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outercrasis · 3 years

Text

Sessions

Pairing: College!Din Djarin x F!Reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: None (let me know if I missed something!)

Summary: Everyone is talking about the mysterious new guy on campus

A/N: I had a ton of fun writing this extremely self-indulgent AU and I have plans to keep writing more about these two. It won’t be an actual chaptered fic, but at some point I’ll throw together a masterlist with a chronological order to things.

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Introductions

The semester had only started four weeks ago and he was already a legend around campus. Almost everywhere someone could be found whispering about him. You'd even heard faculty speculating, wondering about the rumors they overheard their students sharing.

You first heard of him in your literature seminar, some of your fellow classmates discussing a recent rumor about the now fabled man. Something about a motorcycle and a child caught your ear, prompting you to interrupt and the girls in front of you who they were talking about.

The looks you received from the pair were incredulous at best. “You mean you haven’t heard about him?”

“Heard about who?” you asked, genuinely confused. It had only been the first week of class at the time and you were too caught up with your own busy start to check in on the rumor mill.

“Mando, obviously. He’s all anyone is talking about.” From there the girls had happily filled you in on all the latest sightings and rumors.

Mando, as they called him, was shrouded in mystery. He'd popped up on Corellia University's campus when the semester began and no one knew a thing about him. He hadn't gone to Corellia before, internet searches turned up nothing, and even the skull-like symbol on the back of his leather jacket wasn't familiar to anyone. Any information on him was conjecture at best and there was plenty to go around. Once the rest of the class caught onto what you three were discussing, theories began to fly.

People discussed how he’d been spotted downtown, beating on some guys in a back alley. He’d also been seen uptown the same night though, strolling through Basalt Park. One girl was nearly certain that she’d gone to elementary school with Mando, but he’d mysteriously disappeared one day without explanation. Someone else was confident he was just a cop trying some weird shtick to go undercover. Then one person insisted he had a kid with him sometimes while another was trying to explain that he was actually a murderer. The rumors only became more ludicrous from there.

By the end of the discussion you only ascertained two things for certain. He went by the name Mando and he wore some kind of special helmet. Information you could have gotten by watching him pick up a drink at the Java Hut. Not nearly enough to warrant this level of fervor in your opinion.

From there, hearing about Mando was inescapable. You got home that night only to have your roommate and best friend, Layla, launch into theories about him. Within the week someone set up a social media page to try and track his location around campus via DMs fellow students sent in. That had struck you as invasive and unsettling, but the messages about him kept flooding in.

By pure chance, you had yet to actually see him for yourself. There weren't even any creep shots for you to look at. People had been trying to take photos of him, but he was like a ghost. In the time it took them to pull up their cameras he'd disappear.

There wasn't even more concrete information about him beyond what you'd learned that first day. Just more and more speculation, a good amount of it made up purely for the shock factor. Another week slipped by, the semester picking up, and Mando news became standard in your day. There was always something new going around about him and as much as you tried to avoid it and focus on your studies, you couldn’t help but wonder about him yourself.

Who was this guy? Was this all some stunt or ‘social experiment’ that would be revealed by a sociology student at the end of the semester? Or was he a legitimate peculiarity, doomed to stick out like a sore thumb? You weren’t sure if you should hate him for making a big deal out of himself or pity him for all the unwarranted attention. Either way, you were sure that whenever you met this enigmatic Mando, you’d know.

×××××

You grumble looking at the submission form. The name and student ID information is blank again. You told Todd last week those fields needed to be made mandatory. How else were you supposed to know who to email when you end up with a no-show for the hour?

Looking further down you're pleased to note that they're at least a grad student. Despite the unfinished form, graduates almost never skip sessions like these. You're thrilled to have the opportunity to discuss something other than freshman composition for once. It's fun helping the wide-eyed freshies, but you can only go over basic comma rules so many times before you start to lose it a little.

There's a knock at the study room door and you look up only to be rendered speechless. It's him. Mando. With a kid on his hip. So Alissandra hadn’t been lying when she told you about the toddler she saw with him. Interesting. Continuing to take him in, you can’t help but focus on the obvious - the only thing you knew about him other than his supposed name, the helmet.

It’s unlike anything you've seen before. You're fairly certain it's a motorcycle helmet, but it's been modified. Rather than the typical rounded shape, his is all sharp angles and flat at the front. It’s colored a sleek, shining chrome that gleams under the washed out fluorescent lighting. Most arresting is the way he's changed the face of the helmet. The cheeks dip inward at a sharp angle, creating deep, curved contours. His visor is a T of black glass in the center, entirely impossible to see through. It's intimidating and… kinda hot?

The little boy he's holding starts to wiggle in his grasp, physically demanding to be set down in the study room. Once his feet touch the floor, he immediately runs over and climbs into the chair next to you. He's a welcome distraction from his father’s? brother's? guardian's? commanding presence in the room.

The boy can't be older than three, smiling up at you with a wide toothy grin. His hair is covered by a green beanie with large floppy ears sewn onto it and he's wearing a little brown jacket with a sherpa collar. Maybe a bit too heavy for the early autumnal weather, but if the rumor that the kid rides on a motorcycle with Mando is true, it’s perfect. His eyes are large and brown, shining up at you with a slightly mischievous glint.

"Hello, what's your name?" you ask, smiling back at the child.

"Grogu," comes the reply, not from the kid, but from Mando.

You arch an eyebrow at him. He can't be serious with that name. "Grogu?" you ask.

He shrugs, placing his bag on the table. "I came home one day and he told his babysitter that was his name now. He won't respond to anything else. So, Grogu."

You look back to the bouncing toddler. He's still grinning, nodding along with what's been said about his name. They must not be lying then. Either that, or it was some elaborate prank between them and you would never be in on the joke.

"Well okay, Grogu it is."

You extend your hand out to Mando, offering your name alongside it. He offers a leather clad hand in return, giving you a firm handshake. You're pleased when he only gives your hand a gentle squeeze, not crushing it like so many other students have done. His gloves are unique as well, black with orange fingers, the leather well worn in. It's warm to the touch, his body heat radiating through the thick fabric.

"Mando," he says, officially introducing himself as he takes the seat on your other side, across from Grogu.

"Mando," you repeat, cementing it as a truth from the rumor mill. "Got any other names?" You hope that comes across as casual and not intrusive. He hasn't even gone to remove his helmet, telling you he isn't a man who cares much for people prying into his business.

"No. Why?" Mando cocks his head slightly as he asks, the helmet adding an exaggerated look to the movement. He reaches into his bag, pulls out some crayons and a pad of paper, pushing them over to Grogu.

You shrug, trying not to think about how you heard his name might be David from someone in your composition course. "Just thought I'd ask. One hears many things around campus and it's hard to tell what's true or not."

"What do you mean?"

That question makes you pause. Surely he knows. Part of you is still convinced he’s doing this act on purpose, trying to gain notoriety for some reason. The way he asked though, something about it tells you that the poor man is clueless about the buzz he's caused.

"Mando, you're like the talk of the town right now. We only just met but I've heard plenty about you," you explain. It's hard to tell with the helmet on, but you're fairly sure he's shocked underneath. Grogu ignores you both, excitedly scribbling away on his paper.

"I'm fairly sure most of it's just rumor and speculation, but still. You're like a thing around campus," you add.

He's quiet for a moment, his laptop only half out of his bag. "Oh," he finally says. "I didn't know."

Grogu gives a happy shriek not a second later, breaking the awkward tension that had begun to creep into the room. He's beaming, holding up his crayola masterpiece. On the paper there is what appears to be a hastily drawn frog using every color in the box.

Mando returns to himself, pulling his laptop the rest of the way and continues to get set up. "Great job, kid. It looks good."

Most people would have said that dismissively, a platitude to get their child to stop bothering them. When Mando says it though, the authenticity is palpable. He said six words and you can hear the pride lacing them all together. It’s sweet, the obvious affection this clearly private man has for the toddler.

You can’t help but wonder what his connection to Grogu actually is. The way he spoke just then, if you had to put your money on it, you’d say father. The kicker then though is if he’s biological or not. And if not, then how else does a grad student get strapped with a three year old? Thinking about all the potential scenarios is enough to make your head hurt.

You’re also left wondering where all the more violent rumors about him are coming from. His tenderness is so readily on display that it’s hard to imagine the man before you choking someone because they cut him in line at the local froyo shop. He’s mysterious and gives off a vaguely dangerous vibe, sure, but less than five minutes around him and the kid and it’s obvious he’s no threat to you. He’s just a guy trying to get his assignments done for class, same as everyone else.

Your stomach still catches in your throat as Mando starts unexpectedly tugging off his gloves. From what you’d heard, he never takes anything off: not his jacket, not his gloves, and certainly not his helmet. All anyone knows of his true appearance on campus is that he’s obviously male with rumors flying around about everything else including simple attributes, like the color of his skin. Now, here he is, casually revealing this groundbreaking information to you.

His hands move fluidly, pulling off each glove in just a few easy tugs. His skin matches the heat you felt from them just minutes ago, a warm golden tan, with a few faded lines of scars worn in. Watching him type, pulling his paper up for you to discuss, you feel a deep and sudden ache to have his hands touch you again. A simple handshake is no longer enough. Every stroke of the keys is measured, deliberate, and leaves you wondering how he would use those fingers on you.

“This is what I have so far.”

His voice snaps you back to reality, a quick wave of shame washing over you. Where did all of that come from? It was just a man’s hands for heaven’s sake, certainly not something you should be horny about at two in the afternoon. Not to mention that he came in here looking for your help, not wanting you to start fantasizing about his hands expertly working you over.

You clear your throat and tear your eyes away from the offending appendages. “Great, let me just read the introduction here so I can get an idea for what you’re writing about.”

You settle into working with him easily. His paper is already well-written, just needing tweaks here and there to bring it to the next level. It’s nice working with him. He’s attentive, clearly listening to everything you have to say and taking it into account. He doesn’t even try to challenge you as some of the more macho male students are wont to do. By the end of the session, you can’t help but wish all of your time as a tutor was that easy.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely, tucking his laptop away. “You really helped.”

You smile at him, thrilled with his genuine complement. “Of course, that’s what I’m here for.”

He finishes packing up his and Grogu’s things, with you silently lamenting as his gloves slide back on. It still feels like a ridiculous thought, but he really does have beautiful hands. There’s a small tap on your arm and you look to your left to see Grogu patiently waiting. He’s offering something to you, paper outstretched in his little hands.

“Thank you,” you say, taking the sheet from him. You look at it to see a frog carefully drawn on the page. It’s not the same as the first one he showed you and Mando, this one more deliberate and thoughtful. The colors are still just as varied, but it’s obvious he took more time to think about where he was using each one. You can’t help but smile at his small masterpiece.

“It looks great, buddy. I’ll keep it forever,” you tell him. Grogu beams at your praise, excitedly looking over to Mando.

Mando nods at the kid. “Yeah kid, I heard her too.” He turns his head towards you. “Thank you again. I’d take good care of that drawing. He’ll never forgive you if he finds out you got rid of it.”

“Does that mean I’ll be seeing you again?” Your own boldness takes you by surprise. You have no idea where that came from, how those words spilled without a second thought. Part of you is already cringing at Mando’s potential reaction.

He surprises you once again though, holding a hand out for Grogu to take. Shouldering his backpack, you hear an amused huff of air from under the helmet. “Yeah, mesh’la, I’ll see you around.”

There isn’t a chance to reply as Mando turns, escorting his tiny charge out of the room with him. You’re a little dumbstruck, now equally surprised with him as you had been with yourself.

And what was that name he just called you? Mesh’la? You don’t even know what language that could have been, much less the meaning. Something about his tone when he said it tells you it’s a good thing though, that he’s not secretly calling you rude names in some unknown language. You can’t help but wonder if you’ll ever get to find out.

taglist: @honestly-shite

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x you #college!din #college!mando #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #mandocrasis fic #sessions

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starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

Text

Jim and Jody - Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary; it was one of the biggest decisions of your life, but will you change your mind before your future is sealed?

Warnings; angst, mentions of abortion (everyone is permitted to do what they want with their body, in this imagine the reader wants to keep the baby, but pro choice, as everyone deserves control over their bodies and all 🤍), brief mention of sex and threats

Masterlist Link

To see him so relaxed, so completely and utterly himself was a paradise all on its own. There was a heaviness aboard your shoulders, but as you watched him goof tirelessly about, you had no other concerns, not even as you subconsciously raised your hand over your stomach. You shook your head at the sentiment, the two of you had already made the decision to abort this child, it was unknown how the poor fellow would turn out to be; with the combination of your powers and his super everything, it was sure to be quite the complication, and not one that you supposed was to be an easy course.

A smile pried at your face, simply from viewing him with the pack of children, the wind from the docks swept your hair into your face, and in turn, you swept the locks out and away from your vision, so that you had further access to watch the man that you loved in his absolute element. Through the years, past and recent, he had lost so much, and this child was just to be another mantle on the wall of memorial in his mind, it was sad really. If the two of you were normal, with average and lives that had perceptions with no regards of being heroic, there’d be no query about it, you’d keep the baby.

That life though, to your grave misfortune, did not exist, it was merely a fantasy living painfully inside of your mind, haunting you whenever you closed your eyes, with the flashing images of a resolution and end to the errors in your lifestyle. There’d be a big house, yet nothing to prissy, just enough room for the pair of you and few children of your own, a grand garden with a swing set and sand pit, where the infants could grow up and play in once they were older. Then there’d also be a shed for Bucky to work on small projects, such as attaining some love and care to his motor bike, as well as storing the supplies that he’d need to do so.

All that is a universe away, muffled from possibility by the stars expediting through the gorgeous veil of the galaxy, corrupting the possibilities of ever gaining access to such... peace. That was the one thing that the pair of you wanted, however catching a break was rather rare within your predicament. A stifled laugh reeled from the conjunction of your lips as you simply and endearingly surveyed how the boys, specifically Sam’s nephews hung from the vibranium branch of his arm. It was all your attention was focused on, until an extra person took a seat on the picnic table beside you, his sweet yet musky scent detailing whom it was. “If your not going to eat that, I’m sure Barnes Junior might want an opinion on that.”

