#when we know those two would at LEAST recognize they got similar struggles

[godsmightandmortalsmold]

I know this is probably one of the worst ways to come back to this blog but

For every single reason under the sun, this is a joke

I promise

Probably

[thesecretwriter]

more than just friends (part 3) - steve rogers

pairing: Steve Rogers x female reader

warnings: Angst – this part has the least amount of angst from all previous parts, fluff – flasback of how reader and steve use to be, a touching moment between steve and reader, reader being in the med bay at the compound – nothing graphic described.

summary: Things with Steve are still tense, but with the sudden occurrence of you being injured, the tension has lessened. However, Steve is left with life decisions that determine how things pan out for him. You play a vital role for him and having you there is important, even if it doesn’t seem so.

word count: 1.8k

a/n: here’s part 3 – i thought this might be a good ending, but I wanna continue it to at least a part 5. reasons being so that you guys could have a chance in seeing steve redeem himself.

minors/ageless blogs dni.

Masterlists

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

Your eyes watched as he aimlessly walked around the venue. His eyes roamed around, looking from one couple to another. A tinge of sadness was hidden behind his piercing blue eyes. They eventually made their way to you. The edged of your lips automatically perking up. He immediately started making his way to you.

“I was looking for you,” he said leaning against the bars counter, where you had been seated.

“And now you’ve found me,” you reply happily, running on liquid courage.

Steve watched as you took another sip from your wine glass.

“How many of those have you had?” he asked with an amused smile.

“Not enough,” your chuckle and down the rest of it.

It had been a long day filled with the endless chaos of Tony and Pepper’s wedding. The day started at the crack of dawn and wouldn’t end until the light of the next day.

“It was a beautiful day, hmm?” he gazed at you and then back at the drink in his hand.

“Beautiful indeed,” you look to Tony and Pepper who were lovingly dancing together. You were happy to see Tony finally get the life he deserved, it’s something you wanted for all your friends.

It was no secret that you were a hopeless romantic. You wanted a happy ending one day. With a loving partner, potentially a family and a few pets to keep the happiness growing.

“You ever think about having a happily ever after?” you curiously ask.

The question surprised Steve, but he took time to process the question. He did want the cliché American happily ever after. His friends from the 40’s got their happy endings and now his modern-day friends were getting theirs.

“I guess I wouldn’t mind it. Coming home to a loving wife, maybe a kid or two if we wanted…” he trailed off and met your eyes as you nodded in understanding and continued to gaze at the dance floor.

“How about you? Is that something you want?” he wanted to know what your ideal life would be.

“Honestly… I just want to be loved. I want a life filled with all the predictable cliché stuff; you know? But I think I’d also like a nice quiet life, away from the harsh reality we fight against,”

Your eyes had yet to meet Steve’s – who was looking at you with an unknown emotion. However, a sense of longing was clearly present in them. For once, Steve found himself wanting to share a similar future to yours.

(flashback over)

It felt like an out of body experience as you recalled the memory. That was the beginning of whatever 'relationship' you and Steve shared, till the faithful night of his harsh words.

Your eyes were heavy, and you were struggling to open them. The prominent sounds of beeping could be heard. When you finally did manage to open your eyes, the striking glow of the sun blinding your gaze for a split second.

Someone had been holding your left hand, gripping it tightly, when you looked to see who it was – you were met with an increasing heartbeat that could be heard through the heart monitor. Steve sat hunched over as he slept while holding your hand. As you look around the room, you recognize it as the med bay at the compound. You try to recall the moments leading up to you being here and Steve’s voice echoes through your mind.

“Y/n, sweetheart. I need you to keep your eyes open for me, okay? I want your eyes on me,”

You tried to take your hand out of Steve’s hold to sit up properly and possibly reach over for a glass of water, but your sudden movement caused Steve to stir. His eyes fluttered open as he blinked away his sleep.

The first thing he noticed was the absence of your hand in his.

He looked to you and saw you staring back at him with wide eyes.

“Y/n? you’re awake!... I need to call Dr. Cho,” he went to press the button which would request assistance.

“N-no… not yet,” your words halted his movements. He was now closer to you and looked to you in worry.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“No, I just need a moment… what happened?” you reached over for the glass of water, but Steve had already gone ahead to give it to you. He placed it back on the side table once you were done and his hand automatically grasped yours again.

“The mission that you and Peter went on was compromised and you got shot. Dr. Cho said it wasn’t critical, but you were unconscious for more than 24 hours,” he explained and fiddled with your fingers, a habit he did to distract himself.

You nodded at his words and watched him carefully. His tone held fear, something you weren’t used to seeing Steve experience.

“Is Peter okay?” you asked recalling the look of sheer panic he had when you were shot.

“A bit shaken up, but he’s okay… he’s a good kid,” Steve commented with a small smile.

“Kid? You know him and I are the same age, right?” you chuckle.

“But he’s not you,”

A day had passed, and you were discharged to go back to your room but were told to use the next few weeks to recover. Peter had taken it upon himself to help you around the compound.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said as he sat on your bed where you were laying, staring at the ceiling.

“I wouldn’t be okay if it weren’t for you,” you moved your head in his direction and smiled appreciatively.

“Steve was the reason we were able to get back to the compound that quickly. Don’t tell him I said this, but the look in his eyes that day made him look like a mad man. He was frantic and wouldn’t leave your side,”

You looked back to the ceiling and began to wonder.

Steve obviously cared for you. He went out of his way to make sure you were okay, even before you got shot. During the ‘professional treatment’ phase, he had resumed back to how he was before your argument. That didn’t hinder your thoughts though, he would have to do more to earn your forgiveness.

Bored.

The perfect word to describe how you felt. It seemed like everyone was busy doing something.

You walked through the halls of the compound, aimlessly wondering and looking for something to do. Your recovery hindered your ability to kill time in the training facility, so you found yourself walking towards the same spot where you set up the picnic.

As you walked closer to the spot, you saw Steve sitting a few feet away on a bench. Feeling the familiar flutter of butterflies in your tummy, you made your way toward him.

“Hey,” you greeted, bringing him out of his daze. He looked in your direction and an automatic smile made its way to his lips.

“Hi,” he smiled and patted the seat next to him.

“What’re you doing out here?” you asked curiously.

“Just taking in some fresh air and thinking. How’s your wound? How’re you feeling?” he asked looking at the spot where you were shot.

“It’s okay, a slow recovery, but its okay,” you smile and assure him.

An awkward silence had surrounded the two of you. The scene before you was a sad contrast of how things once was.

“I uhm…”

“So-”

You both spoke at the same time and then chuckled.

“You go first,” he nodded.

“No, you. I miss hearing our voice,” the words slip passed your lips before you can stop them, but the smile on Steve’s lips quickly erases the feeling of regret.

“Okay… well uhm, I’ve decided to start... therapy,” he said looking at his hands. “I’ve been thinking about it and after speaking to Bucky about how it’s made things better for him… I realized how much of trauma I’ve retained from the war and the adjustment to living in a new age of time,”

You listened intently as he spoke, the vulnerability in Steve’s voice was heart aching.

“I think it’s a good idea,” your tone held encouragement and displayed the concern you felt for him.

“Yeah?... I think so too,” a small smile graced his lips.

You allowed yourself to get lost in thought for a moment. This was a big step for Steve – you knew it took a lot for him to admit that he needed therapy. In fact, it hadn’t crossed your mind before. Your line of work basically requires you to endure events and situations that could only be helped with therapy.

“I think it would be an even better idea if we spoke to Fury about establishing a psychologist or therapist to stay at the compound. For whoever may need it. We deal with a lot from being avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D agents,” you explain to him.

“I’ll set up a meeting with him about it,” Steve nodded and took your hands in his, moving closer to you.

“There’s something else I want to say to you…” he trailed off, his eyes were set on the ground before meeting yours.

“The words I said that night- Y/n. I didn’t mean any of them. My mind was clouded with anger, which shouldn’t have been directed towards you. And I’m not going to blame my issues or trauma on it, because it was uncalled for. I just want you to know that I didn’t mean it. You’re not a second option. You’ve been so good to me since we’ve met and I don’t want to throw that away because of my stupidity,”

Your hands remain in his as each word leaves his lips. You had already established that you knew his words weren’t true, and his apology was genuine. Which is why your next few words were chosen so carefully.

“For me to know you’re true about your words – we’re going to have to go very slow to become normal again. I’m still here for you, I always will be, but right now, you need yourself more than you need me,” you lean your forehead against his and close your eyes.

The intimate moment shared between you two solidified to Steve that there was no one else like you. No one who would say or do the things the way you do.

“I love you,” is all he whispers.

tagging those who reblogged/commented:

@paarthurnax59 @terry2227 @sweater-bee @niffala @superforgottensoul @haruvalentine4321 @steve-language-rogers @slxttyro @themrsrogers

[amysubmits]

Hi Amy :) long time fan of your writing

I know you’ve written about times where CD has mentally pulled away from you, and your dynamic, because of real world issues and circumstances. I was wondering if that still happens where maybe one of you is just having a rough time and pulls away and maybe how you navigate that and reconnect ? Or if this ever hurts your feelings and how you go about it even if his issues arnt because of or about you

Hope that made sense, have a great day!

Hey Anon :)

Thank you!

Yes, we still have times where one or both of us get sort of emotionally distant without fully realizing it. Sometimes due to life circumstances, sometimes just due to mood or mental health.

A little over a year ago we got to a place where we both (but mostly me, honestly, haha) felt more comfortable addressing issues or concerns at a faster pace, rather than waiting on emotions to fully pass. With that, we've been able to discuss any feelings of distance or being shut off or shut down a lot more quickly, which has resulted in those periods being shorter than they used to be. We've also both gained a lot of additional insight into our individual mental health situations the last year or so of being in therapy. And when we understand ourselves better, that makes it easier to communicate where we're at to each other.

So how it works is basically...

CD still tries to let me know if he is feeling 'off' at all, and to let me know it's not me if it's not me. I try to do the same. And we're both able to do this at least 90% of the time that it happens, now. And when we aren't able to communicate to the other person that we aren't fully feeling ourselves, it's the result of us not really realizing our own mood. So if CD is 'off' and he doesn't say anything to me, that usually means he isn't aware that he is 'off', so my goal would then be to let him know that I feel like he is 'off' so that he can kinda check in with himself about how he's doing, and then we can talk about it. And same thing if I'm the one who is off without realizing it. A lot of the time if we don't catch our own mental health thing, the other person will see it. Also, we're both medicated for things now that have helped reduce the low moods and intensity of anxiety that would cause us to pull away or pull into our own heads.

Once we've acknowledged that something is off, sometimes we fix it, and sometimes we let it run its course.

Sometimes that distance we've been creating with the other person doesn't feel necessary, so once we recognize it, we work to communicate through it and get back to feeling really intimate.

Other times, it feels like the person who is 'off' really needs some space to just kind of be in their feelings and stuck in their head for a day or two to process whatever they're coping with. We still do some talking with each other about it, we never fully lock the person out. But we don't always feel like that kinda off, stuck in our head, feeling is something that can be immediately resolved, sometimes it takes time to come back around, and so we try to give each other that space if that's what's needed.

When Cd is the one who is off, I do still tend to worry that it's somehow my fault. It helps a lot that we just address it directly, and really quickly. It give some less time to worry about other possibilities. Still, it doesn't always take care of my insecurities. If I feel like I need it, I will let him know that I'm struggling, but while making it clear that I know it's primarily my issue. "I know you said that you're feeling off because of [XYZ] right now, but I'm still struggling with worrying it's my fault. Can you reassure me again that it's not about me?" or similar is what I try to do. And directly asking for the reassurance we need is something we've just managed to figure out this last year or so. In the past it felt like if we ask for exactly what we need and then receive it, we'd totally dismiss t. I don't fully know how or why that doesn't seem true to us anymore. But yeah we are now able to directly address our need, ask for it, and get it - and that helps some. But also, to some degree, I try to recognize that my insecurities exist, and that while I try not to let my insecure thoughts run away with the chickens, I can't fully expect CD to be able to 'cure' my insecurities. So I try to just remind myself of my patterns. I have an insecure attachment style so it's easy for me to get anxious anytime I feel any distance from him. And just sort of remembering why I have that reaction, and that it isn't really about CD at all, somewhat helps.

But yeah, I find that it's a lot easier to come back together when we don't let the distance stay unspoken or last for as long as it used to. If you can get to where you can communicate noticing that something feels off sooner, and address any insecurities sooner, that can keep the insecurities from growing as much. At least, that's been my experience.

Hope this helps!

[aspiringsophrosyne]

Episode 5: Pass Through Fire

Is it hot in here? It seems hot in this theatre. Maybe their air conditioning's on the fritz. Better get yourself a drink, because it seems like the temperature's going up and staying up.

The Good.

Janet Varney. Of course they got Korra to voice Keyleth's mom. Of course they did. This whole opening sequence screams Avatar, and I'm here for it. And it's nice to see such tenderness between Keyleth and her mom, given their separation. Also, just seeing Good Parents in TLOVM is a joy, given the majority of the group comes from less-than-ideal families or home situations.

Raven Queen's not the most tactful conversationalist, is she? I like that this is something that just won't let Vax go until he deals with it; it might be easy for him and the audience to think it'll go away without those little flashes. Similarly, it fits that he cannot get the armor off; there's no escaping it or what it represents. 

Yay, Vex and Scanlan banter. I love what the runes say if you look close enough. Nice nod to Viridian, too. I'm happy to see more between these two in particular. Laura has talked about how they both put up fronts and that this was something Vex recognized in Scanlan and related to. They have their own interesting dynamic it's good to see more of.

I like that the show portrays Keyleth and Vax's concerns as equally valid. They are trying to fight something that could affect everyone in Tal'Dorei and perhaps even the world, but Vox Machina had previously backed each other up in their personal quests.

Very cool getting to see Keyleth just beat on something. Her magic is always a treat for the oculars, but there's something fun about watching her hit a monster in the face.

Yes...! Flashback to Allura and Kima's adventuring days!! I would watch an episode focusing on that group. It's also nice to see it so quickly and casually established that the two are a couple. In the original, they had been together before the stream, then split off to do their own things. Matt left it up in the air whether they would get back together or not. They eventually did, but that left us with hours and hours of ambiguity until it became clear that Allura and Kima were very much in love.

Hey, Robbie! Robbie Daymond was a player on Exandria Unlimited and a guest player for Campaign 3 of Critical Role. He's fabulous, and I didn't even realize that was him playing Cerkonos.

Keyleth's whole transformation scene is beautiful and cathartic. She spends so much time unsure of herself or struggling to control her abilities, but then she gets that extra bit of confidence to let loose, and it's awe-inspiring. Her surrendering to the fire has a certain painful, uncertain beauty. You don't know if she'll be able to do whatever she needs to without hurting or destroying herself.

Neal's score compliments the moment perfectly; it's a musical epiphany spliced with the triumph of a battle won. There isn't anything more I can say about the music without repeating myself; it's always amazing.

Keyleth gets a little costume upgrade, yay! I like that the characters' looks change to represent their development and growing power. We saw something similar with the character art starting in C2, and it was always fun to see the new looks.

The Bad. (Or at least, not great.)

Grog and Craven Edge

So here's the thing about the original shitting scene. And yes, that is a sentence I just typed.

Originally the second Sphinx was not on the same continent as Vasselheim, and the crew went back to Tal'dorei to meet with Osysa's mate, to get the Vestige and some other treasures Identified, and to rest for a bit. Whitestone, in particular, was where the scene with Grog and Scanlan happened. Even if you didn't see the original, you might be able to guess it was transplanted from a more populated setting because Grog asks Scanlan for a song so that no one else will hear.

When they're in the woods. Away from the group and far away from any other people.

Grog's dumb, but he's not that kind of dumb.

It's not a huge deal, but it's one more instance on a growing list of the writing CRew's inconsistencies.

To fix it, I'd change the line to something different (Grog asking for mood music instead, perhaps) or, hell, have it chronologically take place in Whitestone when they first escaped the Conclave. Just have Grog flashback to it in this episode. You'd have to change some things in a few episodes, though. Have Grog fight some residual undead or monsters hanging around the city so he can see what the sword is capable of first, for instance. But you could make it work. 

Nitpicks:

I need more damn banter.

Not just because we had more banter in the original stream and not just because it would be a great way to organically world-build and establish and develop these characters and their relationships...

But because none of these people have books, iPhones, or music to listen to while they travel, presumably for hours if not days. All they can do is talk. So it makes sense that they would.

There's another reason, but I'll get into that next episode.

~ * ~

Again, I wished they'd added some visual effect to indicate Allura was at least trying to cast a spell when those rocks fell. If you know the original story, you know she lives, and if you know D&D wizards, you know they have tricks for that kind of thing, but if you're new, it can look cheap that they got out without any previous indication that they had.

Aramenté

So...to pass through the fire.

For various reasons, the way this moment was presented in the Campaign can't happen here. And even if there was no getting around that, it breaks my heart that the way it went down, so much of the original meaning of this phrase was lost.

The long and short of it was that it was part of a pep-talk for Keyleth that was a metaphor for enduring adversity. And it's such a disservice to Kiki's anxiety and her struggles with her confidence to just have her suddenly understand the concept out of nowhere when we have everything we need to give it more weight.

We have the whole prior season.

Instead of Keyleth just suddenly realizing what she needs to do, what she's capable of doing, have her flashback to the Blue Dragon she helped kill. The badass magic she used on the road to Whitestone that saved Vox Machina's lives while they were chasing after Scanlan. When she healed Cassandra. Her ice magic against the zombie hoard. When she killed Sylas. Hell, you could throw in her escaping the Conclave, which was her almost literally passing through fire.

Then hit us with her mom's voice. Because then both she and the audience can connect her mother's phrase with all she's endured up to this point. Hammer home what it means.

And then it's clear that Keyleth's already done what Air Ashari are made to do. So she can do it now.

Pyrah And Future Conflicts

Keyleth is told that Thordak had help getting out of the Fire Elemental plane, which led to the death and destruction that's come to Pyrah. In the stream, the confrontation between Keyleth and the being that provided that help was electric, charged with her anger and outrage in a moment where all her lack of surety fell away and was the foundation for some incredible moments later. There could still be more coming to set up for it....but as it stands, I can't see this episode providing the same heft that its stream counterpart did.

Mainly because, in the stream, we got to visit Pyrah before the attack. We saw it thriving, calm and peaceful. After the Chroma Conclave's initial attack, Allura showed Vox Machina the devastation the dragons had wrought outside Emon. Pyrah had become the sight of a smoking crater and mounds of dead. It left Keyleth and Marisha both in tears.

We're not getting the same impact here, but maybe we could've gotten closer to it by having Keyleth's flashback with her mom occur in Pyrah. We could see how the city was meant to be, and then we could've further empathized with Keyleth when she gets there and sees how devastated it is.

Heading into the next show, we've got one hell of a performance coming up. Don't miss it!

[drevnian-smol]

Personal Harley Quinn Show (HBO) Rant

Maybe I’m just a little bitch but I would actually like to see Harley struggle with falling back into bad habits more. Like I think I stopped watching s3 bc her life was honestly too together. Which, I know.

