know that, in the grand scheme of things, she isn't that special at all. This film jerks the viewer through a similar wintry cycle and leaves him with his own thoughts. It's not a pretty picture, but it doesn't look like anything else.

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a-lil-perspective · 4 years

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Remember Me/Holding On (For Dear Life)

A/N: When I tell you I wept... I wept while creating this chapter. Here’s a bit different than what I normally write. Brother time. Verd’ika/Reader is not featured in this tidbit below. As much as this is her storyline post Order: 66, this is also very much the Bad Batch’s, and I’m alternating. I’m so happy to be bringing Echo into the mix, but this is incredibly sad. This chapter/scene is set less than three months after TCW episode ‘Victory and Death’... I’m sure you can guess where we’re going with that here. [Warnings: Angst, Mourning] @starflyer-104 @thegoodbatch @obiorbenkenobi @kriffingunlucky @karpasia @halzore @mangoberry43 @fxndxmxnxce @everyonehasanindividuality (Tag List is open:))

Chapter 2

Post-Imperial Proclamation

PIP Rotation Number: 79

Destination: Planet of Unknown Origins

Documentation: Scouting for Relics. Will update with any pertinence.

—Signed by Mar-4

~***~

“Well... at least the atmosphere is breathable,” Tech optimistically supplied as a small bank of snow catches in the winds from the Northeast and sprays the engineer in the face.

“Sure, but that wind is something else,” Wrecker mumbled, involuntarily shivering from a particular gust. Even the largest member with the toughest resilience to natural elements is rapidly discovering that his shield of plastoid is no match for the chilled temperatures.

“This planet seems to be nothing but a wasteland... but sometimes, not everything is what it seems,” Hunter wisely mused, keeping a few paces ahead of his crew. While the Sergeant was thankful for the stagnant and largely desolate atmosphere demonstrating hospitality to his heightened senses thus far, Hunter couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that something out there was amiss.

“Hey Cross, anything yet?”

“Negative, Sarge,” the sniper briskly informed before quietly retreating back to his task of visual scanning via HUD.

“Echo, are you absolutely certain this is where those supposed Republic relics are? I’m still not picking up anything on my own scanners—”

“We’re definitely in the right place, Tech,” Hunter assured. His face scrunched and brows fused together in fervent concentration. He took a long whiff of the atmosphere, and stray icy specks slithered underneath the Sergeant’s helmet, swirling in his nostrils whenever he inhaled. Hunter’s senses become further rapt the closer the proximity. Therein, a wide range of sensations Hunter could make out in the immediacy: the scent of weathered but mixed alloys, and wet snow blanketing them. Occasional sparks from decrepit tech still spouting some juice. Weak pulses—of engineering components, that is. Definitive proof of remains; hopefully Republic. Hunter takes another measured breath and hones in further.

It was nothing of technological frequencies coursing through his veins this time. Instead: a distinct scent that assaulted the perceptive Sergeant. A scent too distinct and too familiar in a time of waxing chaos.

The smell of death.

“Markers. Markers in the distance. About two klicks out, directly ahead,” Crosshair suddenly informed, a sense of urgency coating his estimations.

“What kind of markers?” Hunter didn’t appreciate the way his tone failed to match his usual semblance of composure.

“Can’t tell. But they seem makeshift. All clustered together,” Crosshair supplies.

Like grave markers.

“That sounds really deliberate,” Wrecker muses aloud. “You think it’s a sign of some kind?”

“Only one way to find out,” Hunter murmured.

~~///\\\///\\\///\\\~~

Only one way to find out.

Echo wishes he never would have.

But it’s better he did.

Closure.

Yet painfully open-ended.

It’s cold.

Echo is hot.

The tears that flow down his face, streaming underneath his helmet, are hot.

Yet Echo is as numb as his cheeks, barely stinging from the cold.

Names to faces. Facing each name. Empty helmets, not one the same. Lifeless eyes through tinted black. Buckets staked, just want them back. Acknowledging then, blue and white. Honorable men, once shining lights.

Brothers.

A graveyard of brothers.

Brothers of the Five-Oh-First.

Oh, Fives.

Jesse stares directly at Echo, devoid of any emotion. The latter falls to his knees in front of, begging for forgiveness, and requesting that Fives’ sacrifice be enough. The raw snow molding beneath his cybernetic knee caps is the only thing that cushions and supports the man; a broken shell of someone he once was. A broken shell; a denotation tragically befitting when situated alongside shrapnel of a Republic Cruiser. Littered about, it menacingly encircles the man. The Cruiser becomes a crude background accessory. Everything is broken, cracked, shattered, lifeless... including the bodies bunkering six feet underneath.

Jesse is not here. Rex and Cody are not here. Fives, Hevy, Droidbait, Cutup—the Dominos are not here. Names flash rapidly behind Echo’s eyes, countless brothers all secured in Death’s cold embrace. He was too late. Too late to save them.

Oh, brother.

I hope I’ll see you in another.

You’ve been gone for more than a few.

But know I will always love you.

“I’m sorry,” Echo weeps in the wind and bows his head. His anguished cries and apologies are unworthy offerings, but it’s all he has to give in the land of the dead.

Endless rows of them...

The minute Echo dwells on just how many corpses he’s in the company of, he near forcefully expels bile.

Echo screws his eyes shut. He wonders what his helmet would look like staked in place of Jesse’s, or any of his brothers’. To see himself staring back instead.

Some vode used to say that the helmets have lived a thousand lives before a Clone has lived even one. It’s certainly survived that many, but there’s more to it. The brothers used to claim that the inanimate helmet of plastoid totally embodies the man underneath, taking a life of it’s own even after the trooper passes. Echo had always remained rather neutral on the matter, at least until Fives became the superstitious type.

Until Echo was directly faced with an army of deceased brethren, graves marked solely by their helmets. Until he could feel their deep contempt with every fleeting moment he gazed further into the visor of each. He wondered if their cold blood boiled with hatred for him. For the way no one saved them, for the way no one redeemed their poor unfortunate souls. Did they cry out? Were they fearful? Or were they impassive because that’s what they were programmed to be.

When they were programmed to execute Order: 66.

So many questions. So much guilt. So much pleading. Pleas that fell on deaf ears, for one can’t raise the dead. Many more tears because of.

Echo can only hope his brothers exited this life swiftly and peacefully. He prays to whatever higher power that they experience freedom in their eternal state of rest. That they’re dancing in the cosmos, traipsing along the stars with a euphoric pep. Maybe they’re singing a favorite. Maybe they’re dreaming. Maybe they’re doing both. “Dream A Little Dream Of Me...” A favorite tune.

Fives especially could sing that one beautifully.

The settled snow eventually shifts and dips slightly as a thin man sinks down beside. Crosshair wordlessly slings his arm around Echo. The sniper averts the imitated eyes of the dead men, but the unique patterns of their helmets have already been etched into memory. Tech gingerly sits off to Echo’s right, studying the emotions of the despondent man—not really studying, but watching for a sign; to ensure that it’s okay if he reaches out to comfortingly rest a hand on Echo’s arm. Wrecker is moving from behind to wrap Echo tight and give him a grounding squeeze. Hunter’s breath hitches because for a millisecond, he imagines seeing his baby brothers’ helmets staring back at him and suddenly Hunter can’t breathe.

It’s profound. On the desolate moon, midday turns to dusk even though the skies remain gray. The five men remain huddled together, each one in the same state of reflectiveness as the next. The frigid elements ease up if only somewhat, respectfully lenient in granting the quintet their quiet memorial.

Brothers. That’s what they are. That’s what they remember. One in the same. Same heart, same blood. There’s no such thing as Kaminoans or Cloners. There’s no such thing as ‘Regs’ or ‘Defects’. There’s only brothers. Each man remembers that day: that they were just pawns, never created to be individuals. But each man learns that day: that to still possess their individuality—their very life—is a luxury. It’s worth fighting for. Freedom is worth fighting for. And each man will fight on behalf of the brothers, of the men, who never became acquainted with the prospect before their last directive condemned and reverted them to nothing more than a number.

Numbers? The only numbers relevant are the ones The Bad Batch will do on the Empire. Over and over, and relentlessly. Blow after blow until all one can hear is the sound of Freedom ringing. And ring loud it will.

The day will come, and soon.

The Empire? They’d better watch their backs.

The Cavalry Has Arrived.

~***~

Post-Imperial Proclamation

PIP Rotation Number: 79

Destination: Planet of Unknown Origins

Documentation: Scouting for Relics. Will update with any pertinence.