The underlining of the words caused an abstract grimace to forlorn your features, as you stared not at the speaker of whom you were close with, but instead the slather of cake that was planted on a paper plate before you, the icing beginning to become slightly sick from the beating of the viable son. “You’re glowing, you know? Motherhood is a good look on you y/n/n, I wouldn’t be so soon to let that go.” Your fingers pried at the dismantled crumbs off your section of desert as you looked to your new captain, a resonating conformation fo bridled suffering and hopelessness clouding your view of his attempt at making you atone before you made a sin that you’d forever regret.

He, like many others, knew that the family life was what you wanted; you wanted to be your child’s hero, tending to their each necessary (and unnecessary) need, them being your main focus and project and life. Instead, you had been handed your options on a short stick, and thus, your decision, albeit somewhat of a sensible one, didn’t make it hurt any less. “Sam.” You spoke his name, observing from the corner of your eye how Bucky paraded around the dock with Jim and Jody. It’d be nice to give him a slice of this kinda life, he was thriving as an adult around children, you could only imagine him in the case of this one being birthed into the world. “It’s not that easy.”

“No one said it was going to be easy.” Sam responded quickly, affirming your fears to your nerve wrecked face. “I get it, I do. People will be after this kid, and that is no way to live, but you two aren’t alone in any of this, nor will you be in that. You have me, along with many other old friends of ours, hell even the Wakandan’s. Do you really want to sacrifice this one life so you can continue living this one? You and Bucky have both lost so much, you don’t have to force yourself to willingly give away something else. The decision can be changed the last minute, it’s a lot to take in, I get that, but I see the way Buck is with my nephews, and how you watch them when you think nobody’s looking over at you. With your state pardon, you two can retire, and go far away, and abandon everything for this one little guy or gal, because I know that if you do, no matter what, they’ll be worth it.”

Bucky wailed a warrior’s shout as Jim and Jody playfully struck him down, his unsheathed metal hand grasping at the cloth that was tightly aboard his addictive chest. He rolled on the ground as the children ran to retrieve their toy lightsabers, leaving him to be expendable against their weapons. There was a giddy and fitting smile smouldering his usual stoic expression. It was no wander why he found calm in visiting Sam and his sister’s small, and accepting family. The kids brought out another side of him, which he had been tortured to refrain from showing, but you had seen, and were contemplating many things within your mind. You were lapping up the image, as though you were dehydrated and the sight of him appeased by the company of young ones was a source of water.

Sam was right, he always was and had been. “The decision was on both of our parts, you don’t think Buck’ll change his mind, or do you?” You were invested in getting a responsive answer, yet the man spluttered a laugh at your confused expense. He heaved for a moment, bracing his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. There was nothing stopping him from gaining it back, unlike Bucky whom had grabbed a saber of his own and lightly began to paddle against the one that was directed against him, other than another round of hysterics that abandoned him. A reasonable smile resonated a comfortable position upon the former falcon’s face, as he tentatively patted your knee, watching as you broke off a small rupture of cake and popped it in your mouth, feeding not only yourself but the inmate within your womb.

“There isn’t really much for me to say, it’s easy, look at him. He will be fine with whatever decision that the pair of you succumb to, after all, it’s your body, but it will pain him like nothing else ever has if you go through with the abortion, and if not, then trust me, we’ve both seen how hard he fights; think of that but ten times the mass in consideration of this baby, because I am certain that he’d do anything for them. He lost his entire family when he awoke from his mode of hydra assassin, this could be him getting it back. Different members, but a family all the same.” He stole a little of your cake, making you lightly elbow him as a smirk rendered a beauty upon his face.

“What’s that going to make you, the patriotic uncle who just can’t keep himself from flashing his shield?” Now it was his turn to retaliate, he lightly scuffed your ankle with a feather light tap of the toe of his shoe, causing you to promiscuously roll your eyes. “I’m joking, that was Steve’s aesthetic, this new version of cap is your baby, I have great faith in you to make this world a better and safer place. The funny thing is, when you finally accepted that shield was yours, that’s when my mind shifted to the possibility of keeping this kid. It was and has always been a sign of hope and protection to Bucky, maybe it could be the same for our little one. It was just a thought, I’m not meaning to put pressure on your or anything bu-“

“I get it, and I’m honoured. And if that is how it seems, then I want you to know that I’ll be there to protect them too. The main bump in the road for now is for you to talk to that grumpy ass boyfriend of yours and figure this sperm plus egg equation out, send Jim and Jody over here, I got somethin’ to show those two anyway.” With a nod and a grateful pat upon your friend’s head, you slowly plodded over to where Bucky was being cornered against the side of the truck by the boys. His blue orbs danced around their small and imaginative beings, until they landed on you, it was as though his pupils were calling out for help, begging for you to spare some mercy upon him.

“Jim, Jody, your uncle Sammy has something for you two to see.” They groaned lightly, having been pulled away from the narrative of their play time, but nevertheless their faces were clean slates as they expressed hyper smiles, and bolted their route towards their mother’s sibling, carrying their lightsaber replicas along with them. “Two kids beat an infamous, deadly badass with a metal arm. I think you might be getting too old for these kinda battles Buck, you were losing, and quite terribly if I say so myself.” Crossing your arms, as he came to an upright stand, hoisting himself off the ground, so that he could be more level with you.

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in. Thought you were supposed to be supportive of me and all that, as you said to Zemo, you’d quite happily cut his dick off if he compared me to the shadow that I used to be.” His brow raised, as he reminisced on the thought of you threatening Zemo; it was hot, and certainly had gotten him going, which had shortly left you in this predicament, trying to save the world and execute the one last thing that exhumed hope to either one of you. The baby. It was almost a certain and solid fact that the little one inside of you had been procreated on the Baron’s private jet, more specifically, the small and clean bathroom that had became dirty with your primal sins.

“And I still regret not doing that, he’d have had much less leverage in any sense of the word of phallic if he had it sectioned off.” Silence emitted between the two of you, although a humoured smirk tantalised upon Bucky’s graceful face. For a change, he was not prompting the expression of a grumpy cat that was refused its nip, no, instead he could be compared to a future - actually, he already was a father to the bean held in the shield of your body, having been an ample ingredient in bringing the small person into being. “So, you having fun with Sarah’s kids, sure looks like you were quite in your element before I cut in.”

“I’m always in my element when you’re around doll.” He smiled, wrapping his uncoordinated hands around the oval of your waist, and tugging you sentimentally closer, your hips bumped with his, as your eyes ogled infatuatedly up at him. “They’re great kids, makes me realise exactly what we’re gonna be missing out on.” Bucky gulped, sparks of emotion taunted the behind of his eyes, like saucers of resentful fire. “You’d be the perfect mother, you know that right? After all you’ve done for me, you’ve nurtured me close to the man that I once was, the only difference is that I want to settle, but I don’t know how to go about dropping everything. This kid is killing me, he’s making me question everything.”

“That’s what kids are supposed to do, unborn, or very much avidly attacking grown men with false lightsabers.” Bucky deeply into your frustrated and corresponding eyes, your hands reaching up to play defiantly with the smooth dip in his chin that could be seen through the shading of his light stubble. “What if we did have a Jim and Jody of our own some day? We could keep him or her, they’d be our greatest concern, we don’t have to go down this painful and longing, rusted road. We could bring something good into this world, protect them against all forces that threaten to disrupt their life, I want this with you Bucky. We could move far far away, or go somewhere close to home.”

“Brooklyn.” He stated, causing a line to crease gently in the plain of his forehead. “I want to call them Brooklyn, if I am to fight the rest of my life for something, I want it to be my home. Last time I had to leave there, but it’s my amends to never leave this child of ours, if we’re going to do this, we need to put them in front of everything, and I mean everything.” He spoke, in reference to the other avengers and other aliases that you had stood by for so long. Bleakly you nodded, grasping his jaw down for an amorous kiss, humming against the palette of his lips, as your hands entwined behind his neck, pulling his face closer to your own, prompting his tongue to travel deeper within the realm of your mouth.

“Brooklyn is a nice name. How about Brooklyn Margaret Barnes? I think that has quite the ring to it.” You offered, and he hardly reacted, instead quickly appraising a pleasant smile onto the canvas of his work of art face, as he ducked his head down, conjoining the pair of you into a passionate and meaningful collide of your lips. Sam smiled as he watched the pair of you, pointing at you two from afar, as his nephews from afar. He was giving them a man to men talk, offering them advice that they would have valuable usage of in the future.

“Now that is love. You don’t give up for the one thing that connects you, and those two, well Bucky and y/n have been through a hell of a lot. They deserve this, and when you meet a woman when you’re older, and your mum is watching on towards the two of you, I want you to make her proud by treating your girl like a princess, willing to sacrifice everything simply to create the future that she wishes for you.” He emotionally wiped his eyes, rushing to stand before he grasped a lightsaber, leaving the other to spare for one of them. “Now Jim and Jody, which one of you will be my padawan?”

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detectivejigsawpines · 3 years

Text

Just a Normal Day

A short drabble about sea grunks having an average adventure, written in honor of their birthday.

Even before they got attacked by the Cthulhu beast, it had been a pretty average morning on the sea for the Pines twins.

Wake up at the crack of dawn (Ford) or closer to late morning (Stan); eat breakfast; reset the spell to ward off the vengeful leprechauns who might still be after them for stealing their treasure in case they’d figured out they were chasing a decoy trail by now; do a little late morning fishing, while keeping an eye out for that golden fish Stan was sure he’d seen swimming under their boat last week, and which he was hoping laid golden fish eggs or something; finally notice what time it was (Stan) and head inside to make lunch.

Just another normal day.

Stan was examining their supplies, trying to decide if it was worth breaking out some of the canned hamburger meat and throwing together sloppy Joes instead of making them eat fish again, when he was knocked skiwampus by the boat being yanked to a halt; as he struggled to regain his balance by grabbing onto the table, a vicious, blood-curdling roar came rumbling through the air from outside.

Stan sighed, and wondered if the kraken was back. In one swift motion he grabbed the spare harpoon they had hanging over the door, and stepped out to see if Ford needed help dealing with it.

It wasn’t the kraken.

It still looked like some kinda big octopus monster, though, with a mass of writhing tentacles where its face should be, and a bulbous head in the back just like an octopus body. The rest of it, at least as far as the torso, was kinda like a human’s but a little bigger (about the size of a baby whale), with slimy-looking green-brown skin and a pair of big, wrinkled, wet wings sticking out of its back. Whatever this thing was, it had grabbed onto the back of their boat, and was looming menacingly over Ford as Stan stepped outside.

“...and you are now my prisoners!” he bellowed, as his piercing golden eyes landed on Stan. “Surrender your weapons now, puny mortals, and I might be merciful!!!!”

“Yeesh, did we trespass on his territory or something?” Stan asked, leaning on the harpoon.

Ford shrugged with one shoulder, since he was trying to write in his journal at the same time. “He didn’t really say; he just jumped onboard and started threatening me.”

“Huh.” Stan looked up at the beast. “You the lord of this part of the ocean or whatever?”

The beast blinked-which looked pretty weird, his eyelids went sideways instead of up and down like humans-before nodding vigorously. “Yes! I am the lord of this part of the ocean, and you must surrender to me now, or else suffer my wrath!!!!” He slammed a fist down against the side of the boat, making it rock up and down so hard he had to scrabble to keep his balance. Stan coughed into his fist to hold back a snicker.

Ford tilted his head. “I could have sworn this was still the primary territory of the Manatee-Merfolk Alliance. Are you sure you haven’t made some kind of mistake?”

“What part of prisoners did you not understand?!” the beast demanded, spreading out his wings and shaking them as his tentacles writhed angrily. “Give up your weapons, now-all of them!!!!”

“...You sure you want that? It’s kind of gonna take awhile-”

“NOW, or I crush your boat in my mighty fist!!!!”

Stan glanced at Ford, who rolled his eyes and nodded. With a small sigh, they began disarming themselves.

********

...A minute passed and they were still at it.

Ford’s pile of weapons was almost as tall as he was, mostly consisting of long-range weapons like guns, but with a few vials of poisons and some handcuffs thrown into the mix.

Stan’s pile was more proportionate, but the number of places that weapons were produced from (including a smoke bomb that he’d somehow managed to keep tucked under his beanie) was frighteningly impressive.

The monster watched their progress with increasingly wide eyes; finally, as Stan produced another set of brass knuckles out of a secret pocket sewn onto the inside of his coat, he spluttered, “...Where were you keeping those?”

Stan just grinned shamelessly. “Trust me, sunshine, you don’t wanna know.”

“Okay, I think that’s everything,” Ford said at last, indicating the pile of weaponry.

“Yeah, well, I’m still workin’, gimme a minute.” Stan produced a switchblade, and tossed it onto his pile. Then, in a brief sleight of hand, he snatched another one from the pile and pretended to draw it out of his coat to toss it on next. “Hey, tentacles-face-ya think you could bring us back by Wednesday? We got a Zoom appointment ta keep, and our niece and nephew hate it when we’re late.” Another sleight of hand allowed him to scoop up another weapon.

“That’s not how this-now see here!” The monster drew himself up to his full height, nearly falling backwards off the boat. “You guys-you puny mortals are my prisoners! And as such, you need to understand that this is not a joking matter! I could squash you both like sea slugs if I wished! I’m all-powerful, an eons-old abomination whose very name would send you into madness if spoken aloud! So you better start quaking in fear and begging for mercy like proper captives!!!!”

Stan looked at Ford. “Sounds like we’re his first.” He looked back at the monster. “You’re doin’ great, buddy-good job on the whole threatening schtick.” He offered a thumbs-up, while using the other hand to snag another weapon that he pretended to produce from another hiding spot.

Ford winked at him, and looked back at their ‘captor.’ “Is this some sort of coming-of-age ritual for your species?” He produced his journal again, pen poised. “Very clever move, by the way, threatening our boat to get us to disarm ourselves. In the future, though, I would suggest that you try taking one of us hostage first, in order to create maximum-”

“STOP IT!”

The monster abruptly started pounding his fists against the side of the boat, nearly tipping it over before instead pitching him all the way onto the deck. “YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE THIS! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO-I’M YOUR-IT’S NOT FAIR-!”

