#they even do the accents right which scratches an itch in my brain
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Substance abuse was definitely normalized in the past and still is in many contexts. It's only because of fairly recent social changes like anti-smoking campaigns and indoor smoking bans that "a smoker" is considered a type of person that can't blend in now (in some places!). People just got used to the smell of cigarettes—ask anyone that grew up in the 70s.
This post just makes me think of Mad Men. Like yeah It's a TV show I know, but the characters really are just smoking and drinking all day, sometimes simultaneously. To be fair it's set in a time and context where functional alcoholism is normalized, but you can see that the characters are absolutely hollowed out—physically and mentally—by their substance abuse. Invisibly to them, and it's only when someone dies or displays a "problematic" behaviour that they face consequences—like in the episode when Freddy Rumsen gets fired for pissing himself and fainting in the office.
It's really just like now. The people who can work in and around hostile environments get rewarded, and the people who burn out are discarded. I don't think that this is a fundamentally new problem, but developing and implementing the approaches to curb widespread heavy smoking and drinking (which are still very prevalent worldwide, btw!) took a very, very long time.
figuring out how to get rid of screen addiction is like trying to figure out how to stop a nicotine addiction while also having a job centered around smoking cigarettes and having half your social life be in smoke breaks
#people have been smoking and drinking for thousands of years#on the scale of human history we just got phones yesterday and industrial economies like two months ago like#like most of us were hunting and then for a while a good chunk shifted to herding and farming#now we're like okay now here's a tiny magic glass box that contains instant Knowlege and the means to instantly communicate#and we're like not supposed to be obsessed with the box? like? okay???#the box may contain all the light in the universe#and the tobacco and alcohol can numb all kinds of horrible pain that your tender ape brain doesn't want to process#anyway mad men is about substance abuse i think#but it's also tiresome how much the men cheat on their wives#i think it's very culturally realistic for white people in midcentury manhattan#they even do the accents right which scratches an itch in my brain#the costuming is fantastic too. details details#very white male gaze but also good writing#they don't uhhh try to woke ify it. which I do like actually because it was not a woke time#they were fucking racist#and misogynistic#i hate when TV shows try to make guys from the sixties into like 'actually he was one of the good ones or whatever' mad men does not do that
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Victor, of course, was a big fan of Victor Hugo (interesting coincidence?)
And, of course, when it came to celebrating Halloween, which he wasn't exactly fond of celebrating, he had chosen Quasimodo as the reference for the outfit. He thought about how pleased he would be if his partner shared his enthusiasm (which was rare as it was) and dressed up as Esmeralda. This role assignment didn't fit the nature of their relationship, but that wasn't a prerequisite to dressing up as someone for Halloween, was it?
But she had her own plans.
Is it worth saying with what shock Victor froze, looking at her dressed up as Claude Frollo? He cleared his throat, as if he intended to say something, but couldn't find the right words; or the words simply refused to leave his pride. Victor tried to straighten up, adjusting the dark green fabric of his dilapidated shirt (the kind Quasimodo wore in the cartoon) and crumpled his knotted fingers on the thick branch that was replacing his cane today.
The girl stands proudly, adjusting her black-priest-robe, and hummed.
"What do you think?"
«You’ll be the death of me..”
“..well— actually—“
Victor choked with indignation.
«YOUNG LADY. WHAT SHOULD I SAY NOW? AYO?»
«Maybe?»
«According to the judgment of the—
«Nu-huh, Viktor. Don’t you dare saying this again”
“Is that too bad?”
“Too good actually. Your accent makes it more… you know, it scratches my brain in a certain way. Definitely in a good way.”
“Scratches your brain?” Well I think it's even a good consequence of a little goofing. And I still don't see any reason not to say it, since it saves your witty brain from itchiness. Why would it be itching by the way? Lots of wise thoughts and not even a single one to hold on to?”
“Vitya”
“What?”
“It seems your brain never itching then?”
“Oh? That sounds like a pretty nice compliment. Well it’s actually never itching, but you’re always able to give it some scratches.”
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Writer Asks
Thank you for the tag, @galateaencore! What a fun thing to wake up to :D
When did you start writing?
Since a pencil was put into my hand! My mother always encouraged my writing, and used to do small illustrations to my childhood ramblings.
Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading more than what you write?
Not really. I think "I write what I read" is an apt statement for me. I love romance and I am not ashamed to say it.
Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?
If someone said my prose was like that of Jacqueline Carey's in Kushiel's Dart, or Katherine Arden's in Winternight Trilogy, or even Angela Carter, I'd be over the moon. That's the style I try and aim for: lush, effortless, flowing prose.
Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?
I have several:
My office, at my gaming computer. Right now, a bit cluttered with my work laptop, chapstick and various nail polishes as I sort out how I want my wedding nails to look. All my tarot cards and gaming ephemera are behind me in a built in bookshelf, and my nail supplies are all nestled safely within some ikea drawers against the wall, guarded by my legion of cat-chewed planties.
My bedroom, in my bed, with the string lights on. Everything is either white or off-white, with green accents. It may be a California king bed, but you'd be surprised how little space you or a laptop can have when you have four cats who all think mom's lap is the best place to be.
Family room, on the deep-seat leather couch, cocooned in blankets, when the lights are low and the fireplace is going, so there's only orange warmth against the harsh glare of the laptop screen. Still fighting for a space to put my computer when being swarmed by cats wanting a place to sleep (my lap).
Outside, in the screened in patio. The interior façade is very Nordic bathhouse, with its knotted wood panels. When its been properly cleaned, it is a nice place to sit in early summer or fall. I do often get distracted by watching the various creatures that make my garden their home, but I've never missed my word count yet.
What’s your most effective way to muster up a muse?
Go for a long walk outside while listening to music. Never fails.
Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?
I don't know about themes, but certainly there are character types that I like to revisit. There is comfort in that familiarity.
What is your reason for writing?
To scratch the itch in my brain and to release pent up emotions. In times of great stress and sorrow, I find myself drawn to the page.
Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?
Any comment is thoughtful. I am an equal opportunity comment lover. That said, I am always fascinated about what is resonating with my readers, whether it was a description, or a conversation, or something else entirely.
How do you want to be thought about by your readers?
Well, beyond that they're thinking of me at all (which is nice in and of itself), I'd hope that they find my stories entertaining.
What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?
Using language and sentence structure in a way that is interesting and varied, so that the reader doesn't get bored.
How do you feel about your own writing?
I am proud of it! More often than not, I'll reread a chapter and think, "Damn, yeah, that prose is fire. What a banger line. Go me!"
When you write, are you influenced by what others enjoy or might enjoy reading, or do you write purely for yourself, or a mix of both?
Because this is a hobby, I write for me. If others like what I write, that's great! This car is big enough for anyone who wants to come along for the ride.
Tagging @pallysuune + @themagnificentmags + @redbatchedcumbermayned + @theevilscribbler + @jaal-ama-daravv + anyone who wants to tag in!
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Blog 1
When it comes to colors and emotions, Pinterest is the first thing that pops into my mind. Scrolling through Pinterest is a daily habit that has heavily influenced my lifestyle in many ways such as times when I need inspiration for artwork, writing prompts, or when I don’t know what to wear and need outfit inspiration. I’ve been working towards getting outside of my comfort zone by dressing more feminine and figuring out how I want my living space to look so when I’m searching for an outfit, I find that I am drawn to softer, lighter colors. Of course the aesthetic of my algorithm has changed over the years, but lately I’ve been drawn to soft pinks, white, and blue. I find them comforting and pretty but since I’ve had my daughter, I’ve been on a mission to curate a living space that nurtures the beauty of femininity and these colors have been heavily included into aesthetic. I don’t want her to grow up feeling afraid and ashamed to be girly like I was. Growing up, I was always uncomfortable wearing “girly” clothes and liking “girly” things because they were seen as weak. Ever since I’ve moved out, I’ve found that I actually love being a woman and enjoy “girly” things like the color pink. I want to disclose that I don’t think liking pink and frilly clothes defines a woman’s femininity – it’s just what I’ve been drawn to on this journey. As I stated above, the colors pink, purple, white, and blue bring me comfort and joy as if I have taken control of my life and am doing the right thing. For all of my middle and high school years I leaned heavily on the color black. One of my friends even wrote a poem about me titled Black is my Armor.
Among the many people who felt the lonely abyss of isolation during Covid, I turned to TikTok as an outlet and now as a 24-year-old stay at home mom, my down-time consists of a lot of doom scrolling on TikTok looking for recipes, workouts, or a good laugh – or at least it did before the ban. The majority of the cooking content I consumed featured ladies who had their kitchens decked out in pink which scratched an itch in my brain that I didn’t know was there. Needless to say, I was heavily influenced by them – I got a pink knife set for Christmas. I don’t think I would have EVERYTHING in my kitchen pink because in my opinion, it looks a little tacky, but I’d love to have my living spaced accented with pink. I was fascinated by the consumerism and dedication these people had to their aesthetic to the point where I ended up getting sucked into it – hence the pink knife set. American culture is already fueled by mass consumerism and with social media giving us insight into other people’s lives that we were never meant to see, we feel we have to buy all these things to fit in.
In Latin culture, pink is used ubiquitously in architecture. It is commonly associated with warmth, joy, and welcoming; it reflects cultural values such as family, community, and celebration. Sandy Sanchez writes in her article The Importance of the Color Pink in Latin America’s Architecture and Design that when touring Barragán’s Casa Estudio, the first thing she saw was a desk facing a bright pink wall and felt immediately at peace. Sanchez notes that the architect uses the same shade in his other projects such as Casa Gilardi whose courtyard has pink walls, and Casa Pedregals pink exterior including a pink kitchen and hallways. Sanchez goes on to explain that Barragán believed that the color contained elements of sorcery and mystery. The color is also tied to colonial influence and cultural traditions in cities like Mexico City whose pink buildings contribute to the distinct charm of the city. The hues range from vibrant to soft pastels that can be found in both rural and urban areas.
I previously stated that I used to wear mostly black clothing. Now that I am older, I realize I was trying to hide by concealing myself in dark clothing. When I try on dark outfits like I used to wear now, I feel so self-conscious and frumpy. I felt like that all the time back then, but I was too young to understand and I was dedicated to my emo phase, determined to make it more than “just a phase.” Clothes are a huge part of self-expression for many including myself, so when I need to put on a quick outfit to go to the grocery store, I can no longer wear my classic black hoodie, black sweats combo because I feel the shift in my mood so drastically. Comfort is important to me but so is confidence. It also adds to the inevitable seasonal depression that comes with living in the Midwest.
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Robert Eggers Nosferatu is a brilliant example of color theory because the dark blue tones enhance the melancholy of film. The stark contrast between the dark and light colors is a classic technique used to create tension. The film required custom made lenses in order to film the desired effects. The shadows in the film are dominated b deep blacks and gray’s, while pale whites and soft blues are used to highlight characters and objects. These contrasts heighten the sense of unease between the characters and their division between the supernatural and human environments. Occasionally, red is used to symbolize how overwhelming Count Orlocks presence is while also highlighting danger, passion, and power. Robert Eggers’ depiction of Orlock is that of a rotting corpse, so his pale blue skin against the warmer tones of the living people emphasizes his otherworldliness. It accentuates the divide between monstrous and human. At the end of the film, there is a subtle shift to warmer colors that signal the resolution of conflict – the calm after the storm. Nosferatu’s use of color theory intensifies the audiences experience visually and emotionally. The film’s themes of fear, the unnatural, oppression, and vulnerability almost slap you in the face.
Different cultures have distinct ways of describing and experiencing the colors around them, and these differences can impact emotional associations, symbolic meanings, and even cognitive associations of colors. In the English language, we have multiple meanings for a single word, so other languages might have multiple words to describe a single color. For example, there are multiple ways to describe light blue and dark blue in Russian. This can lead Russian speakers to notice subtle differences in blue that English speakers might overlook. In contrast, languages like Thai or Japanese may categorize colors differently, with one word including several shades that might be distinctly separate in other languages. This shows that cultural context, as shaped by language, affects not just communication but also perception. Additionally, colors carry specific cultural and emotional significance. In some cultures, red may symbolize luck or prosperity, while in others it may represent danger or warning. By understanding how a language shapes its speakers’ perception of color, we can better appreciate how cultural values, history, and symbolism influence design, art, marketing, and even emotional responses.
Sources
Sanchez, Sandy. “The Importance of the Color Pink in Latin American Architecture and Design.” Architectural Digest, Architectural Digest, 5 Oct. 2022, www.architecturaldigest.com/story/importance-color-pink-latin-american-architecture-design#:~:text=In%20my%20experience%2C%20pink%20is,he%20selected%2C%20did%20just%20that.
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here be dragons
Part 1 of the Hospitality series
Pairing: Paz Vizsla x fem!Reader
Rating: T/PG-13
Word Count: 4.6k
Warnings: One use of a slur, aimed at the reader.
A/N: ahhhhh it’s a little late, but i finally finished this. now i can finally start posting this series in the RIGHT order, oh my god. check it out on ao3 here, if you want.
It’s late.
You lie in your cot, staring into the darkness. Unable to sleep, surrounded by the vicious tempest outside. It’s raining heavily; pelting down so hard you can hear it through the roof and feel it through the floor. Occasionally, you hear a boom of thunder, and the inn doors rattle and shake.
You’re glad you fixed the waterproofing this morning.
In a storm like this, you hold some half-hearted hope that a traveller will stop by. Someone soaked and freezing; desperate enough for you to hike up the price of lodging without turning away business.
Swindling a tourist here and there can’t hurt, in the grand scheme of the galaxy. You have to eat, after all.
The rich scent of waterlogged earth fills the room, and something about it seems unfamiliar. You’ve accustomed to the occasional downpour by now, having lived on Takodana for many years. But the lingering air of petrichor reminds you just how different home was — all dry deserts and salt flats, the odd dust storm. Certainly no lush greenery or blue skies.
As a lump settles in your throat, you miss the mechanic stand from your childhood. The slick smear of oil on your mother’s cheek as she gave the speeder a tune-up. The stripes on your father’s montrals above the welding mask as he soldered wires back together. When he was done, he’d always squish your little face in his palms. Smoothing his thumbs over the white markings on your face, near identical to his. The only symbol of your Togruta heritage, contrasted on a face of your mother’s colouring.
You sigh, and sit up. Now, you’re stuck here. Running an inn by yourself, out of business and in denial about it. You miss the feeling of freedom that came and left with youth; running through the streets, being swept up in warm, protective arms. Your mother rolling her eyes. Your father’s laugh.
Suddenly, a bang. You hear front doors slide open, and your heart leaps into your throat. The sound rings in your ears for a moment with its violence. Blindly, you grab the vibroblade from the table and scramble to the entrance. You’ve never used it before, and you pray the doors are just malfunctioning.
As you skirt through the narrow passageway, your stomach drops. No such luck. A large, silhouetted figure stands before the main desk, looming ominously as the wind howls outside. Maker, they’re huge. Far bigger than you, and a small, nagging part of your brain says they could kill you in a heartbeat.
It’s still dark. Frozen as you are, you haven’t turned the lamp on. In vain, you hope they might leave if no-one arrives. A bolt of lightning flashes outside, and the glare arcs off the stranger’s helmet.
Your eyes widen at the glimpse of a smooth, glass t-visor. A Mandalorian.
Oh, you’re fucked.
In that moment, they turn to you directly. The back of your neck tingles, and you realise they can see you. Their helmet turns down to the vibroblade in your hands, before returning to your face calmly. Of course. You don’t think you’re a very threatening sight, cowering in the doorway like this.
You feel remarkably stupid.
Hesitantly, you step forward and switch on the lamp at the desk with your free hand. Light pours out softly between you, doing nothing to calm your nerves. You squint, eyes adjusting to the brightness, trying to control the pounding of your heart.
“I am in need of lodging.”
You blink. The voice, low and rumbling, is scrambled by a vocoder. Male, from what you can tell, and the static scratches at your ears. He’s covered from head-to-toe in deep blue armour; rivulets of water drip off the steel, puddling on your floor. Some kind of pack rests on his back, and you try, fruitlessly, to ignore the glint of a trigger and scope.
Towering over you, you’d have to crane your head just to look him in the visor. You don’t have the nerve, in any case.
It occurs to you, faintly, that you could die tonight. It also occurs to you that the chances of an untimely demise would be significantly higher, if you keep gawking at him like this.
“Uh…”
“Lodging,” he repeats, sounding distinctly impatient. “Is there a vacancy?”
Maker, when is there not.
“Yes! Yes, there’s a— there’s a vacancy.” Fumbling for the log-holo, you set the vibroblade down in a cubby under the desk. Still within reach, and your receptionist autopiloting kicks in. “Uh, single room, how many nights?” You glance up at the shiny helm. The usual questions, but it feels… impertinent, asking for information. Like you’re violating his sanctity, or something, just daring to wonder. Especially about someone so clearly hostile. How does a faceless sheet of beskar manage to make your stomach churn?
“One.”
Of that, you’re grateful. One night, and you’ll be done with this. “Okay,” you reply, dragging out the sound. You sound nervous. He must be able to tell. “And, uh, name?”
He stares you down. It suddenly feels cold, frigid, even though his visage most definitely cannot change. It strikes you, in that moment, that even your sensitive nose can’t detect anything on him. The rain has washed it all away, except for a stubborn, smokey hint of blaster ammunition. Recently fired. A shiver runs up your spine.
Acerbically, he snaps, “Pick one.” There’s a rising heat behind the words, you don’t push your luck.
“I’ll— I’ll just put ‘Mando’,” you mutter, entering the moniker into the log. Once again, in the span of less than five minutes, you feel like a moron. Heat rushes to your cheeks.
But there’s one more caveat. You should probably forget it, just this once, but for some reason: “You’re not allowed to bring weapons inside. While— While you’re staying.”
A golden rule. One of the conditions upon which you were even allowed to run this place was your responsibility to maintain peace. (You often wonder what the Pirate Queen was thinking, believing you capable of breaking up any kind of violence.)
To your relief, the Mandalorian doesn’t explode with rage, or any such violent gestures. His shoulders are tense, but this — dealing with irritated, tired travellers — is familiar. He’s no different, you tell yourself.
“The weapons stay.”
“I can’t let you—”
“I’m a Mandalorian. Weapons are part of my religion.” You blink, and your silence seems enough for him to continue. “I won’t be using them on you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Keep your distance, and there won’t be a problem.”
A threat. Perhaps he’s trying to reassure you, in some strange way, but it doesn’t stop the cold fist of dread from closing around your heart.
“I’m… not supposed to—”
“You have my word.”
A muscle in your jaw ticks. Despite the nerves wrenching your stomach, there’s an urge to stand your ground. To defend the principles of Maz’s territory. (Or, more selfishly, to rebuke how easily he’s trampling all over you.) You shift, ready to argue.
But then he moves, one hefty arm lifting upwards, and you flinch. He pauses, before fishing a leather pouch out of a pocket and dropping it on the counter. You hear the familiar clink of credits. The sound elicits an instinctual reaction, a lurch of hope. You lean forward with a frown, inspecting the offering.
You gingerly pluck it by the drawstring, and its weight is a pleasant surprise. The contents are promising — a fee far exceeding the cost of one night’s stay.
A prickling mixture of shame and embarrassment heat your cheeks. Oh, how quickly your righteous anger fades at the promise of payment. Again, the back of your neck tingles. A reminder, that the Mandalorian is watching.
Taking a steadying breath, you bring your eyes back to the visitor. “Should I… show you to your room?”
A beat, then he nods.
You step to the side and flick the overhead lights on, waiting for him to go first. But he continues staring, and your skin itches with the weight of judgement. You realise he’ll only follow behind.
You swallow thickly, keeping your gaze averted as you lead him inside. Your little bungalow inn doesn’t have that many rooms to begin with, so you keep them all clean and ready for a guest — that’s not the issue.
But you have to go the night knowing there’s an elite warrior, perfectly capable of silencing your heartbeat, staying two doors down. You have to sleep with that knowledge.
You realise the vibroblade still rests in your palm. It feels clunky. Foolish, in your inexperienced hand. The Mandalorian’s heavy footsteps thud behind you, accented by the clank of metal armour. You clamp down the urge to rub the back of your tingling neck, and in some peculiar urge to reconcile, you half-turn to him as you walk. Slowly, showing him the weapon.
“Ah, I wouldn’t use this, you know. On you.” He’s crushingly silent, appraising you. He has to duck his head slightly to fit in the passageway, nearly filling up its width with his bulk.
You blather on, blindly spitting out words to fill the silence. “It’s just— all sorts pass through here, you know? This place has Kanata’s stamp of approval and all, but better safe than sorry.”