—Signed by Mar-4

Update: Today I cling to the remains of fallen brethren. For the sake of anonymity, names will not be disclosed. But my heart sings with all of them. It sings, and it weeps. Some days, it will do both, for heavy is the weight. But the graveyard of men is revered; a symbol of strength that our enemies cannot defeat us all. We will prevail, because we are:

Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.

Not gone, merely marching far away.

March easy, ner vode.

—Signed by Mar-5. Echo.

#star wars #The Bad Batch #Clone Force 99 #ahh I am a sobbing mess :’D #feedback is always appreciated :)#my writing #it’s a Lil thing

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theotheroccassionalfanficwriter · 4 years

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The Antichrist Is a Perfectly Nice Human

Summary: Satan took one look at the human that was supposedly his spawn, the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, and Lord of Darkness and decided that you were an alright human.

Alternatively, the former Avatar of Wrath decided to screw over his successor by claiming to be him while up and about in the human world. Got a female human pregnant and had you, the Antichrist*, that had the Celestial Realm and Devildom panicking for an apocalypse that was scheduled way too early.

*not really but you were raised to be one

Tags: Good Omens AU, Sorta but not really, Comedy, Romance, Misunderstanding, Your Life is One Whole Gigantic Prank, First Love Mammon, End game Satan, non-binary reader because you get all the genders.

A/N: Sometimes I gotta write the content I want other people to write so I can read it ;w;

Chapters: 1/3

[Chapter 1: The Beginning of a Joke]

0. The Fool in Reverse

The Earth as a Gemini was a complete and total bastard as far as most people in the know was concerned. Most people in this case, referred to God and his Heavenly Host, and the majority of Devildom’s upper echelon. You, however, had no negative nor positive opinion on Earth based on its astrological sign. Based on inhabitants however...it was best left unsaid.

The story or perhaps the start of the problem began when Ira, the Former Avatar of Wrath, was not resigned to the fact that he would have to step down easily and hand over his Throne to some upstart demon. Thus this particular crafty, bastard, and fearless former Avatar of Wrath decided to play a harmless prank* by deciding to create a Cambion and have it masquerade as the Antichrist that was not meant to be born until eons later on.

(*it was a harmless prank by both angelic and demonic standards had anyone from their logistics department was not an overworked demon/angel and decided to launch an investigation instead of sending it directly to the higher-ups for them to decide on what to do)

Thus Ira, who was unfairly handsome, found a very willing and very enthusiastic Nun from the Holy Order of the Church of Satan in England, went and pretended to be Satan, the new Avatar of Wrath, had a very fun two month long vacation in the human world with the very willing and very enthusiastic Nun.

And thus nine months later, you were born. A perfectly healthy baby with pretty blue eyes. As Ira held you in his arms, he smiled gently and thanked the your Mother, the Nun for her contribution.

From that point on, your life became one whole prank to Heavenly Host and Devildom, however it mattered little to you who was born with a golden and diamond studded spoon on the mouth. You were, after all, much more interested on Sesame Street’s airtime.

1. The Magician

At the young and tender age of five, your Nanny Asmodeus was teaching you how to negotiate and get what you want. In the same vein, Brother Simeon, the Gardener was teaching you how to politely ask for what you want.

Both were adamant that you listen to them alone. Thus in the interest of fairness decided to do neither. And neither of them complained* when you told them of your decision and instead looked at you fondly and patted your head for a good job of being independent.

(*That was a lie, as the moment you were well asleep after Asmodeus’ nightly ritual of singing you to sleep, both had a very heated discussion in the Garden Shed with Solomon, your tutor, as a very happy spectator. It was the first time Solomon had seen Simeon quite angry)

Thus you slowly but skillfully learned how to be a leader, for the Army of Hell that you would lead as promised by Nanny Asmodeus, and learned how to make friends as Brother Simeon had said that all Great Leaders had friends they could trust. And so by the time you were 9, you were quite the charismatic child not only due to your upbringing but also the fact that you had inherited Ira’s charms.

And then you met Mammon, and all of their work went down the drain when you fell in love the first time.

2. The High Priestess in Reverse

Mammon had been curious to see what his younger brother’s supposed spawn was like. Thus he had decided to check you out and see how you were doing after being subtly influence by both realms in your formative years. Mammon had expected that you’d be a fascinating mix of cruelty and kindness, an oddity, and fairly attractive by human standards.

He had taken up the job of checking up on you as a pretense to fool around for most of the time and expected it to be an easy one.

None of his expectations were met except one; you were an oddity but you were not a fascinating mix of cruelty and kindness, and you were unfairly attractive by human standards.

Not of that mattered and paled in comparison by the fact that you had taken one look at him, professed your love, and invited him to your home. Thus he found himself living with you, in your large empty estate that only had your family servants and pets as your company.

“Mammon~ Do you want to go shopping in Dubai? Tokyo? or Las Vegas?” You asked him sweetly as you wrapped your arms on his biceps and pressed your chest on his arm*.

(*This was the result of all the years you've seen your Nanny Asmodeus jump Brother Simeon at all times of the day and how your Nanny Asmodeus would talk to Sir Solomon about your learning pace)

“Dubai!!” He quickly answered as he tried to gently pry you off him all the while battling with the heavy and scornful glares of your servants.

‘I’m innocent!’ He cried inside his mind and willed Lucifer to hear his desperate cries for relief.

His efforts were in vain. Lucifer did not hear his cries and neither was he able to pry you off. All he could do was mouth “Help!!!” to your servants as you stuck closer to him.

He cursed Asmodeus in his mind and swore to screw him over for his current predicament.

The servants happily did as he requested and even helped him get out of the place to ran back to his onii-sama and cry about what happened.*

(*Lucifer pretended that he wasn't despairing for his little brothers' stupidity but ever since the Antichrist appeared, it was getting harder to do so. He tried to look at the bright side that Mammon no longer caused more debts and ignored Mammon's cries of not being a cradle robber.)

Your first love was quick to blossom and quick to wilt. But your heart never forgot Mammon and you ended up dating a few guys like him before throwing them away after one week.

3. The Empress in Reverse

You had, from the moment you formed your first observation, understood that your Mother was not your Mother in the sense that most people had a Mother. She was just someone who gave birth to you, occasionally asked about your day and made small painful talk.

Nanny Asmodeus had been more of a Mother to you than her, and you had taken to emulate most of Nanny Asmodeus' habits* up until Nanny was fired after getting caught with Brother Simeon and Sir Solomon.

You had not understood why they were fired because you had instictively, like all children with an environment as messy as yours beneath the surface, understood that the three were more of a parental figure than the ones that gave birth to you.

Nanny Asmodeus was your Mom.

Brother Simeon and Sir Solomon were your Dads.

And you had told your Mother so, in a strange mix of your parents teachings, in the blunt and honest negotiation for them to stay. And you were confident, and stupidly brave for a child because no one had ever denied you of what you truly wanted because you were the Young Master and you negotiated well.

That had been the first and only time you failed a negotiation. It had also been the first and only time that you cried and begged, totally unbefitting for a Prince of Hell but you had loved the three of them in whatever a way a child groomed to be the antichrist could. It had been useless and you had moved on quickly.*

(*That was well crafted act. You had shed all pretense with your Mother and stopped bothering with her. The same went for the Man that claimed to be your Dad. You had carried and nursed a grudge and swore that when your Army from Hell arrived they would be the first one example of your might.)

It had been hard, at first, to adjust living in a house devoid of them three. You had grown used to the fact that all three of them had welcomed you at all times. That Nanny Asmodeus would teach you how to care for your hair and doll you up however you want, that Sir Solomon would not mind your endless questions and let you read whatever books that caught your fancy and let you dabble in magic, that Brother Simeon didn't mind you getting dirty and running around with stray animals that visited the gardens.

But you learned how to live with it. And somewhere between them leaving, your first heart break, and managing your publishing company, you had made your peace with the fact that you had no warm home.

4. The Emperor

Diavolo didn't know what to do with the knowledge that he had accidentally brought the Antichrist to Devildom via his Exchange Student Program. Or the fact that you had just met your absentee father Satan. Or the fact that you had immediately demanded your Army after learning that this was Hell.

He wanted to go down to the Castle's basement and duel his old man. He just knew that this was just that bastard father of his plan to make his way to the throne harder.

"Hey! Don't ignore me the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies,Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness!" You angrily demanded.

On the side he saw Beelzebub choked on his food, Asmodeus sweating nervously, and Lucifer glare. But Satan's expression was the most interesting as the Avatar had paled greatly and looked pained. Diavolo smiled and said,

"Your army still isn't prepared so why don't you study here for a while?"

