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cheezritsu · 5 years ago

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Taiwa 2014

Summary: It’s been a long time since Tsukishima has traveled back to his hometown, Taiwa. The last time he was here, he was moving out. But even still, there’s this unsettling feeling that he never truly left. Everything that ever mattered to him, Karasuno, Yamaguchi, his family, they were still here, like always. So why did it feel like something was missing?

Pairing: Tsukishima Kei X Reader

Word Count: 9.7K

A/N: I’m bringing what’s probably one of my favorite fics over to tumblr. crossposted on AO3 if you prefer the format. Also pain; lots of pain.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Sitting in Yamaguchi’s car with the windows down, messing up the left side of Tsukishima’s (too long) hair, he recalls one of the reasons he left Miyagi.

He has resigned to not lean his arm outside, because the grey exterior has super heated to an ungodly degree, and he’s sure there’s a 1st degree burn that will be agitated the moment it slides against a volleyball court. He joked that Yamaguchi was trying to sabotage him, that maybe if they weren’t best friends he’d actually be upset.

But it’s not like Yamaguchi can block out the sun. He didn’t remember Miyagi summers being so damn brutal, especially not in June. The sun beamed down on them as if God had a laser pointer on Yamaguchi’s Acura LX, which seemed pretty harsh even if the car was old.

Sendai fades into the background, and the buildings get shorter and shorter like they’re descending stairs. Telephone wires criss cross the highways overhead, and incoming traffic gets a little congested. Yamaguchi leans back, exhaling slowly through his nose.

“It’s always like this now. Everyone’s moving out of Tokyo and coming up north and for what? So they can hike up grocery store prices?”

“That’s awfully prejudiced of you, Yamaguchi. Why would they raise prices if they don’t know how to cook?”

Yamaguchi laughs. “Tokyo boys ain’t shit.”

“Careful,” Tsukishima gives a close lipped smile. “Your country accent is slipping through.”

“Yours is all gone.”

“I never had an accent.”

Yamaguchi hums when he grips the steering wheel, jerking the car left as he changes lanes. “Sure.”

Tsukishima keeps his mouth shut, as if sealing the evidence.

The rip of motorbikes replaces the stalled car engines as his hometown becomes a highway exit. Like it’s been anything other than that.

Tsukishima reels as they start to pass familiar landmarks. He never realized it was all so close together; it seemed like trips that used to take hours were now whizzing past at the blink of an eye. It couldn’t be Yamaguchi’s featherfoot on the gas, either.

Suburbs isn't the right word to describe Taiwa. Hinata used to ride his bike uphill both ways to get to Karasuno, and all of his friends were spread out across the large expanse of undeveloped land. Animals likely outnumber the amount of residents in the town. When Kuroo used to call the team country bumpkin crows, he wasn’t exaggerating.

Tsukishima narrows his eyes, and Yamaguchi’s gaze flickers over. “What’s got you so upset? You just got here.”

“It’s nothing,” he replies, then catches Yamaguchi still trying to look at him. “If I tell you, will you keep your eyes on the road?”

“As long as you don’t tell me something that’ll make me crash the car.”

“Just don’t crash the fucking car?”

“Spit it out, Tsukki!”

He grumbles at the old nickname. “I get enough of Koganegawa calling me that, thank you.” Date Tech’s school used to feel hours away; how long would it take under the wheels of this thing?

“Everything’s just. Closer than I remember.”

“Closer?”

“The places, I mean. The town feels smaller.”

A snort. “Sure is, hot shot. I see you got acclimated to Saitama real nice.”

There’s something charming about the northern drawl of Yamaguchi’s words he knew he’d hate coming out of his own mouth. “It’s not the same.”

Yamaguchi’s chuckle tapers into a sigh. “Neither are you.”

The blocks become residential, and houses he used to know are obscured into oblivion. The people that bike by are different, the parked cars are newer, while some faces are just older in a way that settles like lead in Tsukishima’s stomach.

And then he sees it: the house with wood paneling in the front, white everywhere else. Atop the stone pillars are the plants still taller than him, even though he’s upwards of 195cm these days. White undershirts catch the summer breeze on the clothesline, billowing like flags. Cross-hatched metal gate, a new car in the driveway. Faded pink door.

Your house. With a for sale sign in the window.

Tsukishima nearly breaks his neck as Yamaguchi passes it without so much as a glance.

“Did you see that?”

“What?” Yamaguchi checks his mirrors. “Did I see what?”

The houses blend together once again. Everyone on the street carries on like Tsukishima hasn’t been shot through the chest. He slumps into his seat, listening to dogs barking and the laughter of children as everything goes accordingly.

“It’s nothing. A kid fell off his skateboard. It looked pretty awful.”

Yamaguchi hesitates, but doesn’t question it. He minds his business, even when Tsukishima’s scowl falls into something a little more melancholy than usual.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Tsukishima frowned from his post at the front desk, annoyed how your presence alone could stir...things in him.

It had been a long time since he’d seen you at the museum. Perhaps that was good for his job security, but when he saw you walking up to him in a wool blazer that looks like a mirror image of the one he had on, he couldn’t help but admit he’d missed you. He didn’t know where you’d been, and he wanted to ask, but you flashed him the 460 yen entrance fee before he could speak.

“I’ll take the 4:15 personal guided tour.”

He schooled his face to keep it flat. “How many times have I told you—”

“It’s your last day, what are they going to do, fire you?”

The sarcasm was dry, and there was no twinkle in your eye. Tsukishima sighed, taking the money and putting it in the register. His replacement, a quickly scouted kid that was barely his shoulder height, tapped away on the computer next to him. “Hey, Hiroto.”

The boy was obviously younger, probably still in high school by the way his eyes widened when his senpai called for him. “Yes, Tsukishima-sama?”

You lean against the counter. “Sama?” you mouth, lips curling into that smirk he hated to love.

“Take over the front desk for me. I have a tour to do.”

Hiroto squinted in confusion, but as soon as Tsukishima slid out of the booth the kid immediately took his place. He looked so nervous and unsure, and you, still leaning over the counter, sent him a wink.

“Don’t worry kid, just make sure you turn this over.” Your fingers toyed with a plaque, tipping it over so it read Closed. Then, you cupped one hand over your mouth, whispering close to his ear.

“This guy sucks at customer service anyways, and they kept him for a whole year.” Tsukishima rolled his eyes at your loud-as-all-hell whisper, pulling your arm.

“Leave the kid alone.”

“I’m just giving him some friendly advice!”

“You’re going to give him a lot more than that if you keep with the “friendly” attitude.” Hiroto looked absolutely mortified, standing like a wooden plank at the front desk. You hummed.

“How old is he?”

Tsukishima ignored your question. You looped your arm with his. “I feel like college students keep getting smaller and smaller these days.”

“That’s because you hung out with giants.”

You walked through an ornate archway into an octagonal room filled with glass cases of samurai memorabilia. The armour room had only a few stragglers left, all of them in silent contemplation. Against the archway, an employee Tsukishima recognized gave him a long glance as you two strolled past, but Tsukishima was more preoccupied with looking at you. He would sneak glances at your reflection in the glass, concerned by the indifferent frown you sported. Maybe it was the exhibits; samurais and swords were never your thing. But there was something he couldn’t put his finger on that made him anxious.

You either didn’t notice him staring, or you didn’t care. Waltzing through the halls like you were the guide, you two stepped into the completely secluded painting wing. Sharp angled walls jutted out to create more surfaces to hang the portraits. You tilted your chin, studying them like an art critic.

“Are you going to miss working here?”

Tsukishima shrugged. “It was fine. Gave me a use for my degree.”

“You regretting college now that you’re a superstar athlete?” The words are punctuated with tiny jabs to his arm, but they lack conviction. “Kinda seems like a waste, huh?”

Tsukishima frowned. The implication that the past four years spent being in your care and watching over you were suddenly useless didn’t sit right with him. “It’s not like I didn’t like it.”

“I know,” you sighed, moving onto the next painting. “It just seems like a detour now, doesn’t it? I mean, you’re a pro-athlete.”

There was a stress on how you said “athlete” that didn’t slip past him. He realized what was so off: you weren’t imitating the goofy poses of the long dead samurai anymore. Your all black outfit, once chic, seemed like you were in mourning. The heel clicks of your loafers brought his eyes back to you, where you stood with your hands grasped behind your back, pulling your fingers tightly.

Tsukishima drew up to your side. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

You whipped your head around like you’ve been caught. “What’re you talking about?”

He snorted. “You’re a bad liar, you know. Your accent is your tell.”

“Shut,” you started to say, though it lacked a hard T and it made Tsukishima laugh. “Shut up.”

It almost feels normal between you two. Almost.

“It’s been weird, you know,” you started, voice barely a whisper. You looked like you were talking to Date Masamune’s portrait when you said “I’m back at home, and you’re not there anymore.”

He didn’t know why you were saying that. He should have kicked himself in the ass and given you some kind of reassurance, but he was frozen, mouth agape with an unasked question.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Tsukishima always thought your profile should have been on these walls. You looked regal, even with your eyes fixed on the ground and an ashamed smile. “Who woulda thought two kids from Taiwa would be all the way out here, hm?” Your chuckle is self deprecating. “And now you’re gunna be playing for a Division One team in Saitama. Fuckin’ hot shot.”

You finally turn to him, head cocked with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m glad you’re getting out, Tsukki. It’s what you wanted, right?”

He can’t pinpoint what’s wrong with this image. Sometimes, it appears to him in dreams, your smile warped and faded like an overexposed photograph. The right words are floating in the ether above him, elusive, mocking. But he is destined to say the wrong ones.

“Yes, it is.”

You looked into Masamune’s eyes once again, like you could read the brush strokes and find the answer to the universe in them. “You deserve it, you know. Miyagi never suited you.”

The irony was lost on him, as were most things in the moment. Your presence had now soured his mood, but you hooked your arms through his like nothing was wrong.

“C’mon, this is the last time I’ll ever step foot in the place again; tell me something cool.”

You didn’t say “probably.” Tsukishima dwells on this now more than ever, because his response never addressed that. “Did you know there’s an anime series based on the Date Clan?”

Your laugh; that’s what he was more focused on. The way it lit up your face, and how you said “seriously?” a little too loud for the dead silent museum. Tsukishima hasn’t been back to Sendai City museum either, because this memory is pristine, and it’s the last one he has of you.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Tsukishima’s family is still the same.

His mother has kept her hair short for the past fifteen years of her life, and Tsukishima might have a childlike tantrum if she’d cut it otherwise. But when Yamaguchi pulls up to his childhood home, she steps out of the house with her signature bob, sans a couple more grey hairs.

The way golden hour makes his mother look ethereal never ceases to make him smile. She gives Yamaguchi a one-armed hug as he carries Tsukishima’s luggage inside, and Yamaguchi kisses her on the cheek like a better son would.

All Tsukishima can do is stand in front of her with his hands behind his back, head dipped with a bashful smile as his mother cocks her hands on her hips. He feels sixteen again, fidgeting with his fingers when she comes closer, giving him a smile that could coax anything out of him.

“You never stop growing, do you?” She has to stand on her toes to brush back his fringe. “Even your hairs’ gotten longer.”

“Can you cut it for me? I only trust you.”

A smile. He’s suddenly even younger; twelve years old, standing in front of the house and holding up the award from the science fair. His mother is so brilliant that the sun goes away, shamed by her beauty.

“Of course, Kei. Come on, your brother’s waiting.”

Nothing’s changed in the house. Muscle memory brings him to the kitchen, where the table is set for four. Yamaguchi sheds his jacket, but Akiteru swoops behind him, snatching it from his hands.

“I’ll take that, Tadashi.” He’s as smooth and polite as ever, grinning the megawatt smile he inherited from their mother. Akiteru may be a full head shorter than Kei now, but the slap his older brother gives him still makes him lose balance.

“You done growin’ yet, you little jerk? Huh?” Akiteru has grown less doting in years gone by, much to Tsukishima’s own (disgusted) dismay. Akiteru stops, looking him up and down before that teasing grin distills into something prideful. In a flash, he is pulled into a tight hug, the pats on his back more tepid and loving. Tsukishima leans in for only a moment, and then Akiteru holds him at arms’ length.

He suspects Akiteru will say something sappy, but Yamaguchi’s jacket is thrust into his arms. “Be a good friend and put away Tadashi’s coat, will you?” He gives an infuriating wink before helping his mother in the kitchen.

Tsukishima turns, even if only to hide the sentimental smile that graces his lips. When dinner is finally ready, Tsukishima sits beside Yamaguchi, facing his mother, and suddenly he is nine years old again; Yamaguchi is over for dinner and Akiteru will no doubt embarrass him, but it’s okay because mom cooked their favorite. Time stands still and the sun doesn’t set, not for them.

It’s almost enough to make him forget. Almost.

“Did you know the (Surname) house is for sale?”

Yamaguchi blinks, but his mother doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, you saw?”

“It’s the one on the way here, with the pink door. It’s hard to miss.” Tsukishima keeps eating like its normal conversation--isn’t it?--but Yamaguchi’s eyes are trying to x-ray his skull.

“It’s been up for a little while, hasn’t it Aki?”

Akiteru, who’s sixth sense is his little brother’s emotions, clears his throat. “Probably since March.”

“They’ve been wanting to get rid of that house since (Name) left.”

Hearing your name out of another person’s mouth sends a ripple through Tsukishima, like he’s been punched in the stomach. Akiteru and Yamaguchi don’t miss the way his breath hitches, how he drops his utensils to crack his knuckles.

“It’s probably too big for them anyways,” he says, returning to his meal, head bowed so he can’t see their prying eyes. “They’re getting kind of old.”

“It’s been so long since it was full, hasn’t it? Their older daughter moved out over a year ago, I think.”

His mother’s words buzz in his ears as the conversation dornes on. Akiteru steers it away from the house, asking about Tsukishima’s appointed condo in Saitama, but he only gives one word answers through the fog in his mind.

Suddenly, he is eighteen, time fast forwarding as his glasses change and his hair gets shaggier, and you, like his mother, brush it out of his vision. Yamaguchi sits on Akiteru’s left because Tsukishima scowled at the idea of you sitting next to his brother. It’s not like it even matters, because you aren’t his: everyone in the room is showering you with attention and you have to divide yourself four ways, giving them individualized smiles.

“--(Name) really broke their hearts when she left.”

“Huh?”

As it turns out, eighteen wasn’t so long ago. His mother smiles fondly at a memory. “She was a firecracker, wasn’t she? Used to walk around like she owned the place. Her older sister was always more respectful.”

“Wasn’t her older sister in a rock band?” Akiteru reminisces.

“Yeah, but which one was constantly skipping school and getting caught with boys?”

“Younger sibling privileges. They get to do whatever they want and never get punished.”

His mother laces bridges her fingers, then leans her chin down. “But everyone still loved her, didn’t they?” His mother’s eyes are far away, like she was in the same moment as her son. “I miss her.”

Tsukishima doesn’t mean to raise his voice, but he has to force the words out of his throat. “Why’re you all talking like she’s dead? She just lives in...wherever the hell she got whisked off to. Who knows?”

The entire table halts, staring at him. Akiteru and Yamaguchi share another secretive glance, and Tsukishima’s forehead throbs.

“Whatever, can we just talk about something else?”

Another reason Tsukishima revered his mother: she knew how to deal with him. “Of course dear,” she says, her voice never even missing a beat. “You haven’t even told us about your last match!”

“It was televised,” he drones, but Yamaguchi gangs up on him

“It was your first time playing against the Black Jackals, though.” Despite his years of practice, Yamaguchi still has some hesitance when he changes topics. “Was it satisfying blocking Hinata’s spikes? I bet you liked shutting down Miya Atsumu.”

There’s a twitch to his lips as he gives Yamaguchi a grateful glance. The rest of dinner goes off with little conflict, and Tsukishima groans when Akiteru pulls out strawberry shortcake and the alcohol that pairs poorly with it--beer.

“I’m not drinking that.” Tsukshima means it, too, leaving his brother and Yamaguchi to their own devices. His mother cleans up easily with the extra set of hands, and while they chat over booze, he drops his things off in his old room.

It’s the same as when he left. His old books are still on the shelves, the dinosaur figures covered in a thin, disrespectful layer of dirt. His first Karasuno jersey still hangs next to his door, swinging idly when he enters.

It, like Taiwa, feels small. Perhaps it’s because his bed is still full sized, and his feet hang over the edge. His suitcase doesn’t really fit anywhere, and when he sits down at his desk, he can barely fit his knees under it. He feels like he’s in a dollhouse, or worse; a museum.

The last time he was here, he was moving out. But even still, there’s this unsettling feeling that he never truly left. Everything that ever mattered to him, Karasuno, Yamaguchi, his family, they were still here, like always.

So why did it feel like something was missing?

There’s a knock on the door he didn’t remember closing. When it opens, the light from the hallways creeps in, and Yamauchi peers inside. “Why are the lights off?”

“It wasn’t dark when I sat down.”

Yamaguchi pushes the door open with his back and when Tsukishima sees why, he lets out a snort of disbelief. “Where did you dig that up?”

The Kahlua bottle has a layer of grime on it bleach probably couldn’t cut through. It’s barely half empty, sliding across the desk into Tskishima’s waiting hands. How his friend was able to balance the bottle, a beer, and a glass of milk between his fingers was beyond him; perhaps it was the years of volleyball under his belt.

Tsukishima isn’t light handed when he pours his drink, clicking the glass with Yamaguchi’s beer and relishing it with a long sip.

“You looked like you needed it.”

“I’m fine,” he hides his lie with another sip. Yamaguchi isn’t fooled in the slightest.

“I didn’t know they’d bring it up.”

“You guys can stop using euphemisms, you know.” His amber eyes are dull when he looks over his glasses. “She’s not Beetlejuice.”