It took Stan a moment to realize that the angry noises leaving his mouth (?) were accompanied by the sound of frustrated sobs.

He hissed through his teeth, and shot Ford a guilty look.

“...Oh boy. Looks like we got a little one here.”

********

Stan crossed the boat and crouched down in front of the weeping monster, putting a hand on his back and rubbing the spot right between his wings.

“Deep breaths, in and out. You’re not gonna get anything done like this, so just take a bit ta calm down, okay?”

The monster hiccuped and coughed, shrinking in on himself in a way that was painfully familiar to both of them.

Ford knelt down at his other side. “Maybe if you tell us why this is so important to you, we can provide some assistance?”

The monster shook his head and buried his head in his arms. “I just wanted-hic-to show my friends I could catch the Pines twins all by myself,” he croaked.

The two old men looked at each other in a mixture of surprise and slight alarm. “...You know who we are?”

That was finally enough to get him to sit up, wiping his eyes with his tentacles. “You kidding? Every creature of the seas knows who you are! You’re the guys who beat up krakens and steal gold from leprechauns and then you and your boat vanish without a trace! You’re the coolest cryptids ever!”

It took both of them a moment to digest that. By the time they did, though, they were grinning in equal delight.

“We’re cryptids?!” Ford asked, eyes practically brimming over with overjoyed tears.

“Yeah! And people at school were sayin’ you’re just a myth, but I knew you were real cuz my uncle saw your ship up in the Arctic last winter, and I was gonna capture you and bring you to class to show everyone how wrong they were and then I’d be famous and they’d stop calling me a weird runt all the time!” After a second his wings drooped, and he stared miserably down at the deck. “...Guess it was pretty dumb of me to think I could catch you all by myself.”

Stan put a hand on his shoulder. “...Kid...as much as we wanna help, we can’t just be your prisoners. We got our own lives ta get back to.”

“Plus, neither of us is able to breathe underwater,” Ford added.

The monster sighed, and pulled a strip of kelp from around his neck, turning one of the leaves until it was facing him. He squirted a stream of black ink from one of his tentacles, and dipped the tip of another one into the ink and used it to trace something that looked like a bunch of gobbledygook to Stan onto the leaf. “Humans...don’t...breathe...underwater.”

Awww...he’s a super nerd, just like Ford and Dipper!

That gave Stan an idea.

“Hey.” He nudged the monster. “What about a picture of us instead? Along with genuine proof of a close encounter?”

The monster’s head jerked up. “A picture?! Like with one of those weird magic boxes you humans carry around sometimes?!”

“That’s the one.” Stan grinned. He looked at Ford and jerked his head towards the cabin; his brother took the hint and headed for it, returning with an antique Polaroid camera that Ford had been experimenting on, but still took good pictures.

The monster’s tentacles began writhing around his face like they’d come to life, and he let out a high-pitched squeal of excitement.

“This is the greatest day of my life!!!!”

********

It took a bit of staging and directing and trying out different angles, but eventually they produced a set of photos that appeared to be of an eldritch abomination in training being attacked by, and bravely fighting off, the ferocious monster hunter Pines twins (hopefully nobody would think to ask how and why the monster had managed to get these pictures taken).

Then, while Stan took them into the cabin and soaked them in a special substance Ford had invented that would render them waterproof, Ford sat on the prow next to the young cryptid enthusiast and offered tips on future hunting adventures, comparing notes with him on some of the creatures they’d both seen. He also (with permission) took a few samples from the monster, including a long strip of skin (“Make it look like a wound I got in the fight! Man, this is gonna be so cool, Yog-Sothoth is gonna eat his heart out! Possibly literally!”) and some of the ink from his tentacles.

When Stan came back with the photos, he also handed over one of his spare brass knuckles that had lost a corner. “Have another souvenir, kid.”

The monster’s tentacles lashed out and wrapped around their faces in what felt like a really weird version of a hug before pulling away, leaving them covered in some of the slimy stuff they were coated in.

“Thank you so much! I really really hope the leprechauns don’t catch you-if they come this way I’ll make sure to eat some of them so they won’t!” He waved at them joyfully as he dived back into the ocean and disappeared.

********

After a moment Stan wiped his face on his coat sleeve.

“...Well, that happened.”

He turned away and began gathering up his weapons.

“Such a strange mixture of childlike innocence and barbarity,” Ford mused as he pulled out a jar and gathered the slime into it for yet another sample. “His culture must be fascinating-I almost wish he would have taken us with him so I could have seen it.”

“You would’ve drowned before you could gather any data.”

“...You don’t know that.”

“He literally didn’t know that humans can’t breathe underwater, Sixer. Not gonna happen.”

He ignored Ford’s sulking and kept cleaning, while musing to himself over the possible monetary opportunities being a couple of cryptids could bring...

#gravity falls #sea grunks #stan pines #ford pines #cthulhu doesn't stand a chance #stan just adopting everyone #humor #and fluff (sort of)#drabble ish

83 notes · View notes

sukiglycerin · 4 years

Text

dolce (sweetly, softly, gently)

* pairing: accompanist/violinist!katsuki bakugou x violinist!reader (gender neutral!) ft kamijirou

* genre: fluff, kinda angst, enemies to lovers, classical musician au hehe

* words: 9.5k (holy crap, this was a rollercoaster to write)

* warnings: swearing bc not only does bakugou exist, he is a prominent character, brief viola/second violinist jokes (reader’s words not mine), poor rosins being dropped :(

* a/n: SO this is very late for @prettysetterbaby‘s v-day collab!! pls check out all the other talented writers involved >< jj is an ANGEL for putting up with me being late T_T there’s some violin terminology in here but it’s fine if you don’t understand it! more notes at the end aha

* playlist (spotify in source link): violin sonata no.9, op.47 in a major “kreutzer” (beethoven) ; liebesfreud (kriesler) ; violin partita no.3 in e major (bach) ; duo concertante for 2 violins no.3 in d-sharp major, op.57 (beriot) ; clair de lune (debussy) ; duo for 2 violins in d-major, op.67, no.2 (spohr) ; 24 caprices op.1, no.24 in a minor (paganini)

* synopsis: being a soloist is not made easy by your new accompanist, bakugou. you step on each other’s toes when playing - but that’s alright, he’s just a pianist. you’re separated in your two worlds of musical instruments, until one day, you’re not. bakugou traverses over realms like a simple string crossing, and there’s a lot more he’s brought with him.

a double stop in violin is a technique in which two notes are played simultaneously. played correctly, one violin playing two notes should sound like two violins playing separate notes. if your life was a violin, you only needed double stops to play it. you'd perfected the art of being alone, playing the parts of two in your sad solo sonata. you were so, so sure you could compose and play for the whole orchestra - a symphony that would surely please the audience.

you were wrong. after all, a double stop has its limits as well, impossible to play with an interval of larger than a tenth. you were content with your double stops and playing by yourself. this was how you won countless competitions - what good would changing anything be?

you were born a soloist, or that's what your parents would say. you never followed the crowd, sticking to your own mind and doing what was true to you. you never worked well in an orchestra setting (and who knew what would become of you if you ever landed in second violin!). thus, you became a soloist, determined to keep the spotlight on you. it was you and your perfection that kept the eyes of the audience transfixed; you were desperate to keep their focus enraptured by every slight movement of your bow, every shift in finger position on the fingerboard. you wanted them to follow every dynamic and tempo change like their life depended on it, feel their emotion spark the moment your bow pressed a string. you were the only one on stage, an entertainer and an artist to the audience. you brought joy and sorrow through key changes and wonder through glissandos and held suspense with every tremolo. the audience was yours for an entire piece, for a story, for a lifetime.

oh, and there was the accompanist. what was his name again? batsugou? bakugou. the last part was a joke, of course. you'd never forget the man who ruined your first recital overseas.

katsuki bakugou was quickly made your accompanist after the previous one quit last minute and schedule clashes between any other potential candidates rendered them unable to travel with you. no one in their right mind would've come along on a plane to play a piano accompaniment for you. indeed, bakugou was not in his right mind. his name was prominent locally, an orchestral prodigy with the gift of perfect pitch since the tender age of thirteen. he never ventured internationally, though given the chance multiple times to do so. you could never understand why he never took any of the opportunities. you'd jump at any chance of expanding your musical horizons and performing for a larger audience, so it frustrated you to see someone with such potential to throw away possibly beneficial opportunities. not that you really paid much attention to him, anyway. bakugou was a pianist, and you were a violinist. you only cared about competition, not those with blessings you could only dream of achieving.

the months leading to your recital, bakugou had gone quiet. well, you didn't know him personally, so it was news of him that had gone practically radio silent. he was no longer featured in news articles or even pinned on bulletin boards for upcoming recitals. there were no updates from him on social media, too. not that you really paid attention, anyway. he was a prodigy, gifted naturally with talent, and you were a violinist.

an ambitious violinist, at that. you had dreams to perform anywhere out of the stifling air of japan. even to fly a short distance to south korea would be amazing, because it meant you'd be outside of japan. you worked towards this goal tirelessly. you dreamed of stepping on a plane, violin case in your right hand and your dreams in another, to fly to another country and perform. you wished to see the talent beyond your own bubble and feel the music resonate in an auditorium in a different way than it did in japan.

one day, that dream was realized. your violin case in one hand and dreams in another, you boarded the plane flying out of japan full of hope and the faith that good days were coming. while yes, you didn't expect to step out of that plane with anyone but your old accompanist, momo, bakugou's presence comforted you in the foreign atmosphere. for the first ten minutes, he said not a word to you but made it a point to speak to everyone else he could in what seemed like very convincingly fluent english.

to which you finally mustered up the courage to say, in japanese, "i thought you didn't travel internationally."

his japanese voice was a comforting sound. "i don't. this is my first time out of japan."

you stared at him like he just said he ate babies for breakfast (which seemed just as astronomically insane as him never stepping foot out of japan).

"but-" you stuttered. "your english is so good?"

"only because you can't understand it."

to be fair, he had a point. you could only say the basics, like, "hi," "how are you?", "i'm fine, and you?," and the ever-so useful, "do you speak japanese? my english is not good." he appeared to never use any of these phrases, so he was a god in english compared to you.

it was a miracle you navigated out of the airport with your luggage in hand and a general idea of how to get to the hotel you'd booked. you're not going to talk about the events in the hotel, though. sharing a bed with bakugou was a whole different story that consisted of him complaining about your phone usage at eleven pm and you complaining about his lack of sufficient english skills to be able to get the right hotel room (which he'd retort by saying "at least i speak english!").

the path to your first international competition was rocky, so understandably by the day of the performance, your metaphorical feet were sore and you only had water on your metaphorical mind. that is to say, you hadn't practiced with bakugou once until the day before the performance. said rehearsal was cut short due to misunderstandings as a result of bakugou's apparent not-so-fluency in english. you felt bad for him at this point.

and then you were up on stage, violin in one hand, bow in the other, and arms full of your childhood aspirations. also, definitely not prepared enough. you glanced once at bakugou before beginning and he looked confident enough. the lesson you learned that day was that looks can be deceiving.

something you could remember quite clearly was the way the spotlight shined on the varnish of your instrument as you held it, propped between your chin and shoulder. you focused on this shine before taking a deep breath, closing your eyes, and praying muscle memory would take over and you'd play the piece faithfully to the score.

you liked to think your playing was accurate. you, the soloist, were the main focus of the piece. the accompaniment made the piece richer and fuller, complementing the violin beautifully while keeping attention on said violin. the thing was, bakugou, like you, played like a soloist.

the performance was like a fight, and sadly not the graceful kind you'd see in a ballet. it was gory and a nuance to the ears, melodic tinkling of the piano becoming tears of a soldier dying in combat. at parts, you clashed by overshadowing the other by playing too loudly. sometimes it was you, and sometimes it was bakugou. it was a merciless game of tag; bakugou would be running to keep up with your playing; once achieving so, you were forced to start chasing after him. you can't exactly remember if he played well, though. for certain, he was not in sync with you, but you were mainly too preoccupied with your own playing to pay attention to his. listening to the recording of the performance, you were unable to evaluate his quality of playing properly, and thus, he remained your accompanist even when you returned to japan.

(actually, the biggest reason he stayed your accompanist was because of your classical musician friends' nagging. they were all in complete awe that the famous soloist, katsuki bakugou, had offered to be your accompanist, and begged for an autograph. of course, you declined.)

you figured that like you, bakugou was a soloist. he wasn't fit to assist your playing, far more suited to his own solos to entrance the audience with only his playing. being a soloist, he played like one too - that's simply how things worked. this understanding of him, though, still couldn't stop you from harbouring a small grudge against him for ruining your international debut.

and then there was the man himself, all standoffish and rough in words and persona. obscenities had no hesitation coming (thrust!) from his mouth. he yelled brashly and frequently and it astonished you that he was a classical musician, as most of your friends of the classical music profession were typically on the quiet, softer spoken side. those that were extroverts were optimistically so, in far contrast to bakugou, who you'd expect from looks alone to be playing in some heavy metal band. it was scary to hear his renditions of debussy's dreamy, serendipitous pieces when over your earbuds, he was yelling at some guy named "shitty hair" on his phone. you were curious how he looked recording the piece.

you didn't typically communicate, though. conversation, which only ever existed during rehearsal, was a question from you and a clipped grunt in response. there was nothing else to your relation; he played his part, and you played yours. sometimes you did this simultaneously, but it was as if you were playing two completely different things. performance, according to your friends, was now stilted. this was partially the reason you stopped listening to recorded performances. it wasn’t even like you’d ever derived pleasure from listening to them - you only nitpicked your mistakes.

your old accompanist, momo, on the other hand, was an absolute angel. she was kind, polite, and skilled on the piano, fingers dancing over the keys like a graceful ballet. you fit well with her; each performance was like a delightful conversation between friends, pleasant on the ears and twinkling with joy and laughter. with her, every performance felt like something resembling victory, even if it wasn’t a competition. to you, winning the audience’s gaze was enough.

then again, you didn't feel that you could judge quite yet. momo was your accompanist for years, and you could barely remember how the two of you sounded when you first started out. bakugou had been your accompanist for mere months (though it did feel much, much longer considering how frustrating he could be). you couldn't understand why he became your accompanist at all.

opposites. it was an accurate representation of your relationship with bakugou. he was a pianist, you weren't. he was a prodigy, you weren't. he was blessed with talent, you weren't. there was nothing to talk to him about, obviously, because of these dividing factors.

the longer you knew him, the more your disdain for the man grew. at rehearsals, it always felt like your performances were about him, him, and him. he was the star piano player, of course. he hadn't volunteered to be your accompanist as a sense of "stepping down"; no, no, rather, he was flaunting his piano playing with a violin playing in the background. he played perfectly. for a soloist.

as time passed, these frustrations with him became more and more apparent. you became acutely aware of how his performance would outshine your own, and it sickened you. slowly, the quality of your own performances took a nosedive. if the piece was originally pianissimo, you'd take it up to piano (then, if bakugou increased his volume, forte). if the tempo was andante and he was playing moderato, you'd play allegro. it was a competition at this point - instigated by him, of course. you were just upping the ante, even if it meant sacrificing your own artistry.

a lot of people warned you of what would happen, but you ignored them. the fierce competition you felt between you and bakugou caused your own downfall as a musician. slowly, gigs stopped trickling in, like a faucet being shut off. you blamed this on bakugou. ("i was international before him. now, i can barely get a gig in musutafu! why does everyone think he's so great?" you had fumed over the phone to jirou, your old roommate from university. she asked you if you had even listened to him play.)

you were scrambling for places to perform at this point. (“fire him,” the very unhelpful hagakure told you. you didn’t know what you were thinking when you asked her, a violist in a local orchestra. it wasn’t like she ever got a solo.) you’d seriously considered doing so, but came up empty when looking for another accompanist. online forums and friends’ connections could only do so much. they were all either unavailable during rehearsal schedules or inadequate in terms of adapting to the music given.