But we see so little of her back and forth because Ivy’s always there and the show runners want a good lesbian relationship, which is totally justified. But with the characters Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy, stable is the last thing I expected. Like yeah, totally they’d balance each other out and have consistency, but Harley would still be bouncing off the walls every 5 minutes no matter what Ivy does, and no matter how many dogs or cats Harley shoves in Ivy’s face, deep down all Ivy’s thinking about is destroying human kind, sans Harley. So I’m just really confused by how actually on the same page the two of them are because I’ve never met any two people like that, and maybe it’s possible, but why are they so calm??? I know them to be two characters that spontaneously implode at times and I guess I started finding it more difficult to relate to them the more domestic and mature they got, but I’m also sad that Psycho’s gone.

Not like, really sad, but I miss seeing an asshole every few scenes. It was refreshing and realistic, and honestly I started finding myself more tolerant of others because of him, in some weird way. So the other part that bothers me is that there’s less of a split of focus, which I know is stupid when the show is supposed to be Harley Quinn’s, but it’s basically the Harley and Ivy show already so why can’t I ask for more plots focusing on other characters. The personas they had chosen for others like Batman and the Freezer guy with the dying wife that I’ve temporarily forgotten the name of, are really interesting, and I liked seeing this big entertaining world Harley was exploring. Plus, I think this is a chance to display that weird juxtaposition of how backwards the Gotham culture is and how it’s actually very similar to what modern day culture is becoming, from a broad perspective at least.

And last, I shall speak of sacrilege and say, I don’t think Harley being tempted by Joker is the worst idea plot wise. Like yeah, she’s happy. Yeah, she has no reason to go back. But she’s gonna be growing more distant from Ivy now, just because they can’t spend as much time together, which allows for pervasive thoughts that would just escalate with time. So I don’t think the writers should take a “never going back there” approach and maybe have it be something Harley confronts again. Maybe she doesn’t give in, maybe she never really wants to, but maybe she remembers what it was like to be with him, remembers how he treated her, and begins to doubt the life she has with Ivy (not because he was good). And then Ivy can be there for her, and she can overcome it again. But Joker isn’t something that can just disappear from Harley’s life. Yeah, she has a lot of experience with repression, but we all have those things that just find you time and time again. The kinds of things you confront time and time again in your life, that you get better at overcoming, but still have to face it.

I think real growth for Harley would come from that kind of awareness, to have strength in the face of everything without repressing or ignoring or deluding. I think that might be why I stopped understanding Harley after a certain point, because it seemed like after the first 2 seasons she had really moved on and I didn’t recognize any of the struggles I’ve had in my life anymore. So I guess, I just want her to be more human. Maybe I’m weird, but… idk the show just left me feeling emotionally unresolved more than once.

Also side note, Sy was the craziest person in the show and it should’ve stayed that way.

[tarzinnia]

Well now. That comment from the Chapter 8 reblog regarding a writer tossed plot hand grenade is looking a little prescient now that I've read Chapter 9. You've got quite a few of those in your arsenal I suspect! I really liked this chapter and I'm really sorry for the length of the following. I managed to use the KR insert (at least it worked for me on the reblog) because I have thoughts...

Peter Parker vs. Angel is an interesting dynamic you're laying out. I read your A/N with each chapter, and I like how Angel vacillates between vulnerable and steely-eyed practical because Peter does likewise. I much prefer writers who recognize that most individuals emotions are on a spectrum unique to them (with universal similarities) and Peter and Angel are great examples of that. He's barely holding it together, anger at what he wants to say simmering at the tip of his tongue but recognizing that to lose control in front of others is a perceived weakness--in his world, and in our world as well. However, Felicia made a rather handy target for blowing off a little steam. (That really mirrors the real world--often it is women and under-represented groups that receive the shrapnel when those in power are raging). Although, I am aware that Felicia's comment made her an easy target. I'll get back to Felicia in a mo, but for now, Peter. His fear(s) are a powerful motive, and Angel is showing him that she has agency. She's changed while away, and Peter isn't quite sure if he likes that. (hello real world again and what patriarchal societies view as shifting sands under their feet when those groups push back).

This is going to get really interesting (for me) as your plot and dialogue progress. Angel seems to understand that while she experienced events during her time away and also growth from those events, her underlying bond with Peter is still based on her feelings for him and those feelings are (to this reader) overwhelmingly positive. She shouldn't have to subsume her personality just because things changed, the adjustment must come from both partners, recognizing (as she does) that he changed as well. Perhaps I'm reading too much into this, but that is where I see her mentally right now. She is a strong woman, (with her father I expect there would be limited avenues for options--you either fold, break, or develop the strength to stand) and she shouldn't have to apologize for it but she sees Peter struggling with his own demons (related to her and everything else) and her own fears (his rejection of her due to those changes, etc) are also simmering right there. But to sum it up, I liked how she handled herself in the room, in front of Peter (and the rest of the group).

Back to Felicia. I love her. She may have slept with a married man, (hey takes two there Peter) but she has her own code and damn if she didn't have a great line: "She bakes and she’s a good shot. Anyone would think it wasn’t everything you looked for in a wife." The TASM fandom is where I tend to reside, and we only got a glimpse of Felicia with Felicity Jones in the second movie, but that is who I picture in your character. The kind of character you should never ever underestimate. Lot going on there. (side note: if you ever decide to write her as lead in a story, I am here for that).

And Miles, I love him too. Preternaturally mature, empathetic, smart, what is not to love? He has so much potential you half want to protect him and half want to let him go because he is meant to soar to the stars.

Finally, (again apologies for the length but this chapter had a LOT going on) back to the plot machinations. Someone is watching their movements pretty closely. I mean it makes sense to hit the hub as that is the heart of the community and Peter is involved with it, but the timing (thank heavens for a spot of tea and a bun and I could write another paragraph on that) has me guessing there is perhaps a mole? Only you know, ha! But the tragic circumstances (loss of life isn't explicitly stated other than bodies on the floor but severe injuries regardless) is going to be a powerful driver of a lot of things. Speculating that Peter is going to freak OUT a little and want to take control because he fears a lot of things are out of control. That alone (fear as a motivating factor for character's actions) could take up chapters (if that is your plan) and lord knows I love that kind of in-depth development and layering of people's thoughts, personalities, and actions. We're complicated and I adore it when writers just go for it and take up that adventure. It's a wild ride but it's not my first roller coaster ride, so hand me a ticket and open the gate cause I'm onboard.

Well done and cheers!

*This was a great reward for getting a project out of my hair, thanks for writing!

The Angel In The Garden of Evil | Chapter Nine: An Explosion In Chinatown

Summary: It's just one thing after another for our couple and the Vulture isn't making things any easier.

Warnings: 18+ Only!, mob/mafia/gang violence typical of the genre, guns, blood, bomb, explosion, death, angst, grief, arguing

Word Count: 2.2k+

A/N: Okay so the drama is ramping up here, you thought chapter 8 had a twist well chapter 9's is even bigger. We are about to touch on a possibly more sensitive topic for the next couple of chapters but I will be very clear to note when and where the details of our plot are so you can pick and choose which bits you read if any of this is gonna trigger you but you want to carry on. It will mostly be in the next chapter which will come with its own authors note but seeing as this is a mafia/mob/gang story it's not an out of character plot twist for the narrative. Anyway, if you struggle with the end of this chapter I advise skipping chapter 9 and just picking up with our story in chapter 10, I promise things will still make sense.

NINE

Peter stormed back into the apartment thirty minutes later followed slowly by Angel, Eddie, Harry and Felicia, Miguel being left downstairs to clear up the mess that was now Jackson Brice. Whether his resolve was stronger than they realised or he really wasn’t the fountain of knowledge they’d expected, was still yet to be determined, but they had learnt one thing before his body gave out, The Vulture was planning on something big.

“What the fuck was that?” Peter suddenly blurted out as he doubled back to his wife. She simply stared at him, her eyebrows raised, egging him on to do his worst. He quickly checked himself, taking deep breaths as he stared her down, unwilling to play her games.

When he seemed to calm a little she finally spoke. “Were you or were you not gonna tell me to go back upstairs after you dragged me all the way down there to make a show of IDing your little plaything for your own game?” she calmly threw the ball back into his court. 

She watched him closely as his nostrils flared, his pupils dilating as he began to feel his rage course through his body. He was acutely aware of their fight the day before, not wanting to prove her or her Father right, he could keep control of his anger, he could. She was just making it really hard for him right now. 

“Well?” she pressed. He growled under his breath as he turned away from her, confirming what she already knew to be true. “Look, I was the one who was hurt, it should have been me who exacted justice.”

“So you just shot him.” He turned to face her again, his hands sitting firmly on his hips in an attempt to feign a stance of control.

“I shot him in the leg Pete, I didn’t kill the guy.”

“It was a pretty good shot.” Felicia chimed in with a smirk of admiration that got her a harsh look from Peter. “Jeez bug boy,” she chided, “She bakes and she’s a good shot. Anyone would think it wasn’t everything you looked for in a wife.” she continued to jest as she slinked across the floor to the living room and took a seat on the sofa, leaning back into the cushions ready to watch the drama unfold. It was short lived though.

“GET OUT!” Peter shouted, finally blowing his top. “You know what you need to be doing today, so go do it.” he commanded her. 

“Come on now, Pete.” Eddie said, stepping forward to mediate again.

“No!” Peter said firmly to him. “All of you out. NOW!”

They all slowly filed back out the door, Harry placing a tender hand to Peter’s shoulder, urging him to try and be lenient. “I’ll meet you downstairs in a minute.” Peter muttered under his breath. Harry nodded in acknowledgment before leaving, closing the front door behind him.

The door closing acted like the fall of the curtain at the end of a performance. Peter turning his back to her and finally getting a hold on himself, able to finally let down his guard without prying eyes. Just him and his wife and their…issues.

He rested his head in his hands as he sat himself down in a boxy leather armchair. She watched as his breathing gradually slowed and began to step forward towards him, attempting to bridge the gap between them that kept getting wider, every time they tried to meet in the middle.

“Just when I think I understand you,” he huffed, still unable to look at her. “What happened to you?” He finally lifted his head to meet her eyes and she could see the pain clear on his face. His inner conflict that she was causing him.

“I had to adapt without you.” she said quietly. Peter watched as her own pain and realisation began to fall over her like a dark cloud. “I guess when you are in it, you don’t notice it as much. Until…” her voice trailed off as she tried to find a way to rationalise things. 

“Do you know how dangerous that is?” Peter finally said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them once more. “How am I supposed to deal with the threat out there if I’m always watching over my shoulder for you because I have no idea what you’re going to do or say next. What other secrets you’re hiding from me?”

“Peter I-”

“No. I can’t do this right now.” He said, getting up from the armchair, his hand running through his hair as his thoughts raced around in the small space.

“Peter, please.” Her hand reached out for his as he passed her. There was so much pain in his eyes when he looked at her.

“I’ll get Miles to come pick you up and take you down to the hub.” he said quietly as he slipped his hand from her grasp. She couldn’t help but stare at his back as he made his way to the front door, the latch closing behind him syncing up with the first tear that rolled down her cheek.

******

Miles picked her up an hour later. After Peter had left she made her way upstairs to finish getting dressed. She had kept on the trousers and the vest, choosing to layer over the top a light blue pinstriped button up shirt that sat oversized on her frame.

“Hey, you ready to go?” Miles said as he knocked on the door of the bedroom. He had let himself in. He had expected to find her sat waiting in the living room for him or even in the kitchen, he hadn’t expected to find her upstairs on the bed staring blankly at the wall.

“Umm, yeah, let’s go.” she said as she stood and started gathering the last of her things into her handbag.

“Hey, you okay?” Miles asked as he stopped her at the door. She looked like a ghost, not at all like the woman he had met the day before who was so sure of herself both when they had first been introduced and she was a fireball of rage or later, when they went down to the shelter and she was all kindness and smiles, showing him around. Now she was just a shell. He watched closely, the flash of change in her eyes as she suddenly put on a smile and a show to him but it wasn’t going to work.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” she chirped as she breezed past him and headed for the stairs down to the main floor of the penthouse apartment.

Miles didn’t want to accept that answer. His Mom had raised him well enough to know when someone was hurting and needed help. Taught him how to talk, to be compassionate, but in the 24 hours he’d come to know Angel, he knew if he pushed her too hard she might just snap at him and it might make things worse. He hoped once he got her down to F.E.A.S.T and she started to soften how she had yesterday, she may be more willing to talk about what’s happened.

They both sat in silence in the car as they made their way to the hub. “Did you want to pick anything up on the way?” Miles asked, attempting to make conversation and see if she wanted to get anything to bring to the shelter as an offering.

“No, it’s okay.” she said quietly before turning her head to look out the window. “Wait!” she exclaimed as they turned down a particular street.

“What? What is it?” Miles responded, suddenly on alert. But when he looked over to her in the passenger seat, there was a sudden softness to her, a feeling that wasn’t there before.

“Can you stop up here? There’s a little cafe I want to pop into.”

Angel told Miles to wait in the car for her as she made her way into the Lucky Cat Cafe, the little bell above the door jingling as she entered. As her eyes scanned the walls with their many quirky and colourful pieces of cat art, a feeling of nostalgia and peace washed over her.

“Good Morning?” a little old Chinese lady greeted her from behind the counter.

“Good Morning.” Angel smiled back. 

She took a seat at one of the empty tables and let out a sigh of relief as she sat back into one of the old wooden chairs. 

“Can I get you anything?” the old lady asked in her heavily accented english.

“Umm, yes, can I get a green tea and one of the coconut buns please?” she asked, the familiar order returning to her and falling from her lips as easily as riding a bike.

“One green tea, one coconut bun coming up.” the old lady repeated with a smile as she went back towards the counter.

It had been so long since she had last been here. It used to be a place her and her mother came to regularly before she passed. They loved nothing more than stopping in on a saturday morning and talking for what felt like hours about school and boys and family history, the ludicrous tales and adventures of her Grandmother being recounted to her over a cup of tea and a coconut bun.

“Thank you.” Angel said with a smile as the little old lady sat an ornately decorated cup, saucer and teapot in front of her along with the coconut bun on a small octagonal pink plate.

“Enjoy.” The lady smiled before returning back towards the tiny kitchen bakery in the back.

Angel poured herself a cup of tea and as she did so a small ray of sunlight suddenly shifted, shining through the little tea shop window to illuminate the chair beside her. The warmth of the light comforted her, a familiar presence at her side. 

As she sipped on her tea and nibbled on her bun, the little flakes of desiccated coconut on top dropping back down to the table and into her lap, she was reminded of a scene in a movie she loved to watch when she was younger. Her Dad had bought her the Charlie’s Angels movies on dvd as part of her Christmas present one year. She had watched them religiously, wanting to grow up to be just like the strong, courageous women in the movie. As she sat there now, the stream of light beside her, it reminded her of the scene in the second movie, when Dylan goes into a bar in Mexico and talks to a seemingly passed-on Angel of the past, Kelly Garrett, one of the angels from the original series. 

She looked to the stream of light beside her, felt the comfort in it and knew her Mom was sitting with her. ‘I miss you.’ she thought.

‘I know.” a little voice in the back of her head said.

When she returned to Miles 40 minutes later she could tell he was anxious about having left her in the little Chinese cafe alone; but the moment he saw her more present and relaxed, she saw him breath out a sigh of relief.

“You feeling better?” he asked.

“Yeah.” she smiled at him with a small nod of her head.

“Ready to go help some people?” he asked as she reached for her seatbelt and buckled herself in.

“Let’s do it.”

They pulled up on the other side of the road to the hub a few minutes later, Angel letting out another sigh of contentedness as she stepped out of the car and looked at the building. “You good?” Miles checked in with her as he looked at her over the roof of the car, the driver's side door clicking closed.

“Yup.” she turned and smiled at him.

They checked for cars before they started to cross the road, but as they got closer to the other side, Angel saw a flash of light through the glass doors of the hub before-

She was knocked off her feet as a blast of energy burst from the building, a large boom echoing out onto the street in its wake. Her back collided with the side of the car behind her and everything went black.

“Angel? ANGEL?” Mile’s voice sounded muffled, almost like he was talking to her underwater and there was this ringing in her ears. She opened her eyes, trying to see him, trying to understand what was happening. Her vision slowly cleared enough for her to make out his face as he hobbled towards her, leaning over her body.

She tried to move but her body was so heavy, everything felt numb. She managed to prop herself up on one arm slightly, though her ribs protested. 

“Angel?” Miles continued to say her name, trying to ground her, to focus on him but she couldn’t stop herself from looking past him at the clouds of black smoke that billowed out of the blown out windows and doors of the shelter. Small flecks of white ash came down like snow as people ran and screamed around them. There were bodies on the floor. Bystanders quickly got covered in dust as they ran in to help.

She tried to move again but it was difficult, like trying to pull her body out of quicksand. “Hey, hey, hey, don’t move.” Miles’ muffled voice said through the ringing still in her ears.

She thought she felt her chest groan as she finally gave up, her body relaxing back onto the concrete, her eyes closing, darkness dragging her under.

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

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[summercourtship]

Hi, could you write a nsfw oneshot or something for the Cenobite with a shy and modest fem survivor reader? Possibly include some fingering and using his hands. Thanks if you do!

I'm sorry this took so long, I obviously got a bit carried away. I have such a bad habit of needing SO MUCH exposition even for tiny one shots (or at least what are supposed to be tiny) but I’m not going to stop. I’m also not sure how well I fulfilled the idea of a “shy, modest” reader, but I think I managed to have elements of it without it becoming a stereotypical mess of stuttering and blushing.

summons [nsfw, 18+]

Pinhead (The Cenobite) x Reader | warnings: NSFW, reader could be interpreted as being a virgin but it’s not explicitly stated, I somehow made the Lament Configuration solving erotic (it’s what Clive Barker would want) | 3121 words

It was always unnerving to realize that a killer remembered you. To notice that shift in their expression as they placed your face to a memory, to an action that had made you stick out in their mind. Some killers seemed to remember everyone while others only recognized a select few. Some didn’t seem cognizant of doing either.

Luckily, you had always managed to fly under their radar. Even the killers that had memorized every survivor regarded you with an air of disinterest, preferring to go after the overtly obnoxious survivors (which was probably part of those survivors’ plans- Nea really hated fixing gens). Some could say that it was because you were boring, at least in the way of prey. You didn’t necessarily agree, but if killers thinking you were boring kept you alive you wouldn’t argue about it.

However.

There was one killer who seemed… overly interested in you because of this. Somehow your reserved nature was more intriguing to him than that of the unafraid or blatantly uncaring survivors. You didn’t understand it, but you also didn’t want to.

You didn’t want anything to do with it.

The Cenobite was an oddity among oddities- barely even touching the survivors and treating your suffering with a cold grace. In the few moments you’d been able to observe him, he seemed unaffected by anything, continuing his hunt seemingly without a care in the world.