Yamaguchi laughs. “I suppose she won’t appear if we speak her name three times, but she’s frightening all the same.”

“Frightening isn’t the right word,” Tsukishima thinks, staring at how the liquor and milk swirl galaxies in his glass. Maybe if he looks hard enough he’ll find the right word to describe you, but the thought stays unfinished.

Leaning on the wall, Yamaguchi turns his head to look out the window at the last vestiges of light. “Sometimes I think I see her in the convenience store; you remember the one we used to eat at after practices in third year?” Tsukishima nods at the memory. “I’ll just be standing in line, and then out of the corner of my eye, there she is. Like a hallucination.”

Yamaguchi’s glazed eyes come back into focus, smiling sheepishly. “It’s stupid I know. It’s just,” he stares down at the floor, shifting his weight. “I know she hated Taiwa, but I thought she loved us.”

The drink has gone sour in his mouth. Tsukishima sets it down with a heavy thud, looking at Yamaguchi with a blank expression.

“I guess she didn’t.”

Yamaguchi frowns, then tilts his head back to finish his drink. “I don’t know why I thought I’d talk to you about it,” he humorlessly scoffs. “It’s been what, five years?”

“You’re the one seeing her in grocery stores. She got what she wanted; she left this place, married her rich CEO husband, and forgot about us ‘northern folk,’” Tsukishima exaggerates the accent he fought so hard not to maintain. “I’m not going down memory lane with you. Not this one.”

His tone drips with finality, and Yamaguchi pushes himself off the wall. “You don’t have to talk about it,” he says, leaving the Kahlua bottle on the desk. “But don’t act like you didn’t want her to stay, too.”

Yamaguchi leaves him alone in the dark. His footsteps pound down the staircase, and as they cease, Kei slouches into his chair, defeated. He tops off his drink, taking a miserable sip while his feet push the office chair side to side.

He spins idly, and the years unravel at the seams.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Not so suddenly, he is twenty years old. It’s not a milestone, not in Japan, not anywhere in the world, and yet, you wanted to celebrate.

The day after his birthday was a lot more memorable than the actual party. Not because he was black out drunk, but because when he came back to your apartment after getting a fabulous nights rest, he was greeted with not just you, but your three overnight guests.

“What the hell happened to them?”

It was both luck and a curse that the MSBY Black Jackals were in town for a match. The few members that knew Tsukishima had come over for his birthday party, and the morning after they were face down at your kitchen table. Instead of their usual lively antics, they were slumped with hangovers, groaning in harmony.

“You’re too loooud Tsukki!” Bokuto yelled, making Atsumu Miya hiccup.

“Bokkun, please shut the fuck up,” he whispered, that melodic Kansai dialect shriveled and dry in his throat. His presence had been most shocking, but the way he called him “the snarky middle blocker” proved that he truly did remember him.

“Language,” Hinata’s tiny voice squeaked out and you chuckled behind your hand.

“They’ve been like this all morning. apparently they can’t head back in this condition, so,” you held up a frying pan. “I’m making breakfast.”

“Yer an angel, sweetheart,” Miya said, drawing himself up from the table. “If you had any painkillers you’d be a god.”

“You better get to worshipping then,” you pointed to the cabinet. “Bottom shelf, all the way against the wall.”

“Marry me,” he joked, and Tsukishima narrowed his eyes at your laughter. There was something about how your hair was pulled back with a headband that made him want to possessively kiss your forehead, but he held himself back.

“What?” You said, and he realized you’d been staring at him too. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

“There’s nothing picture worthy here. Except maybe those two.” He jabbed a thumb to the duo rolling on the floor. “Might keep it for blackmail.”

“You can’t blackmail people who don’t get embarrassed,” you reminded him, beginning to crack eggs into a bowl. Everything looked so effortless when you did it; even Miya was impressed by how you whisked together the eggs in a homogenous scramble.

“Gosh, is there anything you can’t do?”

“Basic mathematics, hold her alcohol, go five seconds during a movie without crying,” Tsukishima ticked off his fingers. “Need I continue?”

“I can’t stand you, so there’s another thing,” you bit back, and Miya laughed behind you. You hummed.

“You’ve got a pretty voice, Miya-San. Where’re you from?”

He raised an eyebrow at your compliment. “Well ain’t you sweet? I’m from Hyogo, darlin’, more specifically Kawanishi.”

The stove made that loud tick tick tick! as the flame flickers to life. It’s like that scene from Howl’s Moving Castle, and Tsukishima is enraptured at the sight of you pulling apart strips of bacon and placing them in the sizzling pan.

“Kawanishi,” you muttered, and Tsukishima knew that longing, tired voice of yours. It always broke his heart. “Is it big?”

“Not really; maybe ‘bout less than 200 thousand people.”

You scoffed. “Where I’m from, that's huge.”

The setter cocked his head. “Ain’t you from Sendai?”

“Nope,” you said, popping the last consonant. “I’m nobody from the middle of goddamn nowhere.”

“It’s not like you had to bike uphill both ways to get to school!” Hinata piped up from the table. “At least you lived closer to Karasuno than I did!”

“Ah, is that how you know this guy?” Miya jutted his chin toward the taller blonde. Their gazes met momentarily, and through Miya’s whisky brown eyes, Tsukishima saw a black hole of hunger. He looked back down to you as you drained the bacon onto a paper towel.

“Yup.” You were proud when you said it. “Tsukki and I have been together forever.”

“Oh? I didn’t know you were dating.”

Tsukishima didn’t correct him, but you did. “We’re not not dating. Hell, to be honest we don’t even go that far back. We’re both from Taiwa, which isn’t really weird because it’s a huge place, even though there’s barely thirty thousand people in it.” A fond smile played on your lips, and you fixed Tsukishima with an adoring look.

“Thirty thousand people, and I lived walking distance from you. And you never even knew I existed.”

If he wanted to kiss your head before, the urge was stronger now. He licked his lips, putting the feelings aside. “What do you want me to do, apologize?”

“Hmm, no. I think I’ve harassed you enough to make up for it.”

That little smile on your lips said it all. You busied yourself with cooking once again, and Miya looked between you two like there was something tangible. If there ever was a red string of fate tied to your pinkies, it has long since been severed. But in this memory, the two of you danced around each other in the kitchen with ease, plating breakfast for five like husband and wife.

Actually, it was just four. You returned to cleaning the apartment, quite a monumental task with all the drunk volleyball players you’d had over last night. Tsukishima had dipped after everyone was either safe at home or tucked in on your couch, and daylight was not kind to the aftermath.

“This is why I didn’t ask for a party,” he said, watching as you tossed beer cans into a trash bag.

“You should be grateful she threw ya a party, string bean,” Miya said in between bites of toast. The eggs on his plate matched the blonde of his hair, and Tsukishima can never unsee this. “Even more so that it was a rager.”

“Yeah! (Name)-san has always been so nice to you.”

Tsukishima choked on his drink. “You must have gotten the memory knocked out of your head with a receive, shrimp. That woman has never been kind to me.”

“I threw you a whole party!”

“I am once again asking when I told you to do that.”

He could hear your petty insults drift away as you walked out of the living room. There was only the sounds of utensils scraping against plates until you stomped back in, holding up a box that filled your arms. It’s wrapped up perfectly, because you were always good at that; in second year of high school, every member of the volleyball team brought their Secret Santa gifts for you to wrap. You charged everyone five dollars, except for him.

When you got closer he could see the dinosaur stickers you’d placed sporadically across the surface, and Miya snorted with laughter when you unceremoniously dropped the present in Tsukishima’s lap.

“Happy birthday, asshole,” you spat, but he could see how the corners of your mouth tipped up in a suppressed smile, getting wider by the second.

“Well? Open it Tsukki!”

“Yeah, I wanna see!”

The peanut gallery beside him banged their hands on the table, and Miya groaned, clutching his forehead. “I’m begging you two to stop.”

Tsukishima let them carry on in their torture for a little while longer, liking the sight of the setter gnashing his teeth. When it became too much for even him, he opened the gift at the seams, careful not to rip the wrapping paper. It was pretty cute, and he smiled at the visual of you sitting down on your bedroom floor and strategically placing the stickers, your head bouncing to a playlist he’d shared with you.

When he lifted up one long edge, he caught a glimpse of the gift, and his breath hitched. He gazed up at you in disbelief, peeling it all back to reveal the turntable in all its glory.

Tsukishima is a pro-athlete now; he could afford music systems that cost more than a regular citizen’s car, and yet he still proudly displays this exact one in his Saitama apartment, and he always gets compliments from the girls he brings home. Above the wall, in a frame never to be touched, is the first record you ever gave him; the one he will find out momentarily was sitting under the box. But he wanted to drink in that particular moment, the moment his heart stopped completely.

The other three leaned over to get a better look at it, oohing and ahhing at the sight. Tsukishima was too busy memorizing your proud smile, your hand on your hips, and how the constriction of his heart resembled love a little too closely.

“Because you’re always lamenting you don’t have one. Just so you know, the only presents you’re ever getting from me are vinyls.”

He should have hugged you. He should have told you how much it meant to him, but he just assumed you could see it on his face. Maybe he expected too much from you.

But he did say, “Thank you, (name).” with the most sincerity he’d ever used, and you’d smiled like you knew he loved you.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Tsukishima knows he does not have enough money to buy a house, and isn’t even interested in buying one, but that doesn’t stop him from putting on his (second) best clothes and working through whatever the hell he’s going to say to the person who opens your (old) front door.

It’s the second dumbest thing he’s ever done. The neighborhood is bustling today, and a couple people do double takes as he strolls by with his headphones up, cap tilted low. He’s aware he kinda looks like he’s undercover in a Marvel movie, but there’s only so much he can do; height is a curse, he keeps telling people, but they never listen.

He blends in enough not to get stopped, which may be yet another curse, because then he’d have time to recollect his thoughts and ask what the fuck he thought he was doing walking to your parents house in the middle of the goddamn day like they didn’t have jobs. Had his brain finally conked out now that he was a jock for a living?

Maybe so, because the faded pink door was finally in sight. From the street he could see it clearly: a realtor’s number under the brilliant bold FOR SALE, like it’s yelling at him to leave. But his eyes drift, catching the little details of your house.

Everything in his memories has shrunk and distorted, but not this place. It’s still as clear as day: the red brick steps up to the door, lined with potted plants your mother had a talent for growing. The iron gates have rusted with time, and they stand much shorter now that he’s 195 cm. The bushes were trimmed into weird rounded shapes, both indicative of the neighborhood, and still odd in your front yard. The second story balcony had the same sheets—the same fucking ones from high school! Tsukishima had to laugh.

And then his laugh tapers off as he realizes they’re yours. Purple with little moons and cartoon bunnies on them. The sheets from Sailor Moon! Your whine is an echo in his ears.

He’s just standing there, hands in his pockets as the memories bombard him one by one, crowding his brain, making him lose his—

The front door opens, creaking like a horror movie sound effect. Tsukishima steps back, watching in terror as a figure comes into view, checking his pockets before lifting his head up and seeing a man—a fucking giant—standing right outside his house.

“Hello?” he greets cautiously, stepping closer.

Tsukishima holds in a breath. Your father has gotten old; almost all the hair on top of his head has thinned and greyed, like a samurai in a black and white movie. He’s still wearing the same uniform from the manufacturing plant he was employed at back when you were in high school, his (your) surname stitched on the pocket. He holds a lunchbox in one hand, the other curled into a defensive fist by his side. Intimidating as always.

That is until he squints, and then his eyes light up with recognition. “Tsukishima? Tsukishima Kei?”

With equal hesitation, Tsukishima walks up to the gate. Your father pushes it open, and when he walks down the steps to be on even ground with Tsukishima, he laughs at how much shorter he’s become.

“My god,” he whispers it like he’s staring at a ghost. Tsukishima feels too aware of his long legs and arms, holding them behind his back when he bows respectfully.

“(Surname)-san,” he says, and your father’s eyes twinkle. “It’s been a long time.”

“So it has. How have you been, boy? I hear you’re playing for Saitama now.”

The recognition has him reeling. It’s too much, he shouldn’t have come. His stunned silence makes your father laugh.

“No need to be modest about it! We’ve been following your progress, you know.” He sounds proud, as if he was talking to his own son. “I always brag to my coworkers that a pro-athlete used to come to my house. Three of em, really! How fortunate you’ve all been.”

“Thank you,” he says stiffly. “It’s been such a long time.”

“How is your mother?” She must be awfully lonely without you two boys in the house.”

“I’m visiting her now. She told me your house was for sale?”

Your father was never an idiot. He looks up at the for sale sign, something heavy settling on his shoulders. “Both of my daughters have moved farther away than we intended,” he sighs, although there is no particular sadness in his tone. “I’m proud of them both, really, although (Name) has less filial piety than her sister.”

“She was,” Tsukishima cannot use the word that comes to mind in front of your father. “Something.”

Your father barks out a laugh. “That’s the polite way to say she was a pain in the ass.” Tsukishima’s posture visibly relaxes. “You couldn’t tell her nothin’. Sort of a shame she’s someone’s housewife, ya know? She would have done great things.”

This time there is a wistful quality about his voice, but it vanishes as quickly as it came. “You know, you haven’t been here in a while. (Name)’s mom would love to see you. You were her favorite of all (Name)’s friends, I think.”

A paternal pat on the arm makes all thoughts of weaseling out of this fly out the window. Tsukishima ascends the steps, the top of his head brushing just underneath the archway.

“They don’t make houses for your height, I’m afraid.”

“I’m used to it.”

He wasn’t sure why he expects the inside will be any different. There’s no new furniture, the walls are all the same color, even the books your parents kept out were arranged the same way from nearly five years ago. The only difference is you’re not running down the stairs to save him from the embarrassment of talking to your parents.

“Honey?” your father’s voice calls out as they round a corner. “You’ll never believe this: there was a professional athlete just standing outside.”

You mother looks over her small glasses from where she’s sitting, her brows furrowing, then raising as she places her hand over her mouth. Much like his own mother, time has been kind to her, the only signs of aging appearing in the grey that grew from her back roots.

“Oh my-” she’s standing in front of him with an awed look, and Tsukishima remembers that you and your mom have the same face, just older. He once thought he’d get to see you this age, maybe even in a house like this. His eyes fall to the floor, because your mother looks like the future he can no longer have.

She holds his arms like she’s going to lift him, her lower lip trembling. “Look at you! So tall, still so handsome. (Name) was an idiot for never making you my son-in-law.”

It used to be embarrassment that pained him. Now it was bittersweetness filling his mouth as he thought of something to say to that. “Yeah, she was” feels a little too familiar, and not at all cognizant of his broken heart.

“Oi,’ your father warns. “Enough of that, yeah?”

“Oh,” she swats her hand in his direction, then looks back up to Tsukishima with praising eyes. “I’m kidding. Kind of.”

Tsukishima rubs his arm, giving her a strained grin. He didn’t expect your parents to reopen the wound he’s done his best to forget. Time is supposed to heal all, but you are a fever that’s never broken.

“I came by because I saw the house was for sale.”

Your mother’s face softens. “Oh, you must have so many memories here. Gosh, you haven’t been here in a long time.”

“Years” your father pipes up.

“Years. You should head up to (Name)’s room, you might find something in there.”

This simultaneously piques his interest and fills him with existential dread. “Is that alright?”

“You’re probably the last person in Taiwa that has attachments to this house besides us.”

The sobering reality of that statement makes him drag his feet up the stairs. He looks back down, and he feels like he’s staring backwards in time. Every step forward is another year, and suddenly he’s anxious like he’s entering a girl’s room for the first time.

Your presence, though missing, is overwhelming. He remembers condensation from something dripping onto the hard word floors he’s standing on now, your heart patterned socks mopping it up behind him.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The sun was still up over the horizon, late July prickling Tsukishima’s bare arms with the last vestiges of heat. Your white dress shirt was speckled with little dots of red like a blood splatter.

“You look like a homicide victim.”

“You look like you swallowed blue paint.”

Convenience store slushies were actually a terrible way to beat the heat. They condensed and made the cup soggy, meanwhile the ice in the drink melts immediately after it leaves the machine. But Tsukishima wasn’t going to say no when after ten minutes of begging, Hinata proclaimed he would buy him “his last slushie of high school.” Tsukishima had just clicked his tongue, telling the excited middle blocker, “As long as you’re paying,” so he wouldn’t see how red his ears were.

Hinata and Yamaguchi chuckled at your little back and forth, while Kageyama slurped his drink with a seriousness that didn’t suit the moment. Bathed in sunshine, you all looked like bronze statues: immortal, eternal and infallible. That couldn’t be farther from the truth, but Tsukishima still liked the analogy.

“You would think after spending like, every waking moment together these two would be nicer to each other.” Hinata hummed.

“I thought graduation might make them sentimental,” Yamaguchi sighed. His hair was long back then, decorated with multicolored clips you had strategically placed to match their uniforms. Tsukishima has told his friend once and only once that he liked this hairstyle on him the most. He doesn’t know if it’s because he has the happiest memories associated with it or not. Not that Tsukishima would ever say that.

Yamaguchi pulled his little ponytail taut. “And to think, I wanted them to get their happily ever after.” How a person could look so much like the tear drop emoji, Tsukishima would never know. Your disgusted grunt broke his thoughts.

“Ugh Yama, please,” you begged, throwing away your slushie like he’d spoiled your appetite. “Will you cut it out with this fantasy of yours?”

“What? Wouldn’t it be nice if my two friends got married?”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Tsukishima deadpanned.

“I’d divorce him and steal all his money.”

“Now you’re entertaining the thought.”

Hinata jumped excitedly. “I think it’d be really cute! You guys are going to the same University right?”

Tsukishima bristled, staring at his shorter teammate with contempt. “That means nothing.”

“It means you still have time!”