Still, no response, and you wince at just how green you sound. You swallow, having reached the doorway; you’ve led him to the quarters with the largest bed, having figured he’ll need it.
“There’s instructions to set the passcode inside. If you need anything,” you say, hoping he won’t, “I’m that door over there.” For one, awkward moment, you stand, feeling horribly out of place with the brooding figure at your side. “Well. Goodnight, then.”
You turn around, credits and blade in hand, ready to step into your quarters and get some kriffing rest, when the crawling, fuzzy feeling on the nape of your neck intensifies.
With one foot through the doorway, you hear him call out to you. “I thought no weapons were permitted.” A coarse noise crackles through the vocoder, and you realise it’s a laugh. You feel a cold sweat run down your back. “Is that blade just for show, then, little innkeeper?”
He— he sounds amused. Finding entertainment in your clear disadvantage. You feel sick, sick to your stomach, and slam the button to close the door behind you. Wetness springs to your eyes like clockwork, but the tears don’t fall even as you collapse on your cot. You’re pathetic, you think. Unable to stop him from belittling you, never mind barring him entry.
Sleep, though it eventually comes, is fitful and disturbed. Phantom helmets and mocking, modulated laughter fill your head.
In the morning, his room is emptied out. Bed made, fresher tidied.
No trace of the Mandalorian, at all. You’ve never been more grateful.
———
The second time you meet the Mandalorian, you’ve got your hands full.
“I’m not running a charity here.”
A Zabrak man has his hands planted on the desk, leaning into your space uncomfortably. Maker, guests like these test your patience.
It’s a poor attempt at intimidation. He’s taller than you, certainly, but gangly in a way that screams awkward, rather than lean. Scrawny, drawn out. Even the spikes protruding from his yellowish face are lumpy and faded. You wrinkle your nose at the faint, rank odour of sweat and booze. Overall, you’re unimpressed.
Besides, imposing figures don’t phase you much anymore. Not since that fateful encounter, nearly a cycle ago. You’d feared for your life that night.
Few were as large a threat as that Mandalorian.
The Zabrak hisses in your face, “Maz Kanata owes me a great debt. I’ll take it out of my bill.”
In your periphery, you can hear the telltale sounds of landing gear outside — a new arrival, but you can’t deal with that right now.
You blink slowly, and sigh. “Listen, this shtick you’re trying to pull? I’ve heard it before.” So, so many times. You’re not the only cheapskate in these parts. “You have a problem with Maz, you take it up with her. She doesn’t control my inn any more than I control the Castle.” That’s… not exactly true. But you doubt it matters to him.
Twisting his face unpleasantly, the man snarls, “I demand recompense, innkeeper. Return my credits, and we won’t have a problem.”
You recall being browbeaten at similar words. That night you cowed, frozen by the weight of mortality hanging over your head. But you have since hardened in the months that passed, and you steel your resolve.
Leaning close to the Zabrak, getting in his face, you speak through bared teeth. “You’re right. You get out of my inn, and we won’t.” Curling your lips into a disgusted half-sneer, “So I’ll be keeping my credits.”
“Insolent fool,” the Zabrak growls, and he moves to reach for something concealed behind his back. You jaw clenches — how did you miss that he was armed? — and you flinch backwards as he reveals a blaster. Before you can reach for your trusty vibroblade, the doors slide open with an innocent ting.
Standing there in the doorway, is your Mandalorian.
Your eyes widen at the sight of him, huge as ever, ducking his head to step over the threshold. Armed to the teeth, as per usual. He saunters forward slowly, purposefully. The swagger, the presence in his gait impossibly makes him seem… bigger? Somehow even more bulky than last time?
The Zabrak whirls round, only to balk at the steely-blue cuirass his chin comes to level with. He’s harmless compared to the warrior before him. You can only imagine how tiny you must seem. The Mandalorian keeps his head inclined down to the horned man, who’s now gripping the desk behind him, but his words are for you.
“Trouble, innkeeper?”
Maker, it’s been months since you heard that rumbling voice. It still knots your stomach, but less so, you think, than it did. You’re surprised he remembers you.
Your confidence with the pesky guest has not dissipated, however, and you find your words. “I don’t know.” You address the Zabrak calmly, “Is there any trouble, sir? It’d be a shame if things got… unpleasant.”
The wilting man cranes his head to you with a frantic look in his eye, and you feel a flash of pity. Ah, kriff. You’ve made your point.
Glancing at the Mandalorian, you make a subtle ‘back-up’ motion with your palm, half-wondering if he’ll take offence. But thankfully, he does as you request, and the Zabrak’s wheeze of relief is audible as he deflates.
“Takodana Castle,” you start, a little gentler than before, “Is three miles that way.” You thrust a thumb to the side. “One path, cuts through the forest. Can’t miss it.”
The Zabrak stumbles his way around the Mandalorian, never taking his wide eyes off the helmet. The armoured man steps aside silently, and it’s a wonder how he makes such a simple gesture seem so mocking. Saying that he’s the one in control, even if it’s temporarily at your behest. All in the way he shifts, the dangerous glint of his blasters in the light.
The memory of his laugh, hearty and sinister, echoes in your brain. Your toes curl in your boots.
Once he’s out of the door, the Zabrak gains some ill-founded sense of security. His wiry frame tenses, and he glares at you, spitting, “Watch yourself, halfbreed.” With a single, fleeting glance to the Mandalorian, he runs off towards the forest.
…ah.
You purse your lips, and look to the floor out of habit. Heat rushes to your cheeks. The slur is not unfamiliar to you. Your lack of montrals and lekku allow you to blend in, to lie low. But your markings reveal who you are. It’s strange; you think you’re proud of them. What they represent, who gave them to you. But the wave of shame that crashes over you sends blood roaring in your ears. For the Mandalorian to witness this? It’s a pitiful sight.
In the corner of your eye, you see him clench a fist, and you quash the sickness of your heart down with a vengeance. There are more pressing matters at hand.
“So. It’s, uh, been a while.” You cringe at the heavy-handed attempt to change the subject. Now that cursed Zabrak has left, it’s like all your bravado has sputtered out. And, really? Last time you saw the Mandalorian, a man from a culture of elite warriors, you thought he was going to murder you in your sleep. Been a while, indeed.
He plays along. “Well, I was in the area. Figured I should save the damsel in distress, while I had the chance.” He leans an elbow on the counter, resting his weight on it, and for a moment you’re perplexed.
The Mandalorian is… teasing you. Relaxed against your desk, standing close but not enough to be invasive. It’s a far cry from that shadow in the pouring rain, haunting your doorstep. “Although, from where I was standing, you didn’t seem to need much help,” he continues smoothly.
Compliments? Maker, if it were anyone else, you might even think he was making a pass at you.
But it’s him, and you give the helmet a strange look. It’s a little freaky, in all honesty. “I… see. What business do you have here, then, Mandalorian?”
The helm sags slightly in what you can only describe as a falter. It’s jarring. So incongruent with the persona you have crafted in your mind.
“I can’t just drop by?” You imagine your disbelief is evident on your face, because he sighs, a deep and raspy thing, before his voice sobers a fraction. “I have business with the Pirate Queen.” Your shoulders slacken. Of course. It’s a relief, in some way, to know that the purpose of his visit is so normal.
You ready the holo-log at your side. “Ah, sure. How many nights?”
He straightens and rubs a hand to the back of his neck briefly. You stare at the offending limb, entranced by such a normal, hesitant movement. It’s… It’s so very human, for lack of a better word.
“I’m not looking for lodging.” You blink up at his visor, frowning. “My work should only take a day, at the most.”
“Then…”
“I told you. Just wanted to drop in.” That doesn’t answer anything at all, and he elaborates, “I rarely visit Takodana, innkeeper. I thought I’d say hello while I was here.”
Your lips part. What? How… how can there be so much lost in translation? You’ve been afraid of this man, or a barebones idea of him, for months now. Like some kind of boogeyman, under-the-bed horror to spook children into good behaviour. And he comes to you with something like friendliness, with a smart one-liner and warmth in his tone?
You shake your head, dazed; reluctantly, you decide to give it to him straight. “I… I wasn’t under the impression that we were friends, Mandalorian.” He stills, and you keep going. “Honestly, uh, last time. It wasn’t great, for me. You— You scared me.”
‘You still do’ sits on the tip of your tongue. In the disarming haze of his amicability, you can’t tell if it’s true or not. You ramble in the face of his silence, if only to quiet the conflict in your mind. “I thought that you’d— I mean, I thought that I might. Y’know. Die, that night. I was tired, okay, and— and I didn’t know what to think…”
You trail off.
The Mandalorian stands before you, wordless. Your knees aren’t trembling, but there’s a worry seated deep in your chest. It’s interesting, maybe, that you don’t know who it’s for. Guilt begins to creep up on you, bitter at the back of your throat. Kriff. Just as you open your mouth to say something, his voice comes through the vocoder.
“I apologise. I was not… I did not know. It was never my intention to scare you.” His voice sounds hoarse, like the very thought of your fear repulses him. His words are not clumsy, per se, but there’s a rawness there that makes you notice how eloquent he usually sounds. The visor does not stray from your face. “I am sorry. Truly, I am sorry.” His shoulders are slumped, and he’s curling in on himself slightly. Making himself smaller, you realise faintly, and he presses a gloved hand to his chest. The helmet bows. “Ni ceta. I apologise, innkeeper.”
You blink rapidly, not knowing what to say. That’s… an awful lot to take in. You can’t remember the last time someone really begged for your forgiveness like this. You swallow thickly. Don’t cry.
The air seems muggy, somehow. Heated. As if all the truth that has burst forth carries a flame with it, burning the space between you. Hesitantly, you place a hand on his vambrace. The metal is cool against the warmth of your palm, and you’re careful not to touch any of the buttons on the control panel.
“Thank you,” you murmur. “I appreciate that. It’s— it’s alright. I think.” You nod determinedly, as if to reaffirm your words.
Heartfelt apologies don’t spill out so easily from heartless men, surely. He’s worth more trust than you give him. And his stance — defeated, ashamed — no, it doesn’t suit him at all. The helm tilts back up to your face, and you shoot him a small smile. Some kind of impulse lurches in your chest; to comfort, to come together. It’s genuine, and there’s a rosy warmth to your cheeks that feels pleasant.
You slide your hand away from his arm to offer it in the air. It hovers boldly, an attempt to bridge the abyss. It takes him a second, but he clasps your hand in his. You shake firmly, and his grip is strong, yet not painful. Reassuring, in a way. You suspect he’s controlling it for your sake.
“Let’s start fresh, huh?” You give him your name, and he repeats it.
His baritone resonates in your ears; it sounds like molasses, dripping into chest and heart. To hear your name uttered with respect, reverence, in that clear-cut way he speaks. It is nothing short of a miracle, in a moment.
You reassure him immediately, “I don’t need yours, if you’re worried about that sort of thing.” You lick your lips nervously. “But I do need something to call you. Got a preference?”
He hums, and you’re grateful how at-ease he sounds. It’s better this way. “What was it I told you that day? ‘Pick one’, I believe.”
So. This is the Mandalorian. He’s got jokes.
You snort, more at the realisation than anything else, and his posture brightens. “If you’re sure.” You press your lips together, thinking of a name. The back of your neck tingles all the while, and the weight of his stare is welcome for the first time. “We could just keep simple? ‘Mando’ would work.”
“Original,” he drawls, not unkindly. “But fine by me.” You have no idea, but it sounds like he’s smiling.
“Alright, then, Mando.” It’s so surreal, chatting with your own personal nightmare after months, just to find out he’s kind of… sweet. Nice to talk to, in a way you didn’t know you needed till now.
———
You two make small talk for a while over the counter. Mild, lighthearted. You learn that Mando’s a much more nuanced soul than you first assumed. Thoughtful, contemplative — careful in the way he speaks to you. You’re not used to that kind of consideration, and it’s appreciated. He’s funny, too, in a crooked kind of way. Like a mismatched puzzle piece fitting in the wrong set, bringing a bemused, entertained quirk to your lips. He conveys wry amusement surprisingly well, despite wearing no facial expression to back him up.
Now that you’re not quaking at the sight of him, your curiosity emerges. Is it a pain, lugging so much armour around? Does he sleep with the helmet on? When did he get that ship, parked just outside? Is it painful, having such a pensive heart, but evoking fear with every step?
Mainly, though, you’re just happy. The blue of his beskar is softer to the eyes, now. It’s the feeling of dipping your toes into chill, crisp waters. Testing the mood of the current, of this new depth you have yet to discover.
Being friends. What a novel idea.
Mando turns to look out the window. The day is well into the afternoon; there’s still time before sunset. “I should get going,” he states, but makes no move to shift off the desk.
There’s a twinge of disappointment. “Oh. Right, your work.” You scuff the toe of your boot against the floor. What can you say, really? One day of budding friendship doesn’t give you the right to impose.
“Yes. The Castle is… eastward, you said?”
You hum in agreement with where his finger is pointing. A shame. You thought you’d have more time with him. “Three miles through the forest,” you intone glumly. “Can’t miss it.”
Would you have to wait a cycle to see him again? More? Would you be waiting here, stuck in your idyllic, but oh-so-small corner of the galaxy, waiting for your Mandalorian to return? You purse your lips; the image doesn’t agree with you. You don’t agree with it, rather.
Finally, he straightens, and the height difference doesn’t startle you, this time. (Impresses you, maybe. Makes something giddy flutter in your chest. But you can’t afford those thoughts, can you?)
Mando tilts his helmet side to side slightly, as if he’s considering something. Weighing the pros and cons, and the action is somewhat exaggerated. You pay no heed, picking at a nail bed idly. It’s childish, sulky.
“Three miles can be travelled by foot. No need to waste the fuel.” He turns to you. “Never been through these woods before, though. Might get lost.”
In your disgruntlement, you don’t catch the leading inflection. You sigh. “I don’t think a Mandalorian would have much issue with an uninhabited forest. You’ll be fine. Just one straight path; don’t stray and it’s easy—”
Mando bends down a little, and says your name seriously, prompting you to look up. "I might get lost. Could use a guide.”
Your lips part in realisation, forming a small ‘o’. That’s what you say, too, and heat blooms in your cheeks at his static-filled snicker. He thinks he’s clever.
“So,” you start swiftly, attempting to recover your dignity. “Is it my turn to save the damsel?” He turns to the door, and you step round the desk to join him.
“I can slay my own beasts,” he snarks, and the mirth you hear is lilting. “You can return the favour, for the dragon I just scared off.”
You huff. “Hardly a dragon, I think.” With finality, you flick off the electric lights and step outside into the clean Takodana breeze. “Wasn’t really a rescue so much as pest control.” You detect the light, spiced scent of the fragrant tree bark nearby. It grounds you to this moment. Taking in a hearty breath, you do your best to put that stinking Zabrak out of your mind.
A few hours off would be good. You barely get any guests anyway, and Maz is the understanding type. Living for millennia must do that to you.
Mando says nothing as you punch the lock code digits into the door, and start to make your way towards the forest. You know the path to the Castle like the back of your hand, like the strokes on your face, but you have never walked it with company. You smile, unabashed.
There’s a first time for everything.
———
[note: if there’s any warnings you think should be mentioned, please let me know.]
taglist: @pikapuff316 @theocatkov @starlite41
if you’d like to be added to, or removed from, the taglist, just give me a shout :)
#paz vizsla#paz vizsla x reader#paz vizsla x you#paz vizsla/reader#paz visla/you#my writing#the mandalorian#reader-insert#the heavy infantry#heavy infantry#series: hospitality#part 1#hospitality: part 1#here be dragons#sw#star wars
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Subliminal Advertising (snippet) The Rise of Darcy...
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Soooo... I don't generally do sequels per se - but, I had so many wonderful people ask about Darcy and what happened to her at the end of the fic... And the lovely @marvel-fanfic-recs sent me a picture of a deliciously punny product from Finland and, well, this small snippet just fell out of my brain...
If you haven't read Subliminal Advertising - click here (this will probably make more sense if you’ve read it first! Warning though, it’s a bit longer than this... like 20 times almost 😉)
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Bucky snapped off a photo and giggling like mad, flicked it off to Darcy.
“Really, babe?” Steve asked as he grabbed pasta sauce off the shelf, Bucky grinning in return. There was something glorious about shopping with Steve, instead of being a crazy stalker who couldn’t string two sentences together, yelling words at Steve’s gorgeous face.
“Absolutely, she shouldn’t have said anything if she wanted to pine in peace.” He retorted and put the sauce back on the shelf Steve had grabbed, replacing it with one that was infused with herbs and garlic.
Steve shook his head in exasperation at Bucky’s pickiness in sauce, then with a soft smile said, “so she slept with the guy, leave her be. Which one is he anyway?”
“He’s a few aisles over, and it was hardly a one-night stand,” Bucky scoffed, although they’d been dating for months now, clearly Steve had no idea how he and Darcy worked as friends.
DarcyLewis&TheNews: Fuck off!!!!!! I don’t care...
OneBuckToRideThisTrain: What you don’t like Almond joys all of a sudden?
DarcyLewis&TheNews: Get me a pack, and is he there?
DarcyLewis&TheNews: Actually I don’t care
Bucky laughed and pocketed his phone, looking into the basket at the chocolate whose wrappers declared, ‘Sometime you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t’ it was perfect.
“She’ll replace all your sugar with salt again, or worse this time,” Steve warned and Bucky just shrugged it off, leaning up to kiss Steve’s cheek, who turned his head and caught Bucky’s bottom lip between his teeth and pressed just so, and Bucky tried not to whine into it. God he loved this man.
“She shouldn’t have slept with him then. More than once.”
A few weeks earlier, Bucky and Darcy had dressed up and headed out to their local Irish bar where she'd met a nameless man, who she’d taken back to her apartment. The following week, the same nameless man had appeared in the early hours leaving her front door, and the week previous the still nameless man had made it to breakfast before leaving.
“I can’t believe she never found out his name, she really likes him right?” Steve chuckled, his hand placed on the small of Bucky’s back, pressing him forward, and yes please, Bucky loved when Steve steered him around, pushed him places, told him where he wanted him to go. They’d discovered so much about each other in the space of a few months and Steve delivered on every single fantasy Bucky could dream up. Though the official go-to move of Steve holding him against the wall and fucking him hard, was impossible to beat. Couldn’t be beaten in his mind. Steve was just… a lot. And all Bucky’s.
"She said it got too awkward to ask again because she forgot it almost immediately, and yeah, she digs him. Hey, we should totally be buying this in bulk,” Bucky sassed as he threw a three pack of lube into the basket, and loved how Steve flushed. For such a big dominant guy, he sure was sweet.
“We at your place or mine this week?” Steve asked as they started down the next aisle and Bucky had been thinking about that exact same thing a lot recently. The way they spent every night together but still had separate apartments, he was ready to take the next step, although still wary that it was too early, too new for them.
“Yours, oh crap, hang on, this one is brilliant,” Bucky took a shot of a Cambell’s soup tin, the words ‘Mmm, mmm, good’ front and centre and sent it to Darcy.
“She’ll also hide all your toilet paper or put itching powder through it,” Steve warned for the second time. “I’m not going to scratch your ass if it’s burning.”
“I think we should move in together.” Bucky blurted, and it was too much, his face burned red, so hot it hurt and he grabbed the first product he found to read the back intently.
“Itching your butt makes you want to move in with me? I’m… flattered. Also, we are not buying canned ham. That’s not going in our pantry.”
Bucky dropped the ham, “our pantry?”
“Jesus, you’re thick. Lucky I love you,” Steve said and pulled him in close, kissing Bucky with intent, tongue pressing in deep, making Bucky gasp for breath. “Maybe grab another three pack of lube and yes, I want to move in together, have for ages.”
“Oh…” Bucky replied dazed from the kiss combined with Steve’s words. His phone chirped.
DarcyLewis&TheNews: You are the worst friend in the world
OneBuckToRideThisTrain: That’s a no to soup? It’s on special...
DarcyLewis&TheNews: Cream of chicken
They finally made it to the last section and Steve started to peruse the meats, when something caught Bucky’s eye in the ‘smallgoods of the world’ area. Laughing, he couldn’t stop himself, taking another photo while ignoring the groan from Steve, who’d grabbed the biggest parcel of bacon he could (good boy).
“This is on your head, you know that right?” Steve stated and wandered off to the bread section while Bucky giggled like a ten year old over the packaging he’d just found.
“Yeah, yeah,” and Bucky looked up and caught the eyes of the dark haired man who’d somehow slunk up next to him. Blue/green eyes opened in surprised recognition as they met each other’s gaze.
“Err, hey,” the man said in a deep British accent, making Bucky grin.
“Hey,” he replied, smirk firmly in place, loving the slightly panicked look he was receiving.