“you need to try working together with him,” jirou advised you one day over the phone.

“yeah, say that to yourself and kaminari,” you muttered bitterly under your breath. kaminari was a guitarist in jirou’s band who hadn’t quite gotten along with jirou well. jirou made fun of the lightning bolt streak in his hair. when you first met them, all they did was bicker day and night; now, according to the other guitarist, tokoyami, they still did this, though on a smaller scale.

she heard you. “well,” jirou said, slightly ticked off, “we get along better now. because of communication. look- i’m not saying you need to be best friends with bakugou or anything, but you need to talk to him about what’s working and what’s not. respect him as another musician, y’know?”

“i’ll… try,” you said begrudgingly.

you heard a muffled yell from the other side of the call. “kaminari, you idiot!” jirou called, voice a bit far. “what did i tell you about plugging in the amp? i said not to-” she cut herself off. “sorry, y/n, i need to go now. kaminari’s back to his normal antics.” she sighed, but it sounded more endeared than irritated. the call ended.

respect bakugou as another musician. you could do that. bakugou was only a pianist. you were a violinist. he was your accompanist. he was to support your playing. you’d forever be separated from him, doing your own thing. he, certainly, couldn’t understand the woes of being a violinist. not the intonation nor the techniques; you were sure that if you handed him a violin on the spot, he wouldn’t be able to even hold the bow properly. the notion of bakugou, piano prodigy, struggling to make a decent sound on the violin with a bow clenched in an ungainly grip deeply amused you.

these thoughts kept your relationship with bakugou afloat and restrained you from strangling him every time he stepped a toe out of line during rehearsals. ploddingly, with as minimal communication as you could manage, you tried to play with bakugou together, as a duet rather than as two soloists playing simultaneously. you swallowed your pride to play accurately to the music, patiently explaining any qualms you had with bakugou’s playing.

eventually, you found yourself building up your performances to the quality they had once been with momo. it was still far from the pristine playing that led you to an international invite - but it was an improvement, and that was all that mattered to you. innately, you were slightly ashamed of the thoughts that allowed you to keep working with bakugou. they were thoughts that told of your superiority to him, because he was playing piano for you. that’s all he was; an accompaniment to you. you told yourself that having these thoughts on the inside was better than fighting with bakugou.

somehow, along the strings of notes slurred together and shifts of fingers from one spot on a string to the next, you found yourself experiencing a strange joy gliding your bow against the strings of your violin. the rich sound of your instrument, withering and blooming with every stroke of vibrato you performed, fulfilled you unlike how it ever had before. up until now, you’d been playing for the audience, rather than yourself. the melody reverberating in the hollow body of your violin was never for your own ears to enjoy, it was for the audience’s satisfaction and listening pleasure. for it was their own enjoyment that won you competition after competition, playing with a blank face. on some occasions, you’d open your eyes during the applause to see some audience members crying, which ultimately confused you. how you were able to draw emotions from them with your playing when the music was unable to render you anything but indifferent?

you knew it in yourself, though, that the happiness you felt was hollow. delightful notes supposed to boast joy and love echoed in the rehearsal room, falling flat on your ears.

you were a soloist, though. you couldn’t let thoughts like these get to you. you could only play, for both your pride and your audience. these woes were for you to shoulder, on top of the violin you held between your chin and collarbone.

“you’re here early,” bakugou commented one day, opening the door to your shared rehearsal room. tucked under one arm was his folder of sheet music. he caught you in the middle of practicing one of the pieces for a gig - liebesfreud, by fritz kreisler.

it was true. the morning sun basked the window sill and laminate flooring, warming the particular spots it shone through. you’d arrived an hour or so early. pleased by the bright nature of the morning, you pulled up the blinds. typically, you ran late, arriving ten minutes after bakugou’s text of “you’re late again, idiot” with a coffee and a bagel in your hands. those mornings, you were really grateful for having a case with backpack straps. if you hadn’t the time to eat your bagel on the way to rehearsal, it was cold and hard by the time you had a lunch break.

thankfully, today was not one of those days. whether it was the sun or the title of the piece (“love’s joy,” how wonderful), you’d woken up and decided that today, you’d have a warm and soft bagel for breakfast. you had a coupon for a free coffee and surprisingly, the commute to rehearsals was more punctual than usual. thus, you arrived an hour early, a smile on your face as you opened the door. you opened your case with extra care and rosined your bow with extra zest, humming a tune you heard playing on the radio. bakugou would’ve had a heart attack had he saw you then.

you ignored his entrance, only peeping one eye open at the man and nodding your head toward the piano as you continued on with the piece. you allowed yourself to become immersed in the music, following the soft pace bakugou set in his playing. closing your eyes, you saw the audience before you and felt your fingers sliding and pressing the strings. time flew while playing the piece; you’d barely noticed that the piece was nearing its end, playing its familiar melody one last time before opening your eyes. a glance at the rosin dusted in between the bridge and fingerboard of your violin satisfied you, like salt on caramel. you surely played just as sweet, smooth and saccharine like the gooey texture of a caramel confection. you relished in the sunlight streaming through into the room, ignoring the shuffling of papers behind you (from bakugou, no doubt). that was how you should play.

“something’s off,” you blearily opened your eyes to the sound of bakugou’s gruff voice. he was frowning, eyebrows furrowed in a not atypical manner.

“what,” you said flatly. “it sounded fine to me. i didn’t mess up or anything.”

“no,” he replied, deep in thought, crimson eyes darkening a shade. “we don’t have proper… emotion in the music.”

“huh?” you felt a comical question mark rising out of your head. “i played it perfectly to score. it conveys the composer’s emotions to a t,” you said, getting annoyed with the pianist. your grip tightened on your violin’s neck.

“well- yeah,” he gritted his teeth. “but what about your emotions?”

“who cares about my emotions?” you said. “all that matters is that my playing is perfect. the audience feels the emotions, not me.” why else had you been plucked into violin lessons when you were five? surely not for your own enjoyment.

“idiot, that’s definitely not how it is.”

“it’s just violin playing!” you snapped. “it’s not complicated with- with emotions! it’s the same as anything else!”

“you’re wrong,” bakugou coldly answered.

“what would you understand?” you seethed. “you’re just a damn pianist. you follow my lead.”

he ignored your remarks. “why do you play a fucking instrument, then? why bother to enter competitions or recitals?”

“to win, like any other normal person!”

he let out a clipped, exasperated breath. “fuckin’ explains it, then.” he didn’t elaborate. dismissing the topic, he said, “whatever. play the piece from the top. actually try to look at me this time, so we can stay together. put more emphasis on the downbeat at the start.”

“it’s not like you even heard me play the beginning,” you retorted, but made sure to accent that note even more during the replay. pianists. they always were on their high horses.

something you looked forward to every year was the valentine’s recital. the organizers, an old couple, had known you since you were a child, and thus developed a soft spot for you. you were a shoo-in for the event, relied on to learn the music on a short deadline. last year, you played preludio, from bach’s partita for violin no. 3. this year, though, the catch was weird.

“the letter says it’s a violin duet?” you said to jirou while video calling her. “i don’t have a violinist on hand, just a pianist. it’s not like bakugou can suddenly master violin.”

jirou looked at you with a surprised expression. “you don’t know?”

you stared back at her. “know what?”

“he plays violin, too.”

“huh?” you must’ve misheard her.

she nodded. “he’s pretty good, too. have you not seen the videos?”

“videos?" your eyes widened as you soon realized the implications of bakugou harbouring an aptitude for violin. "i’ve… i’ve got to go.”

“he’s as good as you, y/n,” jirou said with a knowing smile. you were quick to press the hang up button.

five seconds into teenage bakugou’s rendition of one of paganini’s caprices, you exited youtube.

the next day, you kicked open the door to the practice room.

“you,” you pointed a finger at bakugou, who sat at the piano midway through a piece.

“what is it now, dumbass? you’re late again.”

“shut up,” you grumbled. “that’s beside the point. you- you play violin?!”

he shrugged, not avoiding your piercing gaze. “i’ve dabbled in it, yes.”

you shut the door behind you. “and why did you never tell me?!”

“tch. you never asked, did you?”

“you’re my accompanist, i should know these things!”

“you know i play piano, and that’s enough,” bakugou said stubbornly. “i only play piano with you.”

“not anymore.” setting your violin case down, you shuffled through the pocket that held your sheet music. flipping out a packet of sheet music, you thrust it in bakugou’s direction. “here.”

he grabbed the sheets from you, skimming the title. “duo for two violins in…. fuck,” he muttered. “why didn’t you just say no? who even is this from?”

“valentine’s recital. the pay’s good, bakugou, and we need it.”

“you need it,” he mumbled bitterly, holding the sheets out for you. “i don’t.”

“it’s not like i’m happy about it either. since when were you a violinist?”

“since when was it any of your damn business?”

"you're supposed to be my pianist! not anything else!"

you didn’t understand how he could be so musically inclined. you blinked, and your sight smeared, blurring the sight of your feet with the laminate flooring. this wasn't right, you thought as you felt a telltale heat creeping up you. why were you crying now?

if there was one thing you prided yourself on, it was your violin playing. it seemed to be the only thing you were good at as a child when academics and athletics failed you. sure, you hated it at first (as most children did when their parents forced them to do something), but as time went on, the applause of the audience and the title of "winner" rewarded you enough. you were no prodigy, so you worked endlessly every day to prove yourself worthy. you never understood how you'd worked so hard only to be in the shadows of others so naturally gifted who surely would never understand how much you practiced to become better.

when it came to bakugou, he was never supposed to be better. he was your pianist, talented in a completely different musical realm than your own, so he could never be superior to you - and now he wasn't. he never was. here you were for the past year or so, looking like a fool in bakugou's eyes. on the days you struggled so hard with fourth finger vibrato, he was probably laughing at your inadequacy at violin. as easily as he played the violin, katsuki bakugou played you like a fool.

everything collided when you stepped out of the room, leaving a particular golden haired boy alone to stare at the sheet music you tossed him. your head throbbed with the groggy sensation of almost-tears and anger coursed through your veins.

you couldn't back out of the recital now. you couldn't.

you couldn't stand to look back into the vermillion eyes of katsuki bakugou now. even more so now, you couldn't.

your solution?

"hey, what's up?" jirou's collected voice filled your ear, your phone pressed to it.

"hey, kyo, i… kind of did a bad thing," you said, feeling jittery as you sought a commute home. you'd already made up your mind that your sorry-ass wouldn't be able to look bakugou back in the face for the rest of the day.

"...again?" she asked, tone concealing a hint of surprise. "don't tell me it was with bakugou. don't you usually practice now?"

"...usually, yes…" you sheepishly shuffled your feet, standing outside on the sidewalk. "i'll be resuming it again, 'course, when i get home…"

"why aren't you with bakugou right now?"

"that's… that's a long story," you laughed nervously.

"i can wait," jirou coolly replied. "kaminari got his foot stuck in his guitar case - don't ask - so i have time."

you considered asking about kaminari, then thought better of it.

"you know about the valentine's day recital they have every year? well, this year…" you recounted the events that led you to now, standing outside on the phone with jirou.

"where are you going to find a violinist?"

a silence found itself opportune as jirou waited for an answer. "i'm, uh, not…?" you said, deflecting the question back to jirou.

"well, you can't play both parts in the duet, can you? actually, don't answer that. i know you'd try. didn't you try that one time in-"

"what's done in uni stays in uni," you hushed her before she could recall that one time you tried to play a sonata with a recording of yourself. "aren't you going to tell me to try to make amends with bakugou?"