Tsukishima hated the gremlins optimism, but in that moment, with the sun painting a strip of light across your already brilliant eyes, he’d had the fleeting thought that Hinata could be right.

(He can’t kid himself. It wasn’t a passing thought; it was all consuming, like a tsunami. He couldn’t sleep, because he would dream of domesticity, and your next words cemented how unrealistic this was.)

You waved your hand at Hinata. “I’m not the marrying type, Hinata-kun.”

(A complete lie, but back in 2014, he’d believed you.)

“Besides, what’s so exciting about marriage when Kageyama’s going to be a famous athlete by next year, hm? And you’re off to fucking Brazil.”

All eyes shifted to the quiet setter, still casually drinking his slushie. When he opened his mouth to speak, his mouth was comically purple.

“Marriage isn’t any less significant than being an athlete.” He’d said, sounding very much like the student counselor. Then he grimaced. “But you two would be an unholy couple.”

You broke into piercing laughter. The sound still rings in Tsukishima’s ears. “Kags, will you join me and Tsukki in an unholy matrimony?”

“You want me to get married to you two?”

“No, idiot, she wants you to officiate the wedding.”

“What wedding?”

“I-“ Tsukishima shook his head. “Good fucking question. I’m not marrying you.”

He wonders from time to time if you’d been serious back then. It didn’t make any sense when you were third years, but in retrospect, maybe, just maybe you were hinting something. That sun-made sparkle in your eyes glittered with dimension, and underneath the mirth was something Tsukishima never understood. He thought he would have more time to.

“My original point still stands,” you said, exasperated. “You’re all going off to do great things, and I’m just going to Tohoku.”

“Oi,” Tsukishima chided. “Don’t make it sound so inconsequential when I’m going there too.”

“You're literally going on a full ride with your volleyball scholarship,” you rolled your eyes. “So, no, it’s not inconsequential. It’s just not the same.”

Tsukishima will not be able to fully read you until freshman year of college, so he didn’t catch your downturned lips or how you tried to blink away welling tears. He just thought you were malfunctioning. “You’re being weird.”

“It’s not weird to miss your friends.”

“AHHH! (Name)!” Hinata jumped high enough to nearly kick you in the head. He looked at you with teary eyes and you’re astonished, even though you’ve known him for three years. “Don’t miss us! Don’t be sad!!”

“We’re not even gone yet,” Kageyama grumbles, and you grasped at your heart, confusing him.

“Kageyama...do you care about my feelings?”

“What about his response gave you that idea?”

The black haired setter clicked his tongue. “I’m just saying, we haven’t graduated yet so you don’t have anything to be sad about right now.”

“I can’t believe the Kageyama Tobio is giving me a pep talk,” you dabbed at your eyes dramatically. Kageyama flicked water onto your face, and you giggled.

“Hey!” He was relentless, so you hid behind Tsukishima who didn’t have a quick enough reaction time to be mad at you. Not that he would say anything about the way your hands touched his sides, sending a jolt down his body. His face is probably as red as a slushie.

“Kageyama, when you’re rich and famous I’m going to send all the embarrassing pictures I have to the paparazzi.”

Yamaguchi laughed at the mental image. “That would take an hour long special.”

“A two part hour long special.”

“You’re a fake friend,” Kageyama said, and you prop your head on his shoulder.

“That would imply that I don’t love you all, and that could never be true.”

You used to say such brash things so casually. Kageyama, with his congested emotions, bloomed into a furious blush. Hinata mocked him, pressing his wet hand against his heated face, much to Kageyama’s dismay. Chuckling at the freak duos antics, you shuffled into Tsukishima’s side, who simply looked on with indifference.

“You’re such a sap, (Name),” Yamaguchi notes, and you gave him a brilliant smile, more golden and beautiful than the sunset at their backs. The only thing Tsukishkma laments is that the smile wasn’t aimed at him.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Tsukishima walked ahead of everyone, slurping aggressively on his slushie, trying to quell the jealousy that erupted in his chest. He didn’t have the right to feel so possessive over a friendly declaration, but it still worked its way into his heart.

Suddenly you were beside him, leaning forward to catch his expression. “What’re you hiding from?”

“Who says I’m hiding.”

“Ya know, Tsukki, you shouldn’t be jealous,” Your grin is troubling and sweet, because you’re a walking contradiction. Here and gone all at once.

“Who says I’m—“

“Because I love you most of all.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The door to your room is open. Tsukishima stands at the threshold, hands stuffed in his pockets so he can’t feel them tingle as he approaches.

Already he can tell something isn’t right. The blinds are closed even though it’s the middle of the day, making slits of light like jail bars shine across the floor. The walls are completely stripped of posters and pictures, but they never stripped away the paint. The blue has faded with years gone by, and everything is a hollow shell of what it used to be.

Tsukishima steps in. It doesn’t feel like anything special, which annoys him a little. But then again, how could it feel like anything different when the room has changed so much?

It’s a storage room now. Your bed is gone, your bedside table stuck up against the wall. Your antique dresser, the one you were so proud to steal from your sister, stands alone on the far wall, no clothes sticking out. Your closet is open with suitcases crammed inside, the hangers swinging idly and the floorboards creak under his weight.

It feels colder in here. There’s no peach scented candles, no window open, no nothing. This isn’t yours. This isn’t right.

It’s blasphemous what they’ve done. Tsukishima is not an irrational, angry person, and yet he has the violent urge to take a metal baseball bat and smash everything in your room. Not your room.

Tsukishima's trembling fingertips trace over a water raised circle on your bookshelf, a scar to mark your existence. And there, on the side, where you recorded the length of your growing ivy plant, the months going down down down like a timeline until they stop. Until you’re gone with hardly a trace.

Tsukishima balls his fists. You did leave something behind. He just can’t touch it, can’t see it anywhere else but his mind's eye and he curses because no one can see how you’ve ruined his life and continue to, even in this void you’ve created in your absence.

He stops trying to control it. The memory swirls over him like a hurricane, pounding against his skull as tears well in his eyes. He falls to his knees to take a breath, then lays on the floor, in the exact spot where your bed used to be; in the middle of the room, parallel to the windows. He can almost feel the Sailor Moon sheets, closing his eyes. His panicked breathing splits into two, and like Athena from Zeus, you’ve sprung from his mind.

You’re catching your breath. The drawn curtains turn afternoon sunlight into a diffused red glow. It colors Kei’s pale skin and blonde hair a dreamy pink, and you roll onto your naked stomach, legs kicking up playfully.

Through the haze of warmth and pleasure, Kei cracks open an eye just a little bit to see you gazing at him with a sickly sweet smile. Your index finger traces his collarbone, setting fire to the skin underneath.

“What’re you doing?” He croaks, and your chuckle sends waves of pleasure to his crotch. You drag your blunt nails across his throat, and he suppresses a hiss.

“Can’t I touch you?”

“No.”

“Hmm. It’s a little late for that now, don’t you think?”

In all the years that came after this, Kei couldn’t figure out why this happened. It felt like—still feels like—a fluke the universe handed out to him. It never happens again and you never talk about it.

This memory is his most prized possession: he keeps it under lock and key in the back of his mind because the way his palm tenderly connects to your cheek baffles him. His hand slides down, knuckles skimming your jaw in soft strokes, like he’s carving you out of clay.

“You said—“

“I know what I said.” Your hand catches his wrist, bringing his long, slender digits to your lips. You inspect the cuts and bruises, how they’re bent and mangled from blocking harsh spikes and slamming down equally powerful ones. You kiss them like you could heal them, and Tsukishima wouldn’t put it past you.

“Did I change your mind?” He has a smile that’s a little too smug. You’re ignoring his face and he feels anxious; he wants your eyes on his so you’ll melt, so he can devour you while you helplessly watch just how you’ll go down.

That never happens. Not with you. You open your mouth and give one clean suck to his index finger, and Kei inhales through his nose to control the heat pooling to his abdomen.

You kiss the pad of his finger. “I guess I had second thoughts.”

“Second thoughts?”

“You’re trying to get into Tohoku, right?”

“So are you.”

“Right. If we don’t get in—“

“Don’t jinx it, stupid.”

“—if I don’t get in, I don’t want to feel like I wasted my time.”

His brows furrow. Kei draws up on his side, catching himself with his elbow. His body is thoroughly wrecked from giving you everything, and he shivers upon seeing the damage on your neck. But he pushes aside all thoughts of pleasure and stares down at you. “What are you talking about?”

Your hands drag down his chest, trailing the curves and contours of the muscle he’s built up for three years. His shoulders have broadened out and his waist tapers into a trim V. He is chiseled marble, a statue come to life in your bedroom. If only he were as permanent.

Kei follows your gaze, reaching down to intertwine your hands. The gesture is obscene, intimate, and reverent all at one. “(Name),” he pleads, and your eyes flicker up to his.

“You really think you’re going to stay in Miyagi? You, Tsukishima Kei? With the handsome face and the brains and the brawn?” You’re joking, trying to put on a smile but your voice is thick with emotion. You can’t hide, not after what you’ve just done. “You’re going to be, I don’t know, something great, and I’ll be here, like always.”

(Tsukishima, the one on the cold floor with his eyes closed could laugh. What he wouldn’t give to be here, with you.)

The old him didn’t share that sentiment. “So, you wanted to have sex with me because you didn’t want to miss the opportunity?”

“You’re missing the point, Kei.”

“Hey now, just because we fucked doesn’t mean you can get familiar.”

You try to pull your hand out of his grip, but his fingers curl, locking you in. He pulls you closer so your bodies are flush, and lays his head next to yours.

“You act like you’re not more than capable of getting out on your own.”

“It’s easier for you,” you admit, words nothing but a whisper. “You’re so bright, Kei, so talented. I think it would be cruel if you didn’t leave.”

“God you’re so,” he‘s stuttering, trying to keep the awe from your voice. He can’t hide from you, not after what you’ve just said. “You don’t get it, do you? How you’re the only good thing about Taiwa, about fucking Miyagi.”

“Kei,” you whisper, on the verge of tears. “Kei stop.”

“This is the only time I’m going to say something nice about you, so.” He tilts your chin with the hand that’s bigger than your whole head, gentle as a lamb. “I don’t want to be like all the other Karasuno grads, living and dying here.”

“We can’t do anything about it.”

“Like hell we can’t. If either of us get out, if I get out, we’re going together.”

“Ha,” you laugh dryly. It certainly knocks him down a peg to hear you reject his proposition. “Please don’t make a promise you can’t keep.”

“Well, you gotta keep up your end of the bargain. Get into Tohoku and we can take it from there. It’ll be you and me.”

“This doesn’t sound like the Tsukishima I know,” you say coyly, lopsided smirk making him crazy. “What’s got you so sentimental all of a sudden?”

“It could be that there’s someone I don’t mind being sappy for, especially if they’re naked under me.”

“I’m not—“ the words are stolen from you as Kei bruises your lips with a kiss. His hands turn your cheek toward him, and he kisses you into the mattress, all while climbing on top of you. He pulls back with a satisfied smirk, your lips glistening with (his) saliva.

“You were saying?”

You shove him and he falls back against your knees. “No, you were saying.”

Kei presses his chest against yours, kissing your neck, your jaw, then your lips in a softer kiss. “We’ll get out of here together. How does that sound?”

You don’t have a hopeful face. Your eyes have closed and you sigh, like you’re looking into the future and seeing Kei’s broken promise play over and over in your head. You two were young, but even you were less optimistic than he was.

You opened your eyes, letting your face morph into a happiness Kei now realizes is tinged with melancholy. He thinks it’s beautiful, in a tragic sense. Tragedies were timeless classics, like you.

“It sounds like you should put your money where your mouth is.”

“Do I ever disappoint?”

This brings out your real smile, beaming at him like the sun and the moon and every star in the galaxy. “Never. Not to me.”

Tsukishima lays on the cold floor with his hand over his eyes, lungs threatening to pop as he tries to exhale the guilt and heartache. None of the memories of this god forsaken town and this goddamn house hold anything but guilt, nothing but a knife in his stomach; the same one he stabbed into your back the day he signed on for the Saitama Spears and left.

He used to firmly believe that if you never try at something, it can’t break your heart. He took that attitude to volleyball and wasn’t proven wrong. Tsukishima does not know if it would hurt more if he’d tried with you. It wasn’t like he did it on purpose; he simply forgot. Somewhere in the shuffle, somewhere between keeping his promise and not, it slipped from his hands like a bad block.

He tries wiping the tears from his eyes. It’s not like thinking about it matters anymore; there’s no differentiation between the memories and the reality, only the same crushing pain.

And yet, Tsukishima finds himself dissociating into the ceiling. If he stops breathing, he can hear your laughter echo off the walls. Perhaps his ghost and yours can live here forever, like they do in his mind.

It’s the only way he can keep his promise.

151 notes · View notes

ahs-requests · 5 years ago

Text

Libertine (Michael Langdon x fem reader)

Summary: Michael has taken an obsessive liking to you since he’s entered the Outpost. You’re the only girl he can see himself bringing back to the Sanctuary and helping him rebuild the world, but you’re a bit more defiant than he expected.

Warnings: DUB/CON, dirty talk, daddy kink, rough sex, choking, humiliation, spitting.