“Small world, right,” the man finally settled on with a small self deprecating laugh. “Look, I hope you don’t think I’m a... well, a scoundrel, to Darcy...”
“A scoundrel no, very brave, yes.”
“Brave?” the man replied, the hint of a confused smile on his pale face.
“You’ll find out. Look, if for some reason I happened to say ten random numbers in an order, would you maybe ignore them, or put them in your phone?”
The man tucked a strand of long dark, almost black hair behind his ear and smiled fully, and Bucky was slightly taken aback, he looked almost sinister in a very, well, a very sexy way. He could see why Darcy liked him. He pulled a phone from his pocket and looked at Bucky expectandly. So Bucky recited the numbers by heart and at the man’s thanks he nodded his head once, like he’d done a service to the community.
They went their separate ways and with a pleased smile, he found Steve staring at where he’d just been.
“Huh, I didn’t know you knew him?”
“What? Who?”
“That man you were chatting to, that’s Thor’s brother, you know, Thor from the gym. I can't remember his name."
“Oh, you are kidding me,” Bucky cracked up, Darcy had the biggest crush on Thor, until she’d met Jane, his wife. It was too much, it was brilliant, it was serendipity. “Hang on, hang on, I have one more photo to send.”
Steve rubbed a hand over his face, completely done with Bucky’s antics, but when Bucky slipped his hand into Steve’s large one, the blonde melted and tugged him in closer.
DarcyLewis&TheNews: Okay, I will actually pay that one - that’s good
OneBuckToRideThisTrain: Might be sooner than you think...
The sliced pork from Finland stating, ‘from the taste, you remember it’. Only made even more perfect because Darcy had no idea what was about to happen, and she’d definitely be remembering his name soon.
“Come on are you done?” Steve asked and pulled him towards the checkout, Bucky following with a happy grin on his face. He’d got one up on his best friend and he was going to be moving in with his boyfriend.
“Yup,” he replied, hearing his phone go off again, and looked at the screen.
“I’m taking that away when we get home and you’re not getting it back until you’re too exhausted to use it again.”
Bucky swallowed and looked up at Steve with wide eyes, seeing the promise reflected in dark blue ones. Bucky would never look at his phone again if it meant Steve taking control until he couldn’t move.
DarcyLewis&TheNews: What the fuck, you gave him my number??
DarcyLewis&TheNews: I’m going to kill you
DarcyLewis&TheNews: Jesus - I can’t date a man called Loki...
DarcyLewis&TheNews: ONE date, that’s it… I swear Barnes - I’ll get you back.
DarcyLewis&TheNews: Thanks <3
Putting his phone in his back pocket, Bucky helped Steve package up their groceries, before heading across the road to Steve’s apartment; where Bucky was hoping to go through at least two tubes of lube that night, maybe make a start on the third.
His life was pretty darn perfect.
#mywriting#stucky#Steve x Bucky#darcy lewis#short and cute#kind of a epilogue - of sorts#maybe a peek behind the curtain#subliminal advertising extra#people are so amazing reaching out to give me ideas!#though I'm supposed to be writing for the three challenges I've signed up for instead 👀#but what Darcy wants - Darcy gets
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Out of Place, Out of Time (AU Oneshot)
Okay, so. I rarely (read: never) post original stuff on here, so this is a learning curve for me, pleasebenice, but I swore/promised/crossed my heart that I would contribute to @intricatecaprice 30 Days Dead Men’s Tales. And here we are! This’ll probably be messy and not nearly as pretty as the rest of those gorgeous posts, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?
So, I of course had the idea of Isabeau being plonked into the lap of one Cursed Capitán. I mean, who wouldn’t? But as it is currently being wonderfully done by so many talented authors, I decided to stick with my human Salazar. But this is just a small scratch of satisfaction to that itch. I hope you enjoy! (Also, just wanna note that this isn’t the Monarch and these are different prisoners than those in the beginning of the film. I tried to make that distinct, but just want to clarify. Also, this is purely self-indulging, so please excuse any errors.)
Prisoners Should Know Their Place
It was the screams that told Isabeau her luck was about to change for the worst. And that was a feat, since she was pretty sure her luck had already hit rock bottom.
The guy in the cell next to her, barely a few years older than her, if even that, began to whimper in terror, his fingers tugging at dirty red hair. The wrinkled old man with him started muttering prayers under his breath, the gaps of missing teeth flashing every now and then.
Pretty sure that's not gonna help anyone, dude. Isabeau sighed, then grimaced when her ribs protested the movement. The nasty bruise from the officer's boot would take a while to heal, especially since he hadn't bothered holding back when he'd literally kicked her into the cell.
Asshole. I hope he was one of the ones that screamed like a little girl.
Despite the tone of her thoughts, Isabeau was worried. Whoever had boarded the Victorious were going through the crew with lightning speed, and nothing outside gave away any hints of who the attackers were. For all she knew, they'd be worse than the British she found herself prisoner of.
Great. This day really can get worse. I honestly didn't think it could.
There was a couple of loud crashes up above, and a distinct sound of crackling that sent tendrils of alarm snaking down her limbs.
Fire. I smell fire.
Cinders began to float down through the cracks in the boards and she struggled to keep the primal part of her brain from sending her into a panic.
The younger guy apparently had less control and suddenly threw himself at the bars with a loud crash, screaming at the top of his lungs. The old man tried to calm him, to keep him quiet, but he was thrown off.
Mere seconds later, slow footsteps began to thump heavily down the stairs to the brig.
The screaming man instantly quieted, staring up at the deck above in horror.
Isabeau looked up from where she sat curled in the corner, surprised by the prickle of unease that skittered with spider legs across her nape.
Whatever was coming their way wasn't anything good.
All three of them froze as boots suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs, slowly descending to show a large man leaning heavily on a cane as he made his way down the steps.
It wasn't his sheer, intimidating size that made Isabeau's breath freeze in her lungs.
It was the way his hair wafted around his head in a halo of black strands, like he was underwater.
It was how flakes of ash floated in his wake whenever he moved.
It was his burnt and decrepit uniform, shifting and following his movements in a way that wasn't natural.
It was the grey skin, covered in ashen cracks and the splintered skull with sharp, jagged edges of bone.
It was the burning amber eyes, almost glowing with their brilliance in the dark.
They all stood staring at each other for a brief second, then the man was joined by more men, men that had similar appearances of unnaturalness.
Isabeau was grateful she was already sitting down, else she would have collapsed on the floor.
They had walked through the walls. They had simply walked the walls, as if it'd been empty space.
What...the fuck…
The old man next to her began to moan his prayers, a note of bleakness in his tone that said he knew he was about to die.
Isabeau wasn’t feeling much more optimistic, but she had bigger things to worry about. Such as why the apparent leader of the ghostly horde was now staring directly at her, and he hadn’t blinked since he’d spotted her.
In her short experience in an 18th century world, she’d come to the quick realization that women were simple commodities to be acquired, to be seen and not heard. To actually have intelligence as a woman was considered unnatural, a short step from being pronounced a witch or insane.
So the fact that any man, not merely a ghostly one, was staring at her with such unnerving focus was not a good thing.
She bit her lip, blood seeping on her tongue in an effort not to snap at the man to ask what he was looking at.
The older man’s moaning grew louder, the other man trying to figure out if he was going to fight while there was a distinct stain on the front of his pants, his blue eyes wide with terror.
Apparently, the imposing figure staring at her had had enough. A slight jerk of his head towards the other two prisoners and one of the ghostly apparitions behind him stepped forward, through the cell bars, and thrust a corroded sword straight through the moaning inmate.
Silence instantly echoed through the brig following the thud of his body.
And still the man continued to stare at her, making her skin itch under his perusal, making her want to curl into herself to hide from his burning gaze.
Finally, he stepped forwards, and no, she hadn’t been imagining things.
His entire body passed through the iron bars, sliding through them only a faint resistance and leaving them sizzling and smoking in his wake.
Definitely not human, definitely not human!
Isabeau pressed backwards into the corner, curling tighter as the man or whatever he was continued to move towards her with slow, steady steps. She kept her eyes lowered, so as not to seem as a challenge, and was surprised to find him crouching in front of her.
She squeezed further into the corner, bracing herself for another boot, or possibly a hand, when she heard a deep voice rumble, “Look at me.”
It should have sounded like rocks grinding together, as deep as his baritone was, but instead it sounded like liquid honey, like the purr of a lover, his accent making it roll through the air like music. She could hear a gravelly rasp to it that only added a smoky flavor, making her skin shiver and tingle in the wake of the sound.
Carefully, she slid her eyes up, taking in the once elegant uniform that still flattered his powerful body with its faded stripes, the tattered cravat that floated and swayed in a nonexistent breeze, until her gaze landed on a face that would haunt her dreams.
She sucked in a quick breath, surprised by how utterly handsome the ghostly man was, even in death. Her eyes skimmed over strong, mature features of a male in his prime, who would have been beyond devastating had he been alive.
Nor had he missed her interest, something flaring visibly in those burning amber eyes that made her swallow convulsively.
The man straightened, towering over her, and turned to gesture at another of the men that accompanied him, one with an eyepatch over one side of his face.
Unfortunately, the other inmate still alive had apparently found his courage, if not his brains.
He slammed his hands into the bars, one of his fingers crooked as if he’d broken it, and sneered at the man standing in front of her, “What use do you have of some whore, Spanish dog? You can’t-”
He never got to finish before the man whirled and his hand flashed out, instantly wrapping around the inmate’s throat. He was lifted off his feet in a frightening display of strength, while the man in the striped coat hissed, “She’s mine, and you would do well to remember that.”
Isabeau honestly thought he was going to kill him, but instead he only held him for a few seconds more, just long enough to make sure his point got across, then dropped him, leaving the man in a crumpled heap on the filthy floor.
Wait. What does he mean, “she’s mine”?
“Moss, bring him.” The man before her whirled around with blazing speed, reaching down to grab her arm and hauled her to her feet.
Isabeau gasped at the feel of his icy fingers on her arm, as unbreakable as any manacle, before she was dragged after him.
One of his men broke the cell lock and he continued to yank her along, making her ribs scream in protest.
“...wait,” she gasped as he headed towards the stairs. “Wait!”
She threw herself backwards, no mean feat when her weight was being continuously dragged forwards, and the man holding her whipped around to glare at her, his eyes a burning crimson.
“I will not wait, chica. You are my prisoner now, and I do not wait for prisoners!”
Prisoner. That hated word burned in her gut. She’d heard it more over the past few days than she ever cared to again, along with a good many more slurs against her simply for her gender.
Fury made her hiss up at his face, “I’m not your fucking prisoner, now let - go of me!”
With a burst of frantic strength, she managed to wrench free of his grip, which had slackened a hair in his surprise at her outburst.
She turned and bared her teeth in a snarl at the one-eyed ghost that stepped in front of her. His eye flickered over her shoulder and he moved out of her way, staring at her with such hostility that her anger faltered.
Two others paused in the act of dragging the unconscious man out of his cell, his dirty red hair hanging lank about his face.
Isabeau shuddered, glad she hadn’t been put in the cell with him, and limped towards the room where her bags had been carelessly tossed. Sighing at the sight of her clothes thrown haphazardly on the bench, she closed her eyes wearily, just wishing this day had never begun.
She heard wheezing breaths behind her and knew that the man had followed her. The one who had claimed her as his prisoner. The one who stared at her with uncomfortable intensity.
Squeezing her eyes harder before opening them, she stepped forwards and began picking up her things, the smell of smoke gradually growing stronger.
“You are not English. What are you doing in an English cell?” the man asked suspiciously, stepping around to peer curiously at her belongings before swinging his gaze back to her.
“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you,” she muttered, then finally couldn’t take it anymore and pulled her shirt over her head, not caring if she was being watched or not.
She heard a wheezed curse and felt her face burn in embarrassment, then quickly grabbed another of her shirts and slipped it on.
Grabbing the rest of her things and tossing the strap on her big bag over her shoulder, she turned to see the man had given her his back out of some form of courtesy.
Claiming her as his prisoner or not, she appreciated the gesture.
“I don’t even know your name.”
He turned to face her, his stance proud even with his slightly hunched back. “Capitán Armando Antón Salazar de Estrada. And yours, chica?”
A spark drifted down from the ceiling and she sidestepped it warily, suddenly realizing just where they were. And what was happening to the Victorious. “Isabeau Revanne. Okay, fine, I’m your prisoner, take me to your brig.”
She’d been trying to expedite matters to get off the burning hulk, but apparently the only thing she’d managed to expedite was Capitán Salazar’s temper.
He stepped forwards, towering over her even without a straightened spine, and glared down at her. “Sí, you are my prisoner, and prisoners should know their place.”
Isabeau swallowed as she struggled not to stare at his face. “My place is in your brig, isn’t it?”
Salazar stared at her for a good long minute, making her grow more and more nervous as heat began to filter down to the room, before he suddenly smiled.
It was a smile that made her extremely uneasy.
“Perhaps I have another purpose for you. Your companion in the brig had a good idea, no?”
Her companion? Wait, the one who had called her a-
“I’m not a whore!” Isabeau spat indignantly, gritting her teeth in outrage at the suggestion. She’d been called worse since she’d been tossed into that cell, but honestly, she’d somehow been under the impression that Capitán Salazar was different.
His burning gaze flickered over her, taking in her clothes that must seem incredibly strange to him. “That remains to be seen.”
Both their attentions jerked upwards at a loud crash, but Salazar was quicker to recover.
Isabeau yelped as she was suddenly lifted into the air, wheezing as a broad shoulder was wedged into her stomach.
Salazar turned and snapped an order, one of his men slinking forwards to pick up her belongings.
Clinging to the back of his coat, Isabeau struggled to breathe as she was carried along.
Salazar paused at the top of the stairs before moving over to the railing.
What is he-
Her thought vanished as he leapt over the railing, the sudden shock of it sucking the scream right out of her throat as she saw pitch-black water rushing towards her.
She squeezed her eyes shut, only to feel herself suddenly jolt to a stop.
Confused, she cracked open one eye, then both went wide in shock as she still saw water beneath her, yet it wasn’t getting any closer.
Salazar was walking on water. He was walking on water.
An explosion of fire and noise drew her attention away from this new knowledge and she hissed in pain when one chunk of burning debris grazed her arm.
Salazar instantly jerked to the side, swinging her out of the way of another piece of debris before breaking into a run.
Another explosion and she looked up to see a cannon sailing straight towards them. “Look out!”
The massive metal construct whistled by them as Salazar swerved at her warning, his pace increasing to a lithe run as he put distance between them and the exploding wreck of the Victorious.
Finally, he began to slow down to a rolling jog, then coiled his big body into a crouch before springing upwards.
They landed lightly on the deck of a rotting hulk of a ship, a vessel twice the size of the one she’d been on, if not bigger, but all she caught was a quick glimpse, catching sight of the red-haired man sprawled on the deck where he’d been dropped before Salazar turned and carried her down a corridor,
Indignation began to fuel a burning strength. She’d spent the last several days locked in a cell, she’d woken up in this hell hole of a time period with no warning, she had no idea how to get back, and for the icing on the fucking cake, she had been kidnapped by a stupidly handsome ghost whose intentions she didn’t have the slightest clue about.
And she was tired of feeling his shoulder digging into her stomach!
“Put. Me. Down!” Isabeau thrashed and threw herself back against his restraining arm, ignoring the screaming in her ribs at the sudden movement.
Salazar grunted at her unexpected struggling, then shoved his way through a door, slamming it closed behind him.
Isabeau found herself flung into the air with a squeal and she flailed wildly before landing on something plush and slightly lumpy. She laid there for a second, sucking air into her lungs as her bruised stomach ached, then carefully sat upright, staring at the ghostly captain warily.
But to her confusion, he wasn’t looking at her face. Instead, his gaze was somewhere lower, and she glanced down in alarm, only to see that her shirt had ridden up when she’d been tossed onto the settee. And the bootprint bruised into her ribs was clearly visible.
“Which one?”
Isabeau’s attention flashed back to Salazar, his deep voice ominously quiet, rage turning his irises a bloody crimson. Black blood ran down his chin as he bared his teeth in a snarl. “Which one?!”
Slowly, she inched her shirt down to cover the bruises. “One of the officers. I’m pretty sure he’s dead now.”
Sanguine eyes flicked to her face. “Did he touch you - anywhere else?”
She quickly shook her head, even as she wondered why the mere thought of it enraged him. Surely such a thing was commonplace in this time period.
Salazar made a noise in his throat, almost a growl, his face still stern and unyielding in his anger. His fist tightened around the hilt of his rapier, which she just now noticed was still gripped in his hand.
Isabeau edged backwards along the settee warily, then yelped in alarm when he lifted it up and plunged the tip into the floor with a loud thud, the blade quivering from the force of the blow.
They were both frozen for a second, then Salazar straightened and sent her a harsh glare. “Do not move.”
And with the ominous implications of what would happen if she didn’t obey his orders hanging in the air, he whirled and walked through the door without opening it, leaving wisps of ash trailing behind him.
Isabeau didn’t feel like moving from her spot on the settee. She had seen how deep the blade had plunged into the floorboards and felt it was wise not to incite the captain’s temper. Though that didn’t stop her curiosity from lifting its head and creating questions about the man.
She didn’t realize that she’d dozed off until she felt weight depress the cushions next to her.
Something cool was spreading soothing bliss over the aching bruise on her side, making the pain fade to a background hum.
She cracked open bleary eyes to see a man sitting next to her, huge and imposing, yet his touch was gentle as he feathered calloused fingers over her skin.
“Thank you.”
Salazar paused at her words, then resumed rubbing whatever it was into her bruise. “You are welcome.”
Isabeau was quiet for a second, watching him groggily before blurting, “Why are you helping me?”
This time he didn’t pause, merely pulled away for a second to wipe his fingers off on a rag. “You are my prisoner, therefore my responsibility.”
She couldn’t help but be fascinated by his smooth, efficient movements, the complete unnaturalness to him. He shouldn’t exist, but here he was. Still, questions continued to bounce around in her mind.
“Why did you bring that other man too?”
He chuckled ominously as he suddenly leaned over her, those eerie eyes fixed on her face. “Because I always leave one man alive to tell of me. And since I’m not letting you go, I needed someone else.”
She swallowed nervously as she felt his fingers stroke her hair back behind her ear, felt his weight depress the cushions around her. “What do you mean, you’re not letting me go?”
His hand slid under the back of her skull, huge and powerful against the bone, and he held her still as he leaned closer. His hair flowed downwards to tickle her cheeks when he stopped, his nose almost touching hers. A black grin spread across his lips. “You’re mine, now. And I don’t let go of what is mine.”
#30 days of dead men's tales#Armando Salazar is hot even dead#Just how#Out of Place Out of Time#Potc5#We need more Salazar#There seriously isn't enough#I need help#Think it might be addiction
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A/N: (Hello! Haven’t been round here in a while, but it’s still lovely; you’re still lovely. And here’s a dual thank-you-for-filling-my-late-it-cravings and I-miss-stan-he-deserves-some-fix-it-fluff-too thoughts. Hope you’re having a good one!!)
This is so cute!! I loved it, thank you for submitting!! - Raspberry xo
There was a time in Stan’s life where he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen someone get tickled. It might happen occasionally; a poke here or there to accent a point or get someone to shift away. Then Richie decided he rather liked tickling, and well—
It’s not like any of the Losers had a lot of say when Richie wanted something.
But it wasn’t horrible, as much as Stan might’ve feared anyway. When half their time dissolved into wrestling matches, tussling and rolling around the carpet of Bill’s room, the addition of some wandering, wiggling fingers just meant less bruising (most of the time) and more laughing (all of the time).
This was probably due to the fact that the group, surprisingly or not, knew a lot about each person’s limits, even without saying so.
Richie didn’t have any, first of all. He was as content with ticklish tracing down his back as he was getting pinned to the ground and thoroughly taken apart. Of course, none of the Losers went full overboard or anything nasty, but even the more sadistic times they could remember left Richie cherry red and teary-eyed, beaming long after the tickling had stopped.
On the other side of the spectrum, Stan would have to put himself.
That’s not to say he had a problem participating in the suddenly numerous amount of tickle fights the group now had. If anything, he might even enjoy them, as long as Richie never found out. The gloating of his ‘genius idea’ would be unbearable and likely result in him getting tackled and wrecked—which is exactly what he wanted anyways, defeating the point entirely.
So yes, he enjoyed them, but almost strictly as the one doing the tickling.
Then he started dating Bill.
Dating Bill was easy, especially once their friends stopped their ‘subtle’ gawking and lame teasing. It was as cool and natural as their friendship, with the bonus of cuddles whenever Stan so desired (and he wouldn’t have thought that he’d want them all that much, but once he got them, he couldn’t imagine being without them).