"no," she said thoughtfully after a pause. "you've tried before, and it's not working for you. i don't think you should be forced to do something you obviously don't want to do. i just think," she continued, "you need to find someone to do the duet with, if you don't want to work with bakugou. but objectively, he's your best bet."

as jirou always was, she was right. you thanked her for her advice not before hearing a distraught kaminari shouting for jirou in the background, and then she ended the call.

you repeated her words in your head once you got home, sliding your bow back and forth on your small block of worn rosin. the score for the duet was spread next to you on the floor. it wasn't that you didn't want to work with bakugou. or was it? had you been that selfish all along, sabotaging other performances because you didn't like him? if even jirou had noticed it, had bakugou noticed it too?

your sigh let out a thousand burdens piled up in your mind, blowing air out like dust accumulating on your tribulations. you picked up your violin and bow thoughtlessly, testing out the strings and plucking a couple with your left hand.

was it really only you with the contempt for working with bakugou? you'd assumed mutual hatred with him after your international debut, but had it really been so? had you been the only one picking fights during the time you'd worked together? as you backtracked, your fingers slipped into a familiar position. you began a piece you knew positively by heart, an absolute favorite of yours for years. you played mindlessly, serenading yourself with familiar notes and string fingerings as you thought long and hard about bakugou. how much shit had you given bakugou? he hardly complained, too, but why? why hadn't he quit after you'd been so ceaselessly difficult with him?

why were you so angry at bakugou, a gifted prodigy since childhood? the answer found itself as the composition descended into an array of complicated fingerings and string changes, sounding like an incoherent chaos somehow strung together by the music. you pretended you didn't know the answer.

it was much, much easier to leave bakugou as just a pianist. respectable in his own field, and incomparable to you. it was too good to be true, obviously. all your life, you played to win, and couldn't allow anyone else to surpass you. violin was about winning, winning, winning. how were you supposed to cope when all those hours of practice were easily overcome by someone with innate talent?

the piece eased your tension with a fermata, drawing out your vibrato to think. bakugou's perfection infuriated you, you concluded. knowing this, though, didn't help with anything. you almost screeched the last note as the composition came to an end, unsettled by thoughts of bakugou. you really couldn't stand him.

in an attempt to distract yourself from your dilemma, you decided to start practicing the recital composition. you pulled out an old portable music stand, bending the parts into place and stacking it up. carefully, you placed the sheets on the stand and skimmed over the music, bringing your violin up to your collarbone.

your eyes followed one measure ahead of what you were playing as you sight-read the piece. ahead, ahead, was all you could think as your fingers fumbled the notes, eyes moving from the score to the fingerboard. bakugou was far from your mind as you caught up to the music, too preoccupied with the sharps and flats you'd forgotten and the time you had to keep. you were busied by the shifts and the repeat signs in the music over anything else. your priority lay here for the time being, after all. the sight-reading was almost enough to make you forget you only play one half to a duet. there was still still an emptiness that lurked between the rests and the redundant beats that even your stilted practice couldn't mask. you tried not to worry about that, though.

time floated by as you repeated the piece over and over, playing for accuracy first. it wasn't enough, but you pretended it was. the metronome on your phone ticked away like time, endless and impatient, until you couldn't stand it anymore and packed away your violin.

the proceeding day was filled with more of the same practicing, working on tweaking hesitations and polishing up your playing. it was kind of convenient, practicing at home rather than waking up early to practice with bakugou. you missed the bagel the most.

you were definitely not playing your best, and it was clear by the way your bow occasionally screeched and how you fumbled the fingerings when you were particularly negligent. the piece just didn't sound right without the second part. (bakugou was definitely not the second part missing. not at all.)

by the third day you gave up and admitted to yourself that yes, bakugou was the second part missing. you were only a little bit miserable buying your usual bagel and coffee and rushing to rehearsals fifteen minutes late, aware that you'd be unable to eat it before practice. you were substantially less miserable than how you were the day previous, practicing alone.

you weren't surprised to see bakugou already there, sitting on the piano bench and tightening his bow hairs. he acknowledged you with a grunt as you set down your breakfast and beverage.

"showed up, huh?" he said finally, voice rough. he stood up, setting his sheet music on a stand. you stared at him, awed by his nonchalance. he picked up his violin and bow (which, by the way, looked super expensive) and propped his violin up by his chin. it felt so foreign to see him in position to play violin, fingers already expertly in first position and wrist beautifully curved, yet it inexplicably clicked. the scene in front of you looked like he'd done this everyday, as it was always supposed to have been, his back confidently straight. his fingers arched over the fingerboard and his bow appeared mathematically parallel to the bridge, held delicately between his fingers. you'd never carefully watched him play piano (probably due to your distaste to him and lack of knowledge about the percussion instrument), but he made the violin look like an instrument of the gods. he hesitated, though, bow moving a centimeter then back. he frowned at your idle silence and turned back to you. "well? are we doing this duet or not?"

"oh," you reacted intelligently. "yeah. yeah." it kicked in what you were doing by the time you'd started tuning your violin, first bowing your a string. after tuning your violin (with the help of a tuning fork and none from the perfect-pitched bastard bakugou, who appeared to be watching you with a triumphant gleam in his eyes as you struggled to tune your violin properly), you set your sheet music next to bakugou's.

"ready?" you asked, as if you'd been the one waiting for bakugou all this time.

"ask yourself that," he snorted. "i'll do the count."

you nodded.

"one, two, three, f-"

"wait, wait," you said, squinting at your music. "isn't it supposed to be a bit slower than that?"

"it says allegro," bakugou said, tapping his foot. "need an italian lesson? lively, briskly."

"i know what allegro means," you gritted. "seems too fast, when paired with dolce."

"maybe for you," he smirked.

you narrowed your eyes at him. "and that means what, exactly?"

he opened his mouth to reply some smug, smart-ass answer, but you stopped him.

"nevermind," you said. "do the count again, at the same tempo. i can do it."

you were bluffing, of course. since when was allegro this fast? you wondered as the opening notes sped by you in a musical blur. already familiar with the melody, you messed up dynamics the most. of crescendos and diminuendos? it wasn't like bakugou would notice, too preoccupied with his part.

the ending of the piece took your breath away, storming toward you in a whirlwind. adrenaline filled your veins as you raced to the last measure of the music, overcome by the tempo and the music. this time, full of energy and exhilaration, the piece felt complete. your and bakugou's sound surrounded the two of you, overflowing the room with a saccharine melody. it felt right simply standing beside him playing a two part piece, chest heaving from the piece's energy. you could only hear your breathing, a gentle encore to your playing.

"your playing is sloppy," bakugou said bluntly. he leaned over to your sheet music, starting to point at dynamic markings.

you swatted his hand away before he could say a word. "yeah, well, i just got the music three days ago," you interjected.

"you also had two of the three days off, so i'd say you're not doing enough." he glanced back down at your score. he pointed at a measure. "this is a crescendo, moron, why didn't you get much louder?"

"just- pay attention to your own music!" you said. "besides, it's dolce. i can get away with playing softer."

"that wasn't very dolce to me," he argued. "nothing sweet, soft, or gentle about that," he mumbled.

"i can be sweet, soft, and gentle if i want to!" you retorted.

he raised a brow, as if a challenge, scarlet eyes glinting in the light. "tch. i'm sure you can, but your playing damn can't."

“it can, too! listen,” you said, impetuously raising your violin and bow again. you slowly started to play a d major scale, impatiently scrunching your nose and squeezing your eyes shut to concentrate on making the music soft and gentle, tampering with different degrees of vibrato and bow pressure.

“... that’s just piano,” bakugou said, moving to you as you bowed an a. your bow came to an abrupt halt, making an unpleasant squeal, as bakugou positioned himself behind you. you felt his body warmth radiating behind you as a sweet, homely scent wafted around you. he brought his arms around you, hands overlapping where you held your violin and bow.

“you need to be,” he murmured into your ear, gentle tone almost slurring the words together, "fragile when you play dolce." he angled your bow slightly, moving your hand. "bow closer to the fingerboard." the smooth baritone of his voice resonated within you, becoming lost within the violinist's embrace.

"most of all," he said, dropping an octave to an intimate tone, "you need to feel it. you can attempt to play it, but without feeling, it's fuckin’ meaningless."

"feeling?" you repeated blankly. “the audience’s, you mean.”

he stepped away, a gesture that made you breathless, and shook his head. he crossed his arms over his chest, unintentionally accentuating their volume. “your damn feelings. what do you feel when playing the piece?”

there’s a pause for perhaps a second too long, as you mulled over different answers in your head.

“tch.” his eyes don’t leave you, gaze a laser burning into you. “‘s what i thought. why do you play violin?”

you held your tongue from answering my parents. “to win. i play to win,” you stated.

“and that’s the damn problem,” bakugou said, releasing a breath of frustrated air. “you win to play.”

“that means…?” you were starting to get impatient with the man, who seemed to be stalling and dragging out your limited time.

“you win competitions to play more.”

you almost scoffed, but his words were plausible. “what’s the purpose in playing more if not to win?”

he made a scratching noise in his throat, cool demeanor shifting to that of the bakugou you knew. “l-l-” he coughed, “love.”

“love?” you repeated, the word a surprise to swallow.

he nodded, gagging on his reply. you couldn’t see bakugou as the romantic type - the same bakugou who called all of his friends demeaning nicknames and could barely say the word love out loud. he was explosive, maybe, and talented, sure - but acquainted with love? you pursed your lips at the stuttering man trying to advise you.

“whatever,” he dismissed, voice oddly hoarse. “just play it from the top. fix the dynamics.”

weeks passed in a blur, though bakugou’s advice was left unforgotten. it had, for the most part, faded from your mind but lingered like a ghost in an abandoned attic, stirring up dust in complete silence. it was valid criticism on bakugou’s part, but the problem was that it was criticism you couldn’t digest. it was a ghost that you could not rid of, whispering and lurking until your music played over it.

four weeks before the performance, you had the piece almost entirely memorized other than a few flukes here and there. you managed most of your dynamics, playing in sync with bakugou by your side. three weeks and the piece was mostly smooth, foregoing all sheet music and practicing in the middle of the room with bakugou tapping out the tempo on the honeyed floor. any mistakes were recovered from quickly, and you were pleased to say that the amount of bakugou’s slip-ups equated to yours. at two weeks, though, he brought up the pest bugging your mind.

“play with more emotion,” he sighed exasperatedly, letting out a huff as you played for him. “start on f sharp again.”

you’d tried time and time again, but the longer you’d replayed the same few measures (followed by his criticism for the nth time), the only emotion you felt was frustration. your bow would push too hard or your vibrato would lay on thick, immensely irritating bakugou. you didn’t know why he even tried.

the air felt stale and the lights shone obnoxiously bright. the pads of your left hand fingers had hardened by now, indented with a pair of parallel lines from your unforgiving violin strings. you inhaled rosin dust and occasional bow hairs miserably dropped to the floor. your arms were tired, sore, and sick of playing; your ears painfully endured the same tune again and again, the originally fluid and sweet notes becoming high frequency static.

“i can’t do this.” you were tempted to flop onto the ground, hopelessness pouring over you.

“you can,” bakugou insisted stubbornly. “you just need to try harder.”

“harder?” you would’ve snapped (and you were surprised your e string didn’t already by the repetitive motions on it) if you weren’t so exhausted from rehearsing.

he nodded like it was obvious. “try harder.”

you shakily inhaled, trying to smooth your voice over. “i’m sorry i can’t be a prodigy like you.”

he stiffened, tense to the point of trembling. “whatever,” and it was a strained word pulled from his mouth. it was very atypical for him to give up like this, but you didn't care. you avoided his eyes as you restarted the piece, unable to bloom anything from it.

outside of your rehearsal time, you practiced. arguably, your solo rehearsals were more rigorous. you forced yourself to add emotion to the piece, sometimes playing for jirou. she agreed with bakugou (though was a great deal less irritating), stating that your playing was somewhat hollow. (you restrained yourself from knocking on the instrument and saying that yes, indeed, violins were hollow.)

"how… how do you get any emotions from playing?" you asked jirou at one point, watching one of her band's rehearsals. they were on a break, chatting idly and taking sips from their water bottles.

“well…” jirou started, glancing back at her band members. “i think about the feelings i want the audience to feel because of my songs. i think about how the song makes me feel, then i put that into how i play.”

“how do you…” you shifted uncomfortably, “know what to feel?”

she looked at you, taken aback, but replied easily. “you don’t. it just… happens.”

her response was vastly different than what you’d been taught a child. emotions? sure, there was perhaps a time where playing evoked a feeling in you, plucked something melodical from your heartstrings. it was when you were a child, though, so it was irrational and erratic, an outburst in the middle of your otherwise level playing. your violin teacher didn’t approve when you’d follow how the music made you feel. she said it made you stray too far from the original piece and would make you lose competitions. no matter how you pushed back against her, her advice haunted you over and over every time you got anything other than first place.

your performance is the audience, she’d told you. you didn’t understand what she meant at first, but she made sure you did while practicing for your next rehearsals. the audience, she quipped with thin lips under her sharp eyes, is everything. if the audience wasn’t satisfied, your performance was worthless, no matter how well you played technically. you play for them and you win - it was that plain. there was nothing more than you wanted but to win, at the time. you wanted a trophy, a medal, a certificate stating that you were better than most. it was palpable evidence that you were good enough - for your parents, your peers, anyone. like that, you practiced, a servant for approval. you weren’t a prodigy, but you sure as hell would try to play like one. her advice worked for over a decade, soundly racking you up with countless awards that filled your otherwise desolate self-esteem.

you didn’t say anything else to jirou about it, instead thinking about the bits and pieces of human feeling you could extract in between your piece’s accidentals and eighth notes. perhaps there was a possibility, through the phrases of notes and dynamic markings, you’d find a word that said love. a renewed interest sparked itself when jirou’s band continued their rehearsals, finding yourself to be a normal audience member (maybe even crying at the end. maybe).

you returned home to practice, practice, practice, coercing any hidden message in the music to vibrate in your violin and echo around your room. you watched other renditions of the piece to find something you were missing, but imitating them didn’t seem right. this continued for the following weeks, hiding any potential development from bakugou (or trying to, at least). you knew you’d be disappointing him if you failed after trying so hard. it was only safe to play what you knew, secure in the written parts of the composition and keeping it at that.

by the time the performance came around, you were glad bakugou never found out about your secret efforts. if he had, you knew he’d be sorely dispirited by your lack of tangible progress, your sound just as hollow as the soundbox of your violin. you failed, you knew, and as crestfallen as you were on that cold february morning, the show must go on.

the performances were held in an auditorium, warm compared to the snowy wonderland outside. it was typically couples comprising the audience, all romantic and pepped up in the spirit of valentine's day (white day was no different). some arrived early, finding seats in the empty auditorium and chatting amongst themselves (or sometimes making out, which made you want to throw your violin at them and gag). bakugou’s and your performance was last; it quite the heavy honor to play the finale to the recital.

backstage was a vast contrast to the hushed atmosphere settled over the assemblage. hovering over the staff and performers for the day was a sense of panic, hurry, and hecticness. bits of rosin were scattered on the ground where you prepared for your rehearsal, some belonging to your block and others not. your pack of extra strings lay next to you on the sofa you sat on, arm resting on the side of the seat. similar to your violin's strings, spun tightly over pegs to be kept in place, you felt high-strung. the buzz of energetic excitement flitted in your head, knee bumping up and down and jerking your violin in the same motion. it was hard to calm when you tuned your violin to absolute perfection, relying on bakugou's perfect pitch to do so. the fine tuners on the end of your strings probably hadn't had a harder time in the years you'd owned your violin.