WC: 2.4k

A/N: just a lil one shot to switch things up - this is more of my ‘tortured artist’ work lmao i dont think its as sexy as the other things ive posted since is has a pretty non-conish overtone but i thought id try something new.

~~~~

Mallory leans over the keyboard in the library, performing each request you suggest to her and revelling in every moment. The two of you reserve classical music for singularly cruel days. Between Venable’s ceaseless perusal and Langdon’s sudden persistence with you, you’ve grown ill. Mallory begins hitting the keys to play your favourite classical song, an upbeat hopeful tune that reminds you of early childhood. You stop her. “Moonlight Sonata,” you tell her, “I’m feeling… dark.”

Mallory eyes you up and down, staring at your gray uniform as you recline onto the grand piano. You can detect her empathetic expression, the way her eyes fall and lips curve into a frown. She knows the only way to aid your vicious mood drop is playing your favourite songs. So, without question, she begins playing the somber, ominous keys.

You lean your head against the piano, hearing each key tick to create a beautiful song. You’re startled by the clicking of dress shoes along the opulent, polished floors. “Y/n,” the calm voice addresses, “Mallory.” The two of you stop enjoying the music and stare at Langdon. He’s dressed head to toe in elegant, formfitting black clothes, his hands behind his back. “Please, don’t let me interrupt. It sounded beautiful.”

You and Mallory exchange a glance. You should’ve foreseen this; Langdon hasn’t been able to leave you alone these past few days. He perpetually sits back to watch you clean, engages you in eerie, bone chilling conversations, and even started the habit of watching you sleep. Mallory apprehensively starts playing the song again, timidly botching a few keys. “I’ll take care of him,” you sigh.

You propel yourself off of the piano and stride towards Langdon. He doesn’t say a word to you, he just stares with careless bedroom eyes. “Any particular reason you were in my room last night?” you keep your voice low.

He passively shrugs. “I like to watch you sleep. Your innocence is… arousing,” he admits with a facetious grin.

You clear your throat, disguising your anger. You don’t want Mallory to find out about Langdon’s abnormal obsession with you, she hates him enough as is. “Innocence?” you whisper. “You don’t even fucking know who I am.”

“Au contraire,” he responds, leaning his shoulder against the wall. You obstinately cross your arms over your chest as he speaks. “I’ve pried through your memories, felt the emotions you bury deep down inside of you, and hear the thoughts you so desperately keep hidden in your subconscious. Darling, I know you better than you know yourself.”

“Bullshit,” you spit, the words passing your lips with pent up aggression. “You don’t know a thing.”

“I know everything,” he snaps, slicing your attitude with his bellicose tone. “I know that you’re wickedly turned on right now. You can’t admit to yourself that being degraded by me is one of your deepest, darkest fantasies because it’ll make you feel like a miserable little harlot.” You’re taken aback by the brutality to his delivery. “I’ve seen you in my mind,” he whispers, “heaving chest and raisoned fingers, touching yourself to the thought of me choking the life out of those glossy, perplexed eyes.”

You feel tears welling, burning in your eyes from humiliation. Although nobody can hear the two of you, those thoughts were private. They were yours. Langdon simulates a reality in which he owns you completely, like you’re his fictious little plaything. You feel your blood boiling; you’re sick of it, you’re sick of him. “Fuck you,” you say through gritted teeth.

“You will in due time,” he mocks.

You hike up your hand, preparing to smack him flush across the face and wipe the pompous smirk right from his lips, but he grabs a hold of your wrist. “Just leave me the fuck alone,” your voice shakes.

He squeezes your wrist tighter. “Mouthy girl. You know I could never stand for that mistreatment in my new world.”

You struggle to escape his rigid grip, but fail at your short attempts. “I’ll never be a part of your new world,” you growl, weakly spitting in his face.

He shuts his eyes when you spit on him, then calmly opens them. Slowly using his free hand to wipe away the white spit that slipped down his cheek. His composure is unnerving, almost like he’s about to twitch a finger and snap your neck in a matter of seconds. Even if he is pondering over that thought, your ego is much too large now to surrender an apology. “Mallory,” he calls, not breaking eye contact with you. His head cocks to the side. “Leave us. Now.”

Mallory stops playing and rises from her seat. “What are you going to do to her?” she asks from across the room.

Langdon finally turns his head over to Mallory, jaw clenched in irritation. “Go or I’ll make sure Venable has your head on a fucking stick by sunrise,” he seethes. His nostrils flare and his eyes narrow on her. If looks could kill…

You don’t look in her direction, you can’t take your eyes off of Langdon. He’s impossible to deal with, his conviction is exasperating and his tenacity is tedious, but he is the most gorgeous person you’ve ever had the pleasure to lay your eyes on.

Mallory’s footsteps quickly pace out of the room. Your heart drops, partly from having your friend leave you alone with Langdon, but mostly because the classical music soothed you in such a dreadful circumstance. “I can provide classical music,” he responds to your thoughts. Langdon flicks his finger towards the radio, and you jump in your spot as Beethoven’s seventh symphony commences.

You feel your body trembling in fear. Langdon always seemed like an overly ambitious, domineering asshole, but he has never shown off his much-gossiped supernatural ability. “What kind of monster are you?” your voice wavers in fear.

He raises a hand and you jump again, but brings the feeble fist to your face and grazes your cheeks softly with the backs of his fingers, the metal of his rings are cool against your skin. You blink out a fleeting tear and he wipes it away, still gripping your wrist hard enough to cut blood flow. “Don’t worry,” he whispers, “I’d never hurt you.”

He leans down and gives your lips a small kiss, guiding your chin closer to him to deepen his kisses. You take a moment to kiss him back, but once you do, he accepts this as admission to devour you whole. He walks you backwards until your back is pressed against the piano. Then lifts up your dress, his greedy fingers find your clit and your eyes grow hazy, still trying to grasp the situation. He pulls down your panties and spits on your cunt.

He rubs the spit into your core and you let out a light whimper. Maybe it’s the fear adopting your body, but you relax as he continues undressing you. Langdon throws the pieces to your uniform aside until you’re completely naked. You’re dazed by him, almost like he’s drugged you, and now all of his advances seem palatable.

Langdon towers over you, unbuckling his belt and pulling down his pants. You can already see how hard he is from the outline of his cock in his briefs. He spins you around and shoves you into the piano, your hips sock the hard wood and he pushes you down, lifting your ass for his consumption. He pries open your legs and you feel his dick press against you. Teasing by running up and down your folds. “You made this so easy for me, my love,” he croons. “Your pretty cunt is just begging for my cock now.”

He stretches you out, stuffing the fat head of his cock into you. You freeze as he does this, clawing at the edges of the grand piano you’re pressed against. He pushes himself deeper inside you and moans, your cunt writhes in pain. You feel your body tauten, embracing itself for another plunge. He pushes himself so deep that it feels like he rearranges your organs, you free a childish cry from your lips, a tear slips from your eye through a blink. “You may bleed, darling, but I can assure you,” he whispers and leans down, his full lips drag against the shell of your ear, “it will be electric.”

You squirm under him, now questioning whether or not you’re in over your head. Whether you are or you aren’t, Langdon is still going to use you like his personal, conceptive project. He hammers into you, growling and praising you for how tight you are. Occasionally you emancipate a moan, but it’s difficult to work past the pain. “Think of this as your baptism into the sanctuary,” he breathes, still pounding himself into your palpitating cunt. He still leans over you, speaking into your ear and creating friction between the two of your naked bodies. “We’re dirtying you up for the hellish dumpster fire of a world that we’re going to create… together.” You shudder at the thought.

The sound of his skin slapping against yours and the loud classical music echoes throughout the abandoned halls. You wish Venable would walk in and interrupt the two of you, alleviate you from the soreness already overtaking your tender cunt, but even she is too recreant to stand up to Langdon. You just have to lay down and accept it.

You feel your body resisting him, but he ignores the obvious signs. Only burrowing himself into you harder when your tight hole tries to reject him. He grabs onto your torso, pushing you against him and feeling his warm skin against your back. It almost reminds you of how you’d feel with a husband, a boyfriend, or simply a lover, but you question if Langdon could even claim that title.

His hands, once gently caressing you, now holds both of your wrists behind your back. Now you surely suspect both of your wrists to develop bruises. “It’ll get easier each day, kitten,” he assures you. His cock pounds your cervix as he speaks, you can’t bring yourself to respond. He uses a free hand to wipe away your tears.

He pulls himself out of you and both of you sigh, presumably for different reasons. “Mr. Langdon,” you say breathlessly, “this is a little excessive.” He laughs bitterly and begins positioning himself for re-entry. “Please,” you cry, not daring to change your position, “I don’t know how much more I can take.” Your breath fogs up the burnished wood.

“Well then, shouldn’t we figure that out?” his voice is as sweet as honey before he pummels himself into you again. You yelp from the unexpected intrusion. Your nails dig into your skin as he still holds a tight grip on your wrists with one of his large hands.

He pulls back your wrists so you stand up against him, your back pressed to his sturdy chest. His unoccupied hand sluggishly rubs your clit in circles and he kisses your neck, biting down on your skin and sucking until leaving a pale purple mark. You throw your head back, leaning it against his shoulder blade and he continues stroking you. His cock so deep inside of you that every movement feels lethal. You wiggle around, trying to find a position more suitable, less painful, but come up empty.

He breathes out a vacillating sigh. “You like how daddy stretches your tight little cunt?” he asks. He pushes himself balls deep and you cry, dropping your head into the crook of his neck. “Your pretty pussy swallows daddy up so well… mmm, you’re such a fucking mess for me right now.”

“You’re too big,” you whine into his burning hot skin.

He breathes out a sinister laugh, as if insulting your inability to endure his rough jabs. His hand careens up your body, glazing over your hard nipples and wrapping around your neck, squeezing tighter with each thrust.

“This is what you wanted, right?” he asks. He squeezes harder, arresting your windpipe and cutting your breath. “To honour me with watching the life drain from your eyes as I fuck your tight hole?” Langdon stiffens his grip on both your wrists and your throat. More tears pour out of your eyes as he slams himself into you. “Pretty, pretty baby, dying by my very hand,” he jeers.

He spits down on your face, that must be turning red from the lack of air supply. Your lips part to beg him to stop, beg him for your life, but all that comes out is a short squeak that’s drowned out by the music. He spits on you again; it runs down your cheek and into your parted lips. He clutches tighter and tighter until your vision becomes foggy, then he lets go.

You hunch forward to collect your breath, still feeling the imprint of where his fingers restrained your throat. You try to wiggle your hands free to touch your neck, but he doesn’t allow you to move. Langdon throws his arm over your chest and presses you against him again, kissing your neck sloppily. You can’t keep up with his undulate sensuality… but of course, none of this was sensual.

His thrusts slow down but he pounds into you harder than before. Each of his breaths turn rugged as he groans against your skin marked in goosebumps. He thrusts one, two, three more times until you feel him release inside of you. Each thrust feels like it shatters your bones. He hauls himself out of you and you drop against the piano again. You feel his seed leaking out of your stretched hole as he finally releases your bound wrists.

He picks you up by grabbing your shoulders and spinning you around, although you’re essentially ragdolling at this point. He runs his tongue up your cheek until your eye, licking up the tears that have fallen while being fucked senseless. Then he kisses you, gently, almost lovingly. “You’re so pretty,” he whispers, “we’re going to rule this fucking world, baby.”

#ison is the most underrated album #michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #ahs apocalypse #outpost michael #ahs #american horror story #outpost 3 #michael langdon x fem reader #michael langdon x you #ahs imagine #ahs fanfic #ahs fanfiction #ahs apocalypse fanfiction #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon one shot #michael langdon smut #cody fern

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kbstories · 4 years ago

Text

impression//expression

“It’s not like Kirishima had come all this way to U.A. to immediately break the promise he made to himself upon arrival.

It’s just that Bakugou is as feral as they come, and the moment Kirishima recognizes it’s fear he felt crawling up his spine that day, he makes it his personal mission to face it head-on until it’s gone.”

(Or: Being friends with Bakugou Katsuki is anything but a linear experience. Kirishima Eijirou would have it no other way.)

Tags: Kirishima POV, Developing Friendships, Protective Baku, Soft Baku, Stargazing

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Minor content warning for (discussions of) self-esteem issues. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Chapter 7. Chapter 8. Chapter 9.

***

“Bakugou.”

With an absent hum, Bakugou turns the page, squints, scribbles down a line in his neat, tight handwriting. A piece of black fabric separates his hand from the paper, the same wrapped around his pen, too.

Kirishima leans forward, over his own book-and-notepad combination dotted with scrawled comments and colorful post-it notes. It’s been an hour since any of it has made sense to him.

“Bakuuu. C’mon.”

A sigh, annoyed. Another line is added. Then: “The fuck d’you want?”

It takes a few seconds until the silence has stretched enough for Bakugou to look up and into Kirishima’s pleading eyes. Bakugou’s expression barely changes beyond a raised brow, unimpressed. It’s the one reserved for when Kirishima’s being especially dense – slightly more severe than muttered curses and slightly less so than that God-help-me roll of his eyes he premiered during their last study session.

Which was yesterday. Kirishima would be proud of unlocking a new Angry Bakugou Face in record time… if U.A.’s grumpiest genius wasn’t the only thing standing between him and a frankly impressive row of failed grades.

Final’s Week is brutal, even for heroes-in-training. Especially for heroes-in-training. So: Desperate times, desperate measures.

“Slap me”, Kirishima tells Bakugou, hushed in their corner of the library. “As hard as you possibly can.”

The arch of Bakugou’s brow climbs higher, utterly devastating in its wordless criticism. He says, “What”, tone Aizawa-levels of flat, and it’s not a question. It’s a command: Explain or else.

Kirishima is in no state to resist. The confession bubbles out of him in a whiny rush.

“Dude, I slept like… zero hours last night ‘cause Kami got Pokémon Colosseum – y’know, the reboot? So cool – and we kinda lost track of time. I know, I know, it was a stupid idea, I swear it was an honest mistake!”

Bakugou continues to stare as he puts down his pen and wipes his palms on the edge of his shirt. Kirishima ducks his head, hiding behind the limp strands of his hair.

“Don’t look at me like that, man. I’m seriously about two minutes from passing out here and there’s like a hundred pages of this thing I haven’t read yet, let alone understood, and oh shit Mic will hand me my ass with words tomorr–”

It all happens so quickly: Kirishima catches a blur of motion headed his way and squeaks; his skin hardens about half-way before there’s sparks and his cheek smarts, and a hissed “Motherfucker” sounds right in front of him.

The sharp slap! noise registers only after the fact, when Kirishima holds his face and Bakugou holds his hand and they both stare at each other in mutual bafflement as their skin turns red with the impact.

That moment is like glue, clear and sticky as it extends past its natural limit – then Bakugou snorts and starts to laugh, a cackling hyena-laugh that Kirishima’s never heard in full and certainly not like this, loud and unrestrained, and all hopes of holding back his own laughter is lost as he cracks up, too.

They laugh and laugh, until Kirishima’s stomach starts to cramp up and there’s the sheen of tears in Bakugou’s eyes. “Your f-fucking face”, Bakugou wheezes at some point. “Fucking bastard, you almost broke my hand! With your fucking face!”

All it does is send them into another round of hysterics.

At some point, Kirishima glimpses some of their classmates poke their head around the bookshelves secluding their study corner from the rest of the library, faces ranging from exasperated to deeply disturbed. There’s Ashido, giggling at the sight of both of them bent over and struggling to get some sort of grip, and Kaminari, who just mumbles “What the hell, guys” while straddling the line between sleep-deprived and intensely fascinated by what he’s seeing.

And hey, at least Kirishima’s really freaking awake now. There’s the problem of trying and failing to breathe without dying, his face helplessly flushed and sweating, but the world’s colors are back to being bright and sharp. Across from him, Bakugou isn’t faring much better, shaking his head and the back of his hand covering the broad smile he can’t seem to get rid of.

“Fuck you, you stupid, moronic idiot. For fuck’s sake, Kirishima.”

Kirishima rubs at his chest, the ache in his lungs starting to lessen now that he’s marginally back in control. “I’m so sorry but like”, he waves at himself and he can’t help his grin despite the stinging protest coming from his cheek. “Thanks, dude!”

“Eat a dick.” There’s no bite whatsoever in Bakugou’s grumbling as he sits back down and digs his nose into his book once more, thoroughly ignoring their flabbergasted audience.

After a moment of pantomiming what amounts to I’ll tell you later to their friends, Kirishima joins him, ready to tackle the final boss that is the English language.

Nitro!! (Baku 💣💥 )

yo nitro (sent 17:48)

where u at? (sent 17:48)

why (received 17:52)

why what 🤔 (sent 17:53)

OH uh to hang out? (sent 17:55)

dw dude it’s just me (sent 17:55)

[location] (received 18:10)

bakugou katsuki what are you doing in the middle of the woods??? (sending…)

NO WAY (sending…)

signal’s gone AGAIN i’m going feral (sending…)

screw it (sending…)

The GPS signal craps out twice more before Kirishima heaves himself onto the edge of a cliff and spots a familiar silhouette. Sheltered by a bend in the rock bed, the glow of a fire illuminates a backpack set aside, a pair of discarded hiking boots – and Bakugou, leaning against solid stone with his arms crossed behind his head.

“Took ya long enough”, he says, the lazy smirk on his lips cut in flickering shadows.

“Listen.” Kirishima wipes beads of perspiration off his temple; a spontaneous rock-climbing session by the last light of day is not what he had hoped for after hours of exhaustive quirk training. “We already have a perfectly good camp. There’s, like, leftover curry and hot springs and stuff down there.”

Bakugou scoffs. “Yeah. And a bunch of extras.”

There’s an exasperated reply on his tongue – They’re called classmates, genius. Y’know, friends? – but Kirishima knows it’s pointless to even start that debate. He snipes him with his sweaty headband instead, celebrating his own marksmanship when it hits Bakugou square in the chest with a wet thwap.

“Wha– Shitty Hair!”

“You made me climb this stupid cliff in the middle of the night. Deal with it.”

Bakugou just throws it back, the force of an explosion propelling the thing past Kirishima’s shoulder and off the mountain entirely. Kirishima watches singed white fabric disappear into the abyss, bidding it goodbye with a somber salute.

“Well, that’s lame.”

“You’re lame, fuckface.”

“Bro.”

Shaking his head, Kirishima laughs and joins him by the fire.

It’s quiet for a bit while he gets comfy and Bakugou throws a chunk of wood into the flames, sparks bursting into life immediately. This far up, the air feels… brittle, in a way, thin and cold enough Kirishima wouldn’t have been surprised to see his breath mist. The breeze ruffles the crowns of the trees around them, the rush of rustling leaves in the distance strangely soothing.

Bakugou’s gaze is lost in the night sky when he starts to speak. “Been thinking of borrowing my parents’ car and driving out here by myself. Y’know, once I got my license and shit. ‘s got some good trails, people were talking ‘bout it on those shitty hiking forums. Forums, like we’re in the fucking 2000s.”