And as their friendship slid easily into their relationship, so did their friend group’s element of random, frequent tickle fights.
And Stan liked them even more, if he were to be honest.
There is nothing in the world that can beat the sound of Bill Denbrough’s laughter or the look on his face as Stan scribbles quick and nimble fingers up his sides.
He’s a constant stream of babbling nonsense with no way to understand through his laughter and stutter combined. His hands tug uselessly at Stan’s sleeves, body squirming violently without going anywhere. His eyes get all crinkly with a smile so bright that when Stan stops, he feels more breathless than he thinks Bill might be.
Just the thought of Bill, flushed red and breathing deeply through stray giggles has Stan’s fingers itching for something to do, but—
That’s exactly what he shouldn’t do.
Stan blinks, eyes focusing back on his surroundings.
The TV is still on, at some part of the movie, though Stan has absolutely no idea where. He could’ve zoned out five minutes ago or fifty. This may even be a new movie; he’s not sure.
He can feel Bill take a deep breath behind him, chest raising enough to push lightly behind Stan’s back.
Bill’s hand lies still on his side.
And that—that’s what started Stan’s train of thought.
Because Bill, he was a bit of a fidgeter, at least when it came to touch.
He constantly had his hands moving; winding through Stan’s curls, rubbing over his back, caressing his cheeks. It was nice, one of Stan’s favorite things, actually. But Stan was perceptive, and he’d started to notice something.
He started to notice that Bill’s hands would sometimes, and with increasing frequency, come to a dead stop.
It happened when the were in his room, wasting the night away with slow kisses, his hands drifting slowly from Stan’s hair down his neck.
It happened in the night, when he held Stan from behind, a hand clasped over the front of his stomach.
And it happened just now, when his hand slipped from doodling small patterns over the sleeve of Stan’s upper arm to lay over his side.
Stan had noticed, though he hadn’t said a word. And he’d spent the week trying to put the pieces together, though it hadn’t really clicked until last night.
They were lounging around Bill’s room, splayed out over his bedsheets. It was all casual conversation when Bill shot off a snarky comment that had Stan poking a giggle out of him, a sound Stan felt compelled to chase after. And then after he’d wrestled Bill down and made him cry mercy—
Bill had sat up, a glint in his eyes.
A glint that had Stan’s eyes widening, skin prickling.
And then the look left, and Bill tugged him into a gentle and tired cuddle.
And it sounded dumb at the time, when Stan had tried to work out what just happened, but now-
Did Bill want to tickle him?
The thought sends heat crawling up Stan’s neck; it’s dumb and embarrassing, but-
It makes sense, if he thinks about it.
While Bill did get his fair share of attacks in the group, he’d never been one to turn down revenge. He’d even start a fight or two, if one of their friends looked a little bored or put out, just to liven them back up again.
Having a younger brother, Bill did have some of the most experience in this niche topic. He’d definitely sent more than one of the Losers into hysterics with his skilled, probing fingers.
And just the image of Bill, straddling a friend Stan can’t bother to conjure into better focus, with his head tilted, grin teasing, a devilish glint to his eyes—
Stan’s wants so badly to turn and check that Bill can’t feel the heat that’s burning his ears, but that’d probably look even more suspicious than what his paranoid brain is coming up with now.
So, what?
The problem had been found, mostly, kind of. It’s the closest thing to an answer Stan can reason to anyways, what with the small amount of information he’s gathered.
So this would be the part where he plans out the solution.
But—
Stan shifts in muddled discomfort before he can really think about what he’s doing. He masks it as repositioning and settles back more snuggly against Bill’s chest, hoping his boyfriend hasn’t noticed.
He settles for worrying at his lip, still lost in thought.
He doesn’t know how ticklish he is. He doesn’t even know if he is ticklish.
When tickle frights became a normal thing in the Losers’ Club—and even the thought has Stan rolling his eyes—he’d been hesitant.
Alright, more than hesitant, he’d been opposed.
The thought of being squished against the floor, hands ruffling through his clothes, while he made any number of weird snorting (Bill), shrieking (Eddie), or combined (Richie) kind of noise—
It unsettled him.
And bless him, somehow all of his friends, down to Richie ‘no boundaries’ Tozier, had gotten it without being asked and let him be.
But now…
Now he hears a thump and screaming laughter and he’s not scared. He’s sometimes annoyed, sometimes entertained. But now, it’s the new normal and…
His eyes roll more forcefully, almost rolling right out of his head.
It’s the new normal and he kind of wishes someone had just gotten him involved already so he didn’t have to go through the process of giving his boyfriend permission to tickle him.
The movie is still going, but Stan is 100% sure Bill isn’t paying attention. If he were, he’d have already gone back to some mindless, endearing movement, but his hand still lies fixed on Stan’s waist.
So Stan flips forward onto his stomach before pushing himself up to straddle Bill’s legs. Now Bill seems to be paying attention, though he only get a small “w-wha-“ out before his mouth seals shut at Stan’s hands, slipping under his shirt to drum lightly on his stomach.
He immediately goes to bite his lip, fighting to keep the twitching of his mouth to a minimum. Stan can’t help the smile that takes his own face. And though he knows what his goal is, he can’t help a quick swipe of fingers that has Bill tensing, eyes shutting, and mouth puffing in a startled breath, before he continues the steady tap-tap-tap.
“S-Stan, come on. Are you r-re-really-“
Another gratuitous scribble of Stan’s fingers catches Bill mid-speech and pulls a bright laugh out of him before his mouth zips shut once again, stubbornly refusing to let Stan catch him off guard.
And then they’re silent—waiting—tension growing with every bored tap of Stan’s fingers.
And Stan, he was just going to say it.
Rather, his plan was to just go out and say it.
But for some reason, the words, “You can tickle me, if you want,” are stuck somewhere beneath his windpipe. And in the time it takes for Stan to wrestle them into his mouth, Bill’s smile has shifted from one of light torment to full-bodied amusement.
He raises an eyebrow, when Stan finally meets his gaze, a repressed huff of laughter shaking his chest even though Stan’s fingers have stilled.
And damn it if this deviates a little from the plan, but sometimes Bill is just asking for it.
So Stan decides to take the scenic route to his destination, scribbling his fingers over Bill’s lower stomach and admiring the view when his shocked expression quickly crumbles into unrestrained laughter.
Bill does as Bill always does, grabbing ahold of the fabric around Stan’s wrists without really doing much to block the movement of his fingers, spidering up to his rib cage and back down. He just needs something to hold onto and the thought would make Stan smile if he weren’t already.
As his fingers travel along the familiar space, tracing nonsense onto Bill’s stomach, kneading along his sides, and scratching at the bone and spaces of his ribs (maybe sneaking a poke or two under his arms when he’s dumb enough to keep them up), Bill’s squirming only grows more wild.
It’s kind of funny actually. Here Bill is, able to pin any one of them down in a wrestling match (or whenever he finds it necessary to help someone else get some well-deserved revenge), and yet he never tries to use any of that strength to just, say, buck his torturer off.
It’s really not that hard a conclusion to come to, even if your mind is preoccupied with something more…pressing. But Bill still manages to let that slip his mind entirely, every time, and instead squirms and jolts and writhes around until he’s spent.
Sometimes Stan thinks Richie isn’t the only one who’s taken a liking to this new pastime of their’s. But Stan is a nice boyfriend, so he won’t embarrass Bill with that conclusion yet.
There’s enough pink in Bill’s cheeks now to see in the dark of the living room, lit only by the television long forgotten in the corner. The color starts somewhere beneath the collar of his shirt and washes up to the tips of his ears. Stan’s fingers travel with a mind of their own, slipping up the side of Bill’s well-travelled torso to follow the path of color.
And although Bill’s movements had calmed slightly as the tickling went on, fingers spidering up the side of his neck are enough to get him going again. His shoulder flinches inward, hands moving to fist in Stan’s shirt and push him marginally back. A desperate and semi-clear, “p-p-plehehease!” squeaks out through the blubbering.
Stan lingers, long enough for Bill’s nose to scrunch up and deliver an unfairly adorable snort, kicking the color in his face up a notch, before he finally stops, leaving his hand to play with the wild hair mussed up around the nape of Bill’s neck.
It doesn’t take Bill too long to get his breath back, though the tingly feeling of Stan playing with his hair does punctuate his breathy ‘calm down’ laughter with a sharp giggle or two every now and then.
It’s a sight Stan can’t get enough of and who could blame him?
But then, he’s reminded of exactly how this all came to be and exactly what is waiting for him.
One hand slips loose of Stan’s shirt, settling behind Bill for him to use as leverage. He pushes himself up, a smile on his face, but one much more controlled, more devious than the one Stan had put on his face moments before. His eyes are sparkling with left over laughter and steely with a quiet determination.
The hand still gripping one side of Stan’s shirt, hovering over his side, is suddenly all Stan can think about.
But all too soon, Bill’s gaze starts to go soft again. Stan latently thinks of what he must look like, the deer-in-the-headlights look, the spike of fear that muddles the strange anticipation in his gut. It’s got to be this that has Bill backing down before he’s even touched him.
“You know, you can-“ Bill’s eyes find Stan’s from where he’s begun settling back into the pillows. Stan has to take a second to refocus. He swallows.
“You can get me back, if you want.”
And that seems to be the last thing Bill was expecting, if his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline means anything. His mouth hangs open for a second, trying to speak with no sound coming out. Bill clears his throat.
“S-Stan, are you-?”
The question fades out and Stan has absolutely no idea why it has him feeling twitchy. The need to slip off Bill’s lap, out of his hold, grows strong in the back of his head.
“I don’t know,” His tongue feels dry. “But you can—you can try.”
The statement ends high, like a question, with Stan shifting his position at how awkward it all sounds. Bill doesn’t move his hand an inch, from where it’s still fisted in his tee, but Stan’s own movements have the fabric ghosting against his side and tingling in a shockingly new and sensitive way.
And they just sit there, in silence. Bill probably still staring up at Stan; he wouldn’t know. For some reason—despite how confusing this situation is making him feel—he knows for a fact that he’ll blow a fuse if he keeps looking Bill in the eye after finally spitting that out, so he doesn’t.
They sit there so long—at least it feels ridiculously long—in such a tense silence that Stan feels the sudden need to apologize.
Maybe he got it wrong. Maybe Bill was just forming new habits and Stan read too much into it. Maybe now he’s gone and asked Bill to—to tickle him, basically, and now he’s weirded out!
Stan gets so caught up in his own internal rambling that he doesn’t recognize the soft yet persistent pinching against his side until he’s jerking away and into the couch cushions.
It stops upon impact, but as soon as Stan’s pushed himself back upright, it’s back and worse.
A gasp catches in his throat and his left arm is pushing at the feeling with no thought as to what is could be, just that it needs to stop.
Then three things happen, in rapid succession.
First, Stan’s fingers tangle with Bill’s.
Next comes the realization of what’s happening, a realization Bill seems to have at the same time.
Then, Bill’s sly grin makes a reappearance, and Stan feels breathless all over.
Of course, that’s nothing compared to what real breathlessness can be, Stan finds out.
Because it’s a quick tussle that leads to their positions reversed, Stan—frazzled and still in minor shock—pinned underneath Bill—whose smile seems to grow with every second.
And then Bill’s fingers are tripping up Stan’s sides, clumsy in their excitement, but very, very effective.
They’re so devastatingly effective that Stan doesn’t actually realize he’s laughing until the room is echoing with it.
It sounds almost foreign to his own ears, high and frantic and loud. He can’t remember the last time he laughed so long or hard, but it’s not the most prominent thought on his mind at the moment. What is front and center is the tingling, electric, and down right debilitating sensation sparking along his body.
If Stan could get a coherent word, or even thought in, he might compliment Bill on his thorough technique. All that comes out though is a series of mortifying squeals and varying degrees of laughter. Ironically enough, this seems to be all the compliment of skill Bill needs.
His hands work methodically to trace, prod, and spider over every conceivable tickle spot Stan might have. And while it answers Stan’s lingering curiosity of his body, he did not need to know with such depth (or any depth, really) the different pitches of his own laughter that come from Bill drilling into each and every one of his ribs. Of course, Bill finds this to be critical information, and it might drive Stan a little crazy.
It’s only once Bill wriggles his fingers into the space under Stan’s arms that he squeals and latches onto Bill’s wrists.
Oh, yes, self-defense is a thing. Maybe Stan wouldn’t judge Bill on forgetting that quite so harshly next time.
But even with Bill’s hands in his grasp, Stan can’t just…push them away.
He could—physically. Despite the barrage of giggles pouring from him, he knows he could shove Bill onto the carpet or at least away from his shockingly sensitive armpits with enough effort.
But when he peeks through damp lashes (when did he start tearing up?), Bill looks the happiest Stan can remember seeing in a while. And beneath all that giddiness is a look so fond, it warms Stan in a way even his useless struggling hasn’t done yet.
So he—gives in.
His hands stay clamped around Bill’s wrists but do little more than squeeze tighter when Bill’s mouth joins the fray, dotting kisses into the crook of Stan’s neck and making him squeak externally and groan internally at the sappy picture they must make.
And in what must be the most surprising revelation of the night, Stan finds that he…doesn’t hate this.
He didn’t expect to truly despise it or anything (though he can’t say the thought didn’t cross his mind). But even so, the fears he’d had before—about losing control and feeling silly—haven’t really been an issue. And the unexpected pros of Bill being touchy, fixed with that sunshine-bright smile, and leaving him with the pleasant ache of a good laugh—
It’s actually kind of nice.
Damn it, Richie.
Stan doesn’t have the mind to follow that thought though, or any other matter-of-fact, because as soon as it enter his head, Bill’s fingers have slipped into the dips of his hip bones and started drilling in.
And he may have—no, definitely—spoken too soon, because it’s not until that point that Stan really does loose his mind.
It’s like the tingles that’ve floated through his body have all decided to ricochet towards one unbelievably sensitive point, and the shriek leaves his mouth before he can even get the breath for it.
Stan’s hips buck up instinctually, trying frantically to displace the sudden, overwhelming feeling. He can hear weird shrieking and loud laughter that can’t possibly be coming from him, but he can’t place it over the number one priority of getting enough air in.
He doesn’t know what to do, what to say. His body and mind are live wires that won’t connect, so he does the only thing he can think to do.
“B-Bill, plehease!” Stan gasps out, and—just like that—Bill’s hands are rubbing firm, soothing, and decidedly non-tickly strokes over the lingering prickle in Stan’s hips.
Stan is still gasping, like he’d just run a marathon if not for the intermittent strings of laughter. When Bill slides off Stan’s legs and into the space beside him, Stan can’t comment, but he does shift closer to smother the last of his soft giggles into Bill’s chest.
At that point, Stan is put together enough to realize that Bill is laughing, albeit without making any noise, but still laughing at Stan. So Stan smacks his shoulder, without any of the force that he should be using, before snuggling back into Bill’s arms. It has the opposite effect in making Bill laugh more, but Stan can’t be bothered to care; all he wants right now is to nap.
And with Bill’s hand rubbing softly up and down his back, sometimes trailing lightly in a way Stan now recognizes as a little bit ticklish, it’s all he can do to not pass out then and there.
But first, his voice comes out low and slurred.
“You are not telling the others about this.”
Bill laughs again, this time out loud. The shaking of his chest earns another smack from Stan. But between that and the kiss he leaves on Stan’s forehead, Stan falls into a peaceful sleep, a soft smile still on his face.
(Of course, the others do end up finding out. And Stan knows Bill didn’t say anything—at least purposefully—by the shock of his wide eyes and the apologetic gaze he offers Stan when Richie throws the first teasing comment.
Stan figured this would happen honestly, but that doesn’t stop him from rolling his eyes and flipping Richie the bird.
Things don’t change too drastically, even so. Sometimes Richie will tase his sides to steal Stan’s attention away from his books. Sometimes Eddie will poke at his ribs to check if he’s paying attention to his lectures.
Once in a while someone will try to catch him unaware and launch an attack. And sometimes he’ll just—let it happen. Because it’s really not that bad and it can feel nice to laugh with friends—especially when Stan knows he can turn the tables at any moment.
The only thing that does worry him for some time is the thought of someone slipping their hands a little lower than his sides. Call it baby steps, but Stan doesn’t feel quite ready to let that loose in front of a crowd.
But thanks to the fact that Stan’s hipbones are secured safely underneath the band of his pants, a place even Richie wouldn’t venture in his little experiments (if only because of Bill’s glaring), Stan feels sure enough that his secret will stay safe.
As safe as possible, anyways, with Bill already abusing the information.
Because as many times as Stan thinks, and even calls, Bill a monster for using that secret so liberally when they’re alone, Bill will always shoot back, smiling ear to ear, that he’ll stop as soon as Stan asks him to.
And well, behind the lingering smile and buzzing warmth in his stomach, Stan finds himself ignoring the teasing comment and diving right back in to make sure Bill knows the same is true for him too.)
#stenbrough#stanley uris#bill denbrough#stan x bill#bill x stan#it#stenbrough fic#it fic#tickle fic#ticklefic#submission#fic
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The Past: Part 4
One, Two, Three, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine
Summary: Logan doesn’t recall being Apathy, he can’t remember a single instance in his life where he was the dark side Apathy. As far as he’s aware he’s always just been... Logic, Thomas’ Logic to be more precise. He lives and he breathes as Logic and nothing more.
Except...He’s certain that he isn’t supposed to have emotions, that little things like being called stupid and having the word infinitesimal thrown at him aren’t supposed to hurt the way that they do. He’s certain that he was never supposed to feel, let alone everything that he does now. He just doesn’t understand these feelings, not to mention the dreams of a blank white tie that was folded to crisp perfection. He doesn’t understand the dreams in which he stands before Deceit and the others, with such a tiny smile, but a smile nonetheless.
He doesn’t understand, why when he looks at his friends... and he feels nothing but fear and anger.
Logan woke to the feeling of arms encircling him, his body gingerly bobbing to the pace of someone walking, and the smell of smoke, ash, and fire in his nose, along with the faintest whiff of deodorant, that most certainly didn’t smell all that pleasant. But to say that he woke up was a bit of a stretch, as his mind went in and out of consciousness as his sore body rested in the arms of whoever was carrying him, he couldn’t help the tiny sound of pain that left his lips as his head jostled a little. Just to feel the arms holding him tighten almost instinctually as the person kept walking, their fingers digging even more into his arms and legs as if loosening their hold even the slightest little bit meant that he would just cease to be.
Where was he? Where was he being taken? Who was holding him exactly? Had Patton found him? Roman? Virgil?
“Easy does it,” The surprisingly warm tilted accent graced Logan’s ears, sending Logan internally spiraling in surprise. “I’ve gotcha nerdy wolverine, I know the ride’s a bit bumpy.” Remus for the life of him actually sounded just a little bit sorry as he readjusted his grip on Logan. The world around him was a blur of dark greens and blacks, leaving him unable to truly tell if they were still in the forest or someplace else that Remus had imagined up just for the logical side in question.
Logan barely paid it any mind though as the back of his head seemed to endlessly ache, begging him to close his eyes and return to unconsciousness. And he did, as he moved his head nestling his face into the surprisingly soft frills of Remus’ shoulder pads as if it was the most casual thing on earth. He ignored the sharp choked intake of breath and stuttering of Remus’ gait that came from the creative side that came from his simple action, just as he ignored how the other held him differently, almost in a way cradling delicately him close to his chest before he began walking again. Instead, he closed his eyes, letting his exhausted and drained mind since back into the darkness, the steady rhythm of Remus’ footsteps eventually fading away as his breathing evened out.
Within seconds he was unconscious again.
“Apie? Apie are you awake?” A finger poked and tickled his side until he finally cracked an eye open, looking back at the other side who had crouched next to his bed an eager but suspicious grin on his face. “You are!” Remus cheered, before lowering his volume as soon as Deceit knocked on the wall, telling him for the fifth time that night to keep it down.
“Do I want to know why you’re waking me up at-” A quick glance to the clock told him that it was well past midnight, almost three in the morning at this rate, a weary sigh left him as he scrubbed at his eyes before sitting up and slipping his wireframed glasses on into place. “Three? What could be so important you rascal?” As annoyed as he sounded, there was a slight grin that curled onto his lips, one that Remus easily mimicked as he hopped up onto the bed, sitting on Logan’s feet as he did.
There was something clutched in Remus’ hands, a box who’s wrapping had clearly been done by Remus. If the haphazard cuts and pieces of tape sticking out were anything to go by.
He tilted his head to the side, “Did I miss something?” He droned, clearly uncertain as to why he was being given a mediocrely wrapped gift at three in the morning.