When you were one of his designated playthings for a trial, you avoided the Box, even if it meant your continued survival. You couldn’t handle the thought of possibly summoning him, bringing the being you knew was somehow fascinated with you directly to your location.

You just did your damnedest to finish repairing gens and move on to the next trial with the usual indifferent killers, taking extra care to stealth when you knew he was coming. Because if he caught sight of you, he wouldn’t stop pursuing you throughout the trial, preferring to torment you than spread the pressure amongst your teammates.

But, despite your efforts, not every trial with him could work out this way, as was the case for the trial you found yourself in now. You had been just barely surviving through your stealth tactics when it seemed that the survivors were rapidly downed, one quickly falling after the other.

You rushed to pull them off hooks or patch them up enough to stand, only briefly hesitating when you felt your own safety was in danger. You pushed it aside, putting your team’s survival over your own sense of sanity. They would eventually pay you back in kind, and the cycle would continue.

But it seemed that luck was not on your side.

One, two, three survivors were all hooked for the last time, their cut off screams piercing the night air.

And suddenly, you were the only one left.

Somewhere, both too close and impossibly far away, a bell tolls.

You’re frozen in place, too on edge to even contemplate searching for the Hatch. You’d been in similar situations before, but this time felt different- it was as if the air was electrified from your nervous anticipation.

And never before had you been left alone with him.

Before long, the consequence of your hesitation becomes clear- the chains that he summons from nothing have started seeking you out, the few that reach you embedding their hooks in your skin. You hiss, jerking back into life and unhooking yourself, trying to be as careful as possible to not rip your skin off.

It would not be the worst pain you have felt in this place.

You set off, struggling through the terrain of the Macmillan Estate until you reach one of the smattering of brick walls that litter the Entity’s realms. Here, at least you would have some protection from the chains, giving you time to figure out what you were going to do next.

Find Hatch or wait by the Exit Gate, hoping he closes the Hatch with enough time for you to slip out? You’re debating the two options in your head, knowing full well it’s not the best use of your time but feeling unable to make a decision and get your feet moving.

You’d just mentally circled back around to the option of booking it for Hatch that you realize you were being observed. And he wasn’t even hiding like some of the others would, no crouching behind the brick or staying by the tree line. He’s simply standing there, as if waiting for you to realize he was there.

You look up at him, wondering how you hadn’t noticed his presence before. He blocks the only other exit from your shelter that isn’t a window, something you note with a growing sense of dread. No prey likes feeling cornered.

But he hasn’t moved to attack, just standing and staring at you. You take a moment to observe him back, noting the impassive expression on his face. He doesn’t move, even once you’d been made aware of him. You narrow your eyes and glare at him, ignoring the thwacking of the chains hitting the ground and walls behind you, already tired of whatever game he is playing, not in the mood to be toyed with.

“What do you want?” You ask, willing your voice to stop wavering. For once, you wanted to seem like the brave, outgoing survivor, willing to stand up to the killer for nothing more than the satisfaction of having done so.

A beat of silence, and you almost think he won’t answer. But he does, and his response is more confusing than clarifying.

“You.”

“I- I don’t understand.”

More silence.

Then, a crackling draws your attention downwards, to the small, unassuming box that lay on the ground in the space between you. The very box you had done your best to avoid touching, even looking at. You wonder, briefly, if it had been there the entire time.

“Solve it.” His voice is commanding yet gentle, coaxing yet sinister. There’s power behind it, a power that isn’t being utilized at the moment.

“No.” It’s an easy answer for you. There are few things you are sure of in the Fog, but not touching anything that belongs to a killer is one of them.

“Aren’t you curious?”

That was not what you had been expecting him to say. Suddenly, you were no longer sure about the subject of your conversation. The Box still lay between you, ready for your willing hands to run along its smooth surface, finding the small grooves that would lead you to further unlocking its mystery. But while you had been focusing on the Box, his eyes had never left you.

Because he knew that ultimately, yes. You were curious, and always had been. About everything, but you’d always been too shy, too afraid of other’s thoughts about you to try anything even mildly risky. Better to stay on the safe side and hear about other’s exploits instead of experiencing your own.

“Yes.” It comes out as a whisper.

“Then…” With a long fingered hand, he gestures to the Box.

Your hands shook as you reached down to pick it up, finding its smooth surface both warm and cool at the same time, its weight heavier than you had anticipated.

You looked back up at the Cenobite, ignoring the faint tinkling of a music box’s tune that you could now hear coming from the Box.

“What do I do?”

You were sure it couldn’t be but so difficult- less intelligent survivors had completed its puzzle under significantly more stressing circumstances than you. But you couldn’t bring your mind to command your hands to begin, some invisible wire holding your muscles back from taking action.

Maybe it was because he was standing in front of you, watching you intently.

He moved closer and you barely resisted the urge to move backwards, your grip on the Box tightening as if afraid he would take it from you. He stopped just before you and reached out, not to take the Box but to guide your hands. But instead of placing his hands over yours as you had anticipated, they hovered barely a centimeter above your skin.

“There is a force in this realm that makes solving the Lament Configuration child’s play.”

You look up at him, wondering if he had just delivered a thinly veiled insult. If he, in saying that solving it should be easy, was implying that you were too unintelligent to figure it out. You open your mouth to begin defending yourself.

“I-“

“You’ve refused it,” He continues as if you’d never started speaking, “even when it is to your detriment. But the Configuration is meant for those who seek to heighten their senses, for sensations that the earthly world cannot provide. Opening it is not supposed to be easy.”

You look down at your hands, at his.

“For those who summon us must be sure that it is what they want, for once we are summoned we cannot leave without a charge. It cannot be helped.”

He places his hands over yours now, guiding them along the edges of the Box (the Configuration, you correct yourself). Your hands are seemingly electrified from where his skin meets yours, though a sizable portion of his hand is covered in leather.

“Here it seems that, although alone, I work under different rules. The Box was made simpler and perverted into a means to assist in feeding this Entity.”

With his guidance, you are able to find the minuscule lines in the surface of the box, pushing and shifting the pieces until they form a completely new shape. But before you are able to push the final piece into place, thus completing the puzzle, he releases his hands and steps back.

“There is no need to finish it.”

You blink, feeling like you’d just woken from a hazy waking dream.

“But why did I do it in the first place?”

“I won’t have to hunt you down the next time we find ourselves facing each other. It is very tiresome when you hide from me constantly.”

He turns around like he’s about to go, either to finally kill you or let you scamper off to find the Hatch, but you aren’t ready for him to leave yet.

“Is that it?” You blurt out and almost take it back when he turns his head, indicating that you have his attention once more. But you swallow your fear and continue on, holding your chin higher. “You just wanted me to solve this box? To what? Prove to myself that I can, so that you don’t have to do as much work the next time you’re going to kill me?”

He whirls around, but there is barely any change in his expression from before. He was near impossible to read, you were quickly learning.

“I don’t get it- if you’re summoned for those who want pleasure or pain or whatever, why are you so interested in me? I don’t want any of that.”

“You don’t want pleasure?”

Your face heats up, any bravery you had felt in delivering your speech gone. You look down at your hands, still holding the almost solved Lament Configuration.

“The rules of this place may be different, but I am still obliged to answer the summons.” His words, at first, make no sense.

And then you realize what he is implying, and your face must be on fire for how hot it feels. If he was summoned for those who want whatever version of pleasure or pain he provided, then you solving the Configuration meant that he could…

Ohhhkay.

You turn from him, fully intending to put the box down and sprint for the Hatch and think about this encounter later at the campfire, but the quiet, nagging voice in the back of your head stops you.

Aren’t you curious?

Before you can rationalize and deny the urge, you act on impulse for once and press the final piece into place on the Box, the tinkling music stopping abruptly.

While you’ve had your back turned, he must’ve crept up closer on you, because you suddenly feel his hand on your shoulder.

You gasp, both from surprise and the sensation of his touch once again on you. He slowly ran his hand down your body, from your shoulder down your arm, before making its way to your front. Your breathing was picking up, hitching in the back of your throat when his other hand snuck around and plucked the box from your grasp. It’s gone when you turn your head to look at it, and you’re too focused on his touch to really ponder what happened to it.

You reach out and press your own hand against the brick wall in front of you, using the rough texture to ground yourself in reality, as much as you could in the hellish purgatory that you were trapped in. But the reality of this moment was that he was touching you in such a simple way, barely vulgar at all, but you felt as if you were being lit on fire with the way his touch seared your skin, even over the layers of your clothes.

His fingers dance over the hem of your pants, toying with the button. You’d always liked that the Entity put you in pants most of the time, their practicality better for your environment than the potential fashion statements you could’ve been making in something else. But now you wish that the Entity had decided to put you in one of the nonsensical outfits the others occasionally donned, if just for the easy access a skirt provides.

Nonetheless, he deftly undid the button and continued his journey down your body, not bothering to even pull your pants down. He completely ignored your underwear, apparently not in the mood to tease you over the fabric. You weren’t complaining, wanting whatever he was going to give you as quickly as possible.

It was now that you fully realized how cold his hands were, which only made you more aware of every centimeter of your skin that he ran his fingers along. Down over your stomach, a feather light touch that was approaching where you needed it the most.

The Cenobite found his way in between your legs with little fanfare, finally exploring the part of your body that, unbeknownst to you, he had thought of whenever he saw you in a trial. He toyed briefly with just running his touch up and down your slit, causing you to shudder and drop your head. But before long, he ended up at that sensitive bundle of nerves, flicking it just to hear you moan. His finger circled around your clit, applying just enough pressure for it to register in your mind but not enough to really scratch the itch that had been building since he’d placed his hands over yours to solve the box.

He was silent behind you, but you didn’t think he wasn’t actively enjoying what he was doing to you, if the way his teasing touches would briefly speed up when you let the little sounds building up behind your lips escape was any indication. Or the way his breathing, though quiet and low, would hitch when you would whimper, groan, hiss.

He finally moved lower, teasing at your entrance. You whimper again, closing your eyes. But he didn’t do anything aside from dipping his fingers in, for barely a second, giving you just a taste of the pleasure you needed. He teased more than you would have expected, but you also wouldn’t have expected him to want to fuck you.

“Please,” your whisper is broken, your mind hazy and unable to compose a more elegant plea. You curse under your breath when he does it again, moving back up to your clit to circle it a couple more times.

“You can do better than that,” He says, and you, in your fuzzy mind, think you detect a hint of humor in his voice.

“Fuck- please.” You roll your hips, as if to entice him to finally get to it. But he holds fast, your (pathetic) attempt to seduce him into giving in to your whims failing. He pauses in his movements.

“Fine! Please, please, please, please fuck me, put your fingers in me, I don’t care just please make me cum!”

You wonder, briefly, in the back of your mind, if the Entity is watching.

Two of his fingers finally slip into you, and you barely hold back a curse, forgetting whatever inane thought you had before. All you could focus on was the fact that he was finally giving you what you wanted, that he was finally done teasing.

He thrusts his fingers in and out of your pussy, dragging them along your walls and hitting every sensitive spot that you didn’t even realize existed within you.

“For such a shy woman, you make delightful sounds,” He mutters, almost too quiet for you to hear over the heartbeat pounding in your ears. Whether it’s yours or his, you cannot tell.

Quickly, much too quickly, you feel your climax approaching, and any sense of the amount of time you’ve spent at his mercy is lost to you. All you know is that he is touching you in a way that makes you feel like no one has ever made you feel and that you want to reach your peak now.

As it builds, you release a litany of pleas, begging with broken words and fragmented sentences.

You finally finish with a sharp, drawn out and shuddering gasp, his fingers curling into the spot that makes your toes curl, sharply punctuating every ripple of pleasure that your body rides.

And then, just as quickly as it started, it is over.

Taking a moment to catch your breath, you turn to face the Cenobite, who looks as unaffected as he had before. He examines his glistening fingers not even looking at you when he tells you to find the Hatch. If you’re stung by his sudden disinterest in you, you don’t show it, opting to add it to the growing mental list of things to think about later.

On shaky legs, you comply with his demand, stealing one last glance back at him as you leave him. You had no idea if this would be a one off occurrence, or if he would regularly find his own way to answer your summons, if he would make good on his statement that he is summoned for those who wish for pleasure and pain.

The only way to find out would be to summon him.

___

ao3 link

[hanazuma-inactive]

ifhy. (nsfw) dabi x bottom!male reader

pronouns: he/him

warnings: hate sex, a lot of cursing, a little bit of degrading, fucking on a counter (?) idk if that counts, and implied violence a little

a/n: sorry this took a while to write i was passed out for the past two days 😀👍

_____

ever since you entered the league of villains you've hated everything about the man. the cockiness, the way he talked, even the way he smiled, though he barely did. you wanted to prove you were better than him. due to the fact that he had a flashier quirk than you, he received more attention from tomura than you did.

everything about dabi pissed you off.

you weren't very subtle about it either, you made sure that dabi knew you didn't like him. In fact everyone in the league knew you hated his guts and they didn't want to get in the way of you two either, just so they don't get hit by the crossfire.

you challenged him one time during another one of shigaraki's meetings because he was taunting your abilities in the mission tomura assigned you to. the fight was pretty bad and thankfully kurogiri was there to stop you guys or else the hideout would've been burned to crisps in the matter of seconds.

believe it or not, there was actually one thing you hated more than dabi. it was how much you wanted to fuck the man. everytime you were with dabi, you were practically undressing him with your eyes. his tall and lean body, those ocean eyes you could melt in and the fact that you could see his pecs slightly due to his clothing.

you didn't want to admit it but you couldn't deny your own desires. not saying you would volunteeringly ask him to fuck you but if the oppurtunity came up you wouldn't say no either. there were times you touched yourself thinking about the black haired male deep inside you stuffing you full of his cum. he turned you on so much and you couldn't deny it.

it was another day were shigaraki excluded you from a mission. you didn't mind too much this time since you didn't want to go anyways. shigaraki and your ideals weren't similar but he recognized your strength and you recognized his authority.

you were resting at the bar table in the hideout and fixing yourself a drink. you knew kurogiri had to have some good booze hidden here somewhere. while ruffling under the counters you heard slow footsteps coming down the stairs. the person you wanted to see the least appeared in front of you.

"what are you doing back here, aren't you supposed to be with them?" you said in a cold tone.

"they don't need me anymore, they've got it handled. shigaraki's plan also failed once."

"wouldn't be surprised."

"fuck is that suppose to mean."

"i said what i said , burnt face."

you felt the atmosphere in the room tense up and so did dabi. you both stayed silent for a few seconds until he spoke again.

"real rich coming from someone who's been eye-fucking me ever since we entered the league together."

you were startled by his response. did you make it that obvious? you stopped looking for the alcohol and stood up.

"so what if i did, huh? i still fucking hate you, i don't know who in the right mine would want your cocky ass here but i guess some people just don't see how much of a piece shit you can be."

you could feel it in your bones a fight was about to go down. dabi wasn't the type to stay silent after you insult him. well, if he does try something you were ready to face him. backing off from something like this wasn't your style.

dabi walked closer to you and put his hand on the counter.

"i always thought you had a pretty face, what a shame it came with a shit personality." dabi said while cupping your cheek with his hand.

his touch felt so right against your skin. the male's hands weren't cold but it wasn't exactly warm either. you didn't know why it felt good but you didn't care either.

"don't fucking touch me, bastard." you said while slapping away dabi's hand.

you wanted dabi to touch you but you didn't want to admit it infront of him. in fact, he was getting too close to you for comfort and the tense atmosphere with just the two of you, him pushing you against the wall. even a nomu would know what he's trying to do.

“oh please, we all know you want it you fucking slut... you want me to fuck your brains out right on this counter, don’t lie to yourself.”

“don’t be so full of yourself, who do you think you are? just because i like your body doesn’t mean i like you.”

dabi turned around and started to walk away realizing you were being serious about this.

“then again, i'm not saying no. so if you want to prove me wrong, come and show me.” you said

dabi understood what you meant, he turned around and grabbed you by the waist pulling you in for a sloppy kiss.

you've never felt your heart beat so fast in your life before. you hands on his shoulders pulling him closer towards you. both of you struggled to take control of the kiss but dabi ended up winning this time.

after a few minutes the kiss broke and you wiped your mouth with your left arm.

"is that all you got bitch boy? c'mon there's no way you're this weak right?" you taunted

"you haven't seen nothing yet, you fucking squirt."

dabi said as he unbuckled his belt. you could see the thick outline of his cock under his boxers. it was so much bigger than you could’ve ever imagined all those times by yourself. dabi soon took off his boxers to show you the real deal. his cock was still half erect but it already looked too big to fit into your hole.

“you like it?” dabi asked with a smirk on his face

“tch, i’ve seen better.”

“oh? is that so.”

right after he said that, dabi grabbed your head and shoved it onto his dick, making you take his cock by all its length right away. you attempted to push yourself away but dabi’s hands were on your head the whole time. Soon enough you submitted to dabi and adjusted to his rhythm. after a while dabi finally let go of your head and pulled out his cock, this time fully erect. you couldn’t tell the exact size but it was practically double the size of what it was initially. during this entire time, you had an erection in your pants too. you were begging for a release preferably through dabi’s cock.

“c’mon sweet heart, we all know what you want. now show me that fucking ass and get on the counter.”

you stayed silent for a bit thinking whether or not to pass up this opportunity or take it. the decision was still in your hands because although dabi might be a villain he would never do something like this if he didn’t get their consent first. after considering, you realized this could be a once in a lifetime opportunity and agreed. you slid the bottom half of your clothing off and sat on the counter. you didn’t expect dabi for the type to ever get flustered but he did. when his eyes locked onto your ass and thighs his eyes widened just like when you saw his cock.

“bet you never had something like this huh~” you teased.

and just like your response earlier, dabi scoffed and said

“i’ve seen better.”

you were both impatient for what’s about to happen next. one person to be stuffed and the other to do the stuffing. dabi’s precum was the most lubricant he was ever going to use on you so without prepping he pushed his cock inside you. right away you felt a bit of pain under there but it quickly turned into pleasure after dabi moved around the area a bit more.

“f-fuck bitch… you’re tight huh…”

“nngh... tch, i told you AH-.”

“this is the good spot isn’t it~” dabi said as he pushed his dick further into you.

you moaned in pleasure as a response with grunts in between. you were feeling euphoric, this was the situation you’ve imagined so many times and now it’s finally coming true. you looked down at your own dick to see the tip of it leaking pre-cum. you couldn’t deny how good you felt at this point even if you wanted to.

“fucking hell… you fuck pretty good for some a-ah! who talks like a bitch.” you managed to make out.

“don’t talk with you ass full, slut.” dabi said as he yet again thrusted into you this time with even more force.

“and you wanted to deny it, look how good im making you feel. you’re gonna cum just from me fucking you in the ass.”

“you’re one to talk, i can feel all of your pre inside. i know you’re feeling just as good as i am don’t lie to me.”

you two gave each other a smirk as if this was some kind of competition of who can make the other person feel better. well it is, but in an aggressive way.

as both of you were getting close the moans and grunts started to become more frequent.

"hgh! im fucking cumming." dabi grunted out

"a-ah fuck! me too." you replied

the two of you came at the same time. pants filled the room with dabi still inside you.