"Hah? I'm already making money! Instead of studying why don't you just let me run a business?"

Diavolo took a look at Asmodeus and wondered whose influence was this*.

(*It was Solomon's and Mammon's but no one made that connection and chalked it up to spoiled upbringing.)

Diavolo knew when to retreat so he granted you your request and found yourself investing in a fashion magazine and secretly playing around with Devildom's stock market with Mammon by your side who had forgotten all past trauma* with your generous spending on him.

(*When you were back on your room and sleeping he had ran to Lucifer and cried about all the scornful accusations of laying his hand on his own niece. Lucifer compensated him with Goldie and decided to break out his 1600 Demonus Bottle)

You happily dreamed about Mammon and ignored the demon that had the same name as your absentee Father.

5. The Hierophant in Reverse

Ira had always known that he was not the best father considering that he was absent on your daily life and the fact that he made you because of a long prank he was playing on his successor. It hadn’t fazed him at all that you grew colder and more distant towards him and your birth mother after Asmodeus, Solomon, and that angel Simeon had to be fired.

He understood that part of you very well since you had inherited that from him. You had somehow managed to inherit all of his strengths and he was proud of that. Though he did wish you hadn't inherited your birth mother's tendency to love deeply. Love had no place in a demon's heart after all.

And he had told this to you once, long ago when your eyes had shined bright with all the youthful innocence human children had. And like true child of his, you had ignored him.

He had let you off that time.

Not this time though. You, for some Goddamned in explicable reason, were in Devildom. Hanging out with the still wet behind his ears Avatar of Greed, and the pathetic excuse for an Avatar of Gluttony. He could feel his wrath bubbling up at the way you were doting upon the two.

He had angrily left and decided to visit his Demon King.

He didn’t like the way you were looking at that scum Mammon*.On the other side of the street, inside Cat’s Eye Cafe, was Satan who had seen all of this and knew that something was amiss with this whole Antichrist business and his supposed child that he never remembered fathering.

(* Ira, by demonic virtue, loathed all the New Generation of the Avatars by virtue of being associated with that upstart son of his King. Mammon getting the attention of his child however brought him to all new emotional plateau in the levels of Wrath and he did not like it one bit.)

6. The Lovers, and then in Reverse

You had found it fascinating, how the demon who shared the same name as your absentee father, looked pained whenever you talked to him. It was really amusing seeing him hold back in maiming you for yanking his metaphorical tail whenever opportunity struck. Lucifer had found it amusing and you had taken it as non-verbal agreement to carry on*.

(*Lucifer was amused by your stupidity of provoking Satan with his apparent slip-up. Not at the fact that Satan always had a pained looked at his face when talking to you.)

And then you saw him playing with cats, and you decided that he was someone you wanted to be friends with. You had told Nanny Asmodeus as much and he had replied,

“Oh Darling~, Are you sure?”

And even if you knew that there was something off with his question, you had knew what you wanted,

“Yep.”

And your Nanny Asmodeus had promised to help you out in your grand quest of befriending Satan.*

(*The moment you went to sleep, he made his way to Purgatory Hall, magicked bottles of Demonus and fucking drank with the other two as he cried about how you were too kind to give his shit brother another chance, and then cried about how fast his baby had grown, and then proceeded to attempt fighting Satan while crying and shit faced drunk.)

Meanwhile, The Demon King in the Basement, was having the time of his life as he watched the gathering of his Avatars all of which were acting like Quetzalcoatl that lost their heads over the Antichrist for entirely different reasons. He glanced at Lucrum, his Avatar of Greed, who was ranting about how the Antichrist was playing around with Devildom’s stock market and economy and teaching what he failed to get Mammon to understand.

He smiled and turned an amused brow at Ira wondering how he was handling the mess he had made. He knew that as the Devil King, he could easily put a stop at this mess but seeing how even the Bastard Upstairs was running around like a headless Quetzalcoatl he decided not to. This would be a good learning lesson for everyone after all. Even if the prank would end in failure sooner or later.

7. The Chariot

Somehow without you noticing it, you had formed pacts with 4 demons. All of which were your Father’s colleague and your uncles. Which threw you off when you realize your pursuit of Mammon and cried at the unfairness of it all,

“Why are my Uncles so handsome and yet my Dad is like that!”

You ended up doing an informed* runaway and had a sleep over in Purgatory Hall with your Brother Simeon and Solomon, who was now your friend and mentor in all things.

(*You had politely asked Lucifer for permission to runaway, which threw him off his rhythm and made him agree, and once telling this to Brother Simeon, Solomon had laughed and cried about how good Simeon’s influence was in curbing demonic influences.)

Which somehow made its way back to your Shitty Bastard Father, Satan, who was standing in front of you, hair a pretentiously messed up, and clothes also pretentiously disheveled.

“Oh? You decided to talk to me?” You challenged, fueled by the fact that Solomon, Nanny Asmo, and Brother Simeon was behind you.

“Can’t Daddy, check on his precious child?”

“Get lost, Satan.”

And from behind you, Asmodeus mouthed, “What?!?”

Because he was quite sure that the one who stood in the door way was not his brother Satan the Avatar of Wrath, but Ira, the dethroned Avatar of Wrath.

|| Next

#obey me satan x reader #obey me satan x mc #satan x reader #satan x mc #mammon x reader #mammon x mc #obey me mammon #obey me

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fangirlingalittletoohard · 4 years

Text

Movie Moment

Q has just been recruited at MI6. Bond has worked there for years. When the pair meet by chance in Q's bookstore, sparks fly but neither is willing to admit it. A formal work introduction turns into an unofficial date at an art gallery and as Bond walks Q home in the rain, the two men screw their courage and take the opportunity to have a "movie moment."

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You can find the accompanying art by the wonderful 10kiaoi here.

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Word count: 3136

Warnings: NONE! Just 3k words of pure 00Q fluff!

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Q froze on his ladder as unfamiliar voices startled him, the pile of books balanced precariously between his hands and the top shelf wobbled slightly as he attempted to restock the thriller section of the little bookstore in which he worked.

“Are you… Are you James Bond?!” A hushed female voice murmured on the opposite side of the bookshelf that Q was filling.

“...Yes.” Replied the hesitant, gruff voice of the man named James Bond. The voice reverberated around Q’s chest, making him waver dangerously on the rickety old ladder and forcing him to grip onto the bookshelf to prevent him from falling.

“Oh. My. God. You really are, aren’t you! They told us all about you in training! I’m such a fan! Did you really wrestle a shark on the bottom of the Mariana Trench?” The female voice practically hissed with excitement.

“...What?!” Bond replied again, as if failing to find an adequate response.

“Will you sign my laptop case please?”

Q rose up onto his tiptoes, almost falling off the ladder again in the process of peeking over the top shelf to catch a glimpse of the man in the aisle opposite. He was tall and bulky with sharp features and dressed in an equally sharp suit: not his usual bookstore customer.

“Okay.” Bond replied blandly, following the girl over to a desk around the corner and out of sight. Q thrust the remaining books onto the shelf and stumbled down the ladder just in time to watch Bond’s dark-haired accomplice thank him and hurry out of the shop. Bond stood, looking slightly bewildered for a second, before turning and catching Q’s eye. “Excuse me,” he began, addressing Q and smiling a strained yet polite smile.

Q hesitated for a moment, clearing his suddenly dry throat before replying; “how may I help you, sir?” Bond’s cool steely blue eyes seemed to pierce through him and Q wasn’t quite sure how to react.

“I’m looking for a spy novel,” he began, striding closer to Q, his footsteps muffled by the thick faded red carpet, “and was hoping you had some recommendations.”

Q took a moment to weigh up the man standing before him; a stark contrast to himself. Everything about Bond was sharp - his eyes, his angular body, his suit, his neat hair - which created an almost comical juxtaposition with his own dark messy curls and soft, oversized sweater and chocolatey brown eyes, yet something in his demeanour told Q that he and Bond had a similar taste in books. “Follow me.” Q instructed, turning on his heel and leading Bond further into the shop.

He escorted Bond to the “spy thriller” sub-section of the store, slid a copy of John le Carré’s “The Night Manager” off the shelf and handed it to him. A satisfied, somewhat arrogant smile tugged at the corners of Q’s mouth as Bond scanned over the blurb and nodded approvingly. “Thank you,” Bond began again, his eyes flicking quickly down to the enamel name badge which was pinned to Q’s breast, “Q?” he questioned, understandably confused by the lack of name on his name badge.

“I, too, happen to be a fan of espionage.” Q confided, smirking subtly at the duality of his statement; Q’s love of espionage was not only satisfied through novels, but also through his recent appointment as head of Q-branch at MI6.