"you're shaking the entire sofa, idiot," bakugou deadpanned next to you. “some of us are trying to rosin our bow, unlike you.” he glanced at the floor, where amber shards of rosin lay amidst white dust (also made of rosin).

“to be fair, most of those aren’t mine,” you pointed out. you reached into your violin case, finding the rectangular case of rosin and opening the top. "mine's only chipped in a couple corners, and the rest is just worn on the edges from my bow."

you leaned over to look at bakugou's rosin, two stubs in its case. "and i'm the one dropping my rosin?"

his ears turned a deep red, matching the velvet curtains on stage. "that's different," he muttered, putting the lid on his rosin and putting it away.

"you ready?" you watched him swallow before speaking, not looking at you. you could hear one of the presenters speaking, introducing the first piece to be played (an ever-so romantic rendition of clair de lune), but the voices felt distant and muffled over the sound of your own nervous heart beating.

"yeah," he replied. he turned to look at you, scarlet eyes meeting your own. "what, you're not scared now, are you, dumbass?"

you gulped. "no… just excited," you said. in truth, you felt disappointed in yourself for being unable to find any emotion in your playing - thinking about the piece, you were devoid of anything but the measures and the notes. what was the piece trying to say in the white space between staff lines? after the clef at the beginning of the music, where did the emotions start and everything else end?

quiet notes, twinkling from the piano on stage, met your ears. you took a deep breath. how did they make you feel?

…not very good, because this pianist was certainly a beat or two off tempo. a large hand on your knee startled you out of your trance. its warmth was surprisingly comforting. you followed the arm connecting to the hand to meet bakugou's concentrated face, eyebrows furrowed and nose scrunched.

"don't shake your knee like that. also, why are you so damn cold?" he moved his hand away, leaving an imprint of heat on your knee. you hadn't noticed the physical manifestation of your nerves prior to bakugou's words.

you left his question unanswered, staring at your violin in your lap. you traced the patterns in wood, fingers following the shape of the f-hole and thumbing circles on your chin rest. how were you supposed to be able to pull living, breathing life in the form of emotions from an inanimate object? what sorcery were you supposed to manage to satisfy yourself and the audience?

you thought back to bakugou's words. what was it had he said you were supposed to be playing for? love, the irrational and sentimental flaw of life - somehow expressed from the symbols on a sheet of paper and through strings on hollow wood. what sort of miracle was bakugou creating with his music?

what was violin, if not just a task to do everyday? what was it, out of competitions and tests of skill? what was the sound reverberating within its vacant body, recording every shift of fingers on the fingerboard?

you looked past your violin to the rosin on the floor. friction, your violin teacher had explained to you. you put rosin on your bow so it creates friction with the strings, and thus creates sound. it was strange how friction caused the smooth sound of a violin. too much friction, added by pressure on the bow, made a creaky sound on the strings. without rosin, the bow would be too smooth on the string and make no noise at all. the happy medium of not too much and not too little created the familiar rich tone on the strings.

a happy medium, you mused. in between too much friction and none at all. maybe that was how you were supposed to feel, in between trying too hard and not trying at all. that's what feelings were in the end, right? a natural human instinct, spurred by life. could you breathe life into the music?

the stage seemed almost too big for the two of you, spotlights centering you on the wide, wooden platform. the crowd's eyes were on you and your fellow violinist, some watching with drooping eyelids. they felt far, distant under the shadows. even so, the question still besieged you - would you please them?

you teared your eyes away to bakugou, who started the count. everything was silent until he nodded to you, your cue to start the piece. it felt too fast when you began but it was the same allegro you’d been practicing with. muscle memory took control now, your fingers finding their places easily.

your fingers and bow took all your attention. everything else fell away - the lights, the crowd, the stage - until it was just you, your violin, and the music. you could practically see the score in your head, playing the notes you'd come to know so well.

you heard your music echo and resound off the walls, but that's all it seemed to do. it touched everyone in the room, looking for a place to stay, and diminished in an empty space alone. it frustrated you that it wouldn't resonate - where was the love bakugou had so told you of? this auditorium was no different than your room, where sounds bounced off walls and landed nowhere. you weren't reaching anywhere or anyone, lacking emotion and any true substance.

love - what was love if not a hindrance? how could bakugou expect so much out of you? love - had you ever felt it for the violin? dolce told you to play sweetly, softly, and gently, but what was sweet about the violin? what was so sweet about the imprints of strings on your fingers, fragmented rosin at your feet, and bruises on your neck from long hours of practice? what was gentle about the arduous replaying of the same measure, the ringing in your ears after playing to master a simple phrase? what was soft about the forte that rang in your head, the fortissimo that filled a performance and clouded your senses?

dolce filled you like an epiphany, euphoric in your eyes that finally opened and awakened. dolce was in bakugou's eyes, soft velvet like the crimson curtains onstage, downcast at his violin. dolce was in his sound as his bow skittered near the fingerboard, in his fingers sliding back and forth on his a string. dolce was in his grasp of his bow and violin, in the very essence he played the violin with. dolce contradicted everything you knew, reminding you of bakugou's soft hands over yours, guiding your fingers and bow. dolce was the morning light streaming into the practice room as you argued with bakugou over tempos and notes, the light glinting on shattered shards of rosin as you anxiously rosined your bow. dolce was the curve of your violin scroll, the bend of your fingers over your bow's frog. dolce was the white space in between staff lines on your sheet music and through half and whole notes. dolce was everything in between the rough of your violin experience, the laughter and smiling gone forgotten during sleepless practice sessions and violin evaluations.

what was dolce, if not a rebellion? what was it, if not a rebellion from the years of work and pain you'd endured in the name of musicality? what was it, if not laughing in the face of your violin instructors and the strict score you adhered to?

when you opened your eyes to meet bakugou's, whose carmine eyes dripped with a burning passion and the essence of souls, you finally felt. it was the so-sought over love, scorching every note and stroke of your bow and bursting life in every movement, breath, and echo of your performance. it was exhilarating, living through every slur and chord you played. when you finally met his eyes he understood, a satisfied smile tugging on his lips as his gaze never left yours. this was it - this was dolce, humming sweetly, softly, and gently in your ears and reflecting in the audience's heart. this was dolce, making you realize that you never wanted to play violin alone again.

you picked up a rose that had landed at your feet at the end of your piece, holding it next to bakugou's confused face. in doing so, you reached your second epiphany of the day - perhaps the more important of the two. bakugou's eyes bloomed redder than the rose, deeper than the lowest note on a double bass, and maybe it was he that was the true dolce you were looking for.

notes!!

if you’re reading this, congrats !! this is my longest fic on my account (the record will be broken soon), so i really appreciate you reading this :> (spare a reblog, perhaps?)

first, explaining the playlist:

beethoven’s kreutzer - this was played in the anime, “your lie in april,” and i simply think it fits the “fight” reader and bakugou have. this was played at reader’s first international recital that did not go so well.

kreisler’s liebesfreud (love’s joy) is in the same series as his piece called liebesleid (love’s sorrow), also featured in “your lie in april.” i personally really like the piece. of all of these listed, i think you should listen to this one the most.

beriot’s duo concertante was the other contender for reader and bakugou’s duet piece!

debussy’s clair de lune is simply a favorite of mine. it’s the first piece played at the valentine’s performance (and i like to imagine reader’s listened to bakugou’s recording of the piece)

spohr’s duo for 2 violins is the piece reader and bakugou play! it’s the second part of the duo in allegro, and i once tried to listen to it while following the sheet music. i was so confused every time i did so; i’d get lost and such, and figured my musicality was declining. nope. i was reading the wrong part. so, i started freaking out because oh god the dolce is in the first part, not the second, and thankfully, there’s a bit of dolce in the second part too! however, it did take me a while to decide whether to use the first part instead.

also, spohr invented the chinrest on the violin! crazy :D

paginini’s 24th caprice is considered the hardest out of all 24 caprices. imagine,,, teenage bakugou playing this,,, doing the left hand pizz and all T^T pain

there’s a lot i wish i could cover in this! a lot of reader’s own flaws (ahem, viola jokes) and development were something i couldn’t cover. bakugou’s arc as well! he had an arc a bit before this story takes place :)) tl;dr i’m very tempted to pick my violin up again and start playing

the frog of the bow does not, sadly, go ribbit. it’s the part violinists hold the bow by!

thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed this :)

#bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #bakugou fluff #bnha fluff #katsuki bakugou x reader #bnha x gender neutral reader #bakugou angst #bnha angst #luna's writing #violinist bakugou

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 4 years

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Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem and Wittgenstein II

Prompt: Thinks about Logan breaking his clean streak on self-harm

Thank you for the prompt, babe! I’m a massive nerd so here you go!

Read on Ao3

Warnings: Self-harm, self-doubt (kinda), our boi Logan not having a good time. Please be careful guys I messed myself up writing and editing this so PLEASE PLEASE be careful

Pairings: LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR, can be platonic or romantic you decide

Word Count: 6908

Gödel's Incompleteness Theorem: For any consistent formal system, there will always be statements that are true, but that are unprovable within the system. The second incompleteness theorem, an extension of the first, shows that the system cannot demonstrate its own consistency.

Wittgenstein II: For a large class of cases of the employment of the word ‘meaning’—though not for all—this word can be explained in this way: the meaning of a word is its use in the language.

* * *

Despite what you think it is, it’s not a cry for help. It’s not a desperate attempt at anything. It’s not out of control.

It’s just an option.

Logan is Logic. That is his job, that is what he does, that is what the others rely on him to be. Thus, he is not an accurate facsimile of a human person. He does not experience certain things that a human does, and as such, he should not be held to the same standards and expectations as a human, as he is not one.

He is not a human. He should not be treated as such.

Logan is Logic and thus he must be. He has work to do. Anything that risks interfering with the work must be avoided at all costs. Thomas relies on him to sort through the noise and arrive at the clear, simple, clean solution. Oh, yes, those solutions might not always be as clean or clear as perhaps everyone would like, but it is Logan’s job to ensure that they are as close to that projected ideal as possible. Even if they all acknowledge that such an ideal is impossible to truly achieve, that does not render it irrelevant for use.

An unfortunate side effect of being a metaphysical humanoid is that there are certain things projected onto him that have no strong basis. It is one of the many unfortunate aspects of living in a world that is so—sometimes frustratingly—anthropocentric. The inability to extricate the human bias from any given set of observations is an issue that has plagued many disciplines for centuries, from science to philosophy. Because of the influence of sensory perception on any piece of information, there will always be things that are either assumed that should not be, or things that are taken for granted when they must be considered. There will always be things that humans cannot prove. It is impossible to prove certain things within a given set while existing within the set.

Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem.

Logan is not human, and yet he is assumed to bear more similarities to a human than he truly possesses because Thomas is human. Thomas perceives him in a specific way that is in direct opposition to the function that Logan needs to fulfill in order to be useful to Thomas.

Thomas, as a human, assumes that Logan possesses human traits such as emotion, irrationality, and the inability to behave logically separate from the two aforementioned traits.

Thomas, as a human, requires Logan to be a being of pure Logic, in order to assist in scenarios that arise from the three aforementioned traits.

Logan is what Thomas requires him to be, but he cannot exist as something that Thomas does not see.

There is a small grey area in which Logan can therefore find a solution. Thomas has an abstract awareness of the existence of Logan, but he is not directly interacting or seeing Logan when Logan is not actively working with Thomas or talking with him face to face. If Logan is not being seen at that particular moment, the bounds of his existence are allowed to modify themselves in order to be the most productive. The meaning of the word is its use in the language.

Wittgenstein II.

Logan requires himself to be a being of Logic, and thus when he is not directly seen by Thomas, he must strive as close as he can to that point in order to be the most useful. If he can perform the logic and derive the solution before Thomas sees him again, then the fact that he will once again be altered is inconsequential. All he must do is remember.

Of course, the process of getting as close to that ideal as possible is difficult. Particularly when the switch must occur directly after filming. The process is not typically one that allows for the human traits Logan bears to be kept aside. No; between Roman’s stubbornness, Patton’s exclamations, and Virgil’s interjections, the three of them combined with Thomas’s inability to keep control of them for more than approximately ten seconds ensures that Logan’s capacity to control his emotions is a moot point.

The good news is he has learned how to curtail these emotional outbursts to exclamations of excitement over Thomas’s choice to pursue something or slight judgment towards the attitude the others possess. Or sass.

Mostly sass.

And it is not as if he never allows himself to retain the more human traits when he is away from Thomas. Socializing with the others is an important aspect of his existence. If they are all to work together for Thomas’s betterment, isolation would be counterproductive. And to say that their presence was merely an obligation or necessity would be a falsehood. When he has the capacity to enjoy things, he most certainly enjoys spending time with them. And when the emotions are simpler to handle—contentment, for example, or fondness, derivatives of happiness—they are simpler to put aside when he must work.

When they are not, the process is not nearly as…clean.

Frustration. Anger. Confusion. Other derivatives of sadness. These ones are troublesome. Mainly because they do not remain static—their meanings change as often as Logan looks to see what they are. They do not always stay the same word. They switch and flip and it is quite vexing. Which, of course, only serves to exacerbate the issue. The only commonality is that they all produce and/or derive from a sense of hurt.

Therein lies the solution.

There is a—quite clever, if Logan has to admit—loophole that Logan has devised in order to get to work. Emotional pain is something that he does not—can not—understand within himself. Physical pain, on the other hand, is a survival mechanism. Processing physical pain is much simpler, more distanced, and much easier to put aside than the complicated human emotional pain.