"heh… not bad y/n."

"that's the first time you said my name, dabi."

"the same goes for you."

"i still fucking hate you by the way."

"the same goes for you."

[reikeip]

Crossroad ♱ Crowd 5

Location: Underground Livehouse

Rei: “♪~♪~♪”

“Fuhahaha! Tremble, ya fuckin’ idiots![1] Every single one of ya looks tired of livin’—do ya not get the point of bein’ born~?”

“The war is over, and from it we rose! What do you desire in this time of peace? Scream it loud!”

“If ya keep your mouth shut, nobody’ll know~ Don’t ya dare be a buncha obedient babies~!”

“Guess I’ll have to say it for ya. You wanna take this wishy-washy, laid back world and fuckin’ destroy it—right?”

“Well then, shout! Bare your fangs an’ bite! Roar ‘till it comes echoin’ back to ya! Shout! Shout! Shout!”

“Vomit up your love, your curses, an’ pray! Bathe in blood an’ guts—go through the birth canal a second time, an’ be reborn!

“Give me your first cries—let me hear the sound of humankind! Rock’n’roll…☆”

♪~♪~♪

Koga: (Yeah! Wow, Sakuma-senpai’s sending shivers down my spine! I feel like I’m gonna die from this euphoria!)

(The crowd’s going wild, and I’m really standing on the same stage as Sakuma-senpai right now…!)

(It’s like I’m dreaming! Oh, don’t ever let it end! Even if my voice goes hoarse and I start throwin’ up blood, even if I start suffocating from a lack of oxygen, I want to keep singing with you…☆)

(Just look at me, Sakuma-senpai! I admire you!)

(I’ve been strumming at my guitar day after day, and I’ll keep going until it gets so worn out it disappears!)

(So recognize me for it! If only you would face me, and look at me with those crimson eyes that belong to hell’s king!)

(At that very moment, I could die…!)

“♪~♪~♪”

Rei: (Hey~... It’s great you’re havin’ fun and all, but ya should be facin’ the audience—not me.)

(These people are takin’ precious time outta their lives to gather here with us. If they feel like they wasted it, you’re dishonorin’ us idols.)

Koga: (Oh! Got it, Sakuma-senpai! This god will raise your stage, makin’ it more and more lively! Kyahahahaha…☆)

Keito: “♪~♪~♪”

(...Those two, they’re communicating through eye contact. Well, I have no clue if they’re really holding a proper conversation or not.)

(Though, I’m rather surprised. I caught a glimpse of it when we were doing lessons, but Oogami is more than just talk.)

(He has talent, the potential to blossom beautifully—but he’s still unripe, and far too wild.)

(When Sakuma-san is close by he becomes shockingly steady, as if he’s following after his example.)

(He must really like Sakuma-san, huh… Love, it makes one stronger.)

(That is a constant in all stories, a universal truth.)

(I was right to choose rock as the theme for this stage. It’s a genre Oogami likes, and something Sakuma-san has experience with.)

(When you compare the two, rock is actually more prevalent in culture overseas than our concept of idols.)

(What’s more, Sakuma-san really got a read on the underground livehouse’s clientele.)

(So, he’s making an impression by talking in extremes. Like, good grief, what’s with the whole “tremble, ya fuckin’ idiots” thing?)

(I’m the only one who’s been slacking in my studies here, but I put in enough hard work in the past week to at least match their rhythm.)

(I can see it. I can feel it in my bones—right now, we are strong.)

(We’d be able to stand toe to toe with Valkyrie, who are already well renowned and respected by the entertainment industry—no, we could even compete to stand beside professionals.)

(Aah, this is fun. I’m being involved in something greater—being melted down to the marrow of my bones and fusing with it.)

(My silhouette has disappeared, and I’ve become a part of something glorious.)

(With a passion I cannot produce on my own, I can venture into a story I’d struggle to ever reach on my own.)

(I love this feeling. I have a similar—or even stronger—feeling of omnipotence to that I get when I’m drawing manga.)

(In this moment, for just a short period of time, we are gods—the rulers of this world. That’s the illusion I get.)

(In this world, this reality, it feels like I’ve become one of the vital characters to the story.)

(I’m so happy, so blessed, to the point I can’t believe it. Ah, this is why I wanted to become an idol.)

(Writing manga allows you to become a god-like figure to that story. But, I’d prefer to do that in this world, where I live and breathe—)

(I don’t have to be the main character, I’m not cut out for it. But, I’d still like to take on the role of a character in a wonderful story.)

(A character who everyone cheers for, recognizes, and loves.)

(Even that unreasonable childhood friend of mine, Eichi, fell captive to the charming concept of idols…)

(And I, too, wanted to be one of them.)

(Idols, they’re the kind people who live in all the novels, manga, and stories I eat up. They’re fascinating.)

(They don’t live deep in the mountains, cut off from earthly life—they live mixed in with the world, with chaotic worldviews.)

(I admired them. That’s why I descended from the mountains, stepped into the world of the living, and that’s how I came to sing on this stage.)

(I am a novice who’s slacking on my Sadhana—It would be justified to lecture me, for I am such a vulgar person, so far from attaining enlightenment.)

(I want to have faith that this dream—this prayer—is not some wrongdoing.)

(Eichi. Your dream and mine, they aren’t really the same.)

(It could be that your goal of becoming a better idol aligning with mine is a coincidence… that is a possibility.)

(Even as someone who’s met you long ago, I can’t understand the corrupt, murky, pitch-black hatred that seems to burden your soul.)

(A darkness that, no matter how many sutras I recite, I cannot exorcise.)

(But still, I want to recuse you. You’ve always been the one person on the same page as me.)

(Like two halves of the same soul, we are no strangers—you are my best friend.)

(What’s more, I am the son of a Buddhist temple. To embrace, love, and rescue even a strange, unloved creature—that is the role of a monk.)

(You’re just like me, so by rescuing you, I feel like I can reach salvation myself.)

(Making your dream come true, that’d be the same as making mine come true.)

(...Isn’t that right, Eichi. My first, and only, reader.)

(Together, let’s weave a story. Let’s enjoy ourselves, just like we did as little kids.)

(O Buddha, please guide me; May the path I walk on be that of righteousness.)

← previous | all | next →

This is actually Koga's signature, “震撼しやがれ愚民ども”, which is often translated to “shake to your very core, ignorant fools” and the likes. It's found in melody in the dark as well as various stories.

[thimbil]

Having some thoughts about the references and inspirations used for the Bad Batch’s designs.

So Boba Fett is my absolute favorite character and Temeura Morrison was perfect casting. I went to see the 2008 TCW movie in theaters because I was so excited to see him again, even if he was animated. You can imagine my disappointment. Whoever was on screen was not Temeura Morrison. You could sort of see a resemblance if you squinted and didn’t think too hard about it. They replaced Temeura with Racially Ambiguous G.I. Joe. If I didn’t know better and someone told me the animated clones are space Italians from the moon of New Jersey I would buy it. One Million Brothers Pizzeria and Italian Bistro. Not that there’s something wrong with being space Italian, I just don’t think it’s the right choice for the Fetts. The design got slightly improved by season 7 but it still bugs the hell out of me.

I did eventually get into the show later and (of course) got invested in the clones. Unfortunately, they were largely sidelined by the Jedi storylines. Out of the two new main characters created for TCW, Ahsoka definitely got more development and focus than Rex. When they announced The Bad Batch, I was excited to see a show specifically devoted to the clones… at least that’s what it said on the tin. We have all seen what lurks beneath those stylish helmets.

Jango Fett, you are NOT the father.

So who is?

Based on interviews with Filoni, it sounds like the Bad Batch was a George Lucas idea. And like all his ideas, it’s super derivative. The original trilogy directly lifted elements from sci fi serials, westerns, and samurai movies, more specifically Kurosawa films like The Hidden Fortress. For The Bad Batch character designs, the influence is obviously American action and adventure movies.

Now let’s get specific. Bad Batch, who’s your daddy?

Hunter

Sylvester Stallone as Rambo in First Blood 1982. That bandana has become an integral part of the iconic action hero look. You see a character wearing one and it’s a visual shorthand for either “this character is a tough guy” like Billy played by Sonny Landham in Predator 1987, or “this character thinks he is/wants to be a tough guy” like Brand played by Josh Brolin in The Goonies 1985 or Edward Frog played by Corey Feldman in The Lost Boys 1987.

Hunter’s model is closest to the original clone base. If you look closely you will see the eyebrows are straighter with a much lower angle to the arch. His nose is also not the same shape as a standard clone like Rex, including a narrower bridge. It’s certainly not Temeura Morrison’s nose. Remember what I said about space Italians? It didn’t take much to push the existing clone design to resemble an specific Italian man instead of a specific Māori man. The 23&Me came back, and Hunter inherited more than the bandana from Sylvester.

Crosshair

The long narrow nose, the sharp cheekbones, the scowl. That’s no clone, that’s just animated Clint Eastwood. Not even Young and Hot Clint Eastwood from Rawhide 1959-1965. With that hair, I’m talking Gran Torino 2008. The man of few words schtick and family friendly toothpick in lieu of cigar are pure Eastwood as The Man With No Name from Sergio Leone’s spaghetti westerns A Fist Full of Dollars 1964, For a Few Dollars More 1965, and The Good the Bad and the Ugly 1966.

In a way, this is full circle because the actor Jeremy Bulloch took inspiration from Clint Eastwood for his performance as Boba Fett in ESB.

Wrecker

In an interview Filoni lists the Hulk as an (obvious) inspiration for Wrecker. Ever seen the old Hulk tv show from 1978? Well take a look at the actor who played him, Lou Ferrigno. Would you look at that. Even has his papa’s nose.

You could make the argument that Wrecker was influenced by The Rock, an appropriately buff ‘n bald Polynesian (Samoan, not Maori) man. But look at him next his Fast and Furious costar Vin Diesel and tell me which one resembles Wrecker’s character model more.

Tech

Tech is a little trickier for me to place. If he has a more direct inspiration it must be something I haven’t seen. That said, his hairline is very Bruce Willis as John McClane in Die Hard 1988. His quippiness and large glasses remind me of Shane Black as Hawkins from Predator 1987. In terms of his face, he looks a but like the result of McClane and Hawkins deciding to settle down and start a family. Although, Tech’s biggest contributors are probably just everyone on TV Trope’s list for Smart People Wear Glasses.

And finally,

Echo

Oh Echo. Considering he wasn’t created for the Bad Batch, he probably wasn’t based on a particular character or movie. But if I had to guess, his situation and appearance remind me a lot of Alex Murphy played by Peter Weller in Robocop 1987. However, Robocop explored the Man or Machine Identity Crisis with more nuance, depth, and dignity. Yikes.

The exact tropes and references used in The Bad Batch have been done successfully with characters who aren’t even human. Gizmo from Gremlins 2: The New Batch 1990 had a brief stint with the Rambo bandana. I could have picked any number of characters for Defining Feature Is Glasses but here is the most cursed version of Simon of Alvin and the Chipmunks. Suffer as I have. Marc Antony with his beloved Pussyfoot from Looney Tunes has the same tough guy with a soft center vibe as Wrecker and his Lula (also a kind of cat). Hell, in the same show we have Cad Bane sharing Cowboy Clint Eastwood with Crosshair. I actually think Bane makes a better Eastwood which is wild considering Crosshair has Eastwood’s entire face and Bane is blue.

So we’ve established you don’t need your characters to look exactly like their inspirations to match their vibe. So why go through the trouble and cost of creating completely new character designs instead of recycling and altering assets they already had on hand? Just slap on a bandana, toothpick, goggles, and make Wrecker bigger than the others while he does a Hulk pose and you’re done. Based on the general reaction to Howzer it would have been a low effort slam dunk crowd pleaser.

But they didn’t do that.

So here’s the thing. I like the tropes used in The Bad Batch. I am a fan of action adventure movies from the 80s-90s, the sillier the better. I am part of the Bad Batch’s target audience. Considering what I know about Disney and Lucasfilm, I went in with low expectations. I genuinely don’t hate the idea of seeing references to these actors and media in The Bad Batch. I don’t think basing these characters on tropes was a bad idea. If anything it’s a solid starting point for building the characters.

The trouble is nothing got built on the foundation. The plot is directionless, the pacing is wacky, and the characters have nearly no emotional depth or defining character arcs. They just sort of exist without reacting much while the story happens around them. But I can excuse all of that. You don’t stay a fan of Star Wars as long as I have not being able to cherrypick and fill in the gaps. This show has a deeper issue that shouldn’t be ignored.

Why do the animated clones bear at best only a passing resemblance to their live action actor? In interviews, Filoni wouldn’t shut up but the technological advancements in the animation for season 7. So if they are updating things, why not try to make the clones a closer match to their source material? Why did they have to look like completely different people in The Bad Batch to be “unique”? Looking like Temeura Morrison would have no bearing on their special abilities and TCW proved you can have identical looking characters and still have them be distinct. In fact, that’s a powerful theme and the source of tragedy for the clones’ narrative overall.

Here’s Filoni’s early concept art of Crosshair, Wrecker, Tech, and Hunter. (Interesting but irrelevant: Wrecker seems to have a cog tattoo similar to Jesse’s instead of a scar. Wouldn’t it have been funny if they kept that so when they met in season 7 one if them could say something like “Hey we’re twins!” That’s a little clone humor. Just for you guys 😘)

None of these drawings look like the clones in TCW, much less Temeura Morrison. Let’s be generous. Maybe Filoni struggles with drawing a real person’s likeness, as many people do. But he had to hand this off to other artists down the line whose job specifically involves making a stylized character resemble their actor. Yet the final designs missed the mark almost as much as this initial concept. Starting to seem as if the clones looking more like Temeura Morrison was never even on the table. It wasn’t a lack of creativity, skill or technical limitations on the part of the creative team. I don’t think there is an innocent explanation. They went out of their way to make the final product exactly how we got it.

This goes beyond homage. They could have made the same pop culture references and character tropes without completely stripping Temeura Morrison from the role he originated. It was a very purposeful choice to replace him with more immediately familiar actors from established franchises and films. It wouldn’t shock me if Filoni, Lucas, and anyone else calling the shots didn’t even think hard or care enough about the decision to immediately recognize a problem. And I don’t think they believed anyone else would either. At least no one whose opinion they cared about. Those faces are comfortingly familiar and proven bankable. They are what we’re all used to seeing after all. They’re white.

Lack of imagination, bad intentions, or simple ignorance doesn’t really matter in the end. The result is the same. Call it what it is. They replaced a man of color with a bunch of white guys. That’s by the book garden variety run of the mill whitewashing. There’s no debate worth having about it. For a fanbase that loves to nitpick things like whether or not it’s in character for Han to shoot first or Jeans Guy in the Mandalorian, we sure are quick to find excuses for clones who look nothing like their template. Why is that? If you don’t see the problem, congratulations. Your ass is showing. Pull your jeans up.

[boiling-files]

Okay so the promo art by Bridget Underwood for Labyrinth Runners

(Portfolio is linked)

According to programming hi-lights of DisneyABC press the episode synopsis is:

“when the Emperor’s Coven comes to Hexside, Gus teams up with an unlikely ally.”

First of all the episode title is obviously a reference to the book series “Maze Runner” whether or not this episode will actually have anything to do with the series is to be debated upon. At least I hope not for the mental health of the cast

But I wanna get into the “unlikely ally” part of the synopsis. A lot of people think it’s gonna be Matt which is understandable but I think it may be Hunter.

Yes, Amity and Willow are also in this promo art but that’s not the only thing I’m getting at.

Gus is the only member of the four that Hunter hasn’t had a one on one episode with, not to mention this piece of promotional art by Dana herself:

Art by Dana Terrance source

Flapjack is on Gus’ shoulder! And while it could be a Gus + Palismen team up I doubt Flapjack is gonna let Hunter out of their sight after the events of “Hollow Mind”

That along with the fact that Zeno Robinson is already credited on the wiki as Hunter gives me hope that these two are going to team up to take down the Emperor’s Coven invading Hexside.

Yeah, I know people can edit the wiki pretty easily and it ultimately… proves nothing.

As for my actual plot predictions for this episode beyond just Hunter and Gus working together against The Emperor’s Coven:

As to why would Hunter even be at Hexside in the first place? Besides The Owl House that’s the first place Belos would look for him.

But we do know Hunter now has social media and (presumably) has Willow and the rest of The Emerald Entrails contact information. Perhaps for Hunter it’s a matter of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

And if the episode takes place in a maze perhaps other members of The Emerald Entrails are in the maze with Hunter and Gus but they’re split up and the two are forced to work together to save their mutual friends.

Gus still having a dislike towards Hunter for multiple reasons but putting their friends first as the great friend he is.

Maybe Gus doesn’t know about Hunter’s general (gestures to everything) situation and thinks he’s at Hexside with The Emperor’s Coven.

If this one screencap is anything to go off of Gus looks angry and terrified and possibly confronting someone?

Hunter catching Gus off guard maybe? if the Illusion Coven Head is in this episode it could also be them catching Gus off guard or trying to provoke him.

We already know Gus has insecurities around his illusionary magic having a Coven Head possibly slap that in your face would have those thoughts swimming back tenfold.

As to what or how I believe the Illusion Coven Head will be like or how they will behave if they are in this episode (which I believe they are) I believe them to be quite manipulative but not outright malicious about it like Terra Snapdragon is.

Considering the natures of illusions and how Coven Heads are their magic themselves the Illusion Coven Head could be watching over the students the entire time or pretending to be one of them, tricking them and manipulating them from the inside.

(Enter outdated among us joke here)

The whole “maze” set up could be similar to what Terra tried to instigate with the “Us vs Them” mentality.

Gus and Hunter are both characters desperate to prove themselves and their worth to other people. I however do not think they’d fight each other if it came down having to rely on each other to save their mutual friends.

I think there’d be internal conflict on Hunter’s side sure, the feeling of that conditioning lingering at the forefront of his mind and wanting to be recognized by any adult and be praised but not wanting to let down his new friends again after he just barely got their trust.

I also wouldn’t put it past Gus if he struggled as well. Hunter has threatened to kill his friends and tricked him and his friends into joining the Emperor’s Coven and he didn’t seem too pleased about it either.

I doubt he’s forgiven Hunter about it and he may not throw it in his face but it’s definitely not forgotten.

As for further thoughts on The Illusion Coven Head those will be in a separate post.