“Ah,” Bond responded softly, “well, I trust your judgement.”

The pair made their way over to the till where Bond paid for his book. “Let me know if I judged your taste in novels correctly.” Q concluded, blushing ever so slightly at his boldness in hinting that he would like to see him again.

“I will.” Promised Bond, gently opening the red-painted door of the bookstore and straightening his tie, the bell above the door tinkling and breaking the silence that threatened to shroud the shop once Bond had left.

“I didn’t catch your name.” Q called after him, blushing more noticeably now.

“The name’s Bond. James Bond.” He replied coolly, saluting in a lazy military style and smiling affectionately as the door swung closed behind him, the bell above the door tinkling again as he did so. Q bit his lip in an attempt to suppress the smile that was transforming his expression irresistibly as he watched James Bond walk away with the promise of return.

---

Days passed without the return of Bond and Q was beginning to feel foolish for believing that he had a chance of seeing him again until he was handed the files of the double-0 agent to which he had been assigned quartermaster. Q’s breath caught in his throat as he scanned through the files labelled “007” in the semi-darkness of his office and stared down at the small black and white picture of James Bond, secured loosely to the pile of documents with a paperclip. Assigned to be James Bond’s quartermaster. The James Bond. According to his files, Bond had worked for MI6 for forever and Q knew that he looked vastly inexperienced in comparison. How had he not bumped into him before? All he had to do was find somewhere that he had the upper hand to re-introduce himself as his quartermaster. Why was he so nervous? This was a professional exchange, not a chance encounter like they had had at the book shop.

---

After a lengthy search of possible locations, Q settled on the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. The moment the gallery opened the next morning, Q was there. He spent hours wandering through each room and choosing his favourite paintings before finally whittling it down to a few paintings in room 34 and eventually settling on The Fighting Temeraire painted by J.M.W Turner in 1838. A quick google of the painting’s history and connotations reassured Q that he could be as pretentious as he liked with his impressive interpretations. He liked to be pretentious; it gave him a sense of superiority that he knew he would lack the moment his eyes met Bond’s again.

---

Q returned to the bookstore for his evening shift, shaking rain out of his hair as he hurried inside, and froze on the doormat as his eyes met Bond’s. He was leaning against the cashier desk with two books in his hands. “Evening, Q.” Bond greeted, smiling subtly.

“How long have you been here?” Q asked in reply, unwinding the scarf from around his neck as he closed the door and paced over to Bond, placing it on the desk next to him.

“Only a few minutes. I came in this morning and asked when you would be in.” Bond replied nonchalantly as he tapped his fingers lightly on the wooden tabletop; he had always been forward and upfront when chasing his heart (or lust for that matter) but he felt almost nervous to be here with Q again and subsequently felt the need to conceal this by acting overly casual. To Bond, Q felt safe. He was soft and gentle but he seemed to have a sarcastic, almost dangerous side to him that Bond knew he could draw out if he tried hard enough. After years working as a double-0 agent and living the inevitable life of inconsistency which came hand-in-hand with the occupation, Bond longed for something constant, and the hint of danger that he sensed from him seemed to draw him to Q. “You were spot on with the book, by the way.”

“What?” Q began, before realising that Bond was only here because he had asked him to review his book choice. “Oh, well I do have a knack for judging people’s taste in novels.” Bond uttered a low-pitched chuckle that shook Q to the core and threw him off his game again.

“Well thank you for introducing me to le Carré.” Bond continued, turning and leaning closer to Q over the desk. Q shuddered and took a step backwards, stumbling slightly over a box of books as Bond placed two new books on the desk. Q caught himself in time and took the money that Bond was holding out to him.

“So I’ll… will I see you again?” Q asked, silently kicking himself for being so obviously attracted to him.

“You will.” Bond replied, already halfway to the door, his heart beating a little faster than usual as he realised that he’d committed to seeing Q again. He turned back as he opened the door, smiling to himself as he was greeted with the sight of Q fiddling with the sleeve of his sweater and watching him leave.

Once outside, Bond instantly regretted not bringing an umbrella as the unusually large raindrops were already beginning to seep through his suit and soak his skin. He had barely taken a few steps away from the cozy amber light of the shop window when the door swung open again and Q called his name. “That suit looks too expensive to get wet.” Q quipped, holding out a large black umbrella. Bond chuckled and jogged back to Q, gratefully accepting the umbrella and brushing some of the rain off his jacket.

“Thank you, Q.” Bond replied affectionately. Q smelled of tea and cinnamon and everything homely and Bond could barely fight the urge to reach out and grab Q’s face and kiss him but he couldn’t be sure that Q felt the same way. “I’ll return it.” He concluded, feeling a dull ache in his chest as he stepped away leaving Q in the doorway of the bookshop.

Q’s chest ached as Bond walked away. That was a perfect ‘movie moment.’ If he lived in a fictional universe, Bond would have reached out and grabbed Q’s face and kissed him under the rain and Q would have wrapped his arms around Bond’s middle and kissed him back as they were both soaked by the downpour and it would have been perfect. But this was real life and in real life you don’t get to live out ‘movie moments.’ So Q retreated into the warmth of the book shop and made himself a cup of tea and tried to forget about the fact that his hand had been so close to Bond’s when he handed over the umbrella.

---

Three days passed without so much as a mention of Bond’s name until the day came to meet him at the National Gallery. Q was dreading it. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get Bond off his mind. He felt like the epitome of a cliche. This was a professional meeting, not a romantic rendezvous. He needed to focus. Q took a moment to tell himself to snap out of his momentary anxiety and took the case containing a radio and a handprint-activated pistol and pulled his coat tightly around him against the cold as he began the walk to Trafalgar Square.

---

Bond ambled into room 34 and sat down as he had been instructed. Introductions to colleagues were usually just an exchange on names and a swift handshake carried out in the MI6 building, they were never as elaborate and mysterious as being sent to an art gallery with no idea who it was that you were meeting. An art gallery, of all places. It was much too romantic for Bond and he decided instantly that he would dislike (but begrudgingly tolerate) whoever it was that he was meeting until a familiar voice broke his train of thought. “It’s a little melancholy, don’t you think?” Bond didn’t have to turn around to realise that Q was standing so close behind him that he could just about feel his warm breath against the back of his neck as he spoke. He didn’t listen to any more of Q’s interpretation of the painting as he knew that he would be instantly engulfed by his chocolate-smooth voice and wouldn't be able to drag himself away to meet whoever it was that he should be meeting.

“Excuse me,” he interrupted, turning away before Q’s deep brown eyes could convince him to stay.

“007,” Q interjected, placing a hand on his arm and quickly pulling it back as Bond froze. Of course Q had chosen an art gallery; it was eccentric and pretentious, exactly as Bond had imagined him to be. Bond tested his wit, harmlessly insulting him and complaining about his gadgets (which in reality, he thought were wonderful… he thought that anything Q gave him would be wonderful) and eventually held out his hand for Q to shake. It felt too formal and strange considering they had already met, but seeing as how his heart had almost stopped when Q’s hand touched his clothed arm he felt that this was the safest option.

---

Q placed his hand in Bond’s and shook it, feeling his heartbeat in his throat and his hair stand on end as the bare skin of his hand made contact with that of Bond’s. Bond’s hand was rough and his grip was tight and strong and Q couldn’t help but notice again the stark contrast between the two of them. He felt rather small and helpless besides Bond, but he was surprised by the fact that he didn’t seem to mind. “007.” He greeted again, feeling strange using his professional name.

“Q.” Bond replied in a tone that sent a warm shiver down Q’s spine. “So do you happen to know as much about the other paintings in here as you do about this one?” Bond asked, gesturing to The Fighting Temeraire.

“Not quite as much,” Q admitted, “but I can certainly make it sound like I do.” He concluded, his throat becoming suddenly dry as he realised where this was going.

“Well seeing as how we’re already here; please enlighten me.” Bond’s expression was soft and gentle, a contrast to his sharp appearance, and it was enough to convince Q that this was actually happening. He took Bond on the tour of the gallery that he had done a week previously and he and Bond played the game of “who can spot the most naked people in paintings” as they ambled through the many rooms.

---

Once the pair had spent multiple hours in the gallery and had made their way through every room, they began to struggle to find more reasons to stay together without it seeming so obvious. Reluctantly, they stepped outside into yet another downpour. “Bloody rain.” Q mumbled as the rain obscured his vision through his glasses.