For a split second Remus’ face fell, but it wasn’t a look that lasted long. “It’s for you dumbshit!” The so-called insult rolled right off of Remus’ tongue, but even so, he wasn’t all too bothered by it. Remus’ more harmful insults were the ones that didn’t have a single bit of cursing in them, so this.. this was child’s play. “It’s your birthday! Dee said that you formed today, so… I created you something. Something that you can use every day!” Remus squirmed in front of him, still holding the box before he roughly shoved it onto Logan’s lap, still sitting impatiently on Logan’s legs as he did.
Oh. “Thank you,” The words sounded bland, even to him, but regardless of his tone, Remus beamed like sun, his grin lighting up his face.
Slipping open the box, Logan felt something inside of him soften as two things rolled out onto his lap. The first being a soft baby blue hat with a little lightbulb patch right on the front, and the second… a white tie that had painstakingly and neatly been rolled up in order to fit into the box along with the hat that Remus had created. He could have easily made a bigger box, but knowing Remus.. and how excited he managed to get over creating things, he hadn’t been too worried about that. In fact, he had probably been excited to create anything at all. The softness inside of him pooled in the bottom of his stomach like a bog puffing out poisonous cloudy columns of gas.
“Thank you, Remus, I apprecia-”
Before he could get another word of his thanks out, Remus’ arms latched on around his neck, and Logan went stiff before eventually softening into the display of affection.
“I love you Apat-”
“What did you do to him?!”
Deceit’s voice broke through the haze of Logan’s dreams, as he slowly blinked his eyes open to a cool dark room that surrounded him. He no longer felt the warm arms of Remus holding him, instead, a fuzzy black pillow had been angled perfectly under his head and neck as a thick woolen blanket laid out over the top of him with the edges neatly tucked in under the sides of his body. He had been laid on a couch by the looks of things, a very roomy and big couch considering that it was just Deceit and Remus in the subconscious commons. He had never seen the inside before, considering that Patton had forbidden all of them from entering it. He had only seen the door, from the bottom of the stairwell that looked as if it led into a basement of sorts.
“I didn’t do this to him!” Logan picked his head up a little more at the sound of Remus’ voice coming from another room. “He fell into the ravine I created, and I couldn’t leave him there for one of my creatures to crack his head open and feast on the inside of his brain like a gooey buffet of blood and-” Logan’s nose wrinkled a little bit at the imagery.
“Okay.” A rough sigh came from Deceit, as he undoubtedly was rubbing at his temples in the exact fashion that Patton did whenever he had to put up with Remus for too long. “We have to get him back to his side though, if he’s gone for too long then Patton…” Deceit’s words trailed off, and as they did Logan forced his tired aching body to sit up making the covers fall away.
“Where’s my tie?” The logical side mumbled to himself, only now just noticing that it was gone as he stared down at his shirt that had the first two buttons popped off. He’d had it with him when he had fallen right? When he had… Logan’s fingers reached up to scratch at the back of his head, just to pause as soon as his fingers touched the fresh clean gauze that was wrapped around it. Surely he hadn’t hit his head that hard did he? Then again… he had fallen unconscious several times due to the initial impact, especially if those strange dreams were anything to go by.
“You’re awake!” Remus’ jittery and way too loud broke through his internal musings as he made his way towards the logical side, the smile on his face seemed way too wide and way too fake to be anything real. It almost resembled Patton’s smile, from breakfast earlier that morning, except Remus’ smile did have an air real warmth about it, unlike the cold sharpness of Patton’s. “For a second I thought that you had scrambled your brains like a cracked egg!” Remus chirped with that smile leaning against the side of the couch his hands folded behind his back. “You are alright… aren’t you? No screws loose yet?” Remus’ smile faded just a little.
Logan didn’t understand the warmth and softness that pooled in his stomach at the sight of Remus standing there, as if he hadn’t just saved him and carried him back to safety to have his wounds dressed properly. He didn’t understand why his heart was thudding in his chest, or even why it felt so hard to swallow all of a sudden.
“I...” Logan’s fingers itched at the bandage encircling his head, hiding the bruises that rested on his temples. “I feel fine thanks to you, a little sore, but that’s to be expected when I fall into a ravine around the size of Tartarous.” A snort left Remus and before Logan realized it, he had even cracked a slight smile at the noise, “But Deceit is right,” He added, and the air of comfort and familiarity fell away. “I should get going before the others start looking for me and assume the worst about you both holding me here. I do not wish to get you two in trouble.” He honestly said, and from the entrance of the kitchen, Deceit bobbed his head in a nod.
There was a peculiar look in both of their eyes as Logan made it to his feet, a look that made him pause for a second before he approached Remus.
“Thank you,” He seriously said, holding his hand out to Remus, “For saving me, you didn’t have to, but you did. So, anytime you wish, or any time you want to pay a visit. My room will be a sanctuary.. for both of you. I promise.”
For a second, it Remus moved his arms a little as they remained behind his back, but eventually, as his entire body quaked and trembled with the typhoon of emotions... He held his hand out. A hand that was covered in small nicks and cuts from when he had climbed down the edge of the ravine in order to retrieve Logan, but even so, he didn’t hesitate to clasp Logan’s hand giving it a firm shake as he nodded his head. It was most definitely a boon that he would use as he watched Logan leave, any safe space inside the others’ areas was a haven for both him and Dee. Right now, there was just the kitchen and the dining room they were allowed to traverse, but that was only with another side watching them. Logan.. Logan had just granted them something special.
“I’ll see you later,” Logan quirked an odd smile that felt a little weird on his face. “You rascal.”
And just like that Logan was gone, leaving Remus to seize the edge of the couch, his breathing loud in his ears as he brought his other hand from around his back. The hand that had been holding Logan’s missing and shredded tie, in the beginning, he had honestly meant to give it back to Logan. But now… now that the perfect blue had slowly been bleeding away to a pure white color the longer that it stayed within the subconscious… Remus couldn’t give it back.
Instead, he held it tight, feeling tears prickling the edges of his eyes for the first time in years, and with nothing to hold him back…
He sobbed.
#logan sanders#logic sanders#remus sanders#ts remus#ts duke#deceit sanders#ts deceit#logan is apathy#apathy au#ts sanders sides#ts sides#sanders sides#questionable patton
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Think Again (When You Stop Freaking Out) - Pt.1
Good Morning... Me?
Pairing: None Word count: 1586
Warnings: language, hella lot confusion, vomiting, blindness, sensory overload, ... irony and sass? ;)
Summary: Matt doesn’t feel like Matt. Steve doesn’t feel like Steve. How did that happen?
Story Masterlist
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Matt Murdock woke up with a startle and found out he was blind.
Now that wasn’t a strange occurrence. Unfortunately, Matt had been waking up unable to see for the past two decades, ever since he had been in an accident involving messed up chemicals and an act of spontaneous heroism on his side. In return, he had gained extremely enhanced senses and with time, he had learned to use them to see.
Which was exactly what was wrong at the moment.
Matt woke up… feeling blind.
The room he was in was strangely silent, no intrusive smells attacking his nostrils, no distinctive taste on his tongue, no extremely smooth sensation on his skin– gripping the sheets, he was very sure these weren’t his silk ones, this was not how silk felt and yet, the sheets weren’t scratching his skin so hard it would make him cry. Matt would think they were simple cotton, but this was not how it supposed to feel.
And he fucking couldn’t map the room as he couldn’t pinpoint his radar sense; his world of fire lacked fire.
He snapped his eyes open, his breathing raged, sitting up with a jolt.
He was not ready for the picture in front of him.
After all, this kind of picture only existed in his memories. This kind of picture had colours. Sharp edges, painfully so, as if every freaking atom had its place. Then again, Matt wouldn’t be a good judge of the state of his eye-sight, he couldn’t tell if it was 20/20, because he couldn’t remember what it felt like.
What could tell and was hundred percent sure of, was that… yeah, he could definitely see.
It freaked the shit out of him.
Feeling the bile rising to his mouth, his body jumped up on instinct, taking a bee line to the bathroom. It was only after he emptied his stomach that he realized that he had no clue which bathroom it was and how he had known where to go.
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Several blocks over, a man jolted awake, snapping his eyes open, only to be met with darkness.
He gasped, blinking, but there was nothing. His heart started hammering in his chest, a strange sensation vibrating through his ribcage, warmth spreading into his body with each thumb-thumb. A fraction of second later, the noise of the city assaulted his ears and hit him like a train – a train passing him by inches. He jumped back, hitting the wall behind him, quickly rolling over, falling off bed and shooting to his feet, his arms raised and fists curled up.
The noise didn’t fade out, making him raise his hands to his ears.
There was a weak taste of mint toothpaste in his mouth, barely covering other strange tastes he couldn’t quite place. His nose was itching with at least twenty different smells, mingling together and overwhelming his brain, easily causing him a headache. Not to mention his whole body was aching and he felt like every freaking cell of his body was alerting him on pain.
He thought the sweatpants he wore felt soft, yet there was an itch against his skin, as if they were made of the roughest fabric he ever felt. His balance was complete shit – the room around him pounded, the floor shaking with what he was sure was a subway train riding right under his feet and on top of all that, he was still in darkness, a strange darkness that felt somehow vibrant, flashes calling out for him.
What the hell was happening?
Calm down, soldier. You know better than to freak out. Deep breaths- oh god, so many smells, breathing in deeply was so not a good idea-- focus. Think of it as of a recon mission. In a very loud environment that resembles a battlefield, but those you know too.
Yeah, but going in this blind is a bit unusual.
Three quick knocks – and he would swear he felt them echoing in his bones, his ears pretty much bleeding with that sound – snapped his mind from racing.
“Matthew, I swear to God, if you don’t open the door, I’ll—… use my own key,” somewhat familiar voice threatened, apparently changing his mind in mid-sentence and offering a less violent solution.
It didn’t matter. Because he was in some serious trouble. The voice was too loud, joined by cacophony of tens others whispering or yelling in his head, everything felt wrong, his head hurt and apparently, he was in some Matt’s home.
He couldn’t remember drinking last night, but he made himself a promise. Steve Rogers swore that he would not get within a ten feet distance to Thor’s Asgardian liquor ever again.
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Exiting the bathroom after a very long shower – and about an hour spend on the floor, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that the tiles didn’t feel as hard as they should against his knees, his body feeling overall wrong, definitely not his, and oh yeah, he could fucking see –, brushing his teeth for at least three times (why did the toothpaste taste so faintly again…?), and examining himself in the mirror – blond? He was blond now? – he went to examine the space he had woken up in.
The apartment was rather plain, but definitely belonged to a well-situated person, only if judging by the fact Matt found himself in at least thirtieth floor. During his freak-out, he had come to a bit unorthodox and, let’s be honest, totally insane conclusion, that he had been in a body of someone else. A steroid-freak, by the way, because what the hell, Matt was sure this amount of muscle tissue could not be natural, what was the guy doing apart from drugs? So yeah, that was a thing.
The thing was, there wasn’t much else to go on. He discovered an impressive closet, ranging from work-out clothes (wow, so many work-out outfits), comfortable homey sweats and t-shirts and hoodies (Matt’s clothing of choice for now), to shirts and suits (not too many, which was strange, because again, rich guy, clearly).
In the nightstand, there were two sketchbooks (one extremely well worn) and Matt was no expert, but the drawings in it – mostly pretty random – were quite good. Huh. Rich. Freaky-ripped. Most likely on steroids. Handsome though. Artistic. Matt was surprised he didn’t find a woman’s (or man’s, whatever) underwear lying around at least, because this guy could to be a playboy for sure.
This guy. In whose body Matt was now, waking up, just like that.
He ran his hand down his face.
“Good morning to me,” he murmured, not even startled by the stranger’s voice which was – naturally – not his own.
“Good morning, Captain Rogers,” a female voice with thick Irish accent sounded above him and Matt jumped back, immediately raising his fists to protect himself (not himself) from the intruder (who might actually live here, unlike him). He saw no one.
Saw no one. Hilarious, Murdock.
He squinted, looking around, which was something he was not used to goddammit, he was supposed to sense the person coming, but while he guessed his hearing was alright for an average person, he was definitely not fine.
“May I be of any assistance?” the woman asked and Matt tilted his head in attempt to locate her better, which was perfectly useless.
What, was she invisible? Because that would be so fucking ironic he might even laugh. Able to see after two decades and the first person I meet is invisible. Congratulation, Universe, you managed to fuck it up again.
“N-no,” Matt tried out, hoping the weird… thing? Person? Would disappear and leave him alone to his inspection.
“Apologies, Sir. You seemed confused.” You have no idea. “And you were sick. Shall I inform anyone about your-“
“No, thank you. I’ll do it myself,” he blurted out, not even caring it probably didn’t sound very convincing.
“Understand, Sir.”
Matt slightly shook his head, easing his fighting stance and allowing himself to breathe in. He didn’t even know how he would fight. The self-awareness of his body, his ability to control the incredible mass was way too low, but hell, he would not have had a choice. And who knew, he might be able to pull out few moves, this body clearly remember something..
Because apparently, he was a captain. Captain Rogers. He thanked God he had a name now, at least. Now, if he would meet someone, he would at least know to turn around if someone addressed him.
It actually made sense, this guy being military. Retired maybe? Then again, he seemed fast and agile, which he would expect from an active soldier, but he wasn’t exactly an expert.
He wondered for a brief moment if he should call Foggy, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Firstly, he only found a locked phone, which sucked, secondly, he still had no idea where he was, thirdly, he didn’t want to put his friend in danger, and finally, he was aware that if someone called Foggy, claiming he was his best friend and business partner, but had woken up in the wrong body, Foggy would probably hang up anyway.
With a deep breath, he walked through the room, gathering courage to exit the relatively safe space. Gripping the handle – which cried under his determined hold, the material curving, what the hell, steroids, seriously - he opened the door, feeling like Alice going down the rabbit hole.
“Alright, Captain Rogers. Let’s do some recon.”
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Part 2
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Tags: @mermaidxatxheart
If anyone wishes to be tagged as well (to this story, to my fics in general) by any chance, just lemme know.
#fanfiction#marvel#avengers#captain america#daredevil#Matt Murdock#steve rogers#body swap#think again when you stop freaking out#anika ann
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Hey lol I was just looking through the izuocha tag, and just saw your "Ochako's Fanfic" fic. I wanted to suggest another oneshot lol what if Izuku found it? xD
Anon I like the way you think.... (you can’t see me but I’m winking) I’m actually quite free this morning and I am more than happy to respond to this with something for you - hopefully you like it! (just so you know I’m winking again)
Thanks so much for taking an interest in my story! And for coming to me with a request to continue it!
Continued from this story and this story ~
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Only when his foot had gone completely numb did Izuku finally stand up. Ochako had excused herself for a ‘few minutes’ to get them some snacks from the kitchen, but it had been a while now and she still hadn’t returned.
He winced as he hopped on his dead foot, trying to get the circulation back into it - a consequence from him sitting stiff-legged on the floor for so long. Their study sessions would be much more comfortable if he had a chair too, but he was a gentleman, and this was her room, so he would always offer the single chair she owned to her, even though they argued about it every time. He’d always take the floor for her.
Painful prickles flared into his foot as feeling began to return to it and he paced around the room as a distraction, pushing down the odd guilt lurking in the back of his mind.
Whenever she left him alone in her dorm room it always made him feel slightly uncomfortable. Out of place almost. It was a feeling that itched underneath his skin, but never seemed to bother him when she was in there too. He supposed it was because he was much more aware that this was her bedroom when it was just him in there. It felt intrusive almost. Private. Intimate.
(Izuku shook his head at the weird way his stomach flipped at that word.)
He usually just sat in one place until she came back, as if him looking around at the room was an invasion of her privacy, even though she was the one who had invited him in in the first place. As if without her there he had no right to be looking around at her stuff.
But driven by his painful foot he slowly limped laps of her room, and he finally let himself take it all in.
It was plain.
Izuku scrunched his nose at the sour taste that thought left in his mouth.
Practical was a better way to describe it, he decided.
What else did a person need in a bedroom except somewhere to sleep, somewhere to eat and work, a bit of storage, and somewhere to hang the washing? He appreciated the green accents of her bed quilt and rug too, since it was his favourite colour, but he’d always assumed Ochako’s favourite colour was pink... The only extravagance in the whole room seemed to be the television. Which was a borderline necessity these days. Watching pro-heroes on live tv was still one of his favourite pastimes, and yet he was here in this school where some of his pro-hero idols actually taught him. He supposed the excitement of a hero fan never faded, even when he was living his dream.
Izuku ran his foot gently over the edge of Ochako’s thin rug, satisfied that the numbness and pain had faded completely, and he was just about to return to his spot on the floor when a stack of papers on her desk caught his eye.
He immediately tore his gaze away, his guilt increasing at feeling curious about her private stuff. But, as if on a camera shutter delay, his mind caught up to his eyes and processed the words he’d seen ever so briefly on the paper before he’d turned. He was sure it had said ‘A Summary of Escapes’ on it, but wasn’t that the paper they’d handed in to Mr Aizawa recently? What was it still doing in her room?
Izuku remembered Ochako having to have a chat with their teacher after class that day, but when he’d asked her what it had been about, she’d sheepishly dodged the question, so he hadn’t asked again.
He let himself look back at the stack of papers and realised the title wasn’t quite what he had thought. It was actually titled, ‘A Summer Escape’, and before he’d thought anything else of it, he couldn’t stop his eyes from wondering further down the page.
‘The two heroes are so glad of their summer escape together alone. The brunette smiles happily at her green haired companion as they enter the pretty log cabin, but they are surprised to find that it only contains one bed.’
Izuku’s eyebrows rose as he realised it was a story. Did Ochako write this? He knew he should stop reading, it was probably private, but as he turned away, he thought he caught his own name further down the page and he was drawn back.
‘Izuru scratches a hand on the back of his neck and gestures to the living room they just came from. “I’ll sleep on the couch,” he says shyly.’
Oh, maybe it wasn’t his name after all. But now he can’t stop reading.
‘Michako bites her lip and shakes her head. “But it can get so cold in these cabins late at night, even in the summer. There’s enough room for both of us, I’ve shared a bed with my friends loads of times – we’ll fit fine.” The brunette lets out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding when her companion nods with a blush that stains his freckled cheeks red.
“I-I guess. U-Um, only if you’re sure.” Izuru fidgets with his sleeve.
She’s always wanted to tell him how endearing she finds his kindness and sincerity, even though he’s the best hero in the whole wide world, but she’s worried that it will come out far too fond and affectionate and he’ll be able to tell just how she feels about him.
She doesn’t want to do anything that might ruin their friendship.
It would be so much easier if she could tell him how much she admires him and how much she treasures the time they spend together, but she’s scared – more scared than any villain could ever make her.
So, Michako grins as wide as she can, pushes down her feelings, takes a deep breath through her nose and punches his shoulder lightly. “‘Course! We’re best friends, aren’t we?”
She always pushes her feelings down.
She can’t tell him she loves him.
Maybe sharing a bed with him is a bad idea but’-
The handle to Ochako’s door clunked down with a sound that made Izuku spring away from the desk so quickly that he tripped over his own feet and nearly stumbled to the ground.
“Sorry, Izuku, it was a warzone when I got in there. I think Iida’s one food fight away from just banning Kaminari from the kitchen altogether,” Ochako giggled into her hand, “so I tried to help keep the peace and time ran away with me, and I didn’t even manage to get the snacks… are you okay?”
Izuku could barely hear her over the thundering of his heart.
‘She doesn’t want to do anything that might ruin their friendship.’
Why was that line resonating with him? There was a feeling pounding through his chest, matching the beating of his heart, that made him feel like he should be doubled over with the weight of it. He reached a hand up and gripped at his shirt.
‘She always pushes her feelings down.’
Ochako’s wide eyes shined with concern, her eyebrows tilted, and her pretty pink lips were pulled into a frown. “Izuku? I’m sorry I took so long.”
Izuku dragged his eyes up from her lips and shook his head wildly, hands flapping up by his face. “N-No, don’t worry! It’s not that, it’s just- I- um…”
She tilted her head.
“I need to go. Yeah. I, um, I forgot a thing that I need to do. Sh-shower or something. Yeah… Showering! In the, um… the…”
‘She can’t tell him she loves him.’
“In the… bathroom?” Ochako supplied, while everything about her still radiated concern. Izuku thought maybe he could hear a note of hurt in her voice.
“Yes!” he squeaked. He cleared his throat. “Honestly, I only just remembered that I should have had one before I came to study with you, because classes were intense today and I already had a shower this morning but I definitely need another one- not that I smell or anything! I mean- I forgot that I’d planned to have one anyway after school, but like I said, I forgot about it and then while you were gone the memory came back,” he rambled. “So, I waited for you so you so I could explain where I was going.” Izuku took a deep steadying breath. “But… I could come back and we could study later?”