[murswrites]

One in The Same ⎯ Tobias Eaton Headcanon

Pairings: Tobias Eaton x Reader Fandom: Divergent MASTERLIST Warnings: Cursing? SUMMARY: [see request] Request from anon: hiii- so um, if requests are open, could i please request a fic or a headcanon for tobias eaton?? if not that’s totally fine! so- for a headcanon/fic i was thinking something along the lines of tobias slowly becoming comfortable with the reader? like, he’ll start to share small things about him the more they hangout, and eventually he tells the reader his feelings for them?? ahh i hope this makes sense- thank you!! <3

A/N I think I’ve forgotten how to write headcanons y’all... this is deadass 1k words. Also this request is so cute, I hope this is suitable <3 Can we please normalize calling guys pretty 🥺

It started off with little things that made Four intrigued by you

Firstly, you being a transfer from Amity to Dauntless of all factions

Secondly, despite being raised to be kind, you were the most ruthless of initiates

And lastly, you had a way of drawing attention to yourself; either intentional or not that made you seem magnetic to Four

You two didn’t really meet until after you were properly welcomed as a member of the Dauntless faction

The two of you both worked in security, you weren’t a good leader and you enjoyed technology even if Amity wasn’t the most “techy” faction

It was easy working beside Four, he wasn’t annoying or arrogant which you found to be very refreshing

“All of the others here think they’re better than me, it’s crazy.” (You)

Small talk wasn’t your forte but the silence in the room was deafening

“Tell me about it,” (Four)

He knew a thing or two about arrogant assholes, one always came to mind; Eric Coulter

After that, you two began hanging out together

Sitting beside each other during meals became routine, it was convenient especially when you had to tell him something in regards to work

“I was thinking of getting a tattoo, want to join me?”  (You)

You skipped out on tattoos when the other initiates got them, it didn’t feel right at the time

“Sure, what’re you getting?” (Four)

“I dunno, it’ll be my first.” (You)

After that, Four looks at you differently

He honestly expected you to dive headfirst into “Dauntless life” to prove you were worthy because you came from Amity

The trip to the tattoo parlor was one of many times you two spent time together outside of work

“Being in Amity was so weird, I’ve always been sort of angry by nature so it was hell trying to be peaceful.” (You)

“You don’t seem angry,” (Four)

“Oh 16 years of standing in the corner will do that to a person.” (You)

Things never got that personal, but when the conversation felt too close to home (for either of you) one of you quickly switched topics

Your friendship worked well in that way

“One time I put a frog in my cousin’s bed and had to do like a hundred hours of community service. I was nine.” (You)

“My old faction as a whole wasn’t horrible. But I didn’t fit in well…” (Four)

“Same here, least we got each other right?” (You)

It became obvious to Four that you two were more alike than he originally realized

Two people from similar factions with similar upbringings… both having grown up feeling out of place

Four realized his feelings for you were turning into something more when you made him a cake for his birthday

Your bright smile and messy apron made him stop in his tracks, surprised

“Dauntless chocolate cake for my favorite person’s birthday!” (You)

“How’d you know?” (Four)

“You mentioned it when we first met, how’s it feel to be an old man, Four?” (You)

That night was something different, stargazing after watching a movie felt so intimate with Four, but so comfortable at the same time

“No one’s ever made me a cake before.” (Four)

“Not even your mom?” (You)

You found out she passed soon after and instead of asking more questions like usual, you just kept him company

“I never really considered leaving Amity until I got my aptitude test results,” (You)

“What’d you get?” (Four)

“Dauntless, duh.” (You)

Four had laughed at that, you always surprised him with your random sarcastic outbursts or remarks

“Bet it came as a surprise.” (Four)

“Not really, if anything I was thankful for a way out. Despite their appearance, Amity isn’t as beautiful as they claim to be.” (You)

Four genuinely recognized his feelings when you and some initiates from your group invited him to some shenanigans, he hadn’t done anything like that since he transferred, but you were adamant

“Come on, it’ll be fun! I did this on like my third night here and nearly died but it was so worth it!” (You)

It actually turned out to be fun, the same game of capture the flag but in a different area of the city

Four was on your team (luckily) and you two were taking people out left and right

When you saved him by taking down one of the enemies, he watched in awe at how good you were (man is WHIPPED)

That was the first night you crashed at his place because you were so tired

“I’ll pay you back tomorrow, mkay?” (You)

You made him breakfast in the morning, it wasn’t anything spectacular just something to repay him for giving up his bed

“Nobody’s made me breakfast in like ten years.” (Four)

“That sucks, but I’m glad I could be that person…” (You)

Neither of you spoke after that, it was like the energy in the air after the game of capture the flag completely changed

It wasn’t uncomfortable, just… heavy… with things unsaid

I feel like Four would keep himself from being nice all of a sudden since it would be weird if he suddenly changed up on you

But he found it hard because your company made him happy

At one point he told you his real name, out of the blue, he just asked if you’d start calling him it when it was just you two

“Call me Tobias,” (Four)

“Why would I call you that, your name’s Four-- Oh... that’s your real name isn’t it? Hmm, it’s nice, serious just like you.” (You)

He would often catch himself staring at you as you spoke or enjoying the sound of your voice

“Tobias? You there?” (You)

You’d caught him staring and it made him get really embarrassed

It was weird seeing Four flustered and struggling to find the right words, you were usually the less composed one

“Are you okay? You look like you’re having an allergic reaction, staring is normal. I do it all the time.” (You)

This would confuse Four, you stared at him? No… that couldn’t be true, could it?

“What I meant to say was--” (You)

“What?” (Four)

Now things felt awkward, those unsaid words were heavy in the air; both of you knew but didn’t want to ruin a nice thing (your friendship)

“I stare at you… because you’re pretty.” (You)

“Never been called pretty before,” (Four)

“Well… you are, very pretty.” (You)

“You’re prettier but I’ll take it.” (Four)

His sudden confidence came out of nowhere but he was definitely thankful for it

“You think I’m pretty?” (You)

“I think you’re great… in general… it’s weird but I feel comfortable to be myself around you,” (Four)

“That’s not weird, I feel the same.” (You)

Things didn’t change all too much after that, neither of you wanted to rush into things because your friendship was too beautiful to ruin by making a mistake

[oitommothetease]

Invisible String (2/?)

Pairing:  Bucky Barnes x Female reader (Modern AU)

Description: James Buchanan Barnes, the owner of the most expensive-looking club in town and your new apartment. He was a dick and you hated him. What could possibly go wrong when you, the new girl in town, start bartending at his club to pursue your dreams?

Warning: Sexual assault, mention of an anxiety attack.

Word Count: 1641

It turns out you definitely can't do this. Working in retail sucks, majorly. Customers are so awful to you and other employees as well. You didn't make the products, you don't control the prices, then why should you listen to them rant about it all day?

This job was from 9 am to 4 pm, which reminded you a lot of your previous job. By the time you got home, you were exhausted mentally and physically. Your current schedule was eerily similar to your previous lifestyle, which left you with no time to work on your book.

You felt like you were stuck in an insufferable loop that you just can't seem to escape no matter how hard you try. You thought about Mr. Barnes a lot, too. If only you weren't so egoistic and been a little nicer, then maybe you could have had that job.

With each passing day, you were becoming desperate. The only reason why you didn't run to Mr. Barnes a week ago was your pride. A pride that would not let you bow down to that rude, egoistic asshole.

It's like the universe could hear your thoughts and the devil himself walked through the doors of the store. Fuck, he can't see you here. He's going to think you're some nut job who's chasing stupid dreams after having an excellent degree. At least that's what your parents think.

You were about to run and hide behind an aisle when the voice you knew too well called out for you.

"Hey, do you know where I could find-"

"You," He said, without an emotion. "What are you doing here?"

You pointed towards the badge with the name tag on your shirt and mouthed working.

"Why?"

"Why?" You pretended to think, "I don't know, I interviewed for this other job about a week ago, but the boss was an ass."

"You lied to me," he stated as if it wasn't the most obvious thing.

"Gee, sorry, dad."

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what again?" You questioned.

" Diverging a question with a joke," He answered with an unaffected tone like he was studying you and your reaction.

"You know who I am." he stated. It should have been a question, but both of you were aware of what he meant.

"A vampire?" You mocked. He didn't look like one though, but hey, neither did Edward nor Stefan. But God, those steel-blue eyes could drink you up and you wouldn't complain. Focus.

For the first time you saw an emotion on his face that wasn't unaffected or bored, he was confused. Of course, he was confused, you were referencing twilight to a mob boss (you think, you weren't sure, but that's all you could gather from all the articles you found about him online).

"I need that job," you confessed. " I know it's not very convincing, but I need you to trust me-"

He raised a brow at that and his lips turned into a smirk. God, you wished you could swipe off that smirk from his stupidly handsome face.

"But you don't trust me, " you stated dejectedly and started turning around. "You wanted something? "

In an instant, his hand wrapped around your wrist gently, stopping you in your tracks. You ignored the involuntary shudder that ran through you and immediately yanked your hand out of his grasp.

You turned around and were about to give him a piece of your mind about how he shouldn't just come to your place of work and touch you without consent. He clearly guessed your thoughts and cut in.

"Clint Barton, the manager, he will tell you everything you need to know about bartending and handling the customers."

Did he just hire you? What changed between this and your previous meeting with him?

And just like that, he left. There was a part of you that wanted to say fuck off I don't need your help, but you knew better, so you went to that club later that evening. You found the Manager, Clint. He told you he was expecting your arrival and that made you feel weird because Mr. Barnes was totally opposite the day you met.

Your new job required you to be at work from 8 pm to 3 am, which was ideal for you. You usually reach home and pass out till 4 in the morning and wake up around noon. This schedule gave you a lot of time to work on your book.

You ended up making friends with some other people that work there as well. Wanda was the smart, sarcastic one that you'd have died to have as a friend in high school. Pietro, her twin brother, was also nice, a bit fast and impatient, but he was nice to you. Peter looked very young, but he knew what he was doing and he'd help you out a lot. That kid had a lot of energy and adrenaline, which surprised you every time he'd be done with work way before you.

You didn't see Mr. Barnes frequently. You saw him one time entering the club, and you tried to give him a smile which he ignored and went straight to his office upstairs. And then you decided to ignore him as well. It wasn't like you to be petty, okay, maybe you were being petty, but in your defense, he started it.

You were finishing up cleaning the table and were about to call it a day when a man you didn't recognize, probably wasn't a regular, came in asking for a drink.

"I'm sorry, sir. We're closed." You told him politely.

"Whiskey on the rocks."

You wanted to refuse him again, but you stopped yourself when he came into your sight. He didn't look like the kind of man who'd take your no seriously. He looked just as intimidating as Mr. Barnes, even more, but Mr. Barnes knew his boundaries, whereas this man in front of you evidently didn't. You could tell this by the way his gaze was slowly taking your body in and stopping a little longer at your cleavage.

You wanted to cringe and curse yourself for choosing to wear a top like that in a place filled with drunk men. The smarter part of your brain told you that he can go fuck himself, and you shouldn't think about men when you dress up. Women are entitled to wear whatever they want to and fuck men and people who tell them otherwise.

Carefully, you made his drink and handed it to him. His hand lingered on yours while taking the glass from you, and you wanted to just throw the drink across his face. His gaze remained on your chest even when you fixed your top and coughed twice to call his behavior out.

"What time do you get off?" he asked, eyes still on your chest.

Is this guy for real? , you thought.

"Um, this is highly inappropriate and I think you should leave now because I have to call it a night." you rejected politely, raising your hand towards the door, hoping he'd leave.

He chuckled darkly, his stare still drinking in your body as if you were a piece of meat, and it made you very, very uncomfortable. He obviously wasn't taking no for an answer, and you had no clue what to do. You were the only person left, and you didn't even know who to ask for help.

"Come on, baby girl," he said, walking towards you and forcefully snaking his hands around your waist to settle on your hips. " Don't make this harder than it should be. "

"No!" you yelled, pushing him away and creating some distance between you.

"Hard way it is then," he decided, walking towards you and forcefully holding the hem of your shirt in his hands to remove it. You struggled, yelled, and pushed him off you again. He furiously lunged forward towards you and hit you hard across the face. "Fucking bitch."

"Rumlow!" a voice boomed from behind you, and you hated yourself for being in such a vulnerable state. As much as you tried not to, tears welled up in your eyes and you hated being the helpless damsel in distress.

"Get the fuck out of here." the familiar voice ordered.

"Chill, Barnes. We were just having a little fun," the man known as Rumlow reasoned nonchalantly. "Besides, it's not my fault if she wears clothes like this."

You were all about feminism and how women should be treated equally with respect despite their attire, but at that moment you hated yourself for choosing that deep-neck shirt this morning.

"I'm not going to chill while you sexually harass my employees, so get the fuck out of here," Mr. Barnes warned again.

You closed your eyes and hoped that maybe this was a shitty dream and you'd wake up in your bed and have an anxiety attack because of the nightmare. You hoped that maybe the ground beneath you would open up and swallow you, so you could just not think about this ever.

You heard two sets of footsteps faintly in the background, one dragging its way away from you and the other rushing towards you. Furthermore, you didn't have it in you to open your eyes and meet the ocean blue ones that you knew were waiting for you.

In your head, you had already taken up the blame. The verdict came out the moment his gaze landed on your chest that it was your fault that you wore this shirt. Of course, if you were thinking right, you would have realized that you were undoubtedly the victim here and Rumlow was an asshole who assaulted you, but in your helpless state, your mind decided you were at fault here.

TAGS: @bananapipedreams​

[chockfullofsecrets]

Critical Role: The Importance of Timing, Ch 1

<<chapter navigation TBA>>

(Read on AO3)

Rating: Gen

Summary: Jester sobers quickly, though, pouting insistently down at them.“Four is pret-ty bad, you guys.”

Kingsley nods seriously. Thus validated, she starts bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet. “I think we need to punish them, Fjord!”

Caleb and Essek make the mistake of overworking themselves right before the Mighty Nein are scheduled for a reunion. Lessons are learned.

Wordcount: 3.6k (yeah, this one’s going to take a while)

A/N: making some more progress on my backlog of prompts (this one happens to be both from the most recent vote and this lovely anon prompt)! cross your fingers that this is going to be my first finished chapter fic lol

---

Caleb hardly remembers it, later.

It was evening - not particularly late, but after three near-sleepless nights time stretched into its own kind of viscous liquidity. Like a soup.

He laughed to himself at the absurdity of it, too tired for more than the barest expense of breath. Essek would know better than he, of course - he turned to him, intending to share the thought, and found a sheaf of notes thrust mere inches from his face.

“Here,” Essek said brusquely. Exhaustion did not lend itself to the usual smoothness of his speech. “I think I have it, finally - if we engrave it this way, the spell will replenish itself without interrupting conversation, yes?”

“Oh.” He took the papers, looking them over blearily - his eyes widened, a brief rush of vigor returning. “Oh, this is - oh, this is good! Let me just fabricate the surface smooth again and we can try-”

There was a crash from a location beyond the lab and therefore currently unimportant. Neither of them looked up.

The interruption, then, arrived unexpectedly.

“Hel-loooo!”came a lilting Nicodranian accent from the hall. “We got here early and you didn’t answer your door so we used our super cool magic powers to come in, and we should to-tally make a hammock themed room in the mansion tonight because I think Fjord is kind of land sick - Caleb, look at me, why do you look so terrible?”

Caleb knew the consequences of ignoring that voice. He looked up.

After hours of gazing at runes, his eyes refused to fully adjust and take in the three figures in the doorway. He squinted and managed to make out a bit of blue. “Jester?”

“They look tired right out, the poor things,” a purple blob pronounced from Jester’s right. “We haven’t missed out on an adventure, have we?”

“No,” Jester said, “Essek would never go out with his hair looking like that. Right, Essek? Aren’t you, like, super embarrassed that your hair’s all floppy right now?”

Sitting shoulder to shoulder with the floppy-haired drow in question, Caleb could just barely hear him hiss in protest at the interruption. “Leave, then, if it disturbs you so.”

Caleb blinked, starting to fumble together a sentence to dull the reprimand, and suddenly the remaining green blob resolved into Fjord as he put a hand on Caleb’s forehead and crouched to look into his eyes. “All right, it’s bedtime for you two. Jes, can you get Essek?”

“Wait-” Caleb grabbed weakly for the table, for his notes at least, but he was already being swept up in Fjord’s arms and carried bodily from the room. Essek sounded much more awake - and irate, frankly - behind him, trying to explain something, but it had been far too long since he had been anywhere near horizontal - with his head pillowed against Fjord’s bicep, he was asleep before they reached the stairs.

---

Waking is a slow process.

He is not alone - there’s a weight to being tangled up in someone else, the warm scent of closeness, and even without his eidetic memory he does not think he can ever forget the stony, moon-soaked smell of having his face buried in the crook of Essek’s shoulder.

He yawns lazily. Essek must be very tired, if Caleb is awake and he is not, and he is the better cook of the two of them anyway - although of course neither of them have any comparison to Caduceus, or Yasha now that it’s been several months since her last poisoning incident. He presses a gentle kiss to Essek’s jaw and rolls out of bed to get started with breakfast.

Or tries to, at least. His top half makes it out of bed easily enough, but the rest of him does not seem inclined to follow.

Something clanks at the foot of the bed as he narrowly hauls himself up from a quick trip to the floor. He props himself up on an elbow, halfway through another yawn, and finds himself staring down a pair of manacles hooked around his ankles.

He kicks cautiously. The chain threaded through his bed posts clanks again.

Panic begins to stir low in his gut. “Essek!”

There’s a sleepy murmur next to him. He twists to find Essek blinking awake - there’s not much else he can do, with his arms shackled above his head and his legs chained below in similar fashion. The cuffs are padded at least, stuffed with what looks to be worn handkerchiefs, and they’re both fully dressed in sleep clothes - their captors don’t want to hurt them, then, not yet.

Caleb scans the room frantically. The book he has been reading is still propped open on the bedside table, the door knob Essek had pried from an Aeorian ruin after Caleb had commented on its sparkle still proudly adorns the bathroom door, Kingsley is still leaning against the window-

He grins smugly as Caleb’s gaze snaps back to him. “Oh, good, you’re both awake. Comfy watch, but it’s ever so much more boring without the-” He pulls his hands from his pockets and rocks them back and forth. “Oh, and also the fish folk trying to kill us, those are great.”

“Kingsley?” Caleb demands. Next to him, Essek makes a shocked sound as he presumably recognizes that he cannot move any of his limbs. “What is this?”

“Oh, I can’t rightly say.” Kingsley saunters over and swings himself neatly up onto the mattress, worming between him and Essek to sit cross-legged at the center of the bed. “Wasn’t my idea, at any rate-”

“Jester and Fjord were here too,” Essek interrupts. “Is this - this is a prank, is it not?”

“Hush, you,” Kingsley smirks. “All I’ve got is that I’m to ensure you don’t make your way free with any spellcasting before Fjord and Jester get back. And to that end…”

He breaks the pause with a dramatic flourish of his arms, spreading them wide before laying a palm down lightly on each of their bellies. “I’m told this should do just fine, if the two of you care to demonstrate?”

Caleb connects the dots just a moment too late to throw himself back off the edge of the bed. “Kingsley - wait - ah!”

There was a time when it would take minutes for his mind to link the intruding sensation of touch to anything but wariness. Now, the instant Kingsley’s fingers start scribbling he’s flat on his back, pushing weakly at the offending limb and doing his best not to collapse into hysterical snickering at how much it - it -

“Tickle, tickle, magic man,” Kingsley teases, pupilless eyes aflame with mischief. “No, no, don’t bother fighting it. I’ve heard tales about those ribs of yours, you know. Especially how much you love letting Jester play with them, hm?”