“Here,” Bond offered, opening up Q’s umbrella that he had given him three evenings previously and moving closer to Q so that they were both sheltered underneath the fabric canopy. They stood so close together that Q’s arm was pressed against Bond’s, but Q’s hair still seemed to be getting wet so he swallowed what little pride he had around Bond and placed his hand in the crook of Bond’s elbow, pulling himself closer to him.

---

Bond slowed a little and smiled to himself. They had practically been on a date, even if it was unofficial, and now Q was pulling himself into Bond. His dark curls tickled the side of Bond’s face and his warm, unusually fast breath pulsed against Bond’s cold hand that was holding up the umbrella. He knew that to passers-by, they looked like a couple and Bond felt that ache in his chest again. Maybe Q did feel the same way about him. After all, they had spent an entire day together and he was now pulling himself into him. Bond tensed the muscles in his arm a little so that they gently squeezed Q’s hand.

---

Q felt Bond squeeze his arm and his heart rate increased even more. Maybe Bond did feel the same way about him. They were almost back at Q’s apartment now, having just turned down his street, and Q couldn’t bear to spend another week not knowing where he stood. This thought prompted him to grow a little more confident and he rested his head against Bond’s shoulder. Bond momentarily forgot to breathe and Q noticed this, smiling in an “I can’t quite believe this is happening” way. They walked on until they reached the entrance to Q’s apartment block, where the pair stopped and Bond turned to face Q, making sure to keep them both under the umbrella as a not-so-subtle excuse to stay incredibly close to the younger man. The sky had darkened as they had been walking and now they were illuminated by the orange toned twilight and similarly coloured streetlamps. Q allowed his hand to fall from Bond’s elbow, but Bond refused to accept the lack of contact and took Q’s other hand in his own. Q’s heart pounded against his chest; his feelings were definitely reciprocated.

---

Bond gazed down at Q, his wide, melancholy eyes revealing all of his feelings without him having to speak. He rubbed his thumb gently over the back of Q’s cold hand and hesitated. This was too good to be true. He’d always had his way with the countless women and men that he’d slept with, but no one had been good to him before. No one had actually loved him the way he knew Q could and it scared him. Q obviously noticed the fleeting expression of fear that had passed over his face as he placed his free hand gently against his cheek. “Bond?” he murmured, asking with that one word if everything was okay and simultaneously if this was what he wanted. Bond raised Q’s hand to his lips and placed the ghost of a kiss onto his fingers as a response. Bond felt him relax as he moved their hands back from his face before Q’s lips were on his and both of his hands were on his face and he was kissing him. Bond stumbled backwards slightly, almost sending them both toppling over backwards but caught them in time. Bond dropped Q’s umbrella onto the pavement so that he could place his hands on Q’s hips, pulling him as close as he possibly could to his body.

---

Bond was kissing back and pulling him in and it was raining and they had spent a day at an art museum and Q’s heart was thrumming against his ribcage as he and Bond stood outside his apartment complex, kissing. This was the ‘movie moment’ that he’d been dreaming about since they met a week ago. One week. Q marvelled at the fact that he’d fallen for someone so quickly and that someone had fallen for him so quickly. He removed his hands from Bond’s cheeks and wrapped them around his neck, rising up to Bond’s height on his toes and almost making him topple over again. This was the stuff of stories and movies and fairytales and it was just perfect.

#mi6cafeminibang #00Q #james bond #no time to die #007 #00q fic

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comicgeekscomicgeek · 4 years

Text

Chapter 75: Let’s Get This Show on the Road

Presenting the next installment of my on-going, nextgen, MHA fic! Earlier chapters can be found here

Some are mine, but a decent chunk of the 1-C kids in this chapter were created by tumblr user and number one fic fan on tumblr @uninvited-eon

“Okay everyone, gather ‘round!” Itsuka Tetsutetsu called out to her class. Around the common room, the sixteen students of Class 1-C began to gather, some listlessly, some begrudgingly, but none of them eagerly. Her heart ached for them.

Whereas Aizawa and Super-Ball’s classes had passed their Final Exam… her class had failed.

She felt a strong measure of guilt over that. They were only the second group of students she’d shepherded through U.A. and she could not help but feel like she’d failed them somehow. Had she not trained them well enough? Had she not stressed the need for teamwork and cooperation, of thinking things through? They’d all done well in their Heroics Class and two of them had even made it to the Tournament round of the Sports Festival. And yet, when it had come down to it, victory had slipped from their grasp. Aizawa and Fujii had both told her she wasn’t to blame, as had her husband, but she still felt the sting of failure. She’d already vowed to do better by her kids. She’d already been working on new ideas for the next term.

“Yes, Sensei?” Yoru Kan, tall, buff, and pale, asked from her spot on one of the couches. It was strange to think her old teacher had a daughter the same age as Itsuka’s own child, but such was life sometimes.

“I know you’re all upset about not getting to go to the Training Camp with the other classes,” Itsuka said.

Ichigo Minoru, the lion-like Class Representative, growled. “We should have done better.”

This earned him a glare from the pink-haired Momoko Hohki, who blew a gum-bubble generated by her Quirk, popping it noisily. “You want to say that again, Fuzzball?” The two had never really gotten along. Hohki had… issues with authority.

“I’m just saying we could have done better,” Minoru said. He held up furry hands. She knew he bore the loss heavily as well, taking it quite personally. He was brave and selfless, but he had to be wondering if his leadership skills hadn’t been up to snuff. “That’s all.”

“I think we all know who screwed up,” Kan said gruffly, crossing her arms.

Ayahiko Akiyama pushed his glasses up, the red frames standing out against skin that was even paler than Kan’s. “Well, it sure wasn’t me.” His color-manipulating Quirk had been useful during the exam, unleashing wildly shifting color patterns to disorient some of their foes, but the lack of responsibility was typical too. She and the other teachers hadn’t been able to get him to step up just yet. They were giving it time, but he’d either shape up for ship out.

“Like hell it wasn’t,” Reiki Akamatsu snapped, the green quills along her head bristling. “You and Enoshima both! Throwing up your damn light shows so we couldn’t see!”

Hitomi Enoshima, whose Kaleidoscope Vision Quirk made looking her in the eyes dangerous, took offense with that. “I told you to get out of the way! Not my fault you didn’t listen!”

“Shouting “get out of the way, losers!” doesn’t count as telling people to get out of the way,” Kin Shiji snapped. The parts of his face that weren’t patches of metallic gold were flush with irritation.

“Can we… can we not fight?” Shika Mizuno asked. The antlered girl bowed her head and closed her eyes. She was gentle and soft-spoken, reminding Itsuka very much of her friend and former classmate Komori. Trying to play peacemaker when the more outspoken members of the class fought was common for her.

Unfortunately, Mizuno’s words did little to quell the arguments brewing. Sides were taken, insults shouted, and things started getting loud very quickly.

Employing her Quirk, Itsuka enlarged her hands and brought them together in a singular clap that resonated throughout the room. It left some of the Class holding their ears, especially the lion-like Minoru and the bear-like Tsukiko Kuma. But it did its job and silenced them all for a moment.

“Sorry about that,” she said, reducing the size of her hands back to normal. “But I could tell that was going to get ugly. And fighting amongst yourselves is part of why you failed the exam.” There had been so much arguing, so many strong-willed hot heads in her class determined to do things their own way. They’d gotten in each other’s way during the exam, hadn’t coordinated properly, and ultimately the faux-Villains had gotten away with their target.

“You’ve got potential,” she said. “I believe in you. But there’s a lot we need to work on. Which is why, while the other Hero classes are at their Training Camp, we’re going to be having one here at the USJ. Water Spout, Doc Clock, and I will be putting you through your paces from pretty much sunup to sundown, with a particular focus on teamwork and collaboration.”

She frowned. “Failing your exam is a big deal. But it’s one you can come back from, with hard work. I believe in all of you. Which is why I also arranged for some extra help with your additional training.”

At that, the doors burst open. “Woooo! Who’s ready for some training?!”

Itsuka pinched the bridge of her nose. “Tetsu, I told you to wait outside until I texted you.”

Her husband blushed and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, ‘suka. Got done dropping Kana off and got bored… figured you’d be ready by now.”

It was going to be a long two weeks.

***

Nearly all of Class 1-A and Class 1-B had already assembled by the time Katsumi arrived. She’d been rather insisted that she and Dad not arrive together. It was going to be enough of a pain having him as one of her teachers, but she could live with that. This was a practical matter of asserting her own independence. And there was some small part of her that wanted to take in everyone’s reactions when they found out about him. Maybe she ought to get her phone ready. Depending on how people reacted, she could get a new ringtone out of it.