A loophole.

One that Logan has jumped through over

and over

and over again.

Just as Logan can adjust himself based on the meaning of ‘see,’ so too can he adjust what it means to feel ‘pain.’

The loophole works, and thus it is true.

Logic.

Of course, Logan is aware that this particular loophole is not one that would be approved by many people, let alone the other Sides. They, however, can afford to retain the emotional human traits that enable them to perceive it that way.

Hurting them would be…counterproductive.

But if they do not see it…

“What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

That is not the same thing. They have no risk of feeling the same type of pain. Nor will Logan take any measure that will endanger anyone other than himself.

Not that this is endangering himself.

It is simple. Logan needs to work. This allows him to work. There is no risk posed to anyone else, including Thomas.

Therefore it is true.

And it’s not as though Logan does this often. It’s not every day, it’s not even every other day. And it’s not much. Never that much.

Just…a quick one, two, three, four, five.

Then he can go to work.

The pain fades, as it always does, and his mind is clear, ready to be filled with the logic of what needs to be done and the quiet assurance that whatever it is will be untainted by human emotion. Occasionally the loophole will not stay open as long as he requires, but that is easy enough to remedy.

The others do not notice—and if they have, though he doubts it, they have never let on—and as such he makes an effort to conceal the loophole to the furthest extent he can. After all, it would not be ideal for the loophole to close, preventing him from using it to work.

It’s always small. It’s always hidden. It’s always private.

And if it isn’t executed as…precisely as he anticipates, well.

The others have never question why he keeps the first aid kit in his room.

There is a brief moment, early on when they are figuring out the dynamic between the four of them, that there is a name put to the loophole that gives Logan pause.

Fortunately, it was not him they were paying attention to.

“Virgil,” Patton says quietly, sitting next to the shaking Virgil on the couch, “can you take a deep breath for me?”

Virgil shudders. Roman makes eye contact with Logan as he comes down the stairs and quickly moves them to the kitchen.

“Is everything alright?” Logan asks as they move past the counter.

“Yeah, Specs, I think so,” Roman mutters, glancing over his shoulder, “I think it’s just a panic attack.”

“‘Just,’” Logan murmurs, “does this—has this been happening more often?”

“I think so, but I haven’t—we—“

“We have not been around Virgil long enough to ascertain a pattern.” Logan glances over to Patton, still mumbling softly to Virgil. He catches his eyes and shakes his head minutely. “What do we do afterward? Do we need to grab some food, water, anything?”

“Can you go get his headphones?”

“Are they in his room?”

“…I would presume so.”

Logan sighs. “I don’t want to violate Virgil’s trust by entering his room while he’s not there.”

“I’ll just go stick my head in.”

Roman vanishes and Logan turns, purposely paying attention to his hands on the glass, on the tap, on the counter, not looking over to the living room. When Roman reappears with the headphones and a quiet ‘they were on the doorknob,’ he risks a glance back over his shoulder.

Virgil’s leaning fully into Patton’s arms now, Patton murmuring softly into his ear. His breathing seems to have slowed considerably. Patton glances up again and nods.

“That’s us,” Roman murmurs, taking the headphones as Logan grabs the glass of water and walking over to the couch.

“Hey, Stormcloud.” He sets the headphones on the couch behind Virgil and carefully takes his hand. “You doing a little better?”

“Mm.” Virgil rubs his cheek against Patton’s shirt. “Sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Logan assures, setting the glass of water down on the coffee table. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Virgil shifts in Patton’s arms. “It’s annoying.”

“What is,” Logan asks, “taking care of you? Of course it isn’t.”

“Logan’s right, as usual,” Roman adds with a wink.

“You’re alright, kiddo.” Patton plants a kiss on his forehead. “And you’ll never be annoying to take care of.”

“…never?”

“Never.”

“Here,” Logan says when Virgil still looks unsure, “why don’t you name everything that you think will be annoying, and we’ll tell you how it won’t be?”

“Oh, great idea, Specs.”

“…panic attacks?”

“Not at all, kiddo.”

“Insomnia?”

“You know my sleep schedule’s as off as yours,” Roman says, “what with time in the Imagination being different.”

“Nightmares?”

“Dreams are difficult,” Logan says, “even when you are awake.”

“Self-harm?”

“Never,” Patton says, Roman not far behind. Logan, however…

Logan sits quietly for a moment. He is, of course, familiar with the term, however, it is not one he’s heard in…

A while.

He offers his assurances that of course, he would be more than happy to help Virgil with any issue he may have, including self-harm, but the conversation lingers in his mind long after Virgil giggles at Roman’s antics and falls asleep on Patton’s lap. And certainly long after everyone has bid each other goodnight and Logan has retreated to his room.

Perhaps…

No. Logan is not human, and thus he cannot be held to the same standards and definitions. If this self-h—if this loophole is required in order for him to function, then it is not the same thing.

If he thinks he hears a soft hiss in the darkness as that conclusion crosses his mind, he dismisses it quickly.

…it still may be best to…attempt to refrain from using the loophole.

The loophole has not been necessary for a long time. Whether it is because Logan has gotten adept at reaching his necessary headspace without it, or there has not been sufficient ‘pain’ for the loophole to be required, there sits a shelf in his bathroom that has remained untouched for a significant period of time.

Surprisingly enough, this is one of the only things for which Logan’s impeccable sense of time does not seem to work. Neither does the possibility cross his mind that the two could be related.

Regardless, it is something of a shock when he reaches up to grab something and his fingers find the wrong shelf.

He pulls his hand back quickly, surprised to see the dull shine of blood on his finger. He glances back up.

Ah. Yes.

Well, it is always good to be aware of one’s options.

He turns the water on and runs his finger under the tap, watching the red dilute and fade, feeling the sharp little sting as the water hits the cut. After a few moments, when the water runs clear, he removes his finger and goes to dry it off when he puts pressure on the cut again.

His fingers part and there it is again. Dull, wet, and a little shiny.

He squeezes.

The blood fills the cut again.

He runs it under the tap.

Clean.

There is something strangely satisfying, he has discovered, about watching simple repetitive things. Watching the waves go out and roll back in. Watching the soft tick, tick, tick of a metronome hand going back and forth. Watching the gentle breathing of a sleeping animal.

Squeeze. Blood. Wash. Clean. Squeeze, blood, wash, clean. Squeeze blood wash clean. Squeezebloodwashclean.

There’s a knock on his bedroom door.

“Logan? You in there?”

Logan blinks. “Yes, I’m in here.”

“You coming down for dinner?”

“Yes, I’ll be down momentarily.”

“Great.”

Virgil’s footsteps trail away as Logan washes his hands. He turns off the bathroom light and locks his door behind him.

“Oh, Logan!” Patton reaches for his hand when he passes the plate back. “You’re bleeding! What happened?”

“Simply an accident,” Logan says smoothly, brushing Patton’s concerned look aside in favor of a smile, “I reached for the wrong thing in the bathroom.”

“Oh, well, alright.” Patton gives his hand a gentle squeeze. “Just be careful, alright?”

“Always.”

Janus gives him a strange look but says nothing.

Life is…good.

Thomas has been paying more attention to them recently. All of them. Virgil is talking more, Patton is explaining things, Remus is being listened to, Janus is being included, Roman is being cared for…and Logan is being seen.

It’s good. Things are…good.

And something niggles in the back of Logan’s mind, even as he smiles, talks, is with the others.

Something that tells him he has to work.

He tries. He honestly does.

He talks with the others, and they help, truly, but there are some things they cannot give him. And he cannot help them the way he needs to if he isn’t working himself.

He cannot help Patton if he is not distanced enough from the emotional turmoil.

He cannot help Virgil if he is not able to embody the logical reassurance.

He cannot help Roman if he does not offer firm, rigid guidelines.

He cannot help Remus if he is not able to critically examine his ideas.

He cannot help Janus if he can’t think.

He cannot help Thomas if he continues to be like this.

And the knowledge that he can’t help…hurts.

Well. He knows what to do.

He stands up from their dinner one evening and accepts the hug Patton gives him. Even as Patton’s arms curl around his waist, the contradictions in his head make his eyes close. It is warm but it shouldn’t be. It is safe but it shouldn’t be.

It feels good but it shouldn’t.

That’s not what Logan is for.

Roman offers him a hug too but he declines, saying he has some work to take care of. Roman pouts.

“But I haven’t had a chance to see you lately,” he says quietly, reaching out to lay a burning hand—it’s not burning, it shouldn’t feel like it’s burning, this is wrong—on Logan’s arm, “won’t you come on a walk with me? We can go to the garden you like, I’ll see if I can have the herb section all ready, too.”

It shouldn’t feel like Roman’s smile is melting Logan. It shouldn’t feel like Roman’s hand is holding him together. It shouldn’t feel like this.

“Not tonight, I’m afraid,” Logan’s mouth says, ��perhaps tomorrow?”

“That’s a promise.”

Roman lets him go and turns to Patton. Logan moves to leave but finds his way blocked by Virgil.

“Oh, my apologies, I didn’t mean to run into you.”

“I did that on purpose, L, don’t worry.”

“May I ask why?”

Virgil shrugs. “Wanted to talk to you.”

It shouldn’t feel like the hairs on Logan’s neck are rising. It shouldn’t feel like his chest is getting hot. It shouldn’t feel like this.

“About…?”

He shrugs again. “Haven’t had a chance to see you a lot.”

“I can assure you that I have been present,” Logan says, “and I can distinctly remember spending time with you over the last three and a half weeks.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I just—“ Virgil scuffs his shoe along the carpet— “just feel like I haven’t seen you.”

Logan blinks. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Just—never mind.” Virgil waves him off. “Good luck with your work tonight.”

“Thank…you…”

Logan starts up the stairs. He gets to his room, unlocks the door, and steps inside.

It shouldn’t feel like a weight being lifted off his shoulders.

It shouldn’t feel like that weight resettles onto his chest.

It shouldn’t feel like his hands are tingling.

Logan bites back a curse and goes to the bathroom.

It’s gone too far. He—he can’t make it to his work headspace on his own. They’re too loud. There are too many of them. He can’t focus. He has to stop this. He has to remove himself from this set.

He can’t fail Thomas like this.

No one can see him.

He has to change what it means to feel pain.

Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem and Wittgenstien II.

Logan takes a deep, slow breath.

In.

Out.

He knows how to do this.

Get to the bathroom, close the door. Now there are more walls between him and everyone else.

Turn on the shower. It’ll be easier to clean up.

Put the blade right next to the razor. If necessary, blame the razor.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Always in the same place.

Ignore the other scars.

Pull the skin taut.

Make it precise.

Step a little more out of the water.

Remain in control.

Don’t grip the blade so hard it trembles.

Where no one can see.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In…

Out…

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

In.

Out.

Now the other side.

Reach over.

Step so the water doesn’t run over either thigh.

Ignore the blood running down the other leg.

Pull the skin taut.

Make it symmetrical.

Adjust the grip on the blade.

Don’t bite the lip until it bleeds either.

Ignore the shine on the blade.

If the lines aren’t right they will have to be fixed to match.

Don’t be sloppy.

Do this right.

In.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Logan leans his head back and closes his eyes. The blade is set down onto the smooth side of the shower. Water runs over his hair, down his back. The temperature is warm.

The water beats down over his head, his neck, his shoulders, his back. Unbidden, his shoulders relax and slump, his head bowing forward under the guidance of the water.

He cups his arms over his chest and turns. The water pools in the cavity of his arms, overflowing until it laps gently as his collarbones and down the creases of his elbows, landing with soft smacks on the shower floor. He watches it land, watches the little ripples and distortions from the falling water refract little artifacts of light onto his arms through the surface. Watches the water slowly start to run a faint red as he lets the water begin to run down his legs.

It hurts.

It stings and sticks and it isn’t clean, not by any means. It hurts and it feels and it’s the perfect loophole for Logan to jump through.

Now, if he closes his eyes, he should see—

Roman’s soft voice asking if he wants to go on a walk.

Patton’s hug, wrapping him up perfectly.

Virgil’s quiet remark that he hasn’t seen Logan recently.

No.

No, no, no!

Logan’s eyes fly open and he looks down. He—this should’ve worked. He jumped, he jumped, he used the loophole, this should be—

The blood is gone. It’s all gone. The tile isn’t stained, the water isn’t stained, everything is clean. But it—it hasn’t worked, did he—

The cuts are uneven. They’re too short on one side, too tilted on the other. They’re too faint. They’ve already stopped bleeding. They already blend in with the other scars.

No!

No, no, no, he has to—

This has to work.

He has to work.

Okay, okay he can do it—do it again. Do it properly.

Grab the blade.

Don’t worry about the grip.

One,

Two,

Three,

Four,

Five,

Six.

Okay. Now to the other side.

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six.

Patton’s laugh. Roman’s touch. Virgil’s gaze.

One two three four five six seven.

No, no, no, no, why isn’t this working? This should be working, he shouldn’t be feeling this anymore, has he—has he forgotten how to do it right?

It’s been too long, he doesn’t remember, this isn’t how this is supposed to work, the loophole should’ve stayed open, he needs it to stay open, he has to—he has to work, he isn’t useful if he can’t work!

Don’t worry about the numbers.

Overload the system.

Drown it out.

Ignore the dull red shine all over the tile, the blade, the legs, the fingers.

Drown it out.

Make it stop, make everything go away.

Ignore the sting, if the feeling is still there it hasn’t worked.

Drown it out.

Ignore the knocking on the door, it’s not there.

Drown it out, drown it out.

“Logan?”

“Logan, are you in there?”

Drown it out drown it out.

“Logan! Logan!”

“Logan I swear I’m gonna break your door down!”

Drown it out drown it out

“Logan! Logan, can you hear us?”

“Damnit, Logan, answer!”

Drown it out drown it out drown it out drown it out drown it out drown it out drownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitout

drown

out

…

Logan blinks.

The shower is covered in a dull, red, wet, shine.

His thighs burn.

His hands carefully set the blade down on the tiled edge.

The water runs over him, running and running and running.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, it runs from red to pink to clear.