“N-nein, that’s not-” Caleb tries to protest, but he’s already giggling just at the thought - Fjord and Jester are here, and he’s stuck, and Kingsley won’t stop tickling him-

Kingsley’s grin grows another satisfied inch as he turns back to Essek. “And you, stubborn - oh, are you trying to cast something? Is that what that face means?”

Essek is struggling, jaw working and face scrunched as his entire body trembles in time with the claw vibrating its way into his belly. Caleb can practically see the Misty Step brewing on his tongue, just a few short words between him and freedom if only he can get them out without laughing.

Until Jester tracks him down, that is. He hasn’t - they’ve been apart, and then in Aeor, and then working on their big project for the past few weeks, and Caleb hasn’t exactly gotten around to admitting that he might like Essek to - admitting anything, really. Or telling Essek that now that Jester knows he’s ticklish and doesn’t entirely mind it, any attempt to escape will only end in more retribution.

An oversight, in retrospect.

Kingsley purrs, apparently entirely delighted with his victim’s predicament. “Oh, come on now, you can do it! It’s been a while since I’ve seen a good magic show.” Essek shakes his head frantically, lips pressed together even as his cheeks puff with repressed giggles, and Kingsley grins all the wider. “No? Let’s see how long you last when I really start pressing your buttons, then.”

On his side and snickering helplessly, Caleb cannot help but feel a little jealous as he watches Kingsley tug up Essek’s shirt and wait for his eyes to widen in terrible anticipation. “One last chance, then? Cause I think this is really going to tickle.”

Caleb wants him to succeed, really, he does - but watching Essek try as hard as he can to curl in on himself as a single fingertip starts to rub at his navel, squirming and squeezing his eyes shut and finally barking out the first two syllables of his incantation before the third succumbs to high, squeaking laughter holds its own considerable charm. “Ahahaaaa - nooo, hehe! - wh -” He laughs a little more, shoulders shaking, and barely manages to gasp out the words. “Fjord - Jester - where -”

“Couldn’t take it? Oh, you are a ticklish thing,” Kingsley tells him, laughing when Essek’s attempt at protesting collapses into a breathless snort. “You’re wondering where they are? Really, I couldn’t say. Maybe they’ll be gone for hours, and I’ll just have to keep tickling and tickling-”

He’s focused in on Essek now, taking his other hand off Caleb to wiggle it menacingly over a defenseless armpit - Essek takes one look at the new threat and screams. “Caleb!”

Kingsley’s replaced his hand with his tail squeezing around Caleb’s thigh, and it tickles so badly and unexpectedly that Caleb would like to curl up in a ball and do some screaming of his own, but with Essek pleading for his help there’s no other choice.

He pulls himself back onto his elbows and flops into Kingsley’s lap as best he can with his legs chained, reaching blindly for ticklish spots that used to belong to Mollymauk - gasping through a new wave of laughter as the spade of Kingsley’s tail starts to poke at the soft back of his knee, he crowds his fingernails against the small of Kingsley’s back and yelps in preemptive terror as Kingsley starts to laugh and reaches for him instead. “Fjord! Jester!” he shouts. “Help!”

“Gah - oh, fuck, thahat’s - haaaa-” Kingsley flails for a moment, legs kicking out as he tries to shimmy away, but in the next moment his fingers are tickling mercilessly under Caleb’s arms and Caleb can hardly breathe, let alone keep tickling him. He flails to escape, trying to wrap his arms around himself and use them to drag himself away at the same time, but really that just means that Kingsley’s hands are stuck in his armpits now and he’s going to die-

“Right, right, I’ve learned my lesson, no ganging up on our little star,” Kingsley grumbles. Caleb gasps in breathless relief as Kingsley works his hands free - he’s facedown on the mattress, but he hears Essek shout for Fjord and Jester too before dissolving into another fit of giggles. Presumably Kingsley’s putting his tail to good use somewhere.

A hand grabs his shoulder, and he’s rolled over onto his back with his legs untwisting beneath him. He blinks up into Kingsley’s gaze, eyebrows raised in apparent dudgeon. “You, on the other hand,” Kingsley growls, as if his lips weren’t curving up into a fanged smile already, “I am absolutely going to need both hands for what I’m about to do to your ribs.”

“Mist,” Caleb sputters reflexively, and then, louder, “Fjord! Jester! FJORD!”

Kingsley’s eyebrows rise even higher. “Oh, it’s sweet that you think they’re going to help you. Unless - oh, did you want more hands?”

Caleb hardly hears the approaching footsteps over his own anticipatory squeal as he watches Kingsley’s fingers start to wander back down towards his ribs. “Nein! - eheeheh, oh gods, nein-”

But then, suddenly, blessedly, the fingers ghost lightly over his ribs and settle for spidering across his tummy instead. He wheezes in relief - half of it comes out as giggles, his nerves still on high alert, but he fully intends to enjoy breathing while he can.

He flops tiredly back, eyes tracking to the doorway as Fjord and Jester stroll in. “Sorry for the wait,” Fjord says politely. “Jester and I were just finishing up lunch. Because it’s lunchtime.”

“No rush, Captain!” Kingsley practically chirps. “We’re having a wonderful time, aren’t we, boys?”

Fjord looks completely unsurprised to find the two of them in chains. Jester is practically bouncing beside him. Caleb imagines this does not bode well for them.

Essek pipes up from behind him, metal clanking as he tries to move to see around Kingsley. “Did - heh - did we oversleep? I think the shackles are a bit uncalled for-”

“Oh,” Fjord says, low and dangerous. He’s not smiling, not yet, but Caleb can see it in his eyes and that is even worse. “Don’t mind those. It would be a shame to let the two of you leave your bedroom so soon when you haven’t seen it in days and days, wouldn’t it?”

With Kingsley still tickling at his waist, Caleb can’t even begin to coax his stomach muscles to let him sit up as Fjord and Jester cross to the bed and loom over the both of them. Jester claps her hands together, looking dangerously pleased with herself. “Do you like them?” she enthuses. “We got them from a pirate raid, because someone put our other set on a fish person that jumped right back into the ocean.”

“They were getting rusted anyway - I don’t think we collected a single one of those at sea, they’re not even waterproofed.” Fjord grumbles amiably. “These, though-”

He hooks one finger delicately through the chain connecting Caleb’s ankles to the bedpost and tugs, dragging one helpless foot just close enough to scoop up in a waiting hand. “Now these are made for some real seafaring shit. Could hold a body for as long as you want, as long as they aren’t inclined to use any magic tricks.”

Caleb tries to yank his foot back. Fjord just chuckles and leans over to stare him down, his yellow eyes warm and amused. “Isn’t that right, Caleb.”

“No magic tricks,” he gasps out through another fit of giggles as Fjord rubs a warning thumb over his sole. It’s hardly a concession - between that and Kingsley, he hardly has the breath to try anything.

“Good,” Fjord says encouragingly. He puts Caleb’s foot gently down and turns to Essek. “Now you.”

Caleb turns to look at him - from what little of Essek’s body language he can read, he looks wholly confused. “You’re not going to let us go?”

Fjord crosses his arms. “Oh, I’m sure we can come to some kind of agreement. Just consider this a friendly reminder that Jester, Kingsley and I are quite capable of following any… magical exits.”

Essek visibly rallies at the mention of magic, quirking an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware you had learned how to Teleport.”

“Essek,” Caleb hisses. Fjord shushes him and stalks a single step forward, just close enough to start tickling lightly at the bottom of one purple foot.

Essek’s superior expression lasts all of a moment before his entire body starts flailing to escape the single point of contact. “Ah! No, nohoho, wahahait, I didn’t - ahaha, stop that!”

“You’re right, I can’t Teleport,” Fjord says conversationally. “Good catch, I’d kind of forgotten about that one. Jes, we’ve got some antimagic stuff on the ship, right?”

Jester interrupts herself from making increasingly dramatic faces at Essek to answer. “I think so? You know, just in case if we meet someone icky like you know who.”

“Perfect. Maybe you and Kingsley can keep Essek busy, and I’ll head back to the ship and root around for it?” He looks calmly down at Essek, kicking as frantically as he can with the few inches of leeway the shackles afford him and still completely unable to avoid Fjord’s fingers. “It’ll take a while, mind you.”

Jester perks up, dancing over and reaching for Essek’s other foot. “Yes! Kingsley, did you try his ears yet? They get all flappy and it’s really really-”

“No!” Essek rushes out, squeaking in harried protest when they still don’t stop tickling up his arches. “I - wait,” he pleads. “No! I won’t cast, I won’t!”

Fjord grins. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Alright, Kingsley, can we give them a moment?”

Kingsley removes his hands from both of them rather reluctantly. Fjord claps his shoulder in silent thanks. “Now, would either of you like to explain why we found the two of you half-dead from sleep deprivation?”

“Yeah, you guys, we were so worried!” Jester adds. “You can’t do that when we’re not around to take care of you! You guys haven’t been doing this all year, have you?”

“We’ve only met up in the last few months,” Caleb adds, wincing a little as their eyes turn to him. He sits up slowly, wincing apologetically in the direction of Essek’s wrist shackles. “But no, we have not, we are just working on this project - it is a real ficker, there are so many moving pieces - and we are nearly done, we meant to sleep last night.”

“How many days?” Fjord asks. “One? Two?”

When neither of them answer, sharing a silent look, he hovers a hand threateningly over each of their trapped feet. “Believe me, you really don’t want us to pick a number.”

“Four,” Essek says warily. “But Caleb slept for at least an hour each night, and I don’t need to-”

“Oh, four’s a lot,” Kingsley cuts in. “Did you not learn how to sleep in shifts, not being on the ocean, or do you just enjoy each other’s company that much?”

Essek turns bright red. Caleb’s pretty sure he turns even redder. Even Fjord looks a little embarrassed as Jester and Kingsley collapse into laughter.

Jester sobers quickly, though, pouting insistently down at them.“Four is pret-ty bad, you guys.”

Kingsley nods seriously. Thus validated, she starts bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet. “I think we need to punish them, Fjord!”

Caleb can easily guess what this punishment will entail. “Wait a moment,” he says hastily, “we have not even told you about this project-”

“It will be worth it,” Essek adds. “If you would just let us-”

Fjord nods thoughtfully, ignoring their protests. “What do you say, a minute for each hour they should have been sleeping?”

“No-” Caleb starts.

“So that’s sixteen for Essek, and - Caleb’s been napping on and off, sounds like, so we’ll round it down to a neat half hour for him.”

Caleb gapes fearfully. A half hour of tickling, after months and months - he can admit to himself that he missed it a little, but- “That’s too much,” he blurts. “Bitte, you’ll kill me-”

“Really, this is unnecessary,” Essek adds, surprisingly dignified for the way he’s trying helplessly to press his feet against the bed. “Just - we are well rested now, we only need a few hours more to finish the project, there is no need!”

Jester pouts. “Oh, Essek, don’t you want to hang out with us?”

Essek flounders at that, and Caleb can’t help the soft smile that slips out of him. “I would like nothing more,” he assures her, “but being chained up and - and tortured - was not quite on my mind-”

“Well then, you shouldn’t have been so dumb, Essek,” she says cheerily. “Caleb, do you want me or Fjord to tickle you?”

His mouth goes dry. Jester will be - Fjord teases, but he is gentle at least, and Jester is - Jester-

He looks over at Essek, wide-eyed and eyes flicking between all of them in some strange combination of bewilderment and anticipation, and braces himself. “Jester.”

Kingsley laughs, delighted. “Oh, he must really love you,” he tells Essek. “He’s gone and given you the better option by far.”

Essek looks at Caleb, gaze softening. “Really?”

Caleb grimaces back at him, a little embarrassed by himself. “He’s exaggerating. And besides, I am not the one laid flat out here.”

Essek frowns. “Yes, about that.”

“Caleb doesn’t like having his wrists pinned down,” Jester says easily, scrambling up onto the bed and into Caleb’s lap. “Though you should know that already if you two are boning-”

“Jester,” Caleb pleads. Kingsley starts to laugh again.

She beams at him, darting in to press a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Hi, Caleb!”

It’s impossible not to smile back. “Hallo, blueberry.”

He looks around her to see Fjord walk over and settle on Essek’s side of the bed, patting his shoulder companionably. “It’s good to see you two, really.”

Essek just sighs.

Kingsley prods at his belly, earning a hasty yelp. “He’s in a mood, it seems. You want some help with him?”

His stomach grumbles, just then, and Fjord laughs. “Why don’t you get some lunch instead,” he suggests. “We’d have brought something up, but the screaming sounded rather urgent.”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” Kingsley cocks a loose salute and swings back off the bed with one more tickle under each of their arms, snorting in amusement as Caleb and Essek both squirm and protest. “The others should be arriving soon, I’ll keep a weather eye on the door.”

“Yes, do that,” Fjord says, waiting for him to round the corner and start down the stairs. “That guy is really into sea lingo.”

“Kingsley is great,” Jester enthuses. “Don’t you guys think he looks so much prettier now that he’s all tan?”

She’s not wrong. “Ja, sure.” Caleb says. “By the way, what exactly did the two of you tell him about-” He flushes. “About my ribs?”

“Oh, you know, just some stuff!” Jester says cheerfully. “Most of it is definitely not true by now, probably, since it’s been a super long time since we’ve seen you.”

She puts both of her hands on Caleb’s shoulders and presses, sending him flat on his back and leaning over with a mischievous smile. “Good thing we have a whole half hour to catch up, huh?”

Caleb gulps.

[chudleycanonficfest]

Washing Machine Heart

Day 22, Story #2 is by @rosequartzstarswrites​

Title: Washing Machine Heart Author/Artist: rosequartzstars - @rosequartzstarswrites (Because of Tumblr settings, this is posting from my main blog, but it’s me!) Pairing: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley (and background Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger) Prompt: 5+1 Rating: T (only for some strong language and non-explicit insinuations) Trigger Warning(s) (if any): none apply! 

“I can’t believe I’m going through with this,” huffed Hermione, struggling to keep up the brisk pace Ron was marking on the sidewalk.

“You never believed you’d have to, did you?” Ron said gleefully, seemingly unaware of just how hard his long-legged strides were to keep up with.

“You never told me you were that good at chess!”

“No, more like you never thought anyone could be better than you at anything!”

Despite only having been friends, close friends, with them for a semester, Harry had already become accustomed to the constant bickering between Ron and Hermione, to the point even of endearment. Coming from the Dursleys’, arguments and rebukes were something he was used to, but the undertone of friendship with which Ron and Hermione faced off was a welcome change (and a very entertaining one). Still, he tended to side quietly with Ron, and this particular time was no exception: part of him was delighted at the prospect of seeing Hermione get a tattoo.

This had all started from a ridiculous bet, born of boredom in the lounge of their dorm building. Ron had eyed the communal chessboard, battered and chipped from years of usage, and challenged Hermione to a match.

Hermione had scoffed: “Only if you want to lose, Ron.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Ron had said, exchanging a look with Harry as a sly smile crept onto his lips.

“I’m completely certain.”

“Certain enough to bet?” Ron had prodded her.

The competitiveness that, before becoming friends, was all Harry had known of Hermione had flared up in her eyes. “I’m listening.”

“When you lose—”

“If I lose, and I won't—”

“When you lose,” Ron had reiterated, “you have to get a tattoo of my choosing.”

Hermione had smirked. “Game on.”

In Hermione’s defense, Harry thought, she hadn’t ever considered she might lose. There really was no way of expecting how good Ron had turned out to be at chess, especially since —Harry thought— Hermione had based her certainty on how abysmal his grades were, against her own straight A’s, in their proofs-based mathematics class, which relied entirely on strength of reasoning. But, as it turned out, Ron was actually a master logician, if only somewhat lazy at his math classes, and this he had proved by absolutely obliterating Hermione with the fastest checkmate Harry had ever borne witness to.

And that is how they had come to find themselves out on the streets of their little college town that night, wrapped in their scarves and their winter coats to battle the first of the December chill, walking to a tattoo parlor Ron knew in the area so Hermione could be forever reminded of her loss by a tattoo Ron would choose. And if Harry knew Ron well, and knew how much he relished teasing Hermione, the reminder would be a strong one.

“I didn’t even want a tattoo,” Hermione was mumbling, more to herself than at either of them. “I never wanted one— did you know that you might not be eligible to donate blood if you have a tattoo? I mean, not that it’s impossible, but it’s a factor against you, like your weight and your age. And my family has a history of needing transfusions— oh, God, what if my grandfather needs a donation, like, tomorrow? The three-month period of eligibility won’t have elapsed, and my father can’t donate, and– and–” She froze in the middle of the sidewalk. “Oh, God, have I killed my grandfather?”

“Relax, Hermione,” Ron said, throwing a fraternal arm around her shoulders and squeezing her half in an attempt to get her walking again. “You’re halfway across the country from home. You wouldn’t be able to fly out on such short notice anyway.”

Harry had to stifle a laugh at how Hermione gaped at Ron then, a billion other dire possibilities to worry about racing through her head now. Ron, however, was less successful at keeping down a chuckle. “I’m kidding, Hermione. Besides, a tattoo will make you look badass.”

“I don’t want to look badass!” Hermione squeaked shrilly. “I’ve never been remotely interested in looking badass!”

“Well, interested or not,” Ron said as they came up to a dark brick building with a neon sign reading LOVEGOOD’S flickering above the door, “it seems like you don’t have much of a choice, because we’re here.”

Hermione let out a noise that sounded somewhere between a gasp and a whine as she looked up at the storefront that, to her, was synonymous not only with her doom but apparently that of her grandfather.

“Ron, please?” she said meekly.

Ron, however, looked gleeful and would not be deterred. “A bet’s a bet,” he declared, grabbing her wrist and beginning to march her up the three or so stairs that led up to the door of the tattoo parlor from the sidewalk. Harry lingered behind for an instant, watching the backs of his two friends as they waddled up the stairs, smiling as he listened to Ron debate whether he would make Hermione get a skull or a sailor’s “Mom” arrow-pierced heart, and Hermione pleading shrilly with him not to do either of those things. Watching them, Harry’s smile widened. He was lucky to have them as friends, that much he knew, despite the short time he’d spent knowing them. Why he hadn’t found them his freshman year was beyond him— but now, now that he had these wacky outings and constant bickering to enjoy, he felt overwhelmingly lucky that they had found him.

“Harry, are you coming in or what?” Ron beckoned him. He had stopped on the topmost step and was still gripping Hermione, whose face was a mask of pure, crystallized terror.

“Absolutely,” Harry said, hurrying up the steps with a little hop. “This I’ve got to see.”

Ron pushed open the door to the parlor with a little too much gusto, and Hermione cringed at the metallic sound of the chimes above the door as they tinkled with the announcement of their entrance. The front of the shop, sealing off the rest with a counter that had seen better days, was empty, the backroom separated by a beaded curtain.

“Hellooo?” Ron called into the backroom, marching right up to the counter. “Is anybody here? We bring a very eager customer!”