Later being when he’s pulled himself together; slowed the train wreck of his pulse, put the filter back between his brain and his mouth, sorted out the fluttering in his stomach, wiped the sweat from his forehead (why was he sweating?) and generally remembered how to be a functioning teenager again.
The hurt and concern eased out of Ochako’s expression and a smile formed on her face instead as she nodded, oblivious to the internal crisis Izuku was having. “I’d like that. I could go help clean the kitchen some more while you’re gone, and then hopefully by the time you’re back I’ll have the snacks.”
“S-Sounds great. I’m going to go have that shower then.” (He really was.) Izuku walked backwards towards her door and leant heavily on the handle. “See you later Michako- uh! I-I mean, Ochako!” he threw over his shoulder as he practically fled out of the room.
Ochako blinked. “Did he just… call me Michako?”
#I really hope you like it!!#izuocha#I was supposed to be working on other projects today but this inspired me and I just had to get it down#my fanfiction#izu replies#long post#fanfiction#bnha#dekuraka#izuocha fanfiction
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sea and shadows
my fic for @ficletinstruments week 11 (prompt: cottage)
ao3 link
Alec tosses his sketchbook onto a side table as he enters the cottage, not bothering to close the door behind him. It’s not like there’s anything to worry about. This far from civilization, his only company is the mountains and salty sea air. Even his inspiration is long gone. Plucking the pencil from his ear, he spins it between his fingers. The point is perfectly sharp, a testament to his book’s empty pages.
A low thud and a muffled curse jolt him from his thoughts.
Someone is in the cottage.
Heart racing, he tiptoes towards the noise, ignoring Isabelle’s voice in his head that the pretty girl in horror movies is supposed to run out the door, not up the stairs. Alec is hardly a fictional sorority girl but he recognizes a poor decision when he’s in the middle of making one.
He turns the corner, pencil extended like a weapon. And freezes.
There’s a nearly naked man ransacking his kitchen. A nearly naked, beautiful man. Strands of gleaming shells dangle over his bare chest and around his hips, accenting the play of muscles across his golden skin. Beneath the adornments, Alec frowns at the host of fresh scrapes and scratches on display.
More bizarrely, the man is dripping wet. Where did he come from? A shift of broad shoulders reveals a dark, writhing shadow at the man’s back and Alec stops thinking about practicalities and starts thinking about tentacles.
(The part of his brain not having a meltdown points out the man must’ve come from the sea.)
It’s impossible but the tentacles are real, jet black and gleaming. Except something’s not right. They’re snarled up, twisted and tangled in a way that looks painful. He’s caught, Alec realizes. Ensnared in some kind of fishing net.
Which is when the man catches sight of Alec. He startles, tentacles flaring up in defense. Just as quickly, he flinches in pain and the tentacles recoil.
Alec steps forward. “You’re—”
“A sea-demon, yes.” The stranger’s eyes flash a defiant gold, hands fisted like he’s ready to fight.
“I was going to say, ‘hurt.’” Alec lowers the pencil. It wasn’t much of a weapon and, demon or not, the man hasn’t actually done anything threatening. “Scissors are in the far left drawer.”
Gold fades into a warm, wide-eyed brown. “Thank you.”
Silence descends as the man cuts himself free. “Do you have a name?” Alec asks, then kicks himself. “Of course you do, that was rude. Um…I’m Alec.”
The man’s lips twitch, like he’s trying to hide a laugh. “Magnus,” he offers. The scissors continue their work and soon enough, a tentacle pokes its way free and wriggles happily in the air.
Alec smiles, his heart beating faster when Magnus smiles back. It hits him like a blow, the desire to capture every crinkle of Magnus’ skin, every dip of muscle, every drop of water clinging to his hair.
For the first time in months, Alec’s fingers itch with the urge to create.
#shadowhunters#malec fanfic#magnus bane#alec lightwood#malec#ficletinstruments#lynne writes fic#magnus x tentacles#i had no idea what to write for this but then i realized that the cottage in the pic was near water#and then it was all over#also i am laughing @me because this is the SECOND malec first meeting with tentacles fic that i have written for this challenge#but i regret NOTHING
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27 (Brakebills South)
“I was a goose!”
It's the first thing Quentin says when he sees her, eyes still alight with the sensation. The feeling of being in the air, and how everything seemed to fit just right.
“We all were dumb ass,” Penny detracts with a roll of his eyes. “Is everything magic like an amusement park ride to you?”
Quentin looks down at his feet, and Julia shoots Penny a scowl, mirrored by Alice who was standing next to Q when she entered the room. He just glares back at the pair, and does a quick assessment of their numbers.
“Where's Kady?” he asks.
Julia quickly looks away. The reverberation of her assigned partner's utmost truth still shaking her conscious and nerves. How the girl ran off the second her ropes fell off, though Julia didn't give chase, quickly turning to the bird that brought her here. However, she's pretty sure Kady made it down here, seeing her just a moment before the TA whisked a separate faction of students off into the library.
“She got placed into a different group,” she answers, then lies. “I don't know why.”
Fingernails involuntarily scratch at her wrists, knowing that if the trial had still been going on, the ropes would have remained. Quickly she lifts a hand to brush some hair from Quentin's face, if only to busy them so the itch doesn't persist.
“Weird,” Penny comments, but doesn't press.
Alice clears her throat, catching Julia's attention as intended, who looks to her with a curious eyebrow arched.
“Hey,” she offers shyly. “About Quentin and I's transcendence-”
Julia shakes her head, not wanting to know, while Quentin looks on in a panic.
“That's between the two of you,” she states. “Whole point of the exercise right?”
“Yeah,” Alice agrees. “But it still feels odd. Sharing an absolute truth, yet somehow keeping it from someone else?
Julia thinks of Kady.
“Sometimes magic is mean.”
-
Quentin is not asleep when Julia slips into his room, though he looks reluctant for her company, automatically assuming Mayakovsky would frown on such cohabitation. To which she just laughs, and nudges him to make room for her, which he does without further prodding.
“I don't think he cares much about anything,” she comments. “Besides magic. Even if it comes off like he hates that too.”
She snuggles into Quentin's chest, smiling as his arms wrap around her.
“If you hadn't noticed, I've gotten pretty used to sharing a bed with you. Also, it's fucking freezing here.”
Quentin chuckles softly.
“How is this our lives?” he asks. “I mean, we turned into geese and flew to Antarctica.”
Sometimes Julia wonders the same thing. That one day she'll wake up and it will all have been some crazy dream after smoking too much pot, and downing half a bottle of scotch.
“Worry not, Martin,” she replies in a bad English accent. “Magic is nothing to be feared if channeled properly.”
Quentin kisses the top of her head.
“Of course you're right Jane,” comes his reply in an accent just as terrible. “As always.”
-
Mayakovsky reminds Julia of the Econ 101 professor she had freshman year. Where arrogance and attitude meant as teaching tools, while infuriating and outdated, somehow seem to produce the results they're meant to.
Twist is, the Russian madman as other students call him, has no qualms about getting personal. One such incident, after spelling the word 'DICK' with his nails, results in Quentin getting a smack across the face. Julia storms across the hall, quick to assess the damage, and the act is like chum in the water to the shark in the shape of their teacher.
“You have got to be kidding,” he bemoans in that thick accent. “You? Her?”
Of course neither of them has a voice in which to defend themselves, merely taking his judgment in silence.
“Why am I bothering to teach you?” A question aimed at Quentin. “When you already have enough magic in your dick to land girl so clearly out of your league?”
An insult hurled within earshot of Alice who, once they get their voices back, tries again to tell Julia of she and Quentin's shared truth.
“It was about you,” she insists off Julia's initial rebuff.
The statement does give her pause. Because while honestly curious about whatever it was that freed the ropes and led them here, she had assumed it related to Quentin's clinical depression and self doubt, but nothing more.
“He knows you love him,” Alice states, with a small hitch in her voice that catches Julia's attention. “But he is always afraid, that the part of his brain refusing to let him believe it, will finally make you realize you are too good for him. That you always were.”
Tears quickly well in Julia's eyes.
“Yeah,” she sighs gruffly. “Doesn't fucking help that everyone else seems to question it too.”
“I don't,” Alice gives softly.
Julia smiles.
“Thanks, Al.”
-
“What the hell is this?”
Penny comes storming toward her, waving around a piece of paper, with fire in his eyes. Julia stands her ground as he approaches, stopping only to tower over her a moment, then quickly steps back expecting an answer.
Julia's eyes shoot down to the piece of paper, then back up to his, head tilted with an unasked question that is glaringly obvious.
“It's from Kady,” he clarifies. “Talking about how she's a liar, and a thief. It's why she got separated from us when she got here. Mayakovsky knew something was up with her. She's sorry, but she was just using me, and can't do it anymore.”
Julia still isn't sure what any of it has to do with her.
“Penny,” she starts. “I don't-”
He lifts the note toward her, though it's difficult to read still clenched in his hand, she can see her name in one of the sentences.
“She made sure to apologize to you too,” he states flatly. “For airing out her shit and knowing you couldn't say anything about it. Except that...”
He pauses a moment.
“Except that you could, couldn't you? Part of the challenge was baring ourselves to someone, but nowhere in the text did it say you had to take the truth to your grave. You could have given me a heads up! You could have...” He trails off again.
“Hey,” she begins, reaching out a hand, then thinks better of it. “She didn't say anything about using you. Just the part about being a liar. And a thief. That she comes from hedge witches, and part of her will always be ashamed of it. The ropes must have thought that was enough, because she never mentioned you at all.”
Penny doesn't say anything off that, just maintains eye contact, though his glare has softened slightly.
“What did she steal?” he asks.
“Huh?”
“Clearly the lying was about being a thief, but what did she steal?”
Julia shrugs.
“Stuff from Brakebills? Books and spells. For some Hedge named Marina, who has Kady's mother under her boot.”
Penny's anger flares up again.
“And you didn't say anything?”
“It wasn't my truth to tell,” Julia defends.
He breathes sharply from his nose.
“Then what is?”
“Huh?”
“Your truth,” he goes on. “The one you told to get the ropes off. I'm pretty pissed and vulnerable right now, Julia. But maybe if you... If you told me I'd-”
“I'm terrified,” Julia interrupts.
“What?”
“Of magic,” she continues. “Well, not of magic. I love it, now that I know it's real. Like this wonderful drug that seeped into my veins and I can never let go. I love it so much I'm terrified of who I would be without it.”
Penny doesn't fully understand.
“My Dad is an alcoholic,” she goes on. “Drunk all day and night. So many stints in rehab, but nothing ever took. Until finally my Mom had him committed to where he'll never get out.”
Tears sting her eyes.
“That's my truth,” she says, quickly brushing past him. “I'm sorry about Kady.”
Penny doesn't call after her as she walks away, and Julia is glad for it.
-
“If you love him so much,” Mayakovsky chides. “Let him fail.”
Quentin is on the floor, passed out from one too many shocks off the electrified rings of the mind control test. Julia looks over her shoulder at the statement, confused as to how being concerned that he just got electrocuted has anything to do with his passing or failing the exercise.
“Are you girlfriend or den mother?” Mayakovsky asks. “Kinky either way. But you dote on floppy haired bunny too much. How is he to learn if you are always patting him on the back? Saying good job, little bun bun. Do not worry.”
Julia frowns.
“I don't-”
“You do!” he shouts, then points at the door. “Out!”
“What?”
“Get out,” he repeats. “Let bunny learn the hard way.”
Julia reluctantly leaves, just as Mayakovsky starts pouring vodka on Quentin's face, and casts a backward glance to Alice who nods without hesitation. She'll keep an eye on him now that Julia can't. However, she doesn't go far remaining just out of sight beyond the door frame, and smiles proudly five minutes later when Quentin shouts in triumph on completing the test.
-
“You should be a fox more often,” Julia murmurs against his chest, as her fingers tease across his ribs.
Quentin laughs but doesn't comment, having come in from the cold, practically sniffing her out and taking them straight to his room. It's a wonder she's even awake with all the energy expelled, but feels sated and happy, pressing a small kiss against his skin.
“What were you?” he asks. “I mean, your animal.”
Julia can still feel the air in her feathers, the sense of direction more focused than the goose form could ever hope to be, talons sharp and ready for whatever prey her magnificent eyes could focus on.
“A falcon,” she answers. “Streaking through the sky like I owned it. Like I knew my exact place and purpose within it.”
“Sounds amazing.”
She hums.
“It was. Also, I caught a fish. Spotted it from almost a mile up, then just dove right toward the water and got it.”
Quentin's fingers play with her hair.
“Thought I tasted sushi on your tongue,” he teases.
Julia laughs, but swats at him playfully.
“Shut up,” she says.
Quentin's hand stops, and she shifts her head to meet his eyes, which are alight with the animal that has yet to fade.
“Make me,” he challenges.
Then they're kissing again, and going for round number four.
-
The door in Mayakovsky's office opens to reveal Brakebills on the other side, which Penny files through quickly, followed by Alice. Quentin and Julia are about to step through when Maykovsky stops them both.
“There is one more thing I give you,” he says, eyes flicking between them. “Your life's purpose.”
They briefly share a look, before turning back to him.
“Prove me wrong,” he states, pointing at finger at them with each word uttered. “With your love. Never give a fuck what drunk bastard like me thinks about your relationship. What anyone thinks. Then in fifty years, come back with your perfect family and gloat over my frozen corpse.”
Julia takes Quentin's hand, but this just makes Mayakovsky roll his eyes.
“Out,” he says, pointing at the door. “Before you make me sick.”
Julia smiles at him.
“You're an asshole,” she says. “But a really good teacher.”
Mayakovsky takes a big dramatic swig off his bottle.
“I know.”
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It’s Your Turn Pt. 3
I will finish this! I absolutely will even if it’s the end of me! I seriously hope that you guys are enjoying it, especially since this culture means so much to me. But I’ve ranted about that before, so I won’t go into it again, lol!
I kinda ended up falling into the idea of love struck Kenma, which I hadn’t originally planned on doing, but I kinda needed this by to believe in love as a motivator a for later scenes.
Now we’re really gonna get into it! AHHH!
P.s. I’m sad cause I had to sell my Escape ticket, you guys. It’s been literally a whole year since I’ve been to a rave, I’m just itching to be part of that crowd again!
P.s.s. There are some mentions of drugs in this section, but nothing is used.
Part 1 丨 Part 2
“And you hadn’t thought to tell me about this before?” Kuroo questioned, leaning his hip against the side of the car with his arms crossed over his chest. They had made a pit stop to fill up their gas tank along the way and when Kuroo had asked who Kenma had been texting their entire drive, he had gotten an answer he hadn’t expected. “You’ve been talking to someone online and just now decide to bring him up?”
Kenma could feel his face flushing as he sunk lower into his seat, suddenly wishing that he could roll the back window up to save himself from this very conversation. “Because I knew you’d react like this,” he answered easily enough. But he knew how it sounded, meeting a guy he had only been talking with online for a month at an event like XOXO. It wasn’t exactly an ideal situation, but it kind of felt like... fate?
“Doesn’t matter,” Kuroo chided, hand removing the pump to place it back in it’s rightful place, “you should’ve told me.” Maybe it was his instinct of taking care of the smaller male kicking in, but he didn’t really like the idea of this random online guy filling Kenma’s head with ideas of true love and romance. “And what do you expect to happen, huh?”
“To meet him,” the answer was obvious, after all. But Kenma felt the way his heart picked up at the very thought of doing just that. “And it’s kinda like fate, SHUYO will play our song.”
Kuroo’s brows furrowed slightly, body moving to the front of the car again, his arm raising to wave Bokuto out of the convenience store. He remained silent for a long moment, eyes taking in the owl costumed man make long strides to the vehicle with a bag of potato chips in hand. “Everyone’s listening to that song, Kenma, just cause he called it your song can’t mean that much.”
“Hey,” Bokuto piped in as though he had been part of the conversation the entire time, “stop giving him shit for being in love.” He threw himself into the passenger seat and turned to smile brightly back at Kenma. “Special things happen at raves, don’t let him pretend that we didn’t fall in love at one.”
A small smile pulled at Kenma’s lips in gratitude, barely taking in the small banter that then took place between the couple in the front, his gaze focusing on the screen of his phone again.
Just a few more hours.
It was ringing and ringing and ringing...
“Hello?”
“Yes, hello!” Kageyama responded quickly, his phone trapped between his shoulder and ear as he walked around the back of his family’s shop, hands busying themselves with wrapping the loaves of bread that had been freshly baked. “This is Hinata Shouyou’s manager - or SHUYO as he’s known - and I have a meeting with producer--”
“Yes, at six,” the feminine voice on the other end cut him off.
“Ah, yes, the reason I’m calling is--” his hands fumbled, sending the empty tray resting at the edge of the table clashing to the floor “--I’m sorry, the, uh, limo is a little loud.” He forced a laugh to escape his lips, hand immediately working on taking the tray to the sink in the back. “But I was calling because there might be a small chance that I’ll be arriving later than anticipated.”
It wasn’t small, Kageyama knew it without question. It was always the case with his father, a man dedicated to the life that he had built for his family. And he would always be grateful to the man, but he had plans of building something that was greater than the deli and shop that his father owned. It was not where he wanted to spend the remainder of his life.
“Hinata is my best client,” he was his only client, “I couldn’t ask for anyone better and he deserves a label with--” Kageyama paused, listening to the voice on the other end confirm an extension on their original meeting time. “Thank you so much! I’ll be seeing you shortly.”
Shoving his phone back into his pocket, his eyes instantly went to his wristwatch. “Shit,” he mumbled, his eyes darting to his father’s office where the very man resided with hard eyes on his paperwork. All he needed was his approval.
I’m going to kill u
Hinata sent the text with a harsh tap to the flat screen of his phone, brain purposefully ignoring the constant questions from the guy seated next to him with spiking red hair. It was bad enough that he had to take a party bus to an event that could change his entire life, it was even worse to be sitting next to someone who was as terrifying as this guys.
“Hey man, let Tendou in,” the redhead laughed, his smile growing as he nudged his elbow against the smaller. He waited until the attention he had been vying for was finally on him before lifting his jacket covered arm to pull at the sleeve, revealing an extensive set of drug paraphernalia hidden beneath. Hinata found his gaze widening in the slightly, how in the hell did this guy hide so many things in one place? “I got the sensations for all occasions!”
The absurdity of the moment continued as Tendou continued his speech by giving Hinata a step by step process of which pill he would be taking in what order, suggestions of sharing being an option for the smaller if he stuck around. With his brown gaze returning to his computer screen, he wondered how he could escape from this twisted nightmare. He was on his goddamn way to XOXO with no manager and no idea what he was really getting into. And then there was the whole--
“Hey.”
Turning instantly, Hinata’s gaze met with the warm one of Suga’s, mind only barely registering the last beginning of Tendou’s speech about an infinite universe.
“You wanna sit with us?” the blond offered, body moving across the double seats until he was placed within Daichi’s lap, whose hand wrapped around his boyfriend’s waist with ease. “We have room.”
Without any hesitation, the DJ jumped the aisle with Tendou’s gaze resting on him heavily, settling in beside the couple. “Thanks,” he responded, eyes resting to the screen of his laptop, hands fiddling with putting last minute touches on the tracks he would be playing that very night, “I really needed that.”
“No problem,” Suga responded, before delivering a small introduction.
"Ah, listening to SHUYO, huh?” Daichi questioned upon seeing the screen of Hinata’s laptop. His head leaned against Suga’s shoulder as he wrapped his arm around his own, his smile widening. “We’re pretty excited to see him. We think he’s going to be awesome,” he explained, deep voice accented with the agreements of the boyfriend in his lap.
Hinata paused for only a moment. “Wait, you guys are fucking with me, right?”
“Um,” Kenma piped, his gaze traveling out the window at the crowds lining up outside of the entrance gate, “aren’t we supposed to go in that way?”
“No way,” Kuroo gave a small laugh, immediately reaching over to roll down all of the windows and turning up the volume of his radio. He heard the crowd of people cheer and he returned the noise, kandi covered arm fist bumping up into the air. “Kou got us VIP, we’re partying it up with fucking King OT.”
“But--”
“Oh, calm down, Daishit will still be there.”
“Daishou.”
“Whatever.”
“Okay,” Bokuto interjected again, setting a stern gaze on Kuroo and removed his boyfriend’s hand from his thigh, “you, stop giving Kenma a hard time. And you.” he turned to the younger in the backseat, “just hang out a couple hours and then you can meet up with him. He’s not even in yet, right?”
Remaining quiet for another moment, Kenma gave a small nod, his hands moving to inform Daishou of his whereabouts until he was to get there. He was finally there and this was finally going to happen.