His elbows on his knees and his head propped on his hands, Kirishima hums and looks up as well. The moon is a thin island of white in an ocean of indigo blue growing steadily darker, a myriad of stars coming out to keep her company. “Yeah?”

“Mh”, Bakugou makes around a soft breath. “Guess they’re all shit out of luck though ‘cause it’s the personal playground of pro heroes, apparently. It’s a miracle none of our idiots got fucking lost coming out here.”

‘Our idiots’, huh? Kirishima nudges his chin lower and into his palms to hide his smile. “Kinda far of a trip to make just for some hiking, isn’t it?”

A casual shrug, followed by a nod upwards. “Not for this. The lodge is the only structure for miles in any direction and even with us here, it’s got fuck all on an entire city. Get it?”

“Yeah! No light pollution, right?”

“Yup”, Bakugou confirms, popping the ‘p’. A small grin is shot Kirishima’s way, teasing rather than mocking. “What’s this, huh? Don’t tell me you paid attention in fucking physics after all.”

Kirishima breathes an offended huff, mock-hurt.

“Pshh, please. Y’know how everyone has that one niche thing they randomly obsessed over as a kid? That was me with astronomy. Back in Middle School I had like, a huge model of all the planets in my room and my favorite constellations mapped across the ceiling with those glow-in-the-dark stars. Years of useless knowledge, all stored right here.”

Kirishima’s thumb taps his forehead as he smiles at Bakugou; Bakugou’s lips pull into a smile of his own, small but there. When he turns back to the stars, Kirishima does the same, sighing wistfully.

“If Thirteen’s class were just about that I’d freaking ace it, dude. I get that I’m kinda dumb with literally anything else, but space is my jam. Did you know that–”

“You’re not.”

The train of thought Kirishima was about to gleefully jump onto screeches to a halt. “…huh?”

Bakugou frowns at him. “You’re not”, a vague wave in his general direction, “stupid or whatever.”

Perhaps the dumbfounded blinking Kirishima’s doing in response is already enough to prove Bakugou wrong on that. Still, Kirishima sits up a bit straighter, eyebrows pulling together tightly.

“Um. I appreciate you saying that, bro, but I’m only here ‘cause Aizawa decided to get in touch with his merciful side after all. Like, Cementoss totally wiped the floor with me back home. There’s no point in lying to myself about that.”

“So you’re calling me a fucking liar, is that it?”

“Huh?”

Kirishima can only watch as Bakugou’s mouth twists beyond the usual doom and gloom and into something… frustrated. Genuinely annoyed. An iron weight settles in Kirishima’s gut, heavy and hard to ignore. “I didn’t– Look, man, can we not fight over this? I’m just saying I wanna face my mistakes and do better, that’s all.”

“Then say it!”

There’s a severity to the words that catches Kirishima off guard. Bakugou is staring him down with eyes so intense they possess their own gravitational pull, closer to black than crimson in the fire’s light–

Kirishima likes to think he knows Bakugou, at least a little. What makes him tick, what makes him angry – because there is a reason and a rhyme to his anger, a pattern to the things that set him off that Kirishima has yet to properly figure out. It’s just that Kirishima isn’t usually one of those things, not anymore.

“You lost me, Baku”, he admits, quietly, after a beat or two of tense silence. “What do you mean?”

Bakugou sighs, a harsh noise between them. The deep breath afterwards is new, however, a sharp inhale followed by a calmer exhale before Bakugou points at him, a wordless listen up.

“Just– Okay. You fucked up and wanna learn from it? Cool, fucking say that then. Not some bullshit about being too dumb to do shit ‘cause you’re not. Fuck right off with that.”

Mouth opening, Kirishima is stopped by a flurry of firecracker sparks and a terse growl of “Shut the hell up, I’m not done.” Finally, Bakugou’s look snaps elsewhere, one sock-clad foot kicking at a loose rock in clear irritation.

“Studying isn’t your strength, who gives a fuck? You got into U.A. top-fucking-two, you’re one of the only capable fuckers around and if you seriously think you don’t deserve to be here because Cementoss got lucky one fucking time then you got another thing coming.”

Kirishima sits there in a state of mild shock until Bakugou huffs and glares at him again. The threat behind it is ridiculously empty considering the impromptu speech he just gave and holy shit, Bakugou Katsuki is praising him. Kirishima Eijirou.

He might actually cry.

“What? You’re competition, bitch, so don’t make me a fucking liar by pretending otherwise.”

Scratch that, tears are definitely part of the picture now.

Wet-rimmed eyes and a quiet sniff, that’s as far as Kirishima gets before Bakugou’s expression suddenly falls, crestfallen to an almost comical degree. Kirishima does laugh then, a watery little chuckle that doesn’t seem to make things much better, either.

“Sorry, just… Damn Nitro, I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. You really think so?”

And okay, yup, that’s a real glare, this time. Bakugou throws up his hands. “You’re so– Urgh. Did I fucking stutter?”

Kirishima rubs the moisture out of his eyes and smiles. “Nope.” Faint embarrassment heats his cheeks; he focuses on the warmth curling in his chest instead, glowing bright and comforting like the embers at their feet and the stars above.

“Good”, Bakugou mutters.

More wood is tossed into the fire and rekindled with red-hot palms. Scooting closer, Kirishima holds out his hands and hums happily as it chases away the ever-cooling temperatures. They can’t stay up here forever – Aizawa will have his hide for sure if he doesn’t show up to the remedial course tonight – yet Kirishima figures they have a few more minutes.

Bakugou goes right back to his earlier sprawl, unaffected by the cold: arms crossed, eyes on the sky like he can’t get enough of the sight. Kirishima thinks of glow-in-the-dark stickers, faded over time. Quietly, he wonders which constellation is Bakugou’s favorite.

“Kiri.”

“Hm? Yeah?”

Shoulders relaxed, voice even, Bakugou says: “Tell me something. About space, I mean.”

As complicated as being friends with Bakugou can get, it can be so, so easy, too. Just a while longer, Kirishima decides as he settles in next to his best friend and starts talking.

>>Chapter 4

#my hero academia #boku no hero academia #bnha #mha #bakugou katsuki #kirishima eijirou #kiribaku #bnha fanfiction #pre-kamino softness coming right up!#i'm just weak for these two interacting that's all #this fic is also on AO3!!#my stuff

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lastsonlost · 5 years ago

Text

Oh my God Elon said something we don't agree with. God I hope Apple and Starbucks disagrees with you too.

Owning a Tesla, the luxurious electric car, is a major liberal status symbol. It signals nothing more than good taste — the perfect balance of wealth with care for fossil fuels. But the man behind the brand is crafting a very different persona online that may now prove to be a challenge for his fans.

Elon Musk, the bombastic head of Tesla and SpaceX, exhorted his 34 million Twitter followers on Sunday to “take the red pill.” The comment was quickly embraced by his followers, including Ivanka Trump, President Trump’s elder daughter, who announced that she had taken the pill already.

The exchange referred to a scene from “The Matrix,” the 1999 science fiction action film. But the meaning of “red pill,” and the idea of taking it, have since percolated in online forums and become a deeply political metaphor. And with Mr. Musk and Ms. Trump, the phrase is now lodged more fully into the mainstream.

So Tesla owners are having to grapple with a car that carries a few new connotations.

“Honestly, Musk is becoming a liability and the Tesla board needs to seriously consider ousting him,” wrote Markos Moulitsas, author of “The Resistance Handbook: 45 Ways to Fight Trump.” “And I say that as a proud owner of a Tesla and a SpaceX fanatic who truly appreciates what he’s built.”

So what is the red pill?

[ I hope your fuckings Tesla explodes. You don't have to be in its but you should be forced to walk everywhere.]

In “The Matrix,” the movie’s hero, Neo, played by Keanu Reeves, is given the option to take a pill that lets him see the truth.

The world he thinks is real turns out to be an entertaining lie; his body is actually trapped in a farm where people are being used as human batteries. Taking the blue pill would let him return to living in the ignorant but blissful lie, while taking the red pill would launch him into an arduous journey through a brutal but fulfilling reality.

The idea of taking the red pill later grew to mean waking up to society’s grand lies. It was embraced by the right, especially by members of its youngest cohort who organized and spent their time in online forums like Reddit and 4chan.

The truth to be woken up to varied, but it ended up usually being about gender. To be red-pilled meant you discovered that feminism was a scam that ruined the lives of boys and girls. In this view, for a male to refuse the red pill was to be weak.

Red Pill forums were often filled with deeply misogynistic and often racist diatribes. The more extreme elements splintered into groups like involuntary celibates (“incels”) or male separatists (Men Going Their Own Way, or MGTOWs). Conferences like the 21 Convention and its sister convention, Make Women Great Again, sprang up to gather red-pilled men. Being red-pilled became a sort of umbrella term for all of it.

As these conversations seeped into the mainstream, pulled along by a host of other internet language from message boards to establishment Republican conversations on sites like Breitbart, the meaning broadened and got watered down. To be red-pilled can now mean being broadly skeptical of experts, to be distrustful of the mainstream press or to see hypocrisy in social liberalism.

What’s going on with Elon Musk?

Mr. Musk has been pretty wild online for years now, which has made him a major internet celebrity with devoted fans who call themselves Musketeers. There are fan pages like Musk Memes with nearly 100,000 followers, and a Reddit page with 200,000 members in constant, extremely active conversation.

Most recently, Mr. Musk has been a prominent skeptic online of the coronavirus, calling the response to it a “panic” and “dumb” and wrongly predicting close to zero new cases by the end of April. As of Tuesday, there were more than 90,000 deaths from the virus and more than 1.5 million cases in the United States alone.

The night before Tesla’s earnings were released last month, Mr. Musk tweeted an anti-lockdown rallying cry: “FREE AMERICA NOW.” He had a showdown with local lawmakers, threatening to move Tesla headquarters out of California and deciding to reopen a Tesla factory in Fremont, Calif., despite the local county’s restrictions to prevent the virus from spreading.

When State Assemblywoman Lorena Gonzalez objected on May 9 with an obscene tweet, Mr. Musk responded, “Message received.”

Defending his reopening of the Tesla factory, Mr. Musk wrote on Twitter that he would be on the factory floor and offered himself up to authorities. “I will be on the line with everyone else,” he posted on May 11. “If anyone is arrested, I ask that it only be me.”

This month, he and his girlfriend, Claire Boucher, the musician known as Grimes, had a child and named him X Æ A-12. And Mr. Musk announced that Tesla shares were too high and that he was selling almost all his possessions to the point of owning no house.

“We have a phrase, it’s E.M.M. — Elon Moves Markets,” said Bill Selesky, an analyst at Argus Research who tracks how Mr. Musk’s messages impact Tesla’s stock price. “People want to listen to him no matter what he says. He tends to be thought of as a great visionary.”

Mr. Selesky said even Mr. Musk’s detractors parsed every tweet and utterance. “Plus, if you have a Tesla, nobody can ever complain about you because you’re good for society,” he added.

This leads back to Mr. Musk’s message on Sunday, telling his followers to take the red pill.

Do ‘The Matrix’ creators like this?

No. Lilly Wachowski, a “Matrix” co-creator, told Mr. Musk and Ms. Trump in colorful language on Twitter that they could take a hike.

Is ‘red pill’ a Silicon Valley thing?

To some extent.

There has long been a strain of men’s rights activism in Silicon Valley, exemplified by James Damore, a former Google engineer who was fired after writing a memo arguing that the reason there are fewer female engineers is biological differences rather than discrimination.

Mr. Damore became a folk hero for a simmering movement in the technology industry of people who thought the efforts toward 50/50 representation at tech companies were absurd. Cassie Jaye, who calls herself a former feminist, made a 2016 documentary about the Red Pill community and said it had flourished in the tech world.

But the more common phrase in Silicon Valley to signal contrarian thinking is “narrative violation,” which is often used to describe an event that cuts against the mainstream media’s consensus on a topic. The idea is that there is a story being told about the world and how it works, but that the story is too simplistic to be entirely true and an event occasionally pops up to remind people of that.

Why does any of this matter?

Few products today are as deeply entwined with a person’s brand as Tesla is with Mr. Musk, and so his comments can feel personal for Tesla drivers.

“As a Tesla owner, a 47-year-old male recovering from Covid-19, and someone very concerned simultaneously about the environment, the economy, my kids’ and my parents’ future, this ain’t great,” said Jeff Guilfoyle, a product manager at FireEye in San Diego. “This disease is no joke, and the long-term health impacts are unknown for survivors.”

Many have implored Mr. Musk online to stop.

Raja Sohail Abbas, the chief executive of an outpatient psychiatric clinic in Allentown, Pa., wrote: “I am a Tesla owner and love the company. You have to stop being an idiot about this.”

“Tesla owner and Fan here, but this was a disappointing tweet despite the frustrations of and holdups,” added Alex Goodchild, a D.J. in Brooklyn. “Words are weapons especially when used during situations like the one we’re currently experiencing. You sound just like Trump in this tweet.”

The debate has riven the Tesla community.

“The last two months, there’s been this polarization in the Elon Musk fan club,” said Paula Timothy-Mellon, a technology consultant who moderates that LinkedIn-based fan club, which has 22,000 members. “There are those who are believers in these California guidelines and there are those in favor of his push to re-open Tesla.”

Many have implored Mr. Musk online to stop.

Raja Sohail Abbas, the chief executive of an outpatient psychiatric clinic in Allentown, Pa., wrote: “I am a Tesla owner and love the company. You have to stop being an idiot about this.”

The debate has riven the Tesla community.

Driving a Tesla often carries great symbolism for the owner (and observers).

“If you own a Tesla, you feel you are directly connected to Elon Musk and people think that Tesla owners are directly connected to the politics of the C.E.O.,” said Sam Kelly, a Tesla owner and investor based in Spain who posts under the name SamTalksTesla.

He added that he did not think the red pill comment meant any big new political awakening from Mr. Musk.

Asked to explain his thinking, Mr. Musk pasted an image of the Urban Dictionary definition of red pill in an email. It read:

“‘Red pill’ has become a popular phrase among cyberculture and signifies a free-thinking attitude, and a waking up from a ‘normal’ life of sloth and ignorance. Red pills prefer the truth, no matter how gritty and painful it may be.”

Seriously get a refund, buy a prius and

GET THE FUCKS OVER IT!

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connorspiracy · 4 years ago

Text

Not The Kind of Snacc I Had In Mind || Connor & Luis

TIMING: Current PARTIES: @connorspiracy and @ontheluis CONTENT: Recreational drug use, NSFW SUMMARY: Connor and Luis decide to meet up after chatting on a dating app and absolutely nothing goes wrong.

Grindr dates were weird. Connor was far from opposed to a simple shag, but he usually felt like he was supposed to not be so blatant about it, to try and be a gentleman. Was it customary to clean the house before a Grindr hookup came over? He wasn’t sure, but he did what he could to make the place presentable; ran the roomba, made the bed that he was sure would be messed up again pretty soon, lit some Yankee Candles. He’d showered, changed his clothes, brushed his teeth, and was debating starting on a beer when the buzz of the doorbell stirred him from the couch, indicating his date’s arrival. Connor answered, giving the other man a smile in greeting. He’d had no clue this was wolfbane-dude when he’d proverbially swiped right, but seeing the young man in front of him, he put it together. Not that it mattered. He was still certainly curious, but seeing the profile pics come to life before his eyes gave him little desire to revisit that conversation anytime soon. “Hey, Luis, right? Come on in, I was just about to grab a drink if you want one?”

The cold freshness of the Whye River single lingered in Luis’ nostrils even after the water had dried off his skin and hair. Bathing in the river outside his date’s upscale neighborhood might not exactly be classy, but the brutal pragmatism of Luis’ new life had weaned him off feeling embarrassed about trivial things. Piers’ place reminded Luis of the houses along Boca Chica, eliciting a sharp prick of unwanted remembrance amidst the more arduous thoughts in his head.

Connor turned out to be just as gorgeous as his profile picture, and Luis had another pang of guilt for placing yet another innocent person in danger of being eaten just for the sake libido and company. But the less human part of Luis brain, the aspect of himself that was all primal instinct and cold pragmatism, didn’t see why that danger should get in the way of shelter, sex, and free food?

The corners of Luis' mouth drew up into a knowing smirk as he closed the door behind him, enjoying the randy tension in the coy game these types of meetups often started. “Sure.” Luis placed his backpack against the wall by the door. “Hey uh....are you the ghostuber dude by the way?”

If it hadn't already been obvious from the risque Grindr conversation, then the grin tugging at the edges of Luis' lips confirmed to Connor that this lad was well up for it. He doubted it would take them too long to get down to business. "Right, we've got got beer, shots, cider, whatever you want, mate." He helped himself to a White Claw, handing Luis whatever he'd chosen. "Heh, Ghostuber dude," he chuckled. This was why he didn't send dick pics with his face in them. He didn't want it to end up on twitter or reddit once someone realised who he was. "Y'know what? I like that. Might nick it for my instagram bio.” He gave him a little grin. “I wanna ask what you do for work but I don’t even know how much you wanna talk and stuff. I never know how personal folks wanna get.”

“I mean there’s part of me that just wants to jump your bones,” Luis confessed as he leaned forward to accept a White Claw with a wink, the werewolf perhaps being a bit more literal then the words necessarily implied. But Luis didn’t necessarily want to give that primal part of more leeway over his life then it already had.

“But I don’t mind talking,” Luis admitted helping himself to a seat on one end of the couch. “I’m hiking cross country,” was a rather selective version of the truth. “So I’m just taking whatever work I can find along the way here y’know?”

In spite of being in media and in the public eye just enough to receive decently regular flirtation, Connor wasn't always the smoothest at this. He gave a kind chuckle, toasting their White Claws together. "That's very flattering, but yeah, we can talk. Come on." He gestured for Luis to follow him, heading onto the deck and lighting up the fire pit and sitting on the outdoor bench. "Figured this'd be a bit better than watching telly," he snickered. "So are you in White Crest for long then? Just passing through?"

Luis had been an easygoing and social person before his life had become a runway train of carnage. Connor definitely had the sexy British angle for him, and a sinewy muscularity to go with the baby face, but perhaps was a bit blunt for coy games. Though Luis couldn’t (or didn’t want to) explain why, his sense of hearing and smell had sharpened to the point of being painful at times. He caught the fragrance of the soaps that Connor had used in the shower as his host passed by and listened to the steady background noise of his heartbeat.

As they went out on the deck Luis looked out over the East End evening. The sun was sinking like a golden torch in the Whye River's horizon, staining the tufty lines of Stratocumulus clouds ablaze with bright magenta against the deeper blues and violets of the upper atmosphere. East End’s upscale houses and shops trailed off at the harbor where ships slept on a liquid mirror of the sky, seeming to bob up and down on cloudy stained glass. Boat masts and pier poles stood out stark like thin black columns against the prismatic sunset.

But though Luis’ couldn’t see most of those colors anymore, the shadows of the sunset city strangely didn’t impede his sight at all. Luis glanced to smile playful at Connor, the fading light briefly reflecting off the tapetum lucidum blue in his eyes in a flare of electric blue.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Luis admitted as he leaned his elbows on the deck rail, breathing in the faint scents of fish and smoke on the chilly autumn air. “Got this gig at a fighting ring, doing Cutman work and whatnot for the fighters,” he mused. “Guess we’ll see how well that pays huh?”