Izzy gave her a polite nod as she approached. “It is good to see you, Katsumi,” she said.

“Good to see you too, Iz,” she replied. Thoughts of her dad’s promise to push all of them hard ran though her mind. She’d spent years thinking of Izzy as fragile and in need of protection. Even if the last few months of U.A. had told her otherwise, her first instinct was always going to be to protect her friend. Even if she and Iz weren’t romantically compatible, she loved her still, as the most important person in her life. “All set for roughing it?”

Izzy closed her eyes and nodded. “I believe so,” she said. “My parents were concerned, of course, but ultimately convinced that I would be in good hands.”

Of course they were. Katsumi nearly rolled her eyes. Izzy’s parents were crazy protective sometimes. Nearly all the time, actually. She’d have thought they’d have learned by now. Best not to think about it, it would just make her angry.

“Any idea where they’re taking us?” she asked instead. Even without Villains after the Hero classes, U.A. had stopped publicizing the location of its Training Camps years ago. It was a lot safer that way. Not that she’d been able to get anything out of Dad. He’d cited “tradition” as being the reason he couldn’t tell her. She was also sure getting on her nerves was also one of the reasons.

Izzy shook her head. “I am afraid I have no idea. We shall just have to see.”

Katsumi just laughed. “Ah, well. Worth a shot.”

In the meantime, she could see the Class Representatives making the rounds, with Toshi and Tokyami talking to the members of their class, and Kana and Awase talking to theirs. She could see Aizawa too, off to the side and in consultation with 1-B’s teacher, Super-Ball. She couldn’t hear what was being said, but Aizawa was giving the rubber-bodied Hero a death glare and looking like he wanted to be absolutely anywhere else on the planet. Super-Ball was talking animatedly and occasionally elbowing Aizawa in the side. Given what she’d heard about Super-Ball, her sympathy was entirely with Aizawa.

“Five hundred yen says Aizawa wraps his head up to stop him from talking,” she said to Izzy.

Izzy shook her head again. “What is it you would say? “That’s a sucker’s bet?’”

Katsumi laughed again. “You are listening.” She doubted Izzy had ever seen that small an amount of money in her life anyway.

Around them, most of the class was in its usual friendship groups. She could see Shinso babbling to Haimawari, who was indulging the hyperactive, purple-haired kid, nodding occasionally at whatever he was going on about. Sero, Sato, and Ojiro were talking as always, probably discussing content for their damned web show. The Iida twins and the new girl with the wings, Kocho, were watching the discussion with something somewhere between amusement, fascination, and confusion. Mineta was talking to Koda, while Aoyama and Shoji stood a little bit apart from the rest of the class. One person she did notice was missing though. It wasn’t until she looked around until she noticed…

“Hey, Iz?” Katsumi asked.

“Yes?”

“Why the hell is Kaminari hanging out with Monoma?” Izzy was friends with the electric dumbass. There was a decent chance she’d known what was going on.

“I cannot say,” Izzy told her.

“But you know,” she pressed.

“Chihiro has asked that I not speak of it.”

“…What.”

***

“What?” Chihiro asked, as Monoma slipped the bracelet around her wrist. It had been made in the kumihimo style, she could tell, yellow with just a little bit of black in it, like her hair. She wasn’t sure they were at the gift-giving stage of… whatever it was exactly they were doing. They’d gone out once.

Which had been nice, she actually had to admit. Nothing fancy, just a walk and some ice cream, but he’d turned out to be surprisingly good company. When he wasn’t being a competitive asshole or didn’t have Kirishima-Bakugo around to rile him up, he could actually be a decent guy, and even pretty funny. He was smarter than her, that much was sure, and ridiculously well-read, but he didn’t lord it over her and listened when she talked, especially about music, he actually asked questions and wanted to know more. He’d been more encouraging during that walk that he’d been in the entirety of the time she’d known him before.

More vulnerable too. He’d been damn close to quitting before he’d talked to her. And then there was the way he talked about his classmates and how much potential he saw in all of them…

She was beginning to understand what Mika had seen in the guy. Granted, Mika’s type was “alive,” but she was actually beginning to see why Koda willingly associated with him.

They’d talked on the phone and texted more on top of that. She’d actually found herself looking forward to it. Chihiro was well aware she was no amazon with pneumatic boobs like Mika or Sora Iida, or even a girly fashionista like Ojiro. She was relatively plain, her curves barely there. She was fit, but hardly a paragon of physical fitness, and she was never going to be the smartest person on the planet. Even her Quirk wasn’t that impressive without lots of Support Gear.

Having someone actually interested in her, for who she was, when there were so many other better options available was still a surprise.

“It’s a gift,” Monoma said. “I made it myself.” He smiled, sheepishly. “I watch a lot of tutorials on Viewtube, so I can pick up other skills. You never know when it might come in handy. Besides, it’s more than that. It’s a promise.”

“A promise of what?” Chihiro cast a few nervous glances around. Someone—Ojiro probably—was probably already noticing she’d been talking with Monoma for a while now and speculating wildly. Several of Class 1-B were definitely already looking at her.

She wasn’t exactly as embarrassed by the thought of people finding out she was dating him as she’d have thought, but she’d kind of wanted to control the message. But he’d been so insistent on giving her the bracelet before the busses arrived…

“It’s an apology too, for my earlier behavior, but it is a promise,” Monoma said, “that I won’t kiss you again.” He leaned in close, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Until you kiss me first.” She was pretty sure she heard Fukidashi gasp.

Well, wasn’t that presumptuous of him? Why was he so pretty when he was being so arrogant? “Don’t,” she breathed, her Cords rising up reflexively, sparks dancing on the tips, “don’t you mean “unless?’”

He gave her one of those all too confident smiles, his eyes practically twinkling. “Giving up on us so soon?”

Chihiro flushed red and couldn’t find the words to respond to that.

***

Toshi looked down at the clipboard he was carrying, nodded, and looked over to Asuka. “That everybody?” he asked.

“It is,” Asuka told him, checking her own clipboard. Frog-Shadow was sitting on her shoulder, looking vaguely bored. “Everyone’s here, everyone’s luggage is accounted for, and the buses should be here in about ten minutes.”

“Good,” he said. Being Class Representative came with a lot of responsibilities, but his classmates made it easy. None of them put him through half has much as their parents’ class had put Uncle Tenya through. The worst he usually had to do was keep Katsumi from killing Mineta when the latter was being particularly aggravating or mediate a conflict between Aoyama and Sero. It helped that he’d known the majority of them for years and understood their eccentricities.

“Okay!” Toshi called out. “Everybody listen up!” It took a moment—Sero was being especially chatty—but eventually, everyone did quiet down, with Kaminari hurriedly joining the group at the end.

“Thank you,” Asuka told them. “Toshi and I both want you to know we expect all of you to be on your best behavior during the Training Camp. Aizawa-Sensei wishes for us to emphasize that there will be severe consequences for misbehavior.”

“He was really scary when he said it!” Frog-Shadow piped in.

“He was,” Toshi agreed, shuddering at the memory. “But I know you’re all mature, responsible individuals who can be counted on not to do anything stupid.”

“How’d you manage to say that right a straight face, Toshi?” Katsumi asked, arms crossed, grinning smugly.

“It wasn’t easy,” he admitted. “Now, any last questions?”

Mineta’s hand went up.

“That aren’t about fraternization during the camp?”

Mineta’s hand went down. Toshi breathed a sigh of relief.

He turned around and looked over to where Aizawa and Super-Ball were. “All set,” he called out. He heard Kana Tetsutetsu do the same.

The two teachers walked over so they were standing in front of the two classes. “Thanks, Class Reps!” Super-Ball said, grinning broadly. He spread his arms in an expansive gesture. “Is everybody ready for a summer of fun?!”

Silence greeted him.

“That’s right!” 1-B’s teacher went on, as though they’d responded. “Well that’s too bad, because Aizawa canceled all the fun. Your friendly neighborhood bouncing ball tried to talk him out of it, but well, you try arguing with that face. C’mon, make the face, Aizawa.”

Aizawa’s expression did not change.

“Yeah,” Super-Ball said. “That’s the one. Seriously, though, you guys are gonna work really hard. But I know you can do it, and you’re gonna be better for it! And we’ve got one extra surprise for you. You want to take this one, Aizawa?”

“Right,” Aizawa said flatly. “In addition to Fujii and myself, your new Heroics teacher will also be accompanying us.”

A dozen plus conversations broke out among the two classes, as they began to speculate who that might be. Toshi had known that with Grandpa Might becoming the new principal, they were looking to fill the slot, but he hadn’t known for sure that anyone had accepted the job. The weird thing was, neither Katsumi nor Shota seemed surprised by the news.