Hermione began to protest, but just as she did, an employee came out of the backroom to stand behind the counter. Catching a glimpse of her, Harry felt as if the wind had been knocked out of his chest: she was stunning. She was tall and slender, her toned arms visible through the ripped-off sleeves of her vintage Hole tee, with a curtain of straight orange hair pulled back into a long high ponytail. Her bright brown eyes glimmered atop a button-like nose that matched her small, round mouth perfectly, the pale fine face finished by a spattering of freckles. Even before she had spoken a single word, Harry felt the confidence coming off of her in waves, simply by how she propped her elbows up on the counter and eyed their party somewhat playfully. He was frozen to his place with the sight of her, hoping his jaw hadn’t dropped as low as it had felt in the wake of his awe.

Upon seeing her, however, Ron had had exactly the opposite reaction. “Ginny?” he said incredulously.

“What are you doing here?” the woman —Ginny— said without any greeting, returning Ron’s frown.

“I thought you weren’t working today!”

“I’m covering a shift for Demelza, she had a gyn appointment today.”

“Well, if I knew that, I wouldn’t have come in,” grumbled Ron. The tips of his ears were beginning to pink, a sign Harry had learned to recognize as a hint of extreme emotion in his friend.

“Well, you’re here now, so… what can I do for you?” Ginny said. “I mean, you can’t possibly be the one getting inked, Ron. You’re too much of a wimp.”

“Shut up, or I’m telling mom you got your helix pierced. That’ll make for a fun Christmas greeting when we’re back home, I’ll wager.”

Then the similarity became apparent to Harry: the freckles, the aggressive red of their hair, the same glint in their eyes… Ginny was Ron’s sister. Somehow, he didn’t know whether that was something he should feel good or bad about.

“Tattletale,” Ginny said, swatting at him. “And it’s called an industrial piercing. Not that you’d know.” Only then did she seem to remark on the rest of the party.

“Harry Potter,” she said, and Harry gulped as she crossed her muscular arms over her chest and leaned back, surveying him. “Come to get a sixth tattoo?”

“A sixth— how do you know?” Harry said, befuddled. Out of all the opening lines he would’ve expected her to use, this had not been one of them.

“You can credit the rumor mill at school,” Ginny shrugged, still eyeing him with interest. “You’re a topic of interest. Or at least among the soccer teams.”

“Oh, am I?”

“Romilda swore you had a griffin tattooed on your chest, but I told her I’d heard it was a dragon. Much more macho, I thought.”

“Thanks,” Harry said dully. What else was he supposed to say?

“Don’t mention it,” Ginny gave him a conspiratorial wink. “And if I were you, I’d find out who on the boys’ team has been giving you the eye in the shower enough to count your tats. I bet it’s Ron.”

“It’s not!” Ron said angrily, the red from his ears bleeding out onto his cheeks.

“I bet it is,” Ginny mouthed to Harry, giving him another wink. “But it’s not you?”

“Pardon?” said Harry, for whom the ‘it-is-it’s-not’ exchange had grown somewhat confusing.

“For the tattoo?” Ginny said, and Harry felt like an idiot. “It’s not you who’s getting it?”

“No, ah, actually— it’s Hermione,” Harry was knocked back into his senses as he gestured toward Hermione, who had stood, utterly baffled, throughout that whole exchange.

“Hermione Granger?” Ginny said, and Harry was almost glad when she turned her gaze away from him and toward Hermione. “As in, Scamander Fellow Hermione Granger?”

“The one and only,” Ron declared proudly, happy to be back off a topic that bothered him (teasing Ron) and back on a topic that delighted him (teasing Hermione).

“I wouldn’t have chalked you up to the tattoo type,” Ginny said.

“Oh, she’s not,” Ron said, his face lighting up as if Christmas had come early.

Ginny’s eyes darted between the dismal face of Hermione and the cheerful face of Ron, her eyebrows rising as she took it in. “Okay, I’m not going to ask about whatever this is. What am I doing on you?”

“I’m designing it,” Ron said brightly. And if Harry had thought that Hermione’s face couldn’t get more desolated, he’d been wrong.

“Christ, Hermione, what has he got on you?” Ginny said, already opening a drawer on the counter to pull out a sketchpad and a pen.

“I’m such an idiot,” Hermione grumbled.

Ron pored over the sketchpad, shielding the paper from Hermione’s eyes as he sketched. When he was done, he handed it to Ginny with a quick flick of the wrist that, much to Hermione’s dismay, ensured she couldn’t even catch a glimpse of what was on it. Ginny looked over whatever it was Ron had drawn and then looked up at her brother with a frown.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Okay, then,” Ginny shrugged. She lifted the counter to open a gap through which Hermione could walk. “Follow me.”

Looking like a lamb led to the slaughter, Hermione looked up to heaven as if making one last, futile plea before scrunching up her nose and following Ginny through the beaded curtain to the backroom. Because yes, she hated the idea of getting a tattoo, but she hated the idea of letting Ron hold one over her even more.

Ron watched her leave delightedly, relishing in the jangle the beaded curtain made as it swallowed Ginny and Hermione into the backroom. “This is going to be good,” he said, rubbing his palms together. “Oh, this is going to be so good.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a sister?” Harry blurted out all of a sudden. He startled himself as much as Ron when he said it, though he was glad he’d been able to pare down the question from what was actually swirling around in his head: Why didn’t you tell me you had a sister that looked like THAT?

Ron looked at him and shrugged. “I don’t know. It never came up.”

“You told me about every other one of your five brothers, but not the sister.”

“Nope.”

“Not the sister that seems to be about our age.”

“Nope.”

“Not the sister that seems to be about our age and plays soccer.“ And is hot.

"Nope.” Ron paused and frowned. “She’s a year below us, anyway.”

“Oh, then that explains it,” Harry said sarcastically.

“It seemed like more of a second-semester-of-friendship revelation.”

“I see.”

Harry held the silence between them for a few moments more before he allowed the next question out. “She plays soccer?”

“One more of the long line of Weasleys that get athletic scholarships to Hogwarts College. Except for Percy— no, he was a disgrace, he got in on an academic grant.”

“The family disappointment, truly.”

Harry wanted to ask more about Ginny, but he held his tongue. His friendship with Ron was the most precious thing his sophomore year of college had yielded him, and he didn’t want to jeopardize it by prying further or making it seem like he had the hots for his sister. Even though he did. He suffocated that small voice at the back of his mind: he hadn’t even spoken properly to Ginny, just stood there like an idiot and let her quip freely about his tattoos— which, mind him, apparently were fodder for locker talk back at Hogwarts.

The buzz of the needle in the backroom as it started up brought Harry out of his thoughts, just in time to see a shit-eating grin appear on Ron’s face.

“I wish I could see her face right now,” he said gleefully, and Harry let himself stop thinking about Ginny to join Ron in picturing what Hermione Granger must look like seated in a tattoo parlor chair.

“It really wasn’t so bad,” admitted Hermione as they exited the tattoo parlor and went down the little steps back onto the sidewalk.

Despite his pretensions of malice, Ron’s nobility (which had never been in question, even despite his teasing) had shone through and yielded a considerably modest tattoo: a small, capital “R” in his own handwriting. Hermione, who had almost cried with relief after Ginny showed her the design, had chosen to get it on her left thigh, on the side and at the very top, right under her hipbone.

“Why did you get it there?” Harry asked as they resumed their brisk walk back to campus.

“It’s not a place you usually show. That means if a sleeve shifts or an interviewer sees, I don’t know, my ankle or something, they won’t notice it.”

“As if a tiny ‘R’ would disqualify anyone from a job, let alone you,” snorted Ron.

“Professionalism is a virtue, Ronald,” Hermione huffed, though her cheeks had gone red. “Besides, since that part of me is always covered, I’ll save myself from having to explain the story behind it to anyone that spots it.”

“Yeah, except the bloke that eventually undresses you and sees you in your panties. Try explaining what that 'R’ means to him,” said Ron. But Harry suspected Hermione wouldn’t have to: from how Ron’s eyes had widened and his gaze had lingered when Hermione had pulled down the side of her jeans ever so slightly to show them the finished product, exposing a sliver of her underwear, Harry could almost wager that Ron would be the bloke in question.

They walked in animated chatter for the rest of the way, the tattoo forgotten until Ron made a quip about Hermione now having crossed the gateway to joining a biker gang and Hermione going positively beet-red in the face with outrage. Then Harry, his hands in his pockets, simply smirked to himself and resigned himself to their bickering for the rest of the walk, knowing he was no longer needed in their exchange. Instead, he let his mind drift to Ginny. She hadn’t really spoken to him again, merely ducking out from the beaded curtain backroom and instructing Hermione on how to take care of her tattoo, saying only a general goodbye to the three of them as they exited the shop. There had been nothing in Ginny’s manner to suggest that she might be thinking of him as strongly, as irremediably, as he was of her, and yet there he was.

The main quad was mostly deserted, except for a few scattered groups of late-night library frequenters or sneaking couples, as the three of them crossed it to get to their dorm. Ron and Hermione didn’t stop arguing as they climbed the four flights up to their floor (the elevator, as usual, was broken), and only broke it off because Hermione reached her room before the boys reached theirs, slipping inside it and shutting the door before Ron had a chance to get the last word in.

“Well, that went well,” Ron shrugged as he and Harry kept walking down the hall to their room.

“You actually got her to get a tattoo,” Harry said with some admiration as they reached their door.

Ron grinned as he swiped the key card. “I may drive her crazy, but if anyone was going to get her to do something like that, it was going to be me.”

Ron pushed the door open and let them into their dorm room. He closed the door and, without taking off his coat, immediately flopped onto his bed— or, well, what could be seen of the bed under mountains of dirty or otherwise discarded clothes. Away from his mother’s chore-mongering for the first time, Ron had let himself go wild and go to the other extreme, but even Harry had to admit that the army of socks draped over the foot of his bed was beginning to smell a little stale.

“So,” Ron said, propping his head up, “no parties tonight?”

“Well, it’s a Wednesday,” Harry said.

“So what? There’s no party spirit around here?”

“Ron, it’s the last Wednesday before final exams. People are studying.”

“I wasn’t aware I was rooming with Hermione,” Ron grumbled. Harry had to admit she might have gotten to him a little. However, Ron’s irritation was short-lived, a grin appearing on his face again. “Wait, but we’re not people. We’re not studying.”

Harry surveyed the room and, despite his desire to throw in the towel for the night and have fun with Ron, felt a pang of dismay at just how much grosser it would be if they caved and did that (last time they had, they’d had a Pringle-eating contest, with devastating results for their sheets, which still had some crumbs). “No, Ron. We’re doing laundry.”

Ron groaned. “Jeez, now I’m rooming with my mother.”

“Okay, fine, you don’t have to do the laundry. I’ll do it for the both of us.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, go hang out with Dean and Seamus or whatever, see if you can get Hermione to do her second wild-card act of the day and make her stop studying to hang out with the guys.”

“Now I’m a man with a mission,” Ron said, perking up in delight at the prospect of teasing Hermione, or even seeing her once more that night.

“Just shove your clothes in the laundry bag before you go, won’t you? I don’t want to touch your nasty briefs more than I have to.”

Ron obliged, tossing all the clothes on and around his bed into his orange laundry bag and pulling the drawstring to close it. “I’ll update you on the Hermione thing,” he said cheerfully, hurrying out of the room and down the hall to the left to the room they’d left Hermione in.

Harry laughed to himself, wondering how long it was going to take Ron to realize why exactly he always seemed so eager to do anything Hermione-related, as he too threw his dirty clothes into a checkered drawstring laundry bag. Then, he hoisted one sack over each of his shoulders and opened the door using his ankle and leg to let himself out, his hands full with the laundry bags. He stifled a smirk as he passed Hermione’s room and heard the familiar bubbling sound of she and Ron rowing. If Harry knew her at all, he knew however much she might argue she’d be out of that room in an hour tops.

He groaned as he looked down the stairs, and rued the day he had been placed in the dorm with the shittiest elevator on campus. Resigning himself, he began to walk slowly down the poorly-lit stairs to the basement, where the laundry room was. However inconvenient this descent was, Harry was at least comforted with the knowledge that the laundry room would not be crowded, which would be the greater inconvenience once the elevator was fixed.

The basement was even dimmer, the white lights flickering and buzzing with electricity as Harry walked to the laundry room almost at the end of the hall. Sure enough, the laundry room was deserted, oddly quiet with none of the familiar hum and rattle of the machines as they worked. Harry knelt in front of a washing machine and began unloading the contents of the laundry bags into it, cramming them in so they’d fit because he sure as hell wasn’t shelling out quarters for two washers. When he’d made it all fit (which had involved the use of force to jam the door shut), he went to the shelf that held the communal detergent and poured it into the soap compartment. With that done, he dug out eight quarters from his pocket and inserted them into the washer’s slot, pressing the “Start Cycle” button when he heard the clink that let him know his quarters had been accepted. The washer rumbled slowly to life, jets of water trickling out as it began to spin in one direction and then the other, and it was a couple minutes before it was spinning at a hearty pace.

Rising from his crouch (he had always liked to watch the washing machine as it booted up to wash in earnest), Harry took the laundry bags and turned to head back upstairs, already thinking of what he might do to pass the time in the hour he had before he had to switch the clothes to the dryer.

He was so caught up in thinking of this that he didn’t see the person entering the laundry room at the same time as he was exiting, which ended in an awkward clash between them.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry blurted.

“No, it’s fine, I’m sorry too— Harry?”

Only then did Harry realize who he had bumped into, and only because she kept standing there did he believe it. “Ginny?”

She still wore her Hole shirt, but had discarded the ripped jeans, combat boots, and round-the-waist flannel he’d seen at the tattoo parlor. Instead, she wore frayed gray sweatpants and flip-flops, her hair pulled up from the long ponytail into a messy bun. She, however, somehow still managed to look almost unbearably beautiful. What’s happening to me?

“What are you doing here?” he asked, the only thing he could think of right that second. Spotting the laundry basket she was cradling, he added: “No laundry in your dorm?”

“No, yeah, there is one, but it’s always too crowded, it being a freshman dorm and all.” Harry nodded: his first year, he too had done entirely more laundry than he had to, and was thankful by the quarters he saved just by realizing he could wear a pair of pants more than once before they were dirty. “So I use the one here. Much quieter. I know Ron’s ID and password—”

“You do?”

“He gave it to me once so I could pick up his books from the library. And my memory’s great.” She gave him a half smile and looked beyond him at the laundry room. “Doing laundry?”

“No, I just like the ambience down here. The shitty lighting and bleach smell are really my style,” said Harry. Ginny laughed, and Harry felt a rush of pride at what was probably the first witty thing he’d ever said to her. “Need a hand?”

“I’d appreciate one, sure,” Ginny said, again smiling at him. Harry moved so she could walk into the laundry room, and watched her pick one of the washing machines that lined the wall. When she’d settled on one, he crouched down next to her and help her lob the clothes into the maw of the machine.

“Tattoo parlor let out early?” he asked as they placed the clothes inside.

“More like you guys came in really late. You were my last customers— I just cleaned up and closed after you left.”

“And you work there?”

“Sure beats a regular work-study, doesn’t it?” Ginny grinned. She tossed in a Tide pod that was left at the bottom of the basket, closed the door to the machine, and rose to find the quarters needed to activate it. “Oh, shoot, I left my wallet in my other pants—”

“I got you,” said Harry, digging for eight more quarters in his pocket. For once, he was glad of his bad habit of carrying an excess of loose change in his jeans, something Hermione already got on to him about (sometimes, like when she’d gifted him a money purse, not too subtly).

“Thanks,” Ginny said, picking the laundry basket up from the ground.

Harry listened for the telling clink and then pressed the button. The washing machine whirred to a start, but for once, Harry didn’t feel compelled to watch it boot up: instead, he turned to Ginny. “So how did you come to work there?”

“At the tat shop?” Ginny asked, hopping to sit on the top of the washer where her clothes were spinning. “My friend Luna’s dad, Xenophilius—”

“Gesundheit.”

“Shut up,” Ginny said, but the hint of a laugh was (to Harry’s satisfaction) visible on her lips again. “Anyway, Xenophilius owns the place. He set up in a college town because he knows college is the first time kids are truly free to make rash, impulse decisions.”

“Like getting a tattoo?”

“Exactly. And besides, all the college students love his New Age bullshit, they think it’s very 70s, so his shop is always full. He got a big boost after he started placing crystals in the shop windows.”

“He’s in with the kids, then?”

“Don’t tell him that, he’ll be mortified. But he’s great, really. A little eccentric, but great. He knows me from when Luna and I took an art class together in 10th grade, and he’s always complimented my art, so he helped me get my tattoo artist license as soon as I turned 18 and hired me.”

“Is Luna the girl with the shaggy blond hair and the weird glasses?”

“That’s her. Though I’m surprised you didn’t know her by her bottlecap necklaces. That’s usually what people comment on.”

“Does she work there too?”

“Yeah, though not as an inker, she’s useless with a needle. She designs a big chunk of the tattoos, though, both original designs and commissions or requests.”

“That’s awesome,” Harry said. He realized that was the first time through the whole conversation that he had stopped. He’d never hesitated on what to say next: conversation with Ginny had flowed easily, naturally, and he hadn’t had to think too hard to keep it going. Still, he was a little disappointed that it had stopped. Ginny, however, seemed to share in this, because rather than say goodbye and take her leave, she opened up a new topic.

“So how long have you and Ron been friends?”

“Er– since the start of this school year, actually.”

“Really? You’d think from how he talks about you, he’d known you forever.” Harry felt a flush of happiness at hearing that Ron talked about him.

“Well, I got him for a roommate this year, and we just clicked. Then it turned out we had a lot of the same classes. And we’re both on the soccer team, so it just got better from there.”

“It seems strange that you never crossed paths your freshman year.”

Harry shrugged. “I mean, freshman year is weird for everyone. I certainly felt like I was just bouncing from one place to another. I still hang out with a lot of the guys from last year, but my friends have changed. It makes sense— the first year, everyone is trying to meet as many people as possible, as if it’s a race, but by sophomore year you know more of what you want and what you’re looking for. In a way, I’m glad I met Ron now that I’m in a more stable place, now that I know my way around the college and have a better grip on things. I have a feeling he’s a friend I’m gonna keep.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re sticking around the Weasleys,” Ginny said, and Harry felt a tingle run up his spine. Was she… flirting with him? “And Hermione?”

“Oh, Hermione’s great, Ron and I would be dead by now if not for her— I don’t know how I got through a full year without her.”

“But she’s very different from you guys, isn’t she?”

“Well— on the surface, sure, but not in the things that matter. The fact that she went through with the tattoo tonight when she could’ve kicked up a fuss and bailed out tells you all you need to know.”

“So what I’m hearing is that Scamander Fellow Hermione Granger is as much of a bonehead as my brother at heart?”

“Stubborn, is the word I’d use. And only when Ron’s involved, actually.”

Ginny smirked. “Idiots. They haven’t even realized it.”

Harry knew exactly what she meant. “You think it too?”

“Oh, I’d bet on it. Ten bucks says they’re together by the end of the year.”

“Hey, did our visit by the parlor today teach you nothing about bets? They can be dangerous.”