“I’m telling you guys, this is exactly what’s wrong with the scene nowadays, man,” Ukai ranted, completely turned around in his seat to face the group of party boys behind him. He was sure he asked them their name, what the fuck were they now? Terushima? Taketora? Whatever. “I remember when King OT was nothing more than a jerky kid who was paying people to let him play. And when Takeda was just a chubby kid passing out flyers trying to get people to go to his shows.” Were they giving him blank stares? “And it’s because of this stupid shit that I turned my back on the whole culture, man--”
“Yeah, uh, Ukai,” Tanaka tapped at his shoulder, his gaze going from the front of the bus where a grinding noise was being produced to his boss, “yo, Ukai.”
“Just give me one second,” Ukai shrugged him off, “honestly, I feel bad for you, cause, like, this whole peace, love, unity, respect is just this backward bro culture. And I feel sad for your guys and your tank tops.”
“Okay, yeah, I feel real sad too,” Tanaka interrupted, hand scratching at the back of his head.
“Fucking what dude?” Ukai questioned, his gaze finally landing on his employee.
“You hear that sound?” Tanaka asked, pointing out the grinding that had continued throughout. His body turned to the driver they hired, a tone of respect that Ukai had barely heard from him in the years that he had worked with the kid rising in his voice. “Excuse me, sir.”
“Stop, stop, stop,” Ukai voiced, “get him to stop.”
“I’ve been trying,” he turned to Ukai with wide eyes, “I think the bus drivers deaf.”
“Ya know, it’s just always been this place and this feeling where I just feel,” Hinata paused, his grappling the air before him as he tried to think of a word to accompany his thoughts.
“Like you’re a part of something bigger?” Daichi offered, smiling warmly when that bright face turned to face him.
Suga gave a small laugh, his fingers idly running along Daichi’s neck and up into his hair. “Yeah, we know that feeling. This’ll be the last time we feel it for awhile actually,” he commented, forcing a grin to his features when he met with the questioning gaze of Hinata, “I’m moving to America tomorrow, so...”
“Wow,” Hinata cooed, unable to sense the immediate tension it brought between the couple, “are you going out there too?”
“Uh,” Daichi paused, his eyes remaining on the back of the seat in front of him, “no, I still have another year of school.”
“Oh, so you guys are doing the whole long distance thing?”
There was a beat of silence between the three. It was Daichi that finally broke it, his gaze rising in an attempt to meet with Suga’s, but he avoided him. “Well, we haven’t actually talked about it yet.”
There was a small jolt in the bus, all three sets of eyes darting to the front as though they would get their answer from that action. “What’s going on?” Hinata questioned, eyes growing with panic as the large vehicle pulled off the road and into the dirt of the deserted land around them. “What the fuck is going on?”
“The bus is stopping,” Suga pointed out unhelpfully, his own expression put off by the event.
“Stopping?” How the fuck was he supposed to get to XOXO now?
#haikyuu#haikyuu!!#HQ!!#dj au#rave au#hinata#hinata shouyou#shouyou#kageyama#kageyama tobio#tobio#sugawara koushi#suga#sugawara#koushi#daichi#sawamura daichi#sawamura#kuroo#kuroo tetsurou#tetsurou#bokuto#bokuto koutarou#koutarou#ukai#ukai keishin#keishin#tanaka#tanaka ryuunosuke#ryuunosuke
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Out on a Limb
Whaaaat, you say, two chapters in one day?
Well, I felt a little bad that Ed’s chapter was so short. XD Plus I’ve been looking forward to writing this ego. Like, a lot. Still gotta do a oneshot just for him but for now this’ll do.
Boy oh boy is there some extreme hc’ing going on in here. You guys have no idea. Got some ideas from @alcordraws, of course, but I’ve crafted an entire theory and idea surrounding this newest ego of Mark’s. But we’ll get more in-depth with him in his oneshot, this is King’s story.
What’s this? Foreshadowing? Suspense? Hmm. Maybe this story isn’t all fun and laughs after all. it’s me what were you even expecting
Anyway! Have fun trying to figure out what’s going on. I’m not telling. ;)
AO3 Mirror
Chapter 8: at the noyer rouge
Easel, check.
Table, check.
Paints, check.
Palette, check.
Paint brushes, check.
Canvas, check.
Beret and scarf, check.
Sanity...
Gonna say a maybe on that one. But nobody ever said it was a necessary component for creating art. No, all he needed was the tools and his heart. The rest would all fall into place, no matter his mental state.
Artiplier was one of the newest egos. Spontaneously appearing after Mark's skit and only growing stronger with subsequent videos. The art-based game, in particular, cemented his existence in the community. Some of the other egos had taken to calling him "Artie," which he supposed he didn't really mind. It was their creative interpretation.
(And it was more tolerable than how many times they'd asked for him to draw them.)
Here, however, there were no chatty, curious egos to interfere with his process. No requests or questions or peering over his shoulder while he tried to focus. There was just the natural light of the sun, a cool breeze stirring the leaves of his muse and the enticing smell of fresh paint. He could never get enough.
He'd been warned about this particular tree, of course. Apparently, one of the other egos had taken up residence in it with a bunch of squirrels. They'd never met, but from the stories, the ego sounded a bit violent.
Well, he was sure it was nothing he couldn't handle. This tree was his latest muse; his inspiration. He had a dire urge to immortalize its visage on canvas and nothing was going to stop him. It was like an itch which needed to be scratched. A sneeze tingling in the back of his nose. His fingers twitched and flexed with the want to grasp a brush. No other focus would do.
So he set to work, unaware of King watching him from the boughs. The monarch was suspicious after everything that happened, but the new ego didn't seem dangerous or antagonistic. It looked like he was just painting the tree. There was no real problem with that.
The squirrels were anxious, though. They'd been disturbed too much over the last few days. They chittered and scurried around King; on top of him. They wanted answers. They wanted reassurance. King could hardly blame them. Gently, he soothed his subjects, and shifted to the outer boughs once again. At least this time, he wasn't chasing off an offender. Clearing his throat, he called out to the strange artist. "Uh, hello? Excuse me?"
Artie tch'd under his breath as the sudden disturbance caused his brush to skid too far across the canvas. His eye twitched, almost unnoticeably, but a static started up in his outer ear. He shook his head a bit, rubbing at his ear with a shoulder irritatedly. Sharp brown eyes strayed grudgingly from his future masterpiece to meet an almost identical brown amidst the leaves. Artie had a talent for picking out minute details, but even he couldn't make out the king's entire form. Seeing him in the tree, however, shifted the appearance of his muse.
It changed things. He... Artie didn't like changes. Not unless they were made by him.
His eye twitched again, but perhaps if he was amicable, the ego would retreat. He forced a charming smile onto his lips and gestured a dramatic wave in greeting. "Bonjour. You muzt be zis "King" I 'ave 'eard zo much about. I 'ope I am not intruding upon your... kingdom. I merely wish to paint zis... tree of yours." He wasn't French- the accent was just as much of a horrid exaggeration as it had been from Mark. But he felt compelled to do it.
King's nose scrunched up. Apparently, he wasn't a fan. "Well, I don't have a clue who you are. But I guess if you're just painting it's fine. It's not my tree, anyway. It's my subjects'. They're... nervous, though. Are you sure you just want to paint?" Something about the ego was just... off. Some aspect was setting his subjects' fur on end.
Artie scoffed. He worked on mixing a color or two he would need, as he couldn't paint properly and carry a conversation at the same time. Painting required his upmost focus. "Of courze. I want nozing else from you or your... euh... "subjects." Now if you would, you are dizturbing ze art. I cannot captchor ze natural magnifique of ze tree wiz you zere."
King frowned, his brows furrowing. Something still didn't seem right. "Oh. Sorry. Well..." He glanced back at the nests, at his anxious subjects, and sighed. "Look. Would it be okay if I just... came and watched? I mean, to make sure you're doing a good job. This tree's important to the squirrels and they'd be real upset if you fudged it up man." That was as good an excuse as any to get a closer look at the mysterious ego. Maybe King could figure out what had his subjects so unsettled.
It was Artie's turn to scrunch up his nose. His grip tightened on his paintbrush. He disliked having an audience. He already had one set of eyes on his painting, always, and that alone was too much. The static was buzzing in his ears again. R̵a̴d̴i̸o̷ ̸c̵h̸a̸t̷t̵e̶r̷ ̵c̵o̵n̸v̷e̶y̶i̷n̵g̸ ̸d̶i̵s̵l̴i̴k̶e̷.̵ He concurred. "I'm... iz zat really necessary? It's just paint." His accent slipped a little, in his irritation. Fuck.
Alright, something was definitely up. If it was really just "paint," then the ego should have no problems with King watching. He scowled a bit and began clambering down. "Yeah. Look, it may not be my tree, but it isn't yours either, and its owners would feel a lot more comfortable if their illustrious king scoped out this weird possible threat okay? It's not a big deal. I won't bother you or anything, I just wanna see."
"Zis really izn't necessary." Artie repeated, a bit more monotone. The static was buzzing louder in his ears, edging with a soft ringing that blocked out the peaceful day he'd been listening to prior. The colors before him shifted, but still he tore his gaze from the approaching King in favor of painting. Painting always calmed himh̷̟̎i̸͎̚ṁ̴̨. He just needed to focus.
"Oh, I think it's very necessary." King argued, lowering himself down branch by branch, his subjects watching him with a clear concern. He shot them a reassuring smile.
Artie exhaled harshly from his nose, painting with a bit more fervor. The buzzing hadn't lessened or ceased, and the ringing was growing louder. It started translating into his painting, his visions, his actions. More circles. Lines. Figures... no. No figures. It was a tree. He squeezed his eyes shut for a few moments h̷͓͈̄̚ê̴̫̄l̵͈͛̿ḽ̶̿ȏ̸͚ and set back to work. This wasn't as relaxing as he thought it would be. "Fine. Fine. Just shut up already would you? I can't..." He grumbled under his breath, splotching harshly at the canvas with his brush.
King's feet finally touched the ground. He looked over at the ego, eyebrows slightly raised. The artist seemed a lot more agitated now. Twitcher and jerkier in his movements. Sure, maybe King had irritated him, but this was a little extreme. The muttering under his breath was concerning King. "Hey..."
Another line jerked too far. Fuck. Artie's entire face was tense with a newfound strain as he tried to fix it. No more static, now, just a steady ringing. It reverberated in his skull, hurt his brain, but still he painted. He ignored King. Artie was on a roll now. The colors flowed, his passion spilled out onto the canvas like blood and he was incensed. He couldn't stop now. He couldn't. He had to paint. He had to finish it, yes, he could see it. He could see h̴̢͈̕ií̴͎͛tm̵͓͕̍.
The closer King drew to the ego, the more uncomfortable he felt. The ego hadn't said a word to him in the last five minutes. (He'd hesitated by the tree, watching warily from what he considered a "safe zone.") He just kept muttering viciously under his breath, glowering at the canvas and painting with a fervor King had never seen before. The closest comparison he had was perhaps one of Yandere's fits, but this was much different. He couldn't quite put his finger on it.
Still, if this ego was actually a threat, his subjects were depending on him to take care of it. Unstable egos with good or neutral intentions were every bit as dangerous as stable ones with malcontent. "Hey. You... you're not looking too good. Are you okay? Can you even hear me? Hey!"
"̴̖͍́I̴̬̓͑͂͝ẗ̸̡̡̮͚́ ̴̢̠̣͓͛̋̑͘s̴̨̥͙͂̿̾͝ͅe̶̩͗͌ḛ̴̠̮̭̓̀s̵̥̟̖̅̑͌ͅ,̵̨͇̬̾̈́ ̸͉̪̈́̄̏͛h̷̩͙̿ĕ̷̥̩͑́ ̶̥̹̑̈́ͅś̵͚ȩ̸̪̰͖̄̓e̶͇̔̽̿͠s̵̡͈͈͌̂̏͘,̶̦̉͛̚͝ ̸̧͎̫̐i̸͓͔̻̒̄ţ̸̗̗̙̏̀͐ ̸͇̩̽͑s̸̗͎͈͝e̸͍͈͌̿e̶̡͎̝͌̃s̴̘̅̓ ̶̞͆m̵̬͎̉͝ĕ̸͙̬͒,̵̱̟̮̞͐̉̑͘ ̵̤̠̱̤́i̷̢̪͌t̴͚̒͆̉ ̶̞͕̤͗͜s̵̝̃̈͘ě̷̲͓̝̝̏̓͋e̷̡̟̲̣͆̐s̷̼̙͖̆ ̷͇̦̟͚̓͐͝a̵̘͙̖̘̾̆͆̍ĺ̷͖̬ḽ̷̉̈͗,̵͔̀́͛ ̷̰̃̒͠i̶̠͉̊̎t̷̟̖̎͐̃ ̷̻̜̲̬̽͛́̚s̴̝̈͋̒͂e̷̺͐̚e̸̲̖̪̕ṡ̵͕̼̋̑͜ ̷̨̗͓̌̀̔̀ṵ̵̖͝s̶̫̜̓̓̽͜,̶͚̈́̉ ̸͓̭͆͆͆̈́i̶̛͕̜̿̃t̶͓̪̠̪͑̑͂ ̶̛͙͖̰̝͑̏s̷͇͇̞̩̆̐e̶̘̫̟̞͝ē̶͈̾͝s̸̭̳͎̓̃̕ ̷̫̝̰͌̒͐t̶̻͍̉̈͆̚h̸͇̑̂ī̵̥̥̙s̵̺̯̺̗̅,̸̯̟̣̈́́ͅ ̵͍̹̈ỵ̵̜̈́͠o̷͇̳̅u̵͖̍̍͑,̸̖͛̊̚ ̵̭͖̉̄̊͆ͅi̶̛̻̿̊̓t̸̡̨͉̖̋̈́͂̾ ̶̳̜̥͐k̴̦̔͝ǹ̴͈ȏ̷̢̠̲͈͆̉͘w̸̡̖͎̫̐̾s̷̨̠̀͛̊,̴̤̀̍̅ ̸̗̙̙̠̀̀̍͝i̵̺͎̥͗͘ͅt̴̨̨͑̄'̴̢̞̗̀͘s̸̛̯̔͝͝ ̴̡̛͔̭͈̈t̴͈͆̓ẽ̷̗̝͙̋l̸̪̬̫̎̓̑͗l̷͔̞͉͐͒͑̚į̷̹͓͋n̴̨͈̥͑̌̌̑ĝ̶̯̤͕̠̏̃ ̸̢̩̞͉͒͊͛͝m̷̪͛̄̽̚e̷̖̭͂̐͜͝,̵̧͚̼̲̋̄ ̴̦̽ȉ̷̲̻̙̈t̸̼̗̮͗'̶̥̖̈́͂s̷̹̳͍̣̉̀ ̷̼͈̳̓̍̕͝t̶̮͈̊e̸͙̭̰̣͝l̸͚̳͑l̴̩̑i̴̙̖͋n̵̼̞̘̄͗͝g̶̫̉̍ ̸͖̑y̴̻̩̦̼̓̓͠ò̷̘̜̤̿u̷̞͛͆̈,̸̩̖̈́͐ ̵̩̪͎̀́͆t̵̪͑̍̃h̴͍͓̍͆i̶̗̭͆͜s̵̢̱̫̅͒̔̕,̷̡̱͊͑̇̆ ̶̙̳̘͑̓͛̉t̸̙̙͌̈́h̵̠̳͎͗̂i̷̺̽š̵̨̯̮͒̈́ ̴̧͋͑ͅi̷̡̯̩͆̓̉̔ͅs̸̰̀̈́̆ ̵̘̌ā̵̗̪͈̣r̶͔̜̟̃͑́͜ṭ̶̣̜̗͗̔͂,̴̹͊̀̕͘ ̴̡̛̼̅̐̂I̴̫̙͚͐͂͂͠ ̴̛̠̭͎̺̒̐f̵̧̙͆̾̓̽o̵̩̹̾̀͌͜͜u̷̧̮͠ñ̴͉͈̪d̷̫̲̅̋ ̷̨̥̰̹͊̽͝i̶̲̻̼͊͑t̷̞̀,̶̠̄̈́̾͝ ̴̹̗͖̀͐͊͊f̶̢̦̈ö̵͜u̴͎̱̗͙͐̉̿̑ṅ̵̜͇̻͇̊̉d̶̬̈́͛̿͘ ̵̡̗͍̒̂̇y̷̜͉̕o̶͔̲͗̒ǔ̸̞̻̮̟̎̇̚,̷̱̫̊ ̵̦͋͑͑̑f̴͈̺̱̹̀̍̉͝o̷̗̍̒̃ṷ̸̪̇̋̌n̴̯̋̒d̵͈̜͙̔̅͝,̶͛ͅ ̸̩̄d̴̟̺͛ố̸͓ǹ̷̟'̷̢̘͇̈́̔ṱ̸̮͈̭̒͆͝,̴̘͙̽͂͛̃ ̶̪̎͑̃̉d̸̲͚̏̐̽o̴̝͛͂̒͝n̸̹͕̜̯͛̄'̸̮̳̕ͅt̵̻͇̦̠͝ ̶̢̦͇̻͊̑l̸̖̭̰̿͐o̷̜͍̲̤̚ơ̵̗̳̻̑̕͠ǩ̵͎̠̟̽͝ͅ,̷̢̦̒̉͜͝ͅ ̶͙͔̠͉̿̌d̸͎̽̊͘͠o̴̡̅͊̄n̴̳͓̅̄̒̔'̵͎̐t̴͔̩͋̎͜ ̴͚̳̹͓̏̈́a̵̩͒t̸̢̥̮̆ ̵̧͕͖̤̓ḭ̷̠̣͇̓t̴͙͈̐̍͗̉͜,̴̩̬͈̊̚ ̴̻̻̍́̀̄ą̸̾͊͝t̶̟̩̗̭́̐͌ ̴̼̲̑͆͂m̵͔͌e̴̟͉̥̓̾͌,̵̗͋̉͘ ̶̖̋̔̈́̕d̷͎̋̍ö̶̡͉͕̲́͂̉͐n̵̮͉͚͌͛̎'̷͓̠̍̎̏t̶͔͗͠,̴̮̫̭͌̎̐͋͜ ̵̖̎̀t̵̙̣͌̽́́h̵̬̆i̸͈̜̽̆̃͜͝s̶̨̨͇̲̾͠ ̶͇͇̤͆̈ẅ̵̲́̕ä̷̰͇̙͖́͒s̸̱̞̈́͊̏ ̶̻͐̀͒̕ā̵̮̆ ̴̡̘̰̔m̷̨̮̜̈͑͝i̶̲̒̂̓s̴̜̻͖̎̐̋ṭ̵̺̳͇͗a̵̻͔͛́̀k̷̟̗͖͙͠ȅ̶̜̭,̶̧̮̦͎̇̏͝ ̸̢̫̣̑̇t̷̬̖͆͆̎ḧ̸̢̬́͋͐í̷̲̩̓̑ś̵̱̣,̶̭̠̈̏̏͝ ̵̨̠͔̈́̕̕ͅĪ̸̦̣͕͊ ̷͙̈́͋à̷̖̥͈̘̓́m̶͕͋͗̕ ̷͇̠̈́͗̕͠s̷̲̆͋̕͝o̵͉͍͆̐r̶̰̺̮̤̆̂̓͝r̷̤̭̫̽y̴̩̓.̸͎͈̮̰͊̽̉̚"̷̛̯
King squinted. "What?" He could have sworn the ego was still muttering to himself, but there was no real sound. He couldn't make out any of it. Closer, like this, King could see the sweat that had formed on the ego's brow. He didn't understand. The day wasn't even that hot. "Hey. Listen to me. Uh... Artiplier? Right? Hey!"
R̴̛̲͖̼̫͓͝e̸̖͈͎̳͉͓̗͂̃̈̊́͒̾͠d̵̥̠̥̙͉̞̊ ̶̥̣͔͔̣̋̈́̋̚M̶͓̪̣͍̝̦̥͛̏̾̿̉̆̚͠ǎ̵̼̏͠n̶̢̼̫̘͚͉͚̆̉͐̈́͐͘,̵̜̦̞͍̼̾̏̉́͝ ̵͓̘͚͖̫̩̟̫̓̃͂̉͛Ṛ̵̣̝̪̀̒̾͗̏̓̾ͅe̸̡̨̢̡̗̤͒̏ḍ̴̗͚̬̱͎̼̬͓̀͑̄ ̵̜͖̫̙̠̞͛͑̀̑͒̋̈́͜M̵̧͖͍̔̂͆̊̒̇͗̆̑ā̷̡̞͕͕͉n̴͔̮̎̅͊͌,̵͍͉͈͕̩͕̋̔̀͛̆̋̎͝ ̵̢̢̦̣̙̦̅̓̃̒͊́̔̐͝w̴̦͋͜h̸̡̧̙́̀̿͋̀͝ȧ̶̛̛̝͙̯̞̗͎̀̑̕͝t̵̨͉̬͕̤̻̖̳͑̑̈́̔̕ ̶͔̰̹͓̦̤̙̀̀̈́͊́̕d̴̨̤̲̹̖̯̾̈͊͊̅̊͊͊ͅo̸̢̤͐̃͛ ̴̭̳̯̲͕̤̋̂͝͝ͅy̶̦̱̤̩͉͈͉̍̋͋̓͜o̴̤͌̌͌͊́́̔̕͠u̴͈̯̜̦̳͇̾̿̍͠ ̴̠͙͐̏̚s̸̭̣͕̙̒̐̃̎e̵̤͛ȅ̷̡̝̪̄̎͐̈̌?̵̨̢̤̞̹̗̭͊́̇̈́̆
King couldn't stand it anymore. He was really getting freaked out. Briskly, he rounded the canvas, reaching out to touch the ego's shoulder.