“Who is it?” Rika Bondo, the blue slime girl from 1-B, asked.

“That’s be me.”

“Uncle Kachan?!” Toshi stammered out. Uncle Kachan had appeared almost out of nowhere, no less stealthy for his recent injury. He was dressed comfortable, in civilian clothes, but still looked ready to take on any challenge that might come his way. There was the slightest of limps to his step, but you had to be really looking to notice it.

But never, in a million years, would he have thought he’d be their new teacher!

Someone had let out a girlish shriek. “Oh, man, Monoma!” Anime Fukidashi giggled. “You should have seen the look on your face!”

“Oh no, oh no, oh no, we’re all going to die,” Sero wailed. He’d gone a distinctly paler shade of pink.

“Well,” Toshi heard Izumi say, “this is unexpected.”

“This is… wow…” Haimawari trailed off.

“Guys? Seriously? I think Monoma’s broke. He hasn’t moved for, like, a minute.” Fukidashi’s voice carried over all the others. “Tetsutetsu, maybe you want to smack him?”

“I’m fine, dammit!” Monoma snapped. All eyes were instantly on him. He gulped nervously. “My… apologies, Senseis.”

Uncle Kachan didn’t seem to care and Aizawa was as impassive as ever.

“Breathe, kid,” Super-Ball said. “He’s legally prohibited from killing you.” He winked. “But you’d be surprised what you can live through.”

Uncle Kachan looked over at Aizawa. “Is he always like this?”

Aizawa just sighed. “This is actually one of his more sedate days.”

“And you didn’t think to mention that, you sorry excuse for a hobo?!”

“If I have to suffer, so do you.”

“You two do know I can hear you, right?” Super-Ball asked, though he didn’t sound offended. “And so can they? The impressionable children?”

Uncle Kachan sighed, then turned his attention to them. “I’m not big on speeches. So I’m just letting you all know now, All Might was the good cop. I’m the bad cop. And I’m gonna work you all like you’ve never been worked before!”

Several of the students gasped. Toshi was pretty sure he saw Monoma look faint. Katsumi just grinned that grin she did before she punched someone.

Anything else was cut off as the automated buses arrived, one of which seemed a bit larger than the other, probably to accommodate Kentaro Fukui, the nearly three meters tall member of 1-B. “About time,” Aizawa said. “Get your luggage loaded and then get on the bus. Class 1-A in the first bus, Class 1-B in the second. We leave in ten, with or without you.”

***

It didn’t take long for the buses to get underway. Aizawa was seated in the front of the bus, Uncle Katsuki in the back. The various couples in the class were sitting together, as were the usual friends like Chihiro and Mineta and Isamu and Shota, while Asuka was sitting with their new classmate Kocho. Their odd numbers meant that Shoji was sitting alone, though he didn’t seem bothered by it. And, of course, Izumi was sitting with Katsumi.

Izumi turned to look at her friend. “So,” she said, “I am assuming you knew about this?”

Katsumi smirked at that. “Oh yeah. All Might offered him the job a couple of days after the break started. He thought about it for maybe a day tops before he said yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

That earned her another smirk from Katsumi. “You didn’t ask.”

A smile spread across Izumi’s face and a small giggle escaped her lips. “That is true,” she said. “I did not.”

“Besides,” Katsumi added, “he swore me to secrecy.”

Uncle Katsuki would certainly be a… different teacher than All Might, she was sure. But he was Japan’s Number Four Hero, with numerous Villain captures and cases solved behind him. The media often liked to paint him as a volatile brawler, but she knew there was far more to him than that.

Izumi nodded. “He has a wealth of experience to offer. I am sure he will take to the role readily.” More importantly, Izumi was glad to see that Uncle Katzuki was doing well and getting back to something approximating normal. With traumatic injuries like he had experienced, it took a truly exceptional individual to come back from them. But then again, her father often said that Uncle Katsuki had “more guts than sense.” She was reasonably certain that he had not meant it was a compliment—especially as her mother had swatted him for saying it—but guts were definitely required here.

“Yeah, well…” Katsumi trailed off. Her dear friend rarely allowed herself to be vulnerable, and even here, it was only for the briefest of moments. “Beats having him mope around the house while he’s taking medical leave.”

Medical leave, not retirement. That was potentially promising sounding. “They are hopeful for a more functional prosthetic?” Katsumi had told her that her father’s Quirk made traditional prosthetics unwieldy for long term use, but that Doctor Shield and Mei Hatsume were working on a better one.

Katsumi shrugged. “Nothing yet. They really don’t know if he’ll ever…” Her voice started to crack, but she was fighting it. She so hated to show weakness in front of anyone, even her.

Izumi reached over and gave her friend’s hand a squeeze. Katsumi returned the grip, mindful that Izumi was not as strong as she. No other words needed to be said. As always, they would have each other’s back.

“But yeah,” Katsumi went on, her tone shifting back to something more in line with her usual self, “in the meantime, he’s going to make everybody here’s life hell.” She looked around the bus. “Pretty sure Aoyama and Sero might die. Maybe Monoma too.” That caused her to snicker. “Did you see his face?”

“I did,” Izumi said, her tone carefully neutral. She did not wish to encourage Katsumi’s delight in the misfortunate of others, though that was probably a battle she would not win. But Uncle Katsuki would likely be an unrelenting taskmaster, and she knew she could expect no favors or special treatment due to her friendship with Katsumi or her own limitations.

Limitations she would not have were it not for her grandfather.

No. She could not dwell on that now. She had learned much, but she was still deciding what to do with that information. Izumi had not even mentioned her visit with her grandfather to her parents. Mercifully, Chihiro and Mineta had not pressed her for details, respecting her privacy. Soon, she hoped, when she had time to grapple with the reality of it, she would tell her friends. But for now, she needed to focus on getting stronger. She would need all her wits about her for the camp ahead.

***

“Anxious?” Asuka asked Kocho. Frog-Shadow was dozing on her lap. Long rides always had that effect on her familiar. She knew their new classmate was already friends with Toshi, Haimawari, Sero, Ojiro, and Sato, but as elected Vice-Representative and unofficial “Class Mom”, she too had a duty to reach out to her, so she’d volunteered to sit with her for the bus ride while the others paired off. Frog-Shadow had been upset that she wasn’t going to sit next to Shoji, but her other half had to learn that, even with their increased cooperation, she couldn’t always get what she wanted.

The moth-girl shook her head. “Yes,” she said. “Sorry, did I just contradict myself?” Her wings were folded around her as much as she could make them, taking up the majority of her seat.

“A bit,” Asuka told her. “But understandable. Are you comfortable? I don’t mind pulling up the arm rest.”

“I’m fine,” Kocho said. “Little close, but it doesn’t hurt. This is still nicer than taking the city bus.” She gave Asuka a reassuring smile.

Asuka flipped up the armrest anyway and Kocho let her wings spread out a small amount. “I won’t say your anxiety is unwarranted,” she said. The truth of others experiences and feelings was not open for debate. “But this is very standard for the Hero Courses. They find a few Heroes or a Hero team from outside the school, so that they can bring a fresh perspective to our training, and under our teachers’ guidance, push us to increase the strength and versatility of our Quirks and skills. It will be exhausting… but ultimately rewarding.”

She looked down at the sleeping frog on her lap. Nothing but peace and contentment flowed through their link. Asuka was determined to enjoy it while she could. It wouldn’t last long once Frog-Shadow was awake. “Though what exactly they can do with this little one, I’m not sure.”

Kocho chuckled at that. “Any idea who they got to teach this year’s then? Or is that one of those ‘rational deceptions’ Deku and Shinso were trying to warn me about?”

“They keep it a secret,” Asuka told her. “Though it’s not a rational deception in this case. It’s really more of just a U.A. tradition. They like keeping us on our toes.”

This got a nod. “Makes sense, I guess. Any idea what they were talking about then?”

Asuka could hazard a guess. “You probably don’t have to worry about that,” she said. “If they try to drop us off a cliff, you can fly.”

“You’re, you’re joking about that, right?” Kocho asked, dark eyes going wide. “Tell me you’re joking!”

“Not at all,” she replied. She put a finger to the side of her beak in thought. “I’m told it wasn’t a particularly big cliff, though.”

“I still can’t tell if you’re joking or not,” Kocho replied.

“She doesn’t joke,” Frog-Shadow said sleepily, stirring on her lap. “She’s the most boring person alive! I’m the fun one in this relationship!”