"Bit of an amateur boxer or something, are you? That's pretty hot," Connor said with a smile. Most people's Grindr photos didn't leave that much to the imagination. There was usually at the very least a topless selfie in there, maybe a post-workout pic, complete with sweatpants bulge. Luis had a casually athletic build, more compact and slightly bulkier than Connor's slimmer frame. He imagined Luis being able to hold his own. "I... couldn't fight my way out of a paper bag. Have to talk my way out, hope they fall for the accent. This is all for show." He looked at Luis' bright blue eyes with a self-deprecating smile.

"Well, this place is fuckin' weird, which is why I'm here, but it's not for everyone." In the back of his mind, he was still kind of suspect about the eating wolfsbane thing, but Connor left that alone. He actually wanted to get off with the bloke tonight, not scare him away by interrogating him. "Smoke?" he asked, pulling out a pack of tobacco and everything else he needed for a good joint.

“Luis shook his head with an aimable wrinkle of the nose at the notion. Learning to fight hadn’t been something he’d willingly picked up or enjoyed, but it came naturally to the less human part of him, way too much so honestly. “A cutman is just the dude who makes sure the fighters don’t bleed out too much,” he explained, finding it wiser to not going into detail what sort of illicit fights would just hire some rando off the street who knew his way around an enswell. “I try not to get into fights if I can help it,” said the fellow whose rap sheet contained a bit too many charges of manslaughter for that claim to be entirely plausible. “You’re better off avoiding it honestly dude. Like...I dig some macho dom vibes much as the next guy, but that aggro life isn’t worth it,” confessed Luis, having woken up too often amongst grotesque carnage to glorify violence.

“It is weird,” Luis admitted with another look out at White Crest’s innocently picturesque panorama stretching out beyond them. “Guess that works for a ghostuber though?” Luis didn’t believe in spirits or magic, but a metaphysics argument wasn’t he wan’t to get up to with Connor tonight, so he just let that be.

Then it turned out Connor knew the way to heart: weed. “Duuude, you must be into some weird shit if you’re buttering me up this much,” he teased with an assenting nod.

“Oh,” Connor said with a chuckle, feeling just a little bit stupid. “I guess that makes sense. It’s in the name.” Hearing that Luis avoided fights if he could help it only made Connor more attracted to him. He had no patience for that toxic masculinity bullshit. Knowing someone could defend themselves was one thing, being good at a sport was another, but seeking violence for violence’s made someone the type of person best avoided, even for a one night stand. “Yeah, couldn’t agree more. Save the macho dom vibes for the bedroom,” he teased, rolling them each a joint with a grin.

“The views are fucking gorgeous too, I mean, look at this ocean.” He gestured to the sand and sea that spread out before them, glistening under the moon and stars. “And I never run out of stuff to film.” Even if sometimes, the thing he happened to film was someone being murdered in the woods. That’d be a mood killer, though. His grin only widened when Luos accepted his offer of some light recreational drug use. “What can I say? I like being a good host.” And once he handed Luis the rolled joint, he leaned in for a brief kiss, lips brushing against Luis’ and lingering for barely a moment before he sat back to light up, handing Luis the lighter too.

The lighter’s flame was a momentary spark against the oceanic sunset as Luis breathed deep. Substances had come to be Luis’ escape from the train of violence his life had become, and the unwilling werewolf closed his eyes and breathed smoke into the night for a time, letting it soak into his blood and cloud out unwelcome thoughts. “Definitely gorgeous,” he affirmed, before turning away from the sea.

Luis gently lowered himself down to straddle Connor’s lap. He looked down into Connor’s eyes for a moment with a questioning raise of tawny brows, silently asking if this was ok. “So what made you want to do youtubing stuff,” Luis asked with an unconvincingly innocent smirk as he ran both hands up the front of Connor’s shirt. Luis played it slow, his splayed fingers consciously tracing the lines of Connor’s body beneath the fabric, traveling up until he caressed the bare skin of the Brit’s neck. He leaned forward from his perch on Connor’s lap to meet his host’s lips in a long kiss, taking time to just savor the take and smell of him before parting with a breath chuckle. “So were you legit born in England,” he asked in a murmur, pulling down the front of Connor’s shirt slightly to press his lips to the firm skin of Connor’s pectorals. “Or are you actually some Cali-boy whose doing the Brit thing for sex appeal.” Luis continued to lay exploring kisses up the curves Connor’s upper chest and neck as he glanced up. “Won’t mind either way,” he assured with a grin.

Connor closed his eyes for a moment as he inhaled the joint and blew out the smoke, watching it dissipate into the night. He took another sip of his beer, not expecting the next events that unfolded, but certainly appreciating them. His breath hitched in anticipation as he felt the warm weight of the other man's body on top of him. He lifted his hands to wander over Luis' upper legs and waist. "Started to video journal for myself," he answered, closing his eyes again and sighing as Luis' hands and lips caressed his skin. He curled his own fingers into Luis' sides, sliding them just beneath his shirt. "Ran out of space on my hard drive, started uploading them to YouTube," he snickered. "And the rest is history."

Thankfully the neighbours' houses weren't right on top of them and there was a bit of space between the houses along the beach, so he didn't feel too self-conscious about the display they were putting on. At least for now. "I'm a born and raised South West London boy, darling," he whispered, playfully exaggerating his own accent. "What about you?" he asked, fingertips tracing tiny lines along Luis' abs. "Hispanic?"

“Chicano,” Luis confirmed with a nod, closing his eyes for a moment and just letting Connor touch bring on a trembling flex of his abdomen that brought a hitch to his breathing. “South Texas chico my dude,” he elaborated in a teasing imitation of Conner’s phrasing, as if the Coastal Bend was somehow on the same cultural tier as an ancient city of eight point nine million. Luis shrugged off his white cotton shirt onto the deck, ignoring the chilled autumn air as it brought goosebumps along his bare skin. Luis’ shoulders and chest rose and fell with deepened breaths as drank in the scent of Connor and the taste of his lips with a hungry insistence.

A voice in the part of Luis' brain warned that he needed restraint. He needed to not lose control here.

“So why ghosts,” Luis asked as he reluctantly parted from Connor. He kept running one hand affectionately though his date’s hair while leaning back to take another drag from the joint he’d left on the railing. “You could easily get internet-famous with other stuff,” he pointed with, exhaling smoke at one end of a smile that left the ‘other stuff’ ambiguous.

Connor’s stomach tightened and he felt himself becoming more and more aroused, especially as Luis pulled off his shirt. His own was unbuttoned all the way down to the navel, so he unfastened the rest of it, letting it hang open to reveal his chest and stomach. For a moment, he thought they were going to shag right there on the decking, but thankfully (at least for the neighbour’s sake), Luis pulled away to take another drag, smoking from his position straddling Connor’s lap. “Right, you’re one to talk about sexy accents then. You can get anyone to drop their trousers by saying romantic shit in Spanish,” Connor teased, continuing his own beer and joint.

“Why ghosts?” He repeated. It felt like he was about to open a can of worms, so he did his best to put the pushy, opinionated part of him aside, at least for the sake of getting his dick wet tonight. “Ah, well, suppose you’re either a believer or you’re not. Hard to believe in ghosts when you can’t see them. I just happen to be someone who can.” His fingers absentmindedly continued drawing shapes on Luis’ forearm as he spoke.

The claim about his ability to make people drop drow with Spanish elicited a snorting laugh from Luis, who’d endured less complimentary claims about his background in the past. He pressed his lips to the skin about the hem of Connor’s pants, laying teasing kisses along the muscled v-shape below the Brit’s abdominals, toying with his tongue down the very edge of the curve before relenting.

“Te voy a joder los sesos guey,” Luis promsied with a soft murmmer in Connor’s ear.

Connor’s answer clearly brought Luis up short, confusion mixing with the more straightforward lust on his features. Luis wasn’t particularly good at it, but could pick up sometimes when people lied sometimes. The beat of their heart changed. Even though they were skin to skin Luis hadn’t heart any falter in Connor’s aroused pulse. Maybe Luis wasn’t really in any headspace beyond screwing this guy, but it sounded like he thought he was telling the truth.

Luis sat up on Connor’s lap for a moment and looked at him with reflective blue eyes that grew brighter at the darkness deepened, lips in cast in a half frown of vexation and both hands lifted behind his head.

“Shit, don’t even know what to fucking make of you Con,” Conner mumbled after a while, the frown broadening in a toothy smile. Luis stood up and reached down for Conner’s hand with a come-hither look that made clear Luis’ personal suggestion to resolve this quandary.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Connor murmured under his breath, jeans tightening as he got hard when Luis kissed and licked along his pelvic bone. He’d had a few flings in town, and it hadn’t exactly been that long since his rendezvous with Nell, but there was something incredibly alluring about Luis, the way he took what he wanted, unapologetic and confident, just a little filthy, behind a blue-eyed cherubic face you could take home to your mum. “You’re the kind of lad I could take home to family dinner and give you a blowjob in the bathroom after,” he chuckled.

Connor ran his fingers through Luis’ light brown hair, tugging it gently as his fist clenched with arousal. “I have no clue what you just said, but it was sexy as hell,” he snickered, practically pulling Luis back to his lips so he could kiss him more firmly, more deeply, more desperately. When their lips parted, his breath caught in his throat, and he twisted the joint out in the ashtray. “Why don’t we go inside and you can make whatever you want of me?”

Luis let himself be led back to Connor’s bedroom, putting up coy resistance at times, pretending to look around the house with wide innocent eyes but wearing a cruelly teasing smirk. One hand in Connor’s and the other tracing the lined of the cool-colored walls, Luis let the adrenaline of anintipation buoy him up like a chemical tidal wave. For a little while he was just a normal guy horny out of his mind and climbing into a hot brit’s bed.

There came a cracking sound from somewhere outside the room, like a piledriver being used as a nutcracker.

Luis jerked up instinctively as it hit his lupine hearing like a gunshot, looking around. “Did you...” But the sound had stopped or maybe hadn’t existed. Fuck it. “Nevermind,” he murmured, busying him with trying to make out with Connor and get unzip his pants at the same time.

Connor headed inside, kicking off his shoes and leaving them deserted somewhere in the hall. He threw his shirt on top of the laundry basket, climbing on top of the bed with Luis. He heard nothing, ears not as keen as the werewolf, and let himself be in ignorant bliss for a while. They continued to kiss, leaving him with tousled hair and pants half-unfastened, blood rushing between his legs as they got hotter and heavier. “What?” he whispered against a jawline that could cut glass, but whatever Luis had heard, he’d quickly forgotten.

He whispered compliments, sighs and groans against Luis’ skin, hands wandering his torso. Their bodies were warm against one another as Connor pressed into him, haphazardly reaching to unfasten his belt before he heard it, an obnoxious sound, miniature saw blades gnawing away beneath him. “What the..” he mumbled, narrowing his eyes and looking at Luis as if to question if he was losing his bloody mind. He rolled over, begrudgingly separating himself to look under the bed. “Oh, FUCK.” Connor scrambled back on the bed, scrambling for the closest object to throw on top of the creature. He was trying to get his rocks off, and there was a fucking demon rat under his bed.

“Dude…please...” Luis moaned, breathing fast and craving release with all this built up tension. He tried to pull Connor back down to him, skin flush and burning with the raw need that turned every nerve into a livewire.

But before either batter or pitcher could make the final run towards home base, one corner of the bed vanished in a cloud of sawdust. There was the sound of claws scaping up wood, and Luis choked on another flurry of dry sawdust in his mouth, dust clinging to the sweat on his skin

Luis found himself face to face with an obese beaver-shrew the size of a dog at the ruined end of the bed, and wondered for a surreal second if he’d gone insane from sheer Blue-Balls.

“What….holy shit….whu…”

Connor really, truly would have preferred to just stay in bed and take the rest of Luis’ clothes off, doing unspeakable things to one another for the next several hours before having another cigarette and maybe sneak in some cuddling. White Crest, however, had other plans. “Bro! What the fuck--” He scrambled to fasten his pants, willing his boner to go down, which thankfully wasn’t too difficult “You little bugger, I rent this house!” He didn’t know if it was dangerous or not, so he instinctively grabbed for Luis to pull him away, then scrambled for the nearest pair of flip flops. “We gotta go, dude. I have no idea what that thing is.”

Why...how did this rat have horns? Even while gagging on sawdust and woodchips Luis could smell that this thing wasn’t a dog, rat, squirrel, shrew, or beaver. His rational mind recognized it was impossible that a person could smell that well, but his instincts just sorta knew on a gut level that this wasn’t any animal he’d ever seen before. There was a moment of confusion as his brain and gut disagreed on what was going on. But as usual when shit went down, guts won out.

Luis let Connor pull him away and he rolled off the side of the bed not occupied by a giant woodchipper on legs. Stumbling into the shoes he’d shed at the bedroom door, he sprinted with Connor through the house and out the front door, the frigid outside air extinguishing the amorous fire in his skin.

Great. This was just great. He’d found a nice, handsome, and incredibly seductive boy to take to bed, and now he had an infestation of God-Knows-What chewing on his furniture. Connor shook his head, more annoyed than panicked. “I’m so sorry. This is--not what I planned for tonight. I have to call an exterminator.” Or a hunter. “But… this was nice, before it got ruined. I’ll call you, okay?” And with that, he pulled out his phone.

#paras #with: luis #enjoy! some non angsty fun times

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feelingbluepolitics · 5 years ago

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"Erin Fangmann grew up in a military family, has been married to a captain in the Air Force for 18 years and has voted Republican all her life, including for [t]rump. But as with a number of other veterans, troops and military family members who have watched [trump] with alarm, her support has evaporated.

"'He has hurt the military,' said Ms. Fangmann, who lives in Arizona, one of several states in play this November with a high percentage of veterans and active-duty service members. 'Bringing in active-duty members to the streets was a test to desensitize people to his future use of the military for his personal benefit. I think the silent majority among us is going to swing away.'

"Since 2016, [t]rump has viewed veterans as a core slice of his base; in that year’s presidential election, about 60 percent voted for him, according to exit polls, and swing-state counties with especially high numbers of veterans helped him win. Many veterans and members of the military stuck with him even as he attacked the Vietnam War record of Senator John McCain, disparaged families of those killed in combat and denigrated generals whom he fired or drove from government service. Some conservative rank-and-file enlisted members silently agreed with [t]rump.

"But [trump’s] threat last week to use active-duty troops on American streets against largely peaceful protesters, and his flirtation with invoking the 1807 Insurrection Act, have rattled the military world, from its top leaders to its youngest veterans. If they break in significant numbers, they could carry political weight in key battleground states like Arizona, North Carolina and Ohio.

..."[T]he recent condemnations of [t]rump from high-level military veterans like Jim Mattis, the former defense secretary and a retired four-star Marine Corps general, have in some cases fortified the shifting views among military members. 'The Mattis statement has changed people in some amazing ways,' said Chelsea Mark, a Marine veteran in Florida who works for a veteran service organization. 'I went on a veteran hike recently, and I saw someone wearing a [t]rump T-shirt, and that same person this week was posting anti-police-brutality things on her Instagram.'

..."[t]rump’s moves to use the military against American protesters and looters came after several months of other highly unorthodox moves by his administration involving the military, including the clearing of three members of the armed services accused of war crimes; the firing of Capt. Brett E. Crozier after he raised alarms about the coronavirus on the aircraft carrier he commanded; the calling back of West Point students during a pandemic so [trump] could address them for a graduation, which he is set to do on Saturday; and the diversion of funds from military projects to pay for a border wall, a move that followed the deployment of troops to the border just before the 2018 midterm elections.

..."[t]rump’s ordering of the killing of a top Iranian general, which briefly appeared to bring the United States to the edge of war with Iran early this year, was a disappointment to the many veterans and service members who had supported him in part for his promise to end American involvement in overseas conflicts.

"'The news of wanting to deploy the military domestically has caused a huge sense of outrage among most families I know,' said Sarah Streyder, the director of the Secure Families Initiative, which advocates diplomacy-first foreign policy and works on behalf of military families. 'A lot of military families live on Facebook. Social media is very important for this transient community.'

"Numerous military spouses concurred. 'From what I see from my friends communicating online, spouses have grown much more vocal in opposition to policies,' said Kate Marsh Lord, a Democrat who is married to a member of the Air Force and lives in Virginia but votes in Ohio. 'I have seen more spouses speak out on issues of race and lack of leadership than in my entire 15 years as a military spouse.'

..."Roughly 40 percent of active-duty service people and reserves are people of color, underlining how the current moment has affected military families.

"'People took offense that they were using the military to calm peaceful protests by people of color who were out on the streets,' said Jerry Green, who served in the Army until 1998 and now lives in Tampa. 'When I saw that whole thing unfold, for me, personally, it was awful. I was really distraught.' Mr. Green, who is black, will not be supporting [t]rump, whom he once found interesting, he said.

..."'We believe that [t]rump’s support within the military, with military families and with veterans, is soft and receding,' said Jon Soltz, a founder of VoteVets, which has been increasingly successful in electing Democratic veterans. 'Our plan for the fall is simple: We’re putting together the most comprehensive data-driven veteran and military family get-out-the-vote operation the Democratic Party has ever seen, and we will deploy it to ensure [t]rump is a one-term *resident.'"

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sassy-pelican · 5 years ago

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Open Back

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Prompt: “Does this open back mean no bra?” (via me) Warning: Smut, 18+, nsfw, language, unprotected sex (wrap it up), you get the picture here. A/N: I decided that I wanted to try my hand again at one of my smut prompts. I think, at least I hope, that my smut has gotten better since my first time writing it, which can be found here. This turned out longer than expected and is the same fic mentioned in this post. Tony, Nat, and Steve are still around in this too. This is unedited.

You’ve always hated Tony’s idea of ‘fun.’ It was never what you though fun was; pizza, beer, laughs. No, this was one of his infrequent but highly anticipated and loved galas. You weren’t the only one either, Bucky hated them as much as you, Steve wasn’t a huge fan, and Natasha usually seemed to be thinking of creative ways to kill Stark.

Unfortunately, like all the others, the gala is mandatory. At least this time you would have a date. Ever since the last one, you and Bucky agreed to be each other’s wing-person to save you both the constant flirting from men and women who only wanted money. It seemed easier, except for the fact that you may or may not harbor a crush for the metal-armed super-soldier.