R̶̡͎̘̮̜͕̟͎̈́ẹ̴̫̫̜̼̒͊d̵͍͙͎̺̞̝̟͆̆̂̃͌͠ ̶̘̰̟̱̀́͂Ṃ̶̛͕̎̿̉̐̂́̑̊ą̷̢͔̝͓̞͔͉̾̈̌̋̐͜͝ń̶͓̅͒̂̓̀ ̵͇̹͇̬́̀͌s̵̡͈̠͉̿̈́̑͘e̸̗̜̙̔̋͆͗̈̎́͜͝è̸̢̲̭̬̹̰͎̳̥̲s̴̜͚̭̤͖͙̺̏͒͐͆̂̾͗͘͠͝ ̴̮̪̻͙̺̫͚͈̜͌͂͊̅͑͆̐̓̚͝ͅṭ̴̨̗̊̅͛͌͑̕ḩ̸̨̺̦̉̎̑̊̓͒͒͌e̸̢̨̡̱̣̭̼̱̞̎͂̇̽̀̑̚ͅ ̸̨̤̬̞̬̟̩͋͐͛̆̋̕͘͠ḑ̴̼̹̝̠̓͆ͅȩ̶̢̫̭̙̝̻̝̌̐̀̌̔̈́̚̕̚͜s̸̻̬̥̗̾ͅţ̴̢̗͈͉̳̺͕͌́͌͛́̚͠r̶̜̺̝̱̱͙͛̅͆̿̽̾͋͝͝ͅu̸̢͓̜͇͔̘̼̔̚͝c̴̨̨̢̨̛̥̩̜͎͙̝͑͆͌̀̃̚ţ̷̨̯̱̙̖̰̯̥̯̽̏̓ī̷͈͍̔̒̀̃̅͝ọ̸̺͇͈̼̀̌͗͘͘̕̚n̶̡͉̪̖̠͔̼̹͔͈͆̃́̏̓́͠ ̵̨̜̦̗̬̒̃̑o̷̩̠̓̈́̂f̸̧͚͎̤̋̓̓̈́̌͝͝͠ ̶̡̗̻͓̣͉̤̻̥̍̉̈́̑̓̀͊a̴̤̹̫͖̘͙̾͌̈́l̷̟̤̱͊̚l̵͇͈̩͐̈́͒͂̇͐͜ ̵̤̳͈̻̳̪̲̩̚͜t̶͕̣̱̱͍̺͔́̋͗͋̎́͑͋ͅh̶͇̏͐ḭ̶̼͎̺̏̑ń̴̩͎̠̳̖̥̥̓̑̍̈́͒͆͗͠g̵̛͉̺̲̬̖̰̎̈́́͆̆͘͘͝ͅs̷̫͇̯͈͖̫͂͐̓̈́͂̀̂̑̕͝,̸̢̼̰̻̫̚ ̸̨̛͙̹̺̎͋͂̾͋͊õ̶̬̱͙̣̹̠̝̬̟͠f̶͖̜͇̘̮̞̺͊̕͜ͅͅ ̴̧̬̘̜͙̠͐͘͝ẏ̸̢̱̟̥͙̠̗̆̓̾̍̐̽̈͘̚͜ơ̷͍̯̼̰̬̑̀̀͆̿͋̕͘͘u̷̬̱̦̱͎̗̖̦̩̬̔̽̎̑,̸̨̣̬̝͔̣̣̗̖̇͗̓͊ ̶̧̗̿̿̂̎͝ö̷͍̫͚̜́f̸̟͕͎̗̍̾̓̽͘̕͝ ̶̧̪͙̖̝̝͎̦̆͂̓̇̍̿͒̅̿͘͜͜m̸̝̭̥͒̽̂̒̅́̍̈̄͑e̸̛͓͍͐͊͌̆͘͘͝.̷͖͇̻̩́̓̚͜
Artie jolted as if struck by lightning. His palette and paintbrush both flew out of his hands as he outright screamed, absolutely stunned by the touch. By King's interruption. He whirled, knocking his canvas from the easel and ripping his shoulder away from King's grasp. His brown eyes were wide, face covered with sweat while he gawked in terror at King- through King. Surprisingly, his pupils were blown.
King stumbled a step back himself at the reaction. "Woah! Woah, hey, what's-"
"̵̦̲̮̬̝̤͛̏͌͗̿͂̇̏̐̚͘Ḩ̴̛̫̜̩͉̈́̒͆͗͗̒͘̚͝ơ̶̠͈̽̔̽̍͋̋̏̒̚m̸͍̗̀̀͊͊̚͝͠m̸̼͙͒͛̌́͊͗e̴̤̊͋̎̓́̌̿͝͝ ̴͎͉̦̭̗͔̣͍͋̃R̴̩͓̤̣͓̦̈́̂̿ͅơ̷̠͐́̅̀́͂̚ͅu̶̯͕̗͇̤͍͛͑͜g̸̢͎̳͚̦͉͔̀ͅe̶̫͕̯̠͇͈̰̓͑̔̍͆̒,̸̺̖̱̿̽̌ ̶̢̼̗͓̌̍̄̀̕͝͠n̵̯͐̍̋o̴̡͎͛̂n̴͍̣̓̌ͅ,̶̀ͅ ̸̡̧̞̯̙̯̲̀̏̈́̈́̇͐͜ͅn̴̰̪̠̫̭̫̯̩͚̩̩̈̆̈́ǒ̷̢̡̖̮̲̪̺͔̟̱̺ņ̷̣̝̟͚͆̆̒̈́͊͜,̸̢̛͔̟̼͕̱̆̽̀̒̏̓̑ ̶͇̝̮̩͓̗͈͖̘̱͈̉̊̃͆̇͒̈́͠Ǹ̷̼̭͛͜͝ā̶̟̤͉͉͔̺̞̣͑̑͑̃̀͗̐̉̓͘ͅͅḭ̷̡̨̤͓̪͕̈́̆̌͘ṅ̷̢̛̪̗͎̬̪̼͈͍͉̆̈́͆̂̕,̴̡̥͈̄̊ ̴̧̢̯͇̱̰͖͔̳̽͑̽͜͠r̶͓̞̟͚̘̺̈́͋̇̃̆͊͜͜o̸̼͑̀̿͗ű̴͙̮͇̲̟̞̹̋̔̄g̶̟̱̣̪̦̾̇̂̾͜ȩ̷̔̋̇,̵̧͖̫͇̲̰̼̹͑̌͌͑̇̈́̒͆ ̷͙͇̼̞̆̎͛̾͌̀̈́̌̿̚͜͠c̶̢̨͇̝̜̲̏̅̓͂̍̄̃͛̀̎ö̷̧̬̦̹́́̉̊̔̏̂̀̂ņ̴̧̝̩̖̻̺̾͂̄͐̌̄̿͌͝ḏ̸̢̲͊̏̊̐͐̌̿͗͘̚a̶̛̖̙̤̗m̵̭͓̘̰̗̩͎͙̮͙̑̃̇͐̂̑̄̅ņ̷͇͚͈̥͕̲͕̙͇̖̽́̀̊͝ȩ̸̛̟̼͙͈͍̩̦͚̥̞̀͛̈́̀͒̅͂̃̕͝r̷̢͖̭̜̔̀̉̏̈́̓̕,̴̡̤̦̙̘͚̯̩̏̈̓̊̑́̋͒͜ ̸̛̛̻̩̤̬͍̞̼͕̩̰̦̆͑͆̅̈́̓͘͘ḟ̶͙͇̱̯̤̤̳̘̍̾ͅų̸͖͚͓͖͖̏͜͝y̵̱͊̾̀̈́͛̀͑͗͛̆͘e̵̖̔͋̆͌̈̄̆̐̚̕͝z̶̢̢̛͓͇̎̎͋̃.̷̮̾͋̓̐̽͝͠.̴̢̛̙̞̼̮͚̭̲̜͚̃ͅ.̷͈̍͑̐̂́"̴͕͉͚̩̖̤̩̗́́͝ It was a stream of nonsensical words, Artie scrubbing at his face and tugging briefly at his hair. He finally seemed to actually look at King, just for a moment, repeating one of the words. "Fuyez!" Then he turned on his heel and fled from the scene, as if he had just committed murder. He tripped on a leg of his table, sending paints and the water jar flying, but paid the mess no mind at all.
"Hey! What the hell?! Come back! What did I do? You forgot all your stuff." King tried shouting after him, absolutely gobsmacked, but was ignored. He watched the ego flee into the building with a deep frown. "...well, at least he's gone, I guess. That was weird." He sighed, wondering if he'd need to clean up the mess.
It was then he noticed the fallen canvas and quirked his eyebrows. "Oh. He left this too. I wonder if he'll want it back?" King could always just leave it in the board room or something next time he trekked into the building for supplies. Curious, he reached down to carefully lift the canvas off the grass. The painting itself had probably been marred from the fall, but surely he could still see where the ego had been going with it. Maybe the image would give him some insight as to why its creator flipped every last shit he had.
It was a rather rudimentary painting of grass and the tree. King would have snorted, because of course, they all knew Mark couldn't paint. Not well, at least. Not to art society's "standards." However, one glaring abnormality to the piece stole any humor from his throat. He stared at it, now a bit wide-eyed himself.
Glancing back up at his actual tree posed no answers. He couldn't understand where this anomaly came from. Was the ego on drugs?
The sketchy, blotchy red figure of a man was painted squarely over the image of his tree. Its triangular chest almost seemed to split the trunk in two, and even without eyes, King swore the stick man was staring him down from the canvas.
"Uncomfortable" wasn't a strong enough word.
King left the painting in the dumpster outside the building, but he did try to return the ego's supplies. When he settled back in his tree, he tried to ignore the fact he could still see the little red man on the backs of his eyelids. It was just an image. I̴t̸ ̴w̷o̴u̵l̷d̷ ̵g̶o̵ ̷a̵w̸a̷y̷.̶
#markiplier#egoplier#markiplier egos#egos inc#king of the squirrels#artiplier#i like the nickname artie#also the title is still a pun#if u recognize it ;)#warnings for gratuitous french and outrageous accents lol#out on a limb
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Fic: see how deep the bullet lies (1/1)
Title: see how deep the bullet lies (1/1) Fandom: Timeless Ships: Wyatt Logan/Garcia Flynn pre-slash, though I suppose you could choose to read it as Gen. Rating: PG-13 or T Notes: Written in response to the following prompt from @timeless-fanfic-prompts : “Am I dead?” “No, but you’re going to wish you were.” Summary: Wyatt Logan is a simple man from Texas who hates puzzles, absolutely detests them, and knows better than to ever ask dangerous questions like “Why?” (Set in Season 2.) Warnings: for mentions of past abuse.
If you read this, thanks. Feedback is treasured; constructive criticism is welcomed.
Read below the cut, @ FF.net, or on AO3. Rating: T Tagging @extasiswings.
It’s Friday evening and they don’t have a mission because for once, Rittenhouse isn’t trying to upend history as they know it. (Well, of course it is, but the alarms signaling that Emma’s taken the Mothership out again remain blissfully silent.) This means that Wyatt doesn’t need to be at Mason Industries. And yet, there he is at the office on his day off, minus Rufus’s constant flow of comforting chatter and Lucy’s soft eyes that see too much but still not enough.
Apart from the intense nausea that still claws itself up from his gut to his throat every damn time he rides the Lifeboat, one perk of his latest gig is the small on-site gym. That’s where Wyatt is now.
He rolls his shoulders back, scrubs his damp palms on his shorts, and thinks, One more set. He needs to know he’s hit the weights hard enough that he’ll sleep that night—instead of seeing Jessica’s blue eyes following him in the darkness as the red numbers on his bedside clock frogmarch on toward dawn.
Whenever he reaches out a hand to touch Jessica, she shakes her head and retreats.
(The sleeplessness messes with his head, and on some nights he talks to Jessica, carrying on full conversations with her. “Jess, am I dead?” he asks her on occasion, unsure what he wants her answer to be. That should probably scare him. It doesn’t.
She tilts her head, long sunshine hair unfurling like a flag down over her bare shoulder as she leans over his pillow and watches him, lips tipped in a smile that holds no threat, only sadness. “No, but you’re going to wish you were.”
Jessica’s right; sometimes he does.
She always knew him better than he knew himself.
He never tells anyone.
He doesn’t need a shrink and a psych eval to tell him what he already knows: He’s splintering from the inside out.)
One last set of stiff-legged deadlifts and he’ll be finished for the day. Lucky for him, the last set is the toughest.
Wyatt’s gaze definitely doesn’t drift across the length of the small gym to the only other person working out there: a tall, lean man running at a medium pace on a treadmill, his long legs taking him nowhere. Garcia Flynn. (Hint: his eyes absolutely do not linger on the blotches of sweat that have filtered from Flynn’s skin to the fabric of his shirt, turning parts of the gray tee nearly black. What? They don’t. Furthermore, Wyatt doesn’t wonder if his cotton-covered skin smells like salt or gun oil or—)
They work together now, on the same team. Wyatt doesn’t like it, but like doesn’t enter the delicate equation; he’s got his orders. While their numbers are symmetrical, the ease and understanding that he, Rufus, and Lucy had fumbled their way into is gone with Flynn’s addition.
Two plus two equals four, sure; in their case, though, it’s more like three plus one, and the plus one makes everything uncomfortable and just…difficult. Which makes sense because he and Flynn have tried to kill each other. Who can blame them for any lingering awkwardness? Either they’ll get over the hump or they won’t.
Is Wyatt sure which one he’s rooting for? Ha. No. But Flynn’s an itch he just can’t scratch.
So no, he does not study Flynn and ask himself what convoluted thoughts churn through his head and what, exactly, he’s running from or toward. Because Wyatt Logan is a simple man from Texas who hates puzzles, absolutely detests them, and knows better than to ever ask dangerous questions like “Why?”
Wyatt pinches the bridge of his nose and scuffs the sole of his shoe on the cushioned gym flooring. He shakes his head, a sigh leaking out. Focus, Logan, snaps the voice in his head. But the voice crackling like static in his ear isn’t his own. It cuts like a cat o'nine, gruff with exasperation and rich with an accent he can taste in the back of his mouth and—
Shut it down.
This time he does. He bends down and curls his hands around the barbell, feels the life-beaten skin of his palms absorb the crosshatch pattern etched into the metal, then stands. With his knees slightly bent, he pushes his hips back and lets his arms slide the bar closer to the floor, just until he feels a bittersweet burn and a pleasure-pain stretch in his hamstrings. Slowly he reverses, returning to a standing position. He deadlifts again and again, not bothering to count reps anymore, until his legs shake like leaves on a storm-blown tree rooted deep in a West Texas hill, and his breath stutters, and the man across the room, the one directly in his line of sight, fades into a meaningless blur.
(Or so Wyatt tells himself.)
Tonight he’ll sleep.
Wyatt showers after his workout, allowing the hot water to dominate his body until he’s not a person or even a soldier anymore, just a collection of wet skin and slowly tightening muscles.
He’s dry and dressed, seated on a bench in the locker room, about to shove his freshly-socked feet into his shoes, when his phone pings with a message.
He picks the phone up from the bench and peers at it. It’s a text from Rufus. Drinks at Jake’s at 7:30?
Without thinking too hard about it, he taps out a fast reply. Nah. Not tonight. Tired.
You sure? Lucy’ll be there.
Wyatt huffs a laugh and cracks his knuckles before responding. I’m sure. Brunch at Doc’s Diner tomorrow at 11:30?
Done. Good night, man.
See ya, Rufus.
The phone tips back on the bench, and Wyatt digs through his duffel bag for his car keys. He fumbles them; they slip from his fingers and hit the tile floor with a clink. After he snags them from the floor, he glances up and finds Flynn standing a few feet away in front of the wall of blue lockers across from him. A white towel curls around his waist, leaving his back bare. Wyatt sucks in a breath and returns his gaze to his bag, only to discover his brain has lost all control of his eyes, which keep wanting to flick back to Flynn. Shoulders hunched, he ducks his head and hazards a furtive look. Eyes wide, Wyatt looks and looks and can’t look away from the network of pale scars crisscrossing the width of the other man’s back. The scars, they’re old, judging by their color—white. Something painful and hot rises in Wyatt’s stomach. He swallows it back.
“See something you like, Logan?” Flynn asks, turning to face him, one eyebrow angled up in that way that Wyatt hates. A sarcastic smile lurks around the borders of Flynn’s mouth, and Wyatt hates it. He fucking loathes that smile that’s anything but a smile. He wants to wipe it off his face with his fist or with his—
Wyatt flinches like he’s been hit. The blood rises in his face, thick and hot, but somehow he summons a smirk. He has to play the game right. “You wish.” Clearing his throat, he zips his bag shut and swings himself up from the bench, intent on leaving as quickly as he can. But he has to pass right by Flynn to get to the door that leads out of the locker room. Keep walking. Keep walking.
His feet stop listening when he’s three feet away from Flynn. The question flies from his mouth before he can capture and cage it like he should: “What happened to you?”
Flynn has his pants on now. At Wyatt’s question, he takes the towel he’s slung over his shoulder and tosses it on the bench. His brow furrows and his green eyes narrow. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
Wyatt ignores Flynn’s naked chest and meets his gaze head-on. “Your back.” He taps his own back with his index finger. “The scars. What happened to you?”
They stare at each other, locked in silence for so long that Wyatt thinks for sure Flynn won’t answer. Water drips from one of the showers, the sound echoing lightly. Something flickers behind Flynn’s green eyes. Then he blinks twice, and it’s gone. “My father,” Flynn replies. He swipes a hand over his mouth and down the faint stubble stippling his chin. “My father happened.”
Remembering the weight of his own father's fists, that ugly sensation tightens Wyatt's stomach again. Sorry. There's a confusing maelstrom of feelings spinning inside him and he doesn't feel capable of separating it into its components right then. “Oh,” is all he says, pushing his hands into his front pockets. He coughs, just to give himself something to do. “So, uh, me, Rufus, and Lucy, we’re meeting for brunch tomorrow at 11:30.” He rocks back on his heels. His cheek itches, so he scratches it. “Do you want to join us?” It’s a terrible idea, of course it is, and he regrets the offer as soon as it’s out his mouth.
Flynn laughs, the sound echoing like gunshots off all the metal and tile in the empty locker room. “This doesn’t change anything. Don’t feel sorry for me. That would be a mistake.” He pulls a black shirt over his head, covering his chest and the marks on his back that Wyatt wishes he could un-see. “No, I don’t want join you for brunch.” The last word is emphasized by a nasty smile that raises the tiny hairs on the back of Wyatt’s neck.
Wyatt eyes the faint stripe of warm color running along Flynn’s cheekbones. He shrugs. “You’re an idiot,” he says, but the words lack any real heat.
Flynn mutters something Wyatt’s ears don’t quite catch.
His stomach rumbles and Wyatt starts walking again.
“Don’t tell them.”
The words are quiet, but Wyatt hears them anyway. The “please” goes unspoken, but Wyatt hears it anyway. He doesn’t need to ask who the “them” is. He pauses in the doorway but doesn’t glance back over his shoulder. “I won’t,” he says. I’m sorry, even if you won’t believe me, he thinks but doesn’t say.
Sleep finds him in his bed that night, but Jessica does not. In his dreams, Wyatt stumbles through a labyrinth of winding white paths that don’t lead anywhere. Green eyes watch him without blinking. A familiar voice carried on the wind whispers, “Focus, Logan.” When he wakes the next morning, his mouth tastes gritty with Afghan sand. His head echoes with these words: “Don’t tell them.”
#nbc timeless#Timeless fanfiction#timeless fanfic contest#wyatt logan x garcia flynn#flogan#wyatt logan#garcia flynn#onlymorelove writes fic
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