Asuka looked down to glare at her living Quirk. “And here I was enjoying the peace and quiet.” She shook her head. “But I doubt there will be any surprises like that at this Training Camp.”

***

They’d been on the road for about three hours and the anxiety in the bus had practically become a palpable thing. They’d made two stops already for bathroom and snack breaks and Isamu was fairly certain most of his classmates were going to jump out of their skin every time. About the only people who weren’t waiting for the other shoe to drop were Kocho, who didn’t know any better, and Shinso, who didn’t seem to see Aizawa in the same way as everyone else. Between their parents stories of school and their own experiences so far this year (Sending real—albeit reformed—Villains after them? What?), they were all rightfully paranoid.

Granted, his parents had known Aizawa too, even if they hadn’t been his students. They’d said he was gruff, but fair, and had actually been supportive of the work they’d done, despite them being Vigilantes. That somehow didn’t make him any less scary.

Throughout the trip, Shinso had kept up a steady stream of talk about Heroes and recent Hero events. Isamu had nodded along politely to a lot of it, occasionally adding to the conversation, but mostly letting the smaller boy talk. The two of them had gotten into a debate though, over whether Shoto or Gale Force was cooler, when Shinso had brought up a recent team-up the two of them had had.

Shinso had been rather insistent that Shoto was cooler, especially because of the fast way he could take down Villains without anyone being hurt. Isamu, on the other hand, had gone to the mat for Gale Force, liking the Hero’s larger than life personality and All Might level of cheer. It had been a friendly debate, though neither one of them was backing down from their position.

The two of them were sitting more towards the back of the bus. Occasionally, Shinso would look back to where Ground Zero was sitting, his arms crossed, and looking vaguely irritated, occasionally smiling a very familiar smile, as though enjoying some private joke. It was the same one Kirishima-Bakugo made before she punched something. The Number Four Hero was their new Heroics teacher? Ground Zero certainly had a reputation as having a hair trigger temper, but there was no denying that he was also really good at what he did. The look on his face suggested he was going to get far too much enjoyment out of putting them through their paces.

He’d survived Kirishima-Bakugo this long. How much worse could it be?

“Toshi! Toshi!” Shinso piped up. “You’ve gotta settle this! Who’s more awesome? Shoto or Gale Force?”

Midoriya was across the aisle from them, sitting with his girlfriend. Sora Iida was leaning against him, absorbed in some technical manual. Midoriya was definitely making progress. Not that long ago, that much prolonged physical contact would have had him shaking like a leaf.

Isamu was hoping to get some time with his girlfriend as well, this trip. Kana had loved the signed Godzillo statue he’d brought back for her from I-Island (He didn’t tell her he’d lost the first one) and they’d managed to see a marathon of his movies between his return and the leaving for the camp. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be too busy wrangling her class that they couldn’t share a few moments of their limited downtime.

“Oh no,” Midoriya said quickly, “I’m not getting dragged into this. Besides, I’m a Lemillion guy.”

“Not one of the choices,” Isamu told him, chuckling. Leave it to Midoriya not to take sides.

“I stand by my statement,” Midoriya told him.

“Aw,” Shinso said, pouting, “you were supposed to agree with me!”

Midoriya just laughed. “Maybe next time, Shota.”

Before they could continue, the bus came to a stop. Isamu checked the time on his phone. They’d been traveling a while now; it had been a little over an hour since their last stop. They’d left the main roads behind after the second stop, taking back roads, until they’d pulled through a long stretch of wooded areas. He was pretty sure he’d seen more than a few security cameras mostly hidden in the trees.

He could see some kind of big building out the front of the bus window, and what looked like several smaller buildings spread across a well maintained lawn. Beyond them, he could see more woods and maybe a lake.

“Either of you recognize this place?” he asked Midoriya and Shinso. “Is it an Agency?”

“I don’t know,” Shinso admitted. “But it looks pretty cool! Whoever owns this place has to be awesome!”

Midoriya’s eyes widened slightly, his mouth making a small o before a grin broke out across his face. “Oh! So that’s who they got!”

“You’re not going to tell us, are you?” Isamu asked.

“Nope!” Midoriya said. Isamu hadn’t seen that mischievous a look in his eyes before. “Don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

***

Katsumi looked around as the classes and teachers disembarked. It was a big complex for sure. Not exactly roughing it, though the woods around the buildings might hold some surprises, and one of the buildings looked like fairly utilitarian barracks. It all looked vaguely familiar though. She’d never been here, at least, not that she could recall, but she was sure she’d seen it somewhere. Had Toshi shown her pictures? She wouldn’t have put it past him. Despite basically having Hero-stuff as the background radiation for his life, he still ate, drank, and slept it.

There were four Heroes waiting for them. One was a man with spikey, sandy blonde hair, wearing a black bodysuit that left his arms bare, with silver boots, shoulder pads, belt, and bracers. With him, there was a brown-haired woman in a pink costume that looked damn close to a princess dress decorated with darker pink hearts, who was even wearing a tiara. Them, she recognized, Ravenous and Lady Lumious. Ravenous had briefly been one of Papa’s sidekicks. He even looked a bit like Uncle Tetsu, though they weren’t related.

The other man was blond, tall, with a costume in dark blue, with red highlights, boots, and gloves, along with small, gold pipe-like structures on his arms.

Ah. So that’s who they got this year.

“Oh, shit,” she heard Monoma gasp. Katsumi resisted the urge to cackle. He was having a bad day for surprises.

“Why so down, little cousin?” the man in red and blue, the Hero called Boost Rush, Daichi Monoma, asked. He was a tall man, towering over his cousin.

“I am the average height for my age!” Monoma snapped back. “You could have at least told me you were going to be here!”

“And spoil the surprise?” Boost Rush asked. He had the same arrogant, Monoma sneer all of them seemed to master. Katsumi had to fight the urge to laugh again. Monoma’s misfortunes were always funny. On the other hand, he hadn’t actually bothered her in months, no since his failed confession, so she could at least make an effort not to laugh at him when he could hear.

Katsumi’s eyes fell on the last of the four, a woman with light brown hair, who wore a costume in black, green, and orange. There was more than a passing resemblance to Dad’s costume. Her light brown hair was done up in twintails. She had her arms crossed and was smirking. It was an expression very similar to the one Katsumi and her dad often wore.

Katsumi, at the front of the group of students, gave her a smirk right back. “They must be getting pretty desperate to turn to you, Old Lady.”

The woman’s expression instantly shifted to rage. She pointed a finger at Katsumi. “Still got a mouth on you, don’t you, Brat? Well, we’ve got two weeks to beat it out of you.”

“You could try,” Katsumi shot back. “Won’t you have to go to bed too early for that though?”

“Show some respect for your elders!”

“So you admit you’re old?” By now, several of her classmates and 1-B students were staring at her in open surprise. Some, like Sero and Kaminari, had taken several steps back and away from her. Toshi just looked mortified, while Aizawa was burying his head in his hands. Even Lady Luminous and Ravenous looked vaguely puzzled.

“And so it begins,” Dad growled. “Ladies, can we wrap this up?”

“I will when she takes that back.”

Dad just sighed. “Mahoro, you and I both know that’s never going to happen. Can we just get on with it?”

Mahoro Shimano, also known as Vanish Veil, just grinned, but gave Katsumi a look. “This isn’t over, Brat.”

Katsumi smirked right back. “Bring it, Old Lady.”

Aizawa cleared his throat. “If we’re all done?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “As some of you have figured out, this facility and the surrounding wilderness is a training facility used by the Rookies, a loose configuration of Pro-Heroes and Sidekicks, many of whom attended U.A. together, and of which Water Spout and Doc Clock are also members. They’ve got a varied skillset and are also some of the best trainers in the country; Agencies frequently send their new Sidekicks to them for additional instruction. You will listen to them, you will follow their instruction, and you will not fight with them, no matter your previous or personal relationships with them.” He gave Katsumi and Monoma an extra-long glare.

“Now…” Aizawa went on.

He didn’t get to finish. “U.A. Hero students… think you’re pretty high and mighty, don’t you?” a voice, a girl’s voice, broke in. Whoever it was, they weren’t one of the Rookies. There were five of them, she realized, coming out of the building. Katsumi instantly tensed for a fight, wishing she had the gauntlets from her costume.

The seeming leader of the group took a step forward. She was large, and powerfully built. “We’ll show you all how weak you really are.”

#itsuka kendo #shouta aizawa #toshi midoriya #isamu haimawari #katsumi kirishima-bakugo #izumi todoroki #chihiro kaminari #shiro monoma #fan fiction #fan fic #my hero academia #their hero academia #my writing

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