“But I’m betting against you, aren’t I?” The way she said you made Harry’s heart skip a beat. “Fine, not ten bucks. But I’ll bet you a load of laundry, how’s that?”

“Deal,” said Harry, taking Ginny’s extended hand to shake it. The touch of her palm, with its long, slender fingers, sent warmth coursing down from his hand and the length of his arm. They let go and dropped hands, and perhaps it was just wishful thinking, but Harry thought he detected a certain reluctance in Ginny as they did.

Harry leaned against the washer, his propped elbow almost brushing up against her thigh. “How about you? How’s your first year going so far?”

Ginny winced. “As well as you’d expect, I suppose. Lots of people still behave like it’s an extension of high school, and I’m very much over that. But as things go, I’m having a blast. Being on the soccer team certainly helps.”

“Congratulations on that scholarship, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Ginny said, her wide smile revealing a row of perfect, square white teeth. “You’re on a scholarship too, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. My aunt and uncle would’ve never paid a single cent for me to go to college, so it was the only way. But I’m sure they were glad to be rid of me anyway.”

“They sound like lovely people,” Ginny said sarcastically.

“I should introduce them to this Xenophilius sometime. My uncle Vernon would have a stroke just walking into that shop.”

“Well, if you ever swing by, you have an insider contact,” Ginny offered, and Harry loved the implication of something, even something as simple as an 'insider contact’, between just the two of them. “I’d be happy to arrange a meeting, especially for such esteemed patrons.”

“I might take you up on that, if I ever planned on seeing them again,” Harry said. The words came out a bit more harshly than he’d expected, and the second silence in their talk set in, brought on by the darker implications of his family situation. Desperate to break it, Harry cleared his throat and geared up to talk again: “So, do you have any tattoos?”

He was relieved to see the smile, that coy, almost lopsided smile, appear on Ginny’s face again. “Actually, no, not a single one.”

“Do you think you’d ever get one?”

Ginny thought for a second. “I might, if something meaningful enough came around. And only if I was 200% sure. But really, I feel like one tattoo would lead to another, and then I’d never stop and run out of room on my skin. So it’s more of a containment mechanism, really.”

Harry smirked. “Hm. Interesting.”

Ginny broke out onto a full grin as she watched him. “What?” she asked, but when Harry’s smirk only deepened, she shoved him playfully, her touch on his shoulders eliciting the same warm sensation as the handshake. “What, Potter, tell me! Why is it interesting?”

“I mean, since you work at a tattoo shop, and you’re wearing a Hole t-shirt, I just thought you might be the type—”

“The Hole tee? Oh, don’t tell me you’re gonna gatekeep it, like you’re the type of guy who’d be like 'name three songs'—”

“No, not at all. As a matter of fact, I don’t know a lot of music by Hole. I really only know who they are because of that one Fall Out Boy song Courtney Love was featured in—”

Ginny winced. “Not Fall Out Boy, please.”

“Why? What’s wrong with Fall Out Boy?”

“Harry—”

“I know they get a lot of shit, but really, their first albums are pretty good—”

“Harry, you’ve gotta stop right here, or you’re going to make me stop finding you so attractive.”

And just like that, there it was, out in the open. Harry felt stun: he felt his mouth open to offer a witty retort, but no words came out. Because the girlish grin had evaporated from Ginny’s face and turned into a different, more mature look, her eyes smoldering slightly and her mouth slightly pouted.

“What about you?” she asked, her words slower, as if she was choosing each one individually. “If the soccer team gossip is true, I know you have five tattoos.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, his voice having dropped as well. “Yeah, there were a few tat shops around my neighborhood where the rules were pretty lax.”

“What are they?” Ginny asked.

“The tattoos? Well, the first ones I ever got were my mom and dad’s birth and death dates, on my wrist,” Harry said, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt to display two small lines of numbers, in plain black ink, on his forearm.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ginny said softly.

“Don’t be, I was really small when it happened. But I still wanted to pay them homage. Anyway, I’ll not bore you with my family history right now.”

“But tell me sometime?”

Harry was ecstatic at the implication that Ginny wanted to spend even more time with him. “Yeah,” he said, smiling at her. “Yeah, I will.” He moved on to the second tattoo, shifting the other sleeve up a bit to show Ginny a small black paw print in the center of his wrist. “This was my third one. My godfather was the only person my aunt and uncle would let me see while I was growing up, and even then only because he threatened them. And he had this huge, black shaggy dog, I think it was a Newfoundland, that looked almost like a bear, named Padfoot. I loved that dog, and every time I think of the happiest moments growing up, Padfoot’s in a lot of them. So when he died when I was sixteen, I got this to remember him by. It seems like a tribute to my godfather, too, so I like it doubly.”

He didn’t need encouragement from Ginny to keep going. He raised his left leg and propped it up on the washing machine by where Ginny’s legs hung, rolling his sock down a bit to show a green, line-art tuft of grass snaking above his ankle. “I got this when I got the soccer scholarship to come here. I wanted something to commemorate soccer, seeing as it’s not only, y'know, my passion, but also what got me out of that damn house for good. But I thought something like a soccer ball or a net or even the pitch outline would be too cheesy, so I got a bit of grass, y'know, as in the field…”

“Tasteful,” Ginny nodded her approval, and Harry felt newfound appreciation for that tattoo. “That’s three down, Potter.”

“I’m getting there.” Harry brought his leg down from the washer and turned his back to Ginny, taking his hand up to the nape of his neck and using it to shift the hair there upward to reveal the back of his neck where it turned into his back. “Can you see it?”

“The little lightning bolt?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s the story of that?”

“That was my second one. To be honest, I was a little ink-happy after my first one, so a couple of weeks after I got it I went back and got this.”

“But why a lightning bolt?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted, turning back around to face her. “I guess it was just cool.”

“Oh, very,” Ginny said, and the edge in her voice let him know she was teasing him. “That leaves us with one, then. The emblematic chest tattoo.” Again, the playfulness disappeared from her face and was replaced by that strange look, the one Harry couldn’t really decipher but really, really liked. “Tell me, then, Harry— is Romilda Vane right?”

It was only because of the suggestiveness in Ginny’s voice and the permanence of that look on her face that Harry did what he did next. His movements slow, he pulled his shirt off over his head, setting it on the washing machine right by where Ginny sat. He heard Ginny draw in a breath and it hitch in her throat as she saw him, her eyes moving over his bare skin to spot the ink blot that had brought this all on. Curled above his right pec was a small, S-shaped dragon, colored in red and gold.

“I win,” Ginny said, her voice still husky, as she extended her left hand to touch the dragon with her fingertips.

“Are you going to tell Romilda?” Harry said, his own right hand settling lightly on Ginny’s thigh.

“No, actually,” Ginny said, her palm now coming down flat on Harry’s chest. Her other hand had also drifted to him, and she had placed it on Harry’s left side, right below his ribcage, as if to hold the side of his torso. “I think I’d rather keep this moment to myself.”

And then she was leaning in and kissing him, touching her lips to his first with tentative softness that turned into a stronger, more determined fire as the kiss deepened. With both of Ginny’s hands on Harry, and one of Harry’s on Ginny’s thigh and the other supporting the weight of the kiss against the solidity of the washer, they leaned into one another. Harry’s mouth sought out Ginny’s eagerly, overcome by the fiery feeling pooling in his stomach and rising up to his throat through his chest, by the fact that everything he’d thought about on their walk back from Lovegood’s was coming true much sooner (and much better) than he’d expected. He felt Ginny’s tongue nudge at his lips and opened his mouth to let her in, engulfing more of her lips with his as he did so. Ginny kissed passionately, her tongue meeting Harry’s even as her teeth dug lightly into Harry’s lower lip, making him kiss her more deeply. With her this close, he was invaded by the flowery smell of her hair, by the soft feel of her skin, by the low humming sound she made as she kissed him. And everything was coming together, making the fire in his chest grow, and it was a good kind of burn, better than whiskey, better than anything—

The loud ding of the washer as it announced it had concluded its cycle startled them, and they pulled back from the kiss looking a little dazed, that one upbeat chime having been all they needed to bring them reluctantly back into the real world. Still Ginny didn’t take her hands off Harry, and Harry felt less than inclined to move his from her leg.

“I should, uh, switch to the dryer,” he said, the only thing that popped into his mind there.

Ginny tightened her hold around his middle and moved her hand from his chest, wrapping it around his upper back to draw him closer. “Oh, let it wait,” she said, and then she was kissing him again, and Harry was finding that the dryer could wait for hell to freeze for all he cared.

The sleepy sound of the chimes above the door didn’t even make Ginny raise her gaze from her stats study guide, which she’d pulled out to make the best of the not-too-busy lull at Lovegood’s. “We’re almost closed,” she announced to whoever had come in.

“You can’t make room for one last customer?” a familiar voice said, and only then did Ginny perk up immediately.

“Harry!” she said brightly, shutting the stats book as it became all-but-forgotten. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to add one more tattoo to the five I’ve already got,” said Harry. “Think you can give me my sixth?”

Ginny didn’t even need to say yes, just opened up the lift-up counter door and disappeared through the beaded curtain. “Flip the door sign to 'closed’ before you come through, will you?”

Harry obliged and flipped the sign before following Ginny to the backroom. He sat patiently on the tattoo chair as Ginny milled about, getting the supplies ready.

“Y'know, you never did tell me the story behind your dragon tattoo,” Ginny commented as she went through the sterilization procedure for the needles. “Seeing as we were, um, otherwise occupied…”

The memory of the kiss flooded through Harry with the same fire that he’d held in his chest ever since, the flame growing to engulf his whole body just hearing Ginny mention it. “Should I tell you now?”

“I’d like to hear it.”

“I got it as a tribute to my old headmaster back home, Albus Dumbledore. Funny old man, and incredibly cryptic, but he’s the one that first gave me the idea of applying for the scholarship and helped me get all my grades and papers in order so I could make it here. We were very close, and he had this saying that he used to tell me whenever I ended up in his office for getting into trouble— 'never tickle a sleeping dragon’, he’d say.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Harry laughed briefly and shrugged. “Hell if I know. But it was his catchphrase. So after I graduated, I wanted to get something to commemorate him, so I got the dragon from his favorite saying. He came with me and got it too.”

Ginny turned to him and eyed him quizzically. “Your headmaster got the tattoo along with you?”

“I told you he was a funny old man.”

Ginny pulled a pair of black latex gloves over her hands and rolled a wheeled office chair over to Harry, the needle in hand. “So by what I’m hearing, you only ever get tattoos of things that are extremely meaningful to you, right?”

“That’s right,” said Harry.

“So, Mr. Meaning, what’ll it be this time?”

Harry smiled. He grabbed his shirt and pulled it slightly upward, just enough to uncover his lower trunk. He pointed to a spot on the left side of his torso, right under his ribcage— right where Ginny’s hand had been, where her touch had been burned into his skin. “Right here,” he said. “I’d like a little washing machine.”

[baya-ni]

The Queer Appeal of Sk8

Recently @mulberrymelancholy reblogged a post of mine with a truly galaxy brain take about how Sk8 “is a show made for queer fans” and generally how sports anime often depicts love and relationships in a way that’s more accessible and relatable to ace/arospec people than other mainstream media does.

Just, *chef’s kiss* fucking brilliant. I urge you to read their post here (note I’m referring to the reblog not the actual post).

And basically, it got me thinking about this concept of Sk8 as a Queer Show, and the kinds of stories and dynamics that tend to attract queer audiences in droves, regardless of whether its queerness is made explicit or hell, whether that queerness was intended.

And that’s what I’ve been pondering: What are the cues, markers, or coding, in Sk8 that set off the community’s collective gaydar?

I obviously can’t speak for the community. So here’s what aspects of the show intrigued me and what, for me, marks Sk8 as a Queer Show beyond the subtextual queer romances: a punk/alternative aesthetic, Found Family, Shadow as a drag persona, and The Hands.

1.) The Punk Aesthetic

All three of the above screenshots are taken from Ep 1, and every single one of them depicts background characters. They’re nameless and ultimately unimportant characters, yet each of them designed so distinctly and so unique from one another, one could mistake each of them for the main character(s) of another story.

Of what little I know about Punk subculture, I do know this: that the ethos of Punk is heavily built around a celebration of individuality and non-conformity. Sk8 seems to have incorporated this ethos into the very fabric its worldbuilding, and the aesthetics and culture upon which it takes inspiration appeals specifically to a queer audience.

I don’t really need to explain why Punk has such deep ties with the queer community. For decades, queer people have found community and acceptance within punk spaces, and punk ideology is something that I think is just ingrained in the queer consciousness as both lived experience and a survival tactic.

Therefore, a show that adopts punk aesthetics is, by association, already paying homage to Queer culture, intentional or not.

Queer fans notice this- like recognizes like.

2.) Found Family

This also needs little explanation.

Too often, queer individuals cannot rely on their “born into” families for support and acceptance. Too often, we are abused, neglected, and abandoned by those who we were taught would “always be there for us.”

And so, a universal experience for queer people has been redefining the meaning of Family, having to build our families from scratch, finding brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers in people with whom we have no blood relation, and forming communities tied together by shared lived experience rather than shared genetics.

And this idea of Found Family is also built into Sk8′s narrative.

Like, for example, the way that Reki promises MIYA that he and Langa will “never disappear from [his] sight,” filling the void that MIYA felt after his friends abandoned him.

And in the way that JOE becomes a paternal figure for Reki, teaching him ways to improve in skateboarding, and ensuring that Reki doesn’t self isolate when he’s feeling insecure.

And in the whole Ep 6 business with Hiromi acting as babysitter to the Gang.

Hell, even ADAM (derogatory) is associated with this trope. Abused as a child, he finds solace in an underground skateboarding community and culture he helped create- his own found family (or some powertrippy version of it anyway).

Again, queer fans see themselves depicted in the show, but this time in the way that the show gives importance to Found Family relationships between its characters.

3.) Shadow and Drag

This is one that’s more of an association that I personally made. But I was intrigued by the way that Hiromi adopts his SHADOW persona. He wears SHADOW like a mask, and adopts a personality seemingly so opposite to his day-to-day behavior.

Further, the theatricality and general “gender fuckery” of his SHADOW persona, to me, just seemed so similar to a the characteristics of a drag persona (I don’t know a whole lot about drag but enough that I’m drawing superficial similarities).

There’s also this aspect of a “double life” that he, and actually all the other adult characters of the show, have to adopt, which is a way of living that I’m sure a lot of queer viewers see themselves reflected in.

4.) The Hands

Ohhhh the Hands.

One of the things I noticed very early on is the way the show constantly draws our attention to Reki’s hands, which I thought was a little strange for an anime about skating. After all, skating doesn’t really involve the hands, or at least the show doesn’t really draw attention to hands within the context of skating.

I count 3 times so far between Eps 1-9 in which hands are the focus of the frame.

First, when Reki teaches Langa how to fist pump after Langa lands his first ollie, second, when Reki and Langa make their Promise, and finally, when Langa saves Reki from falling off his board.

And you know what they say, twice is a coincidence but thrice is a motif (no one else actually says this I think I’m the only one who says this lol).

I’m not really certain why hands seem to be such a shared fixation among queer people (at least among those I interact with). All I know is that gay people are just fucking obsessed with them.

I have a Theory as to why, and at this point I’d love for other people to chime in and “compare notes” if you will, but I think it basically has to do with repression. And in the same way that queer people have had to redefine the meaning of family, we’ve also had to redefine intimacy.

Being overtly physically affectionate with someone of the same sex, even if they’re your significant other, or often specifically BECAUSE they’re your significant other, can still be dangerous, even now despite the “progression” of society. Queer people know this, this vigilant surveillance of our environment and ourselves, always asking ourselves, “Am I safe enough to be myself?”

Already, Western culture is pretty touch-averse. That is, it’s considered taboo to touch someone unless they’re a family member or a romantic partner. And to touch a person of the same sex in any way that could be misconstrued as romantic (which is most things tbh) is a big no no.

There’s just A Lot to unpack there.

But basically I think that queer people, by necessity, have had to learn to romanticize mundane or unconventional ways of being physically intimate so that we can continue to be romantic with one another without “being caught” so to speak.

Kissing and hugging is too obvious. But a handshake that lingers for just a second too long is much more likely to go unnoticed, braiding someone’s hair can easily be explained away as just lending a helping hand, touching palms to “compare hand sizes” is just good fun.

But for queer people, these brief and seemingly insignificant touches hold greater meaning, because it’s all we are allowed, and all we allow ourselves, to exchange with others.

God, I’ve gone off and rambled again. What’s my point? Basically that the way the show draws attention to Reki’s hands, and specifically how they’re so often framed with Langa’s hands, is one of the major reasons why I clocked Sk8 as a Queer. It’s just something that resonated with me and my own experience of queerness, and I know that I’m not the only one who noticed either.

~

So in conclusion, uhhhh yeah Sk8 the Infinity is just a super gay show, and it’s not even because of the homo-romantic subtext (that at this point is really just Text).

Because what’s important to understand is that Queerness isn’t just about same-sex romance.

Queer Love isn’t just shared between wives/girlfriends, husbands/boyfriends, and all their in-betweens. Queer Love can be two best friends who come out together, queer siblings who rely and support one another, a gay teacher who helps guide one of their questioning students, a queer community pitching in to help a struggling member.

And that all ties with another important thing to consider, that what we refer to as the “queer experience” or “queer culture” isn’t universal. In fact, it wrongly lumps together the unique experiences and struggles of queer BIPOC all under one umbrella that’s primary White and middle class.

So I think what drives a lot of my frustration about labeling a show like Sk8 as Queerbait is this very issue of considering queerness and queer representation within such narrow standards, and mandating that a show must pass a certain threshold of explicit queerness to be considered good representation.

I get that someone might only feel represented by an indisputable canonization of a same-sex couple. That’s fine. But labeling Sk8 as Queerbait for that reason alone ignores the vast array of other queer experiences.

The aspects of Sk8 that resonate most deeply with my own experiences of queerness is in the way that Reki and Langa share intimacy through skating (intricate rituals heyo). For me, them officially getting together ultimately doesn’t matter- I’ll consider Sk8 a Queer show regardless.

Similarly, @mulberrymelancholy​ finds ace/arospec representation in that very absence of an on-screen kiss. A bisexual man might find representation in Reki, not because he enters a canon relationship, but in the depiction of Reki’s coming of age, growing up and navigating adolescent relationships. A non-binary person might feel represented through CHERRY’s androgyny.

That’s the thing, I don’t know how this show will resonate with other members of the queer community, and it’d be wrong to make a judgement on Sk8′s queer representation based on my experiences alone.

That being said, Straight people definitely don’t get to judge Sk8 as Queerbait. Y’all can watch and enjoy the show, we WANT you to enjoy these kinds of shows, and we want you to share these shows and contribute to the normalization and celebration of these kinds of narratives.

But understand that you don’t have a right to tell us whether or not Sk8 has good or bad queer representation.

And even members of the queer community are on thin ice. Your experience of queerness is not universal. Listen to the other members of your community, and respect that what you might find lacking in this show may be the exact representation that someone else needs.