You picked out the dress specifically for this reason, hoping he wasn’t so dense as to miss the signals you were sending. The blue was even similar to his eyes, not that he would notice. Bucky, for being an almost unrivaled assassin, doesn’t notice much. [alt dress]

One last flick of your makeup brush, and you open the door leading out of your suite. Much to your dismay, Bucky isn’t right there when you do, like he said he would be. As figured though, he is raiding the candy stash you had thought was hidden. “Bailing on me already Barnes?”

He looks up, a little guiltily, and his eyes go wide. “You look …” He doesn’t finish. You sigh.

“Are we doing this or what?”

“I suppose. It is mandatory.” He replies.

You nod and hold out your hand, cautiously he takes it. “I hear there is going to be some Asgardian mead there tonight, you might be able to snag some and get a buzz.”

“Really?” He turns to you, interest piqued. “I hope so, doing these things sober is horrific.”

“I’m sure. I can barely do them tipsy.”

“Don’t drink too much tonight, I wouldn’t want that pretty dress to go to waste.”

“Of all the adjectives you could have used for this dress, you used pretty?”

He doesn’t answer you, but you can tell he is smiling. “Thanks. For doing this.”

“Your welcome.” Your natural response of no problem not feeling right. “I hate these as much as you. Plus, you aren’t bad company.”

Both of you take deep breaths before entering the large communal room, decked out in the most expensive decorations Pepper would let Tony buy.

About an hour in, both you and Bucky have a slight buzz – he found the Asgardian liquor – and are still being wall flowers. The music started a few minutes ago, and the beats are good, something you suddenly feel like dancing to.

“Dance with me.” You look up to him and give him what is hopefully a seductive look.

He doesn’t respond at first, only wets his lips as he stares at you. “Sure.”

Unenthusiastic but a positive response, so you’ll take it. Leading him out you realize that his hand is going to be on your back, and a wave of awareness runs down your spine. “You okay doll?”

You were never one for pet names, but damnit if that one doesn’t do you in. “Yeah. I’m fine.” He nods but doesn’t look convinced.

Just as the two of you get settled and mildly comfortable, the song changes; it changes to a very slow one, one that invites sensual activities. You scan the crowd looking for a culprit and find Nat staring at you, drink in hand, and a knowing smirk on her lips. Bitch.

His hand on your waist, the metal almost making you jump, you step closer to him. Almost pressed together, touching but not enough to do more than heighten your senses to him, you sway, move in small circles that tempt you to reach out and tug a strand of his hair at his nape.

You manage to get both of your hands behind his neck; both of his on your waist. You smile at him, a soft smile, one that holds too many layers. Subtly, he pulls you closer until you are pressed flush against him. I’ve thought about this way too many times, all of which involved fewer clothes.

“So, doll,” he looks down at you again, licking his lips the way that sets you blood aflame, “does this open back mean no bra?”

You gaze up at him, a sudden spark of confidence surging through you. “What do you think, Sarge?”

The low sound from his throat, almost akin to a growl, reverberates through your chest, setting your skin even more on fire than it already is. His hands tighten on your waist; you’re almost certain that there will be small bruises in the shape of his fingers there.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish.” He whispers. You swear you can feel something against your stomach, but don’t want to get your hopes up.

“Wasn’t planning it on.” You tease back.

“Oh God.” He groans into your neck, head dipping down as you grind your hips into his, turning the seemingly innocent dance you had been partaking in, into something far from it. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

You smirk as you bring your lips to his ear. “I think I do.”

His hands drift lower, brushing the top of your ass, barely enough to look dirty, but enough for you to let a quiet moan. “You’re playing with fire.” He warns, hands starting to play with the fabric just above where you want him to grab.

“Then burn me.”

He growls, actually growls this time, drawing attention to the two of you. He takes in a shaky breath. “Stepped on my foot.” He explains to the wondering attendees near. Leaning down and whispering in a low voice, one only you could hear he promises. “I will.”

Your back slams against the elevator door as you and Bucky head to one of your suites. His lips attacking yours, tongues battling for dominance – his wins. Hands roaming from faces to backs to waists to asses. The not-so-gentle squeeze of yours elicits an obscenely loud one from you. One leg hiked up around his hip, he grinds into you, a moan of his own escaping into your waiting mouth.

“Bucky.” You gasp, a breathy and all too sexual sound.

At the ding of the elevator you pause and pray that no one is there. Thank someone. Bucky eyes you, his eyes dark and pupils blown. “Jump.” Somehow between the kisses you understand him.

His hands catch your thighs as you jump and pulls you into him, he walks the two you out of the still open elevator. The lace of your panties, a special pair you bought with Nat just for tonight, rubs against his jacket.

“You’re killing me.” He murmurs, lips ghosting over your pulse-point. You slip from his grip and without missing a beat he walks you backwards into his suite, slamming the door behind him.

Grabbing you legs again, he pushes you against the door and trails open-mouthed kisses, tongue languidly lapping at the salt on you skin, along you neck and exposed chest. You wrap your legs around his waist again and tangle your fingers in his hair. A harsh tug sends him reeling.

“Take this dress off before I rip it.”

“Only if you strip too.”

With a groan he lets you down and immediately starts to rid himself of his clothes. You don’t waste time, undoing the zipper and whatever buttons you remember. At the sight of you he closes his eyes and tries to gather his wits, it doesn’t work. Like a man possessed he grabs your face and kisses you again, this time far more bruising than before.

“Need you.” You manage as he detaches to breath.

His hands settle on you ass as he turns you and guides you to his large bed and his eyes roam your exposed figure as you fall onto it. He looks like a predator stalking its prey as he climbs over you, eyes scanning yours for any sign of hesitation. He doesn’t find any.

With one quick move he slides the special underwear from your legs and you silently thank him for not ripping them. However, the train of though is lost as his metal fingers trail down your stomach and stop just short of where you need him. Tongue poking out he dips his head and closes his lips around you, your chest not heaving against his mouth.

Sucking, nipping, licking, and you are in frenzy while his other hand works the other breast in the same way. The metal one now moving south, slowly brushing against your wet and aching clit. “Bucky.”

He doesn’t react, only continues his actions as another plea sounds from your lips. One wide finger, cold and unyielding, enters you slowly, a gasp leaving your mouth as his ministrations on your nipples grow harsher. Those will be sore.

Yet you can’t bring yourself to care as his hand pumps faster, harder, and finally after nearly falling he stops just long enough to add another. Your eyes roll back in your head the metal cold and stretching you slightly. His lips leave your breasts only to latch onto your mouth swallowing the loud moan when he adds a third finger.

“More.”

He smirks before removing his hand and settling between your thighs. His own parting yours even more. A few pumps of his hand against him and you feel the tip pressing against you. You nearly cum when he pushes in. “Fuck.” A trail of curses leaves you as he bottoms out. The delicious stretch enough to send you into a blissful haze.

“Look at me.” He growls as his circles his hips; pelvic bone brushing lightly against your clit. You open your eyes and look into his lust filled ones.

Slowly he pulls out and with one look into your own lust filled gaze he shoves back in. Hands fisting the sheets beside your head he continues the brutal pace, not fast enough yet not slow enough. Still, it sends you reeling.

The moans fill the room as he gets rougher, the thrusts harsher, no faster but harder. Then he picks up the pace, bruising and delicious all the same. The slickness between your thighs and his low moans coupled with your own are enough for you to see stars. When his hand reaches between you, you lose it.

“Oh God Bucky!” You throw your head back as you cum all over him. In one fluid moment he lifts you up, setting you on his lap as he continues fuck himself up into you. The harsh thrusting sending another ripple of pleasure through you.

“On your hands and knees baby.” He groans. You don’t question it, just shift. With one powerful push, he thrusts back into you, hips meeting your ass in a loud smack.

Your eyes roll back into you head as he groans louder than you could have imagined. His hands grip your hips, squeezing just tight enough for a hint of pain to seep in, the blinding power behind his thrusting enough to push it out of mind.

The words coming from your mouth are sure to be unintelligible, the way his cock reaches places you didn’t know existed sending your mind into a state of bliss you haven’t experienced. He leans over you, hips still pumping, and trails kisses down your spine. Your done for.

A scream leaves your throat now. “Bucky!” His hands tighten as his thrusts grow sloppy.

“[Y/N]!”

The two you ride out your orgasms before collapsing on each other. The sticky juices from your cum mixed with sweat are sure to stain his sheets. Breathing hard you try to move, only to find him sprawled out over you, arms holding you in place.

“Bucky.”

“Huh?”

“We should probably clean up.”

“Right.” He reluctantly moves his arm from you as he gets up – even more reluctantly – and goes to the attached bath.

After a while you begin to worry when he doesn’t come out. His head peaks out just as the thought crossed your mind. “Aren’t you joining me?”

“You killed me.”

“I warned you doll.” He mocks as he moves to stand over you.

“Carry me?”

“Of course.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes smut

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aquaticalay · 6 years ago

Text

For Something Greater .Chapter Two.

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: (Y/n) is an active duty Navy SEAL Commander, the first and only woman to ever be a SEAL. When two American spies are captured during a reconnaissance mission at a Hydra base in Transia, (Y/n) and her team are forced to team up with The Winter Soldier to rescue the captives. Being wary of the avenger, she agrees to do one mission with Barnes, and one mission only. But after an unexpected turn of events, her team and Barnes must work together to finish what they started, while (Y/n) and Bucky try to sort out their complicated feelings. (Set six months after Endgame.)

Words: 1700+

Warning/s for this chapter: cursing, violence, death, mild Endgame spoilers

Warning/s for the series: Endgame spoilers, cursing, war violence, eventual smut

Note: I’m going to post a new chapter for this story every two days! Let me know if you wanna be in the taglist! (I’m going to keep this series’ taglist and the permanent on seperate to keep it tidy)

Recommended: listen to Human by Rag'n'Bone Man while reading this chapter.

(Read: I had to repost this again and again just so it would show up in the tags. Tumblr please fix this.)

ALL CHAPTERS OF "FOR SOMETHING GREATER" IN MY BIO

The trip felt longer than it was supposed to be. It was probably because it was a relatively more silent flight than usual, though Woods and Harris were still bickering like children. But aside from that, you only engaged in conversations with your team from time to time. The Winter Soldier’s eyes lingered on you, and it was almost impossible to ignore. In his gaze was not judgement, that you would’ve anticipated, but instead it was more a look of curiousity and amazement, maybe even borderline respect.

You stole glances at him to watch his movements, his behaviour. You studied his weapon. The rifle was a familiar model, an M249 SAW. You had fired it a few times. It was a convinient model, even resembling some functions of a machine gun. But you found it odd that he would choose that type of firearm, considering he had been a sniper in 1945. Choosing a rifle that leaned more towards a machine gun than a sniper made him seem more messy. Despite that, you knew not to judge him based off the firearm he used. He was not only a supersoldier, but a highly trained stealth operative as well. He would be as deadly with a baseball bat as he is with a gun. The only other weapon you saw was a sheathed knife on his thigh. You didn’t recognize it as any type of US military knives. You had your suspicions that it was made of vibranium, like his arm. Wakanda gave him a practically indestructable arm, and why stop there? Why not give him an indestructable knife, too?

Either way, it was a completely different model from your Ontario MK3 Navy Knife, which was mostly used for self-defense and protection. The size and shape of his knife, however, suggested that it was intended for a more brutal purpose, perhaps a clean, silent kill.

Those were all his weapons. No grenades, no glocks. If he were a normal human being, it would seem like he came unprepared, but he was not normal, and that could be proven in his blood and in his kill record.

A kill record that rivaled yours.

When the cargo plane reached cruising altitude of 800 feet, you stood up, and the Winter Soldier and your team did the same. “We know our mission. Get in, get the hostages, get out. But since it’s Hydra, treat this like an assault mission,” you said, “Sergeant Barnes is familiar with the general structure of a Hydra base, so he will lead us into the compound, but you still take orders from me. Hydra will jam long range radio transmissions. We only have short ranged ones to communicate with each other. We’re in this alone, and we can’t call for back up if anything goes south, so make sure nothing goes south. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Commander!” the boys said in unison.

With that, you each strapped in a static parachute. The hatch opened, and you jumped from the plane.

It was a habit by now, but you never got tired of it. It was in the middle of the night, the wind was in your favor. You stepped out of the plane, a thrilling smile on your face, a smile that distracted you from all the blood in your hands, that reminded you why you loved this job.

You had been dropped at a forest near the Transian mountain range, where the Hydra base is located. You were only several miles away from Serbia.

The trees gave you the perfect cover. You quickly regrouped and started a hike to the exact coordinates of the Hydra base.

For amateurs, the hike would have been five hours long, at least. But with the training your team had gone through and the Winter Soldier there, it would only take three hours, max.

Within two and a half hours, you had visual on the warehouse. Your team hid behind fallen timber.

You’ve gotta be honest, to the naked eye, the ‘base’ wasn’t exactly impressive. It just looked like an old warehouse made of rusted metal. It didn’t look threatening at all. It didn’t even have a fence around it.

“You can’t be serious,” Lawson scoffed, a smile forming on his face, “this is supposed to be a nazi terrorist facility? I’ve seen small rebel bases more threatening that this shit show.”

Barnes, however, studied the warehouse instensely, “Don’t underestimate them,” he warned, and in his voice was a cold, terrifying certainty.

You adjusted your goggles to zoom in on the base.

“What do you see?” Jones asked, a splinter of nervousness mixed with hope cracking in his voice.

Jones saw the base as Lawson did, a sorry excuse for an organization that at one point had almost had total control of the world. He thought there wouldn’t be a fight. He thought this would be an easy in and out mission. But you had a feeling Barnes was right, judging from his cold reaction.

“Not much,” you admitted, “I only count seven security guards patrolling the warehouse.”

Barnes decided to split the group into two teams. The first team would draw fire to the patroling guards, while the other one would enter the facility undetected.

The first team, the team that would cause a diversion, consisted of the better skilled and experienced marksmen in your team, McCoy, Miller, and Woods. They took cover behind a boulder, preparing to fire upon order.

The rest of the team, you, Barnes, Harris, Lawson, and Jones circled the perimeter to prepare to enter from the weakest entry point, the back door.

“Status?” You called to the diversion team via short range radio.

“Ready to fire on your order, commander,” Woods answered.

You looked to Barnes. He gave you a slight nod. You waited a heartbeat before you said through the radio, “Fire.”

In an instant, you heard chaos break out on the other side of the building. Without a doubt, the guard stationed on the back door left to help defend the front door.

That was a foolish move, and it proved that these men were untrained and inexperienced.

“On me,” Barnes led your team inside.

“Watch our six,” you told Jones. He nodded in response.

Barnes opened the door and… the warehouse was absolutely empty, except for two people in dressed in black, brown sacks over their heads, handcuffed to a chair in the center of the warehouse.

Could those be the missing CIA agents?

The team sweeped the room, and found nothing, but still stayed a safe distance from the people in the center of the room

“Help us,” a hoarse male voice from under the sack said weakly upon hearing footsteps, “we’ve been held hostage for weeks.”

The voice was American.

“They’re the agents!” Jones concluded, relief in his voice. Jones laid his firearm down, and quickly moved to the center of the room when you realized that those two people were wearing explosive belts.

Your eyes widened.

“Get down!” Barnes barked the order as he realized what was going on.

“No!” You didnt think twice. You moved towards Jones, trying to shield him from the explosion.

It exploded. You were thrown back by the impact, a shrapnel from the bomb embedding itself in your shoulder.

You struggled to get up, you vision blurry. “Oliver!” You struggled to scream, trying to get up as searing pain roared through your body.

You laid down, face up. You tried to look for the source of pain and saw a piece of metal deep inside your left shoulder.

You saw flash of metal, as the Winter Soldier rushed towards you, applying pressure on the sides of your wound.

“Oliver J-Jones,” you said faintly, “T-the kid, is he o-okay?” You struggled.

Barnes grunted and cursed, but he avoided the question.

You gathered all of you strength, “B-Barnes! I-is the kid okay?”

Collecting your consciousness and your common sense, you realized, Jones couldn’t have made it. He was too close.

You realized it, but that didn’t mean that you had accepted it. With whatever’s left of your energy, you thrashed under Bucky’s arm, “J-Jones! Where is he?”

“Hold still,” Bucky ordered, “You’re bleeding out!”

No.

No, this couldn’t be happening.

He was young. He was a kid. He was your responsibility.

His death was on you.

His blood is on your hands.

No.

“Get her to the ORP, she needs blood transfusion immediately,” Barnes said, and that was the last thing you heard before the world faded into black.

Your team rushed you to the ORP, and you were still unconscious.

“She’s losing blood,” Woods said to the medical officers. One of the officers nodded and scanned your suit for a dog tag. She found it in one of your utility pockets.

The dog tags contained your blood type, but when the medical officer saw it, her face grew pessimistic.

“What’s wrong?” Woods asked.

“She’s O negative,” she mentioned, “it’s one of the rarest blood type in the world, and is not compatible with any other blood type. It would clot. We don’t have a supply here.”

“Then transport her, dammit!” Woods shouted frantically.

“She wont make the trip,” she explained.

“I’m O negative,” a deep voice said, and it belonged to the Winter Soldier as he entered the room.

The medical officer stuttered, “B-but you’re a super soldier, we don’t know the effects-”

“So what? We’re just gonna leave her here to die?” Barnes asked inscredulously, “Look, I’m your best shot at saving her.”

The officer looked at her colleagues. She nodded, “It’s worth a try.”

“Wait,” Miller intervened, “Just how experimental is this?”

“Very,” the medical officer almost visibly shuddered, “There’s no telling what the side effects are, if there are any, or if she will survive the transfusion at all.”

“Then maybe we should run diagnostics first,” Miller suggested.

“There’s no time for that!” Lawson growled, visibly distressed.

“But this treatment might kill her!” Miller said.

“Yes, this might kill her, but not doing anything will kill her,” Lawson sneered, “I just lost my teammate. I’m not going to lose my commander, too.”

The whole room fell silent.

They hadn’t had the time to grieve. They hadn’t had time to process the young SEAL’s death, and this was the first time anyone had talked about Jones as a deceased man.

The medical officer told her colleague, “prep her for surgery.”

@greatwerewolfdragon @ciochesono @keepyourdreamsalive @valentynecalum @bigchunggus @vaultures @ka-x-in @marvel-is-my-life-blog @ljthewinterllama @thefirst-galaxy @meraki-loki @wolfiea03 @izzyisavengersupernaturaltrash @teageowen @illi-vanilli @nicholasbich @childishhoe @infinityexe @natashasnight @talk-geek-to-me @divinediego

(I apologize for tagging you all multiple times in one day, but Tumblr is acting up and not showing my posts in the tags so…. @staff fix this pleaseeeee)

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes imagines #bucky imagine #sebastian stan x reader #avengers x reader #bucky imagines #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan imagines #sebastian stan #the winter soldier imagines #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky fanfic #bucky #for something greater chapterss

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postmodernismruinedme · 5 years ago

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@spacelesbiann tagged me to talk about my 2019 and I have to admit, I am a little overwhelmed. Where to begin? What to say? What is the story of the last twelve months of my life? I am someone who always looks for a narrative when life is less a novel but a collection of short stories.

And my friends, there were a lot of stories this year.

(I don’t post pictures of myself on Tumblr, but I’ve chosen four mini portraits where you can see pieces of me or other identifiers. )

My partner and I drove from Southern Ontario to Happy Valley-Goose Bay, then across to St. John’s and back home through the Maritimes. We saw beautiful, gorgeous things, half of which were lost from record when a memory card got scratched. But that’s okay. We’ll remember the raw beauty without pictures.

My poor trash fire of a car died and was replaced with my beautiful hybrid, the car that I have journeyed so many places with and that I love so much. There would be many trips with friends - everything from art galleries to sitting on a hilltop to eavesdrop on a Cage the Elephant concert. We ate in a Simpsons-themed Vegan restaurant. We went to the North American premiere of a French zombie movie. We went to unusual stores and wandered, so much wandering, and usually ending up on adventures more suited to people in their early twenties and not early thirties.

And yes, I turned thirty, and I thought I would hate it but instead I love it.

I traveled a lot on my own too. I have always been a wanderer. Nowhere too far, but far enough. To WisCon, to present on a Space Labour panel - with pit stops at a Baha’i Temple in Illinois and a Fairy Door in Ann Arbor. To Toledo, to in vain see a kiwi bird but instead sit in front of a Van Gogh and cry. And so many hikes and walks to be by myself in nature.

We bought a house (with a looooot of help) and we renovated it. My partner and I fought about the renovations with a great deal of frequency. We both broke into tears multiple times. We both walked away from arguments while the other wanted to keep fighting. The move was brutal. My adjustment to our new home was full of at times debilitating anxiety. But then it started to feel better and more and more I know it was the right thing for us.

My health was strong, but I do still have gastroparesis and my stomach likes to remind me of that from time to time. But I can’t complain. We have worked well together, my gut and I.

I went to three weddings (though I was invited to four). A former co-worker’s, at a tiny ceremony in a grove while Appalachian folk music played, and we ate curry while the new couple spoke about reconciliation. My cousin’s, closer to a brother, in a small town church in a Beauty and the Beast themed ceremony while his tiny daughter cheered them on. And a vow renewal in Sudbury, of all places, between a dear friend and his husband, who had eloped two years ago that day before moving to France together. I teared up at all three, but I cried at the last. We held each other for a long time, my friend and I, and neither of us wanted to let go.

Then there was our family. My niblings continue to be the lights of my life. My newest nephew was born just a month ago and I love him already so fiercely. But there was also heart ache. We lost an uncle. My mother was diagnosed with a long term illness. There was other drama recently that I’m not willing to talk about but it nearly broke me. It is still breaking me, but I’m getting better. It was the worst Christmas of my life but I held my nephew throughout it and there was a peace in that.

This is all much longer than I intended it to be and I’ve just realized I didn’t even talk about going back to grad school. I guess this is all to say that life is...complicated and beautiful and awful and that I have no idea what I will think about 2019 when I look back on it. But right now...right now, I’m sort of proud of myself. I have a panic disorder and this was a wild year but I’m actually doing okay. The fact I’m sitting in my armchair, watching the snow (and dreading having to shovel it) and knowing after this I’m going to work on a World AIDS Day scarf while drinking tea and watching movies...well, I think I can be proud of that. I am stronger for this year and I am content and happy and looking forward to 2020.

#personal #ramblings #year in review #not okay to reblog

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zenonaa · 6 years ago

Photo

Read here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18318629/chapters/43451429 Read from the beginning here: http://zenonaa.tumblr.com/post/183875659535/read

Comments: Day 4... Night! I mean, it takes place at night, so that counts for something, right? Also, while they are talking about murders in this chapter, no one actually dies in this chapter.

warning: there is a mention of sexual assault. it’s not detailed but referred to.

***

Hope’s Peak Academy sat right in the middle of a large city like the Sun in the solar system, and all the buildings and lots around it were planets or chunks of rock that had been pulled into orbit. However, due to the establishment’s location, light pollution was strongest here so to the naked eye, only the brightest stars could be seen at best, and so Touko wondered what Byakuya was looking at as he faced her dorm window.

Yes, that was right. Byakuya was in her dorm. He visited, voluntarily, and she let him in, voluntarily. Touko stood over by her coffee table and rubbed her wrist. If she had known, she would have tidied first. Stacks of books sat on top of her desk, around her desk, around her bed and crammed into bookcases. They occupied much of her floor, not just a handful but dozens of them, resembling a city with high-rise buildings. When Touko moved out of the house she rented while she attended her previous high school, she had brought her collection of books here with her. Every single one.

Her grip on her skirt increased as she nibbled on her lips. She should have sorted the place out. Spruced it up. Even though she hadn’t totally expected his visit, she still should have made her living arrangements presentable in case she hosted someone as esteemed as him.

Perhaps she should clean now, put on a maid outfit and spit shine his shoes too, but she didn’t know where she would get a maid outfit from. What a disaster.

Byakuya finally turned away from the window, and she roused from her fretting. Even though she had memorised his face, could write every detail about it, to the shade of his blue eyes to the angles of his lips throughout various expressions, at this moment, she couldn’t read him. The best she could describe his countenance was with ‘thoughtful’, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking except that it wasn’t an amusing thought.

He slowly raised a hand, which held the purple notebook that she gave him to read.

“Touko Fukawa,” he said, and she had to hold herself. Her name rolled in his mouth like a piece of hard candy. Byakuya gave the notebook a small shake.

She glanced at it but locked onto his face as her target, breathing loudly.

“I already knew that you are incredibly talented,” he said, staring back at her. “Even if I abhor romance as a concept and in real life, I would be lying if I said that your skill didn’t exist. However...”

Her panting snuffed out, held in. Suspended. She held her breath.

“... after reading your I-Novel...” Byakuya paused again, to adjust his glasses and choose his words, like taking steps through a pitch black room. “... I realise that your talent is on a whole other level to which I assumed.”

Touko widened her eyes and gasped, tucking her elbows into her sides. He lifted his chin but didn’t break eye contact.

“With your romance novels, you made fishermen more popular with women. You did the same with butlers, with teachers... using words. Reading this I-Novel, based on experiences on your life... stirred in me an emotion,” he told her, and she shivered.

“An... emotion?” she repeated, unable to process any thoughts of her own.

“Yes. It was dark.” His head shifted, and his glasses flashed as he did. “You described everything in vivid detail, and I read all of it in a single sitting. I am not a man that is easily affected by others. I have seen a lot of things that many people would have broken down at.”

He stopped talking. She couldn’t prompt him even if she tried. Her throat had closed up.

“... At the end of the competition to choose which sibling would be the sole heir of the conglomerate, there was a round where fifteen people were chosen,” he said, seeming to change the subject. “Despite my success in previous rounds, I was eliminated. During my research, I uncovered that a sibling had bribed those overseeing the competition and had been taken my spot. So, I found out where it was taking place and donned a disguise. Accompanied by a detective, we went to investigate...”

Touko nodded. She could do that. And her breathing had evened out, just about.

“The final round took place on an island. A challenge would have been set, but before one was given... one of the competitors died.”

His revelation shot a chill up her. She clasped her hands together. From how darkly he said it, the death didn’t sound natural. “Died?”

“Then another... and another,” he carried on. “It became clear that there was at least one murderer on the island. Soon, only a handful remained, and then...”

When he hesitated, his face didn’t contort, but he gritted his teeth and a spasm quivered once in his cheek that he couldn’t control.

“... two of the competitors, twins, set another competitor on fire. After that, a different competitor murdered the twins, and as the burnt competitor lay there, helpless, he attacked her.”

Touko visualised the scene, picturing twins with blue featureless skin, one with pigtails, one with a bob cut, who were cut up with an axe by a bigger blue humanoid. Once they were dead, it reared its head and set its eyes on its prey - a small, blue humanoid. At this point, everything fractured, crumbling away, and her toes curled in her shoes.

“Did... he...?” Touko mumbled.

“Yes. He wasn’t even a Togami by blood, it turned out.” Byakuya glared, not at her, but she felt its intensity, the heat of its glow, and cringed. “Instead, he was the adopted sibling of the competitor that he brutally assaulted, and he had been slotted into the last round of the competition... under my name!”

She flung a hand to her mouth and jolted.

“But...” Her head spun, and she could feel her heartbeat between her ears. “How did he bribe his way in? Surely, the conglomerate boasted such a vast amount of money that they wouldn’t be able to be swayed with money.”

“Exactly.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Apparently, he offered an incredibly rare creature, but I have never seen proof of its existence.”

Touko couldn’t bring herself to dwell or care about this supposed rare creature, at least for the moment.

“What happened next?” asked Touko, wishing this was like a book so she could skip ahead and find out.

And she hated it when people did that.

“Me, the detective and Pennyworth found the imposter as he was in the middle of... that,” said Byakuya. Her stomach knotted. He didn’t give anything away, speaking with an impartial tone, with smooth features. “There was a confrontation, and in the end, Pennyworth killed the imposter. Almost everyone was dead, but I had proven myself, so I shed off my disguise and claimed the right to be heir. Then my mother married my father - for formality’s sake, of course. Outside of public appearances together, they rarely talk unless it has to do with conglomerate business.”

She digested what he told her. The last scene he described played out in her head. Apart from Byakuya, everyone had blue skin, and she pictured him as a young teenager, surrounded by all that carnage, his features hardened as he stood, victorious. As the final image faded out, she swallowed thickly.

“What happened to the girl?” she asked, wringing her hands. “The one her brother assaulted? Or did she...?”

“Survived. The losers are usually expelled, but I decided to keep her around as my secretary. Most people who are sent into exile seem to die unusual deaths, anyway,” he said.

He drew closer to Touko, footsteps muted, movement fluid, and stopped a short distance in front of her. She peered up at him with her mouth hanging ajar.

“You might be wondering... why am I telling you all this?” he said. “It is because, Fukawa, even though I have gone through what I have, your prose still managed to fill me with an inescapable feeling of despair.”

Touko scratched at one end of her lips and wavered. “S-Sorry...?”

But he shook his head.

“I don’t care for an apology. I am praising you. Your writing ability is beyond anything that I have seen before. You could use it for incredible things, yet you waste it on your romance novels.”

At first, her chest had swelled with pride, but as he came to an end, she felt a flicker of offense. She clenched her fists.

“You’re wrong...”

His brow furrowed. “What did you say?”

“I’m not wasting my talent on it,” she said, tensing her shoulders. “My stories... provide escape. A channel. The feelings inside of me... my love... they aren’t a weakness. They are a source of my strength.”

Byakuya was quiet. She maintained her stance. After a while, he angled his body away slightly, opened the notebook, and leafed through it to a certain page.

“Toward the end, you mentioned your shadow,” he said, skimming through the notebook for a certain section. “At first, I thought you were being metaphorical. ‘Some fear what the darkness hides, but for some, that is where we hide. From my nook, I see blond cresses, slender fingers and eyes alive and blue. But where there is light, there must be shadow, so where there is me, there must be her.’ ”

She waited for him to elaborate for her.

“I’ve deduced that you’re referring to me, but who is the ‘her’ that you are referring to?” His eyes flitted from the notebook to her, flinty. “Is it you?”

“No,” Touko snapped, and Byakuya tilted his head a bit in surprise. She realised and softened her gaze, and as she stared up at him, his face hung like a full moon in a bleak sky.

His face glitched. For a moment, he had blood running down from one eye, scissors in his neck, but when she blinked, he returned to normal. Touko’s jaw shuddered, and she imagined her features glitching too. An eye narrowed, red where there should have been hazel-purple, and one end of her lips hiked up in half of a grin. In that moment, her tongue tried to seep out, thick and grotesque.

It didn’t really fill her mouth - that had been her imagination, but something made it harder for her to breathe.

“Byakuya-sama...” She couldn’t look at him anymore. “I...”

This time, he waited for her to elaborate. Touko forced the words out, scrunching up her face.

“... know who Genocider Syo is,” she said.

Silence reigned, and she looked up.

He didn’t react at first, staring, then he absorbed what she said and his eyebrows climbed.

“What?” he said softly.

She hunched her shoulders. Wrapped her arms around herself and squeezed.

“What you read... in that I-Novel... our society... smothered me, until the pressure at my core grew too hot, too dense, and all that emptiness compressed together, until I imploded and out came her.”

Her legs quaked but she didn’t let them buckle. She stayed on her feet, no matter how much the weight in her heart wanted to drag her down, how arms of ghosts extended from the blue carpet and tugged at her. In her vision, Byakuya hung like a floater in her eye, constant and out-of-focus.

“You mean...” His lips rustled, as if he was licking them because his mouth had gone dry, but she wouldn’t, couldn’t look up that high to confirm. “... you’re Genocider Syo?”

Touko winced at the swooping sensation in her gut.

“That name belongs to another personality in me,” explained Touko. Her voice was cracking. "An alter. Sadistic, murderous, assertive.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you, why?” said Byakuya, calm but bordering on a sneer. “Is this a joke?”

If only it could have been a joke, a sick joke in bad taste. Touko trembled as she hitched up her skirt, revealing her leather holster and all the scissors stored within. She passed one to him. He studied it, turning it over in his hands, caressing the metal with his slender fingers, until he finally looked up.

“Anyone who I have started to have feelings for, she has chased them down and murdered,” Touko told him. His face framed her vision and she thought he was so, too beautiful, even with his brow creased like that. “All... All except you.”

“For now,” he said tersely. He glanced at the door.

She grabbed his wrist. His eyes darted back to her.

Neither moved.

“What do you expect me to do?” he said. Touko felt him shift, but he didn’t try to remove himself from her grasp. “Do you think I can give it a kiss and you’ll be all better?”

Her heart skipped at the mention of a kiss, then sank as he finished the rest of his question.

“Since I’ve attended this school, she hasn’t killed anyone. I’ve been able to suppress her,” Touko said, and she increased her grip. “I think, with your help, that I could keep her at bay. N-No one else will die.”

“And you’re sure of that? Hm?” He bared his teeth. “Tell me why I shouldn’t inform the academy? Now that I know your secret, what position does that put me in? You’ve started a timer on my head, and it’s a matter of time until Syo awakens and kills me to silence me. Don’t you see? You let your emotions overcome you and blurted this out. This love of yours blinded you foolishly.”

She twisted her hold on him.

“I... I won’t let her!” she hissed. “If I can be with you... then I won’t let her! You can help me control her.”

Touko screwed up her eyes.

“I’m sure,” she said, shoulders heaving, and she said it again. “I’m sure.”

“But what makes me different to all your other victims?” asked Byakuya, his cool tone in stark contrast to hers.

She couldn’t answer that. Years ago, Syo tried to communicate with Touko using sticky notes left in places she thought Touko would stumble upon quickly. Bedside drawers. Replacing bookmarks. When it became clear that Touko had no interest in talking to her, they petered out.

“Byakuya-sama, you think that my emotions have made me weak, but please, let me prove you wrong. I’ll show you that they are the source of my strength,” said Touko, her face burning fiercely.

He didn’t reply, staring at her. Finally, he smirked and gave a hum, returning the scissors to her.

“Very well. Fukawa... if you think your feelings of love are as strong as you claim, then I would like you to show me,” he said, and her heart gave a leap.

Touko let out a laugh.

“T-Thank you, Byakuya-sama!” Her eyes stung with the threat of tears, but her heart felt lighter than it had for a long time. She jiggled his arm. “Let me show my... my love! Do you want some coffee? A massage? To use me as a footstool?”

His face darkened. He snatched his arm away, and with nothing to hold, she squeezed her hands together.

“Shut up. I didn’t plan on being here long. I have other things to do,” he said.

“Are you going to the library?”

“No. I’m going to my room. I’m going to sleep.”

“What about tomorrow... can we meet up tomorrow?” asked Touko. “Perhaps we could read a book... or see a movie?”

“A movie?” He thrust up his nose in scorn. “Do you mean a romance adapted from some book?”

“No! I hate movie adaptations! What sort of movies do you like?”

“I have a very refined taste. Some of my favourites are what are called cult classics,” he replied. “There is Branded to Kill, Tokyo Drifter...”

She broke into a grin.

“Ah! By Seijun Suzuki?” she said excitedly.

“Yes.” He quirked his brow. “You’ve heard of them then?”

“Of course! I’ve seen both of them. They’re stylised masterpieces! I haven’t seen them,” since that failure of a date, “for a while, but I could go on at length about them.”

Byakuya studied her, considering.

“If you can discuss them as well as you do with books, then... I suppose we could watch one of them together,” he conceded, then added curtly, “Tomorrow. In the AV room. In public.”

Now, he turned to leave. She reached a hand toward him.

“Please don’t tell anyone, Byakuya-sama,” she blurted.

He stopped and looked over his shoulder.

“Who would believe me?” he asked her. “No, I don’t intend to. I don’t wish to taint this school’s image, and by extension, the conglomerate’s image. Besides...”

Byakuya smiled slightly and pushed up his glasses.

“... you’ve intrigued me. I’m not finished with you just yet.”

With that said, he walked the rest of the way over to her door and left. Touko stayed still for a couple of moments, and then shuffled over to her bed. She collapsed onto it, physically exhausted but her mind buzzed, keeping her awake for a while longer.

Could this be a date with Byakuya? Even after she told him her secret? Despite the excitement bubbling in her, she eventually fell asleep. This time, when she dreamed, he didn’t die. They smiled and held each other’s faces, and then...! Then...!

When she woke up, early daylight poured in through the window, and she was alone.

But she didn’t feel alone anymore.

That had been her only good night for a long, long time.

#togafuka #touko fukawa #byakuya togami #danganronpa #togafukaweek #fanfiction #croatian rhapsody

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