Logan stands and shuts off the water.

The towel is black.

He dries.

He dresses.

His clothes are black.

His hair is wet.

He puts his glasses on.

Mutterings are coming from the other side of his door when he exits the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He tilts his head.

“I don’t know what’s going on!”

“He seemed alright at dinner, what’s—“

“He was not alright at dinner, in fact I don’t know how long it’s been since he’s been alright—“

“I swear to unholy fuck I’m gonna break this fucking door down.”

“Please do not break my door down,” Logan says.

The voices stop.

“…Logan? Logan, is that you?”

“It’s me.”

“Oh thank god—“

“Are you alright?”

“Why didn’t you answer?”

“If you don’t open this fucking door—“

“Alright, alright, I’ll open the door, one moment.”

Logan opens the door and takes a step aside as the others spill into his room, Patton and Roman looking around, Virgil taking up residence on the desk. Remus walks in slowly, followed by Janus. Janus shuts the door and stares at Logan.

“Why didn’t you answer at first,” Patton asks quickly, “we were worried, did you—where were you?”

Logan indicates his wet hair. “In the shower, I’m afraid. It is both quite difficult and quite…impractical to come to the door while occupied.”

“Oh…okay.”

He adjusts his glasses. “May I ask why you were all outside my door to begin with? It has only been…a little while since I’ve last seen you.”

“A little while,” Janus muses, still staring at Logan. “How long exactly?”

Logan tilts his head, eying the clock over Janus’s shoulder. “Thirty-five minutes and forty-six seconds.”

“And why would you need to look at the clock?”

“…surely all of you are no stranger to losing track of time in the shower.”

He gets a round of vague agreements from Virgil, Patton, and Roman. Remus remains silent, prowling around the room.

“We are not,” Janus murmurs, “but you…”

Logan swallows. “You have not answered my question.”

“We,” Patton says, gesturing to himself and to Roman, “followed Virgil.”

Virgil hunkers on Logan’s desk. “I came because I heard Remus and Janus shouting.”

“…and why were you shouting?”

Janus just stares at him.

Logan’s throat begins to run dry.

“…Janus?”

“I believe you know the answer, Logan.”

He swallows. “You must be mistaken.”

“Please,” Janus says, almost too quiet for the others to hear, “don’t make me do this.”

Logan swallows heavily.

“Do what?”

Something flickers across Janus’s face as he looks at Logan.

He looks at Remus.

He nods.

No.

No, no no.

Logan was so careful.

He can’t—

Remus reels back and kicks Logan’s bathroom door open.

“Remus!”

Remus pays Patton no mind, striding in and away from Logan, even as Roman rushes after him.

Logan is frozen.

“Remus, what’re you—hey!” Roman makes an indignant noise as Remus shoves him back out through the door. “Remus!”

Logan can feel Janus’s eyes on him as he scans Remus’s hands. He’s not holding it. Did he—did he miss it? Is something—

He knows when his gaze flicks up to catch Remus’s that he’s been well and truly caught.

“You do know what my job is,” Remus hisses, “don’t you?”

Logan raises his chin. “And you know what mine is.”

“If you think that even begins to explain this—“

“Explain what?” Roman looks frantically back and forth between the three of them. “What the hell is going on here?”

No.

No, no, no, no, no, Logan was so—he was—he’s been—it can’t—why didn’t it just work? He could’ve been fine, this would’ve worked, he could’ve worked, he wasn’t—how did they see?

“Logan?”

“Logan, look at me.”

“Lo, you’re panicking—“

“Way to go, you two, look what you’ve done.”

“We’re trying to help him!”

“You’ve messed up a perfectly good Logan, that’s what you did. Look at him, he’s having a panic attack!”

“Logan,” comes a soft voice in front of him, blocking out the others into a distant murmur, “Logan, look at me.”

Logan blinks.

Remus’s face swims into view, concerned. He reaches out to cup Logan’s face in his hands.

“You’re panicking, Lolo,” he says quietly, “you gotta calm down.”

“I’m not panicking,” Logan tries to say, only his throat won’t work.

“Why are you doing this,” he tries again, but nothing’s happening.

“What’s happening to me,” he tries desperately, only for nothing, nothing to work.

It isn’t until Remus’s thumbs come away damp that he realizes he’s crying.

“Lo—a little help here!”

“Logan!”

Logan collapses into Remus, who quickly wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him into a seated position, cradling the limp form in his lap. Roman, who rushed forward when Remus cried out, pulls him closer, laying his legs across his lap, not caring that his trousers started to soak.

“Easy there, Specs,” Roman hushes, hand drawing little patterns on Logan’s damp knee, “shh, shh, you’re okay.”

Then he looks down.

Logan can pinpoint the moment Roman sees the patterns of wetness through his jeans.

Roman’s eyes widen.

“Oh, Logan…”

“Can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Janus turn toward Patton and Virgil. He can’t move. He can’t—it hurts, it hurts—

“Oh, sweetheart,” Roman murmurs, cupping the backs of Logan’s legs, “oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”

“Fuck!”

“Oh my gosh—“

“Logan—“

“Oh, kiddo—“

Oh. Virgil and Patton are here now. Great. Is it great? What is—how does this—Logan hurts.

Janus crouches down by his face, gently cupping his cheek and leaning forward to rest their foreheads together.

“Come on, sweetie,” he whispers, “I know it hurts, but you have to breathe.”

Is he—has he been quiet this whole time?

“At the very least you’ve got to breathe. In an out, come on.”

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

No…

That didn’t work last time…it didn’t work…it didn’t…

“…didn’t work,” Logan mumbles, “it didn’t work.”

“We’re not trying that, sweetie,” Janus says easily, “we’re trying something else. I still need you to breathe for me.”

Logan breathes.

“Shh, shh, there you go, just like that…” Someone rubs his knee gently. “Just like that.”

They’re all here. They can all see. They can—does that mean Thomas can see? IS that why Logan—is that why it’s been so hard?

“None of that now, sweetie,” Janus chides, lightly chucking Logan under the chin, “stay here, stay with me…no drifting off just yet.”

They’re all here.

Virgil frowns. Then he glances at Patton. “Pat, let’s go get L something to drink.”

“But—I—“

“It’s too much for him, Pat,” Virgil says softly, “with all of us here, he’s getting overwhelmed. Let’s go and then we’ll come back, yeah?”

“O-okay.”

As they leave, Roman shifts to let them by, and the fabric rubs right over the cuts, making Logan hiss through his teeth. Even though it’s quickly shushed by Janus, he doesn’t miss Roman’s wince.

“Yeah, denim over the fresh ones is rough, isn’t it?”

Logan goes absolutely still.

Judging by the way Remus growls and Janus turns, that’s news to them too.

Roman just looks at them all and raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, please. It’s not all long sleeves and pants all summer for no reason.”

“R-Roman, you—you—?”

“Yeah, Specs,” Roman murmurs when Logan can’t find his words, “me too.”

“Oh, we are not done with this conversation,” Remus mutters, softening slightly as he turns his attention back to Logan, “but c’mon, Lolo, you gotta—you gotta believe we’re as shocked about you, too.”

“But—“ Logan stammers— “but you—Roman you—you’re—“

“What, Logan,” Roman prompts gently, “what am I?”

“You’re—you can feel, and—and—“

“I can feel, Specs, that’s true.” A rueful smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “And I’m sure that the…idea that it’s not always ideal isn’t that foreign to you, huh?”

“But you have to feel to work, I—I can’t, the loophole—“

“What loophole,” Remus asks sharply, “Logan, what are you talking about?”

“I—“

Janus cups his head again, easing himself down, mindful of Logan’s legs. “Why don’t you explain that to us, sweetie,” he says softly, “help us understand?”

“You—I—“ Logan tries to breathe. “I…I have to be useful. I have to—I have to be Logic. You—you all…Thomas needs Logic.”

“So...?”

“So I—Thomas still sees us as people, or—or at least Sides of people which means he end—endows us with certain human traits and—and qualities.”

Janus nods.

“I can’t—in order to be useful I can’t feel, I have to be Logic.” Logan swallows. “But if Thomas can see me then I have to be what he sees.”

He swallows again.

“So if I take myself out, then I can—then I can be Logic.”

“But that doesn’t necessarily mean you aren’t what Thomas thinks you are anymore,” Roman asks gently, “so you…aren’t you still in the…aren’t you still in?”

“The meaning of words is dependent—“ Logan swallows— “dependent on the context, so if I can change the—the context then I can take myself—myself out.”

Roman squints. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Oh, Logan,” Janus murmurs, “are you telling us that you’ve determined that this is the correct course of action through logical principles?”

“Excuse me he’s done what?”

“You cannot prove certain things about a set while using the language of the set,” Janus says softly, his gaze locked on Logan’s, “and the meaning of a word is dependent on its use within the language. Does that sound familiar?”

Logan nods. “Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem and Wittgenstein II.”

“You’re operating under the assumption that your role as Logic is the determining factor,” Janus continues, “and that in order to fulfill that role to its greatest potential, you must remove yourself from the set of emotional beings, including a re-contextualization of what it means to feel.”

He nods.

“But if the language has become re-contextualized, then attempting to operate under all the other assumptions the previous language affords is illogical, let alone the fact that it renders the act of removing oneself from the set redundant. Another language is required to derive a solution ytt it would be impossible to translate the solution into the language of the original set.”

Janus cocks his head.

“And haven’t you yourself created an assumption about the nature of the original set? The role you play within it and its very existence prevents your leaving of it in its entirety.”

And Logan’s poor, tired, illogical brain is so, so lost.

In the distance, Roman huffs. “Okay, so I’ve got no idea what the fuck we’re currently talking about.”

“Same here,” comes Remus’s voice.

Janus smiles gently. “You’ve overlooked something, sweetie,” he says, stroking Logan’s cheek, “about you and how much we care.”

“What…what did I miss?”

“You said that you need to be useful.”

Roman makes an ‘ah’ sound. “You could’ve just led with that instead of showing off.”

“I most certainly was not.”

“Yeah, you were, Janny, shut up.”

Roman shakes his head fondly and leans closer. “You don’t have to be useful, Logan, nor do you have to worry about not being exactly what you think you do.”

“B-but—“

“Shh,” Roman murmurs, gently stroking Logan’s leg, “can I talk for a minute, sweetheart?”

Logan nods.

“Thank you…you think that you’re not being you because you’re getting emotional, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Okay…well, have you considered that you’ve got a warped perspective of yourself because it’s being affected by your own perception?”

Janus turns to Roman. “My, my, Roman, discussing the limits of sensory perception?”

“I do listen to my dear darling nerd,” Roman hums, lightly showing Janus’s shoulder, “but anyway, Logan, you have to realize then, that means that you can’t objectively say you do or you don’t have these traits because you’re being affected by them.”

“Gödel,” comes Janus’s voice.

“Yeah,” Remus says, “and also that just because you think you’re only wanted because you’re useful doesn’t mean that we think that.”

“And there’s Wittgenstein II.”

Oh.

“Isn’t that what you told us,” Remus continues, “that you can’t logic your way out of everything? You’re no exception to that, Lolo.”

“Logic can be used in a lot of ways to justify all sort of things,” Janus agrees, lightly tapping Logan’s cheek, “and just because something may be logically valid doesn’t make it true.”

“That’s why we have you.”

Logan balks at Roman’s words. “M-me?”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Roman smiles, “you. You with your feelings and your care and your you-ness. You’re a part of this set and you’re not going anywhere.”

“And we don’t want you to.”

Logan’s thighs burn.

“Shh, shh, sweetie,” Janus hushes as tears start to well up in Logan’s eyes again, “it’s okay, we’ll help you—oh, sweetie, it hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Will you let us help you clean them?”

Unbidden, Logan’s face flares bright red.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed, sweetie…”

Roman gently nudges Remus’s arm. “Let me. You two go check on Patton and Virgil.”

“What?”

“Roman—“

“Come on,” Roman coaxes, “it’s not like I don’t have the practice.”

“We are so not done with this conversation,” Remus mutters as he squeezes Logan’s waist, “but is that okay, Lolo?”

Logan nods. Better just one than all.

“We’ll be back,” Janus promises, giving his cheek one last pat as he leaves.

“Easy does it,” Roman murmurs as he starts to lean Logan back against the wall, “do you have a long shirt?”

Logan motions wordlessly toward the closet. Roman finds the softest shirt Logan owns—how Roman knows is beyond him—and lays it gently in Logan’s lap.

“Change,” he says softly, letting their foreheads rest together for a moment, “I won’t look.”

The cuts have dried to the jeans and they burn, Logan biting his lip to keep from crying out as he gets them off. He’s panting by the time he’s done. Roman turns back with the first aid kit in his hands and kneels down. Logan stares at a spot on the floor, far away.

“Alright,” he says, pulling out the wipes and bandages, “Logan?”

“Mm?”

“You tell me to stop, I stop dead,” Roman promises, “but you must tell me, alright?”

“I will.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. This may sting a bit.”

It does, but Roman is careful and thorough and far too good at this.

“How do you think it was for us,” Roman whispers when Logan voices that last part, “when we realized?”

“My apologies.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart, that’s not what I meant. I just meant that you’re so important to us, Logan, you, that this…this hurts. And I don’t ever want you to think that this is necessary for us to love you.”

Love.

The word stutters in Logan’s throat.

“Too much?” Oh. Roman must think it’s his legs. “Here…”

Roman reaches out and gently rests Logan’s hands on his shoulders.

“There…Keep your hands on my shoulders. Then if something hurts too much, you give me a squeeze and let me know, hmmm?”

“…okay.”

Love…

One of the larger cuts stings horribly as Roman begins to clean it and Logan tenses, his hands gripping Roman’s shoulders.

“Hurt?”

“A little.”

“Here…” Roman leans down and blows a stream of cool air over the cut. “…better?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I’m almost done.” He carefully applies the bandages, smoothing his hand across them as he finishes. “There…all better.”

He packs away the first aid kit, only to pause and look up when Logan’s still staring at the same spot on the floor. He stops, setting the kit aside and taking a seat near his hips, reaching and twisting to cup Logan’s face in his hands.

“Hey,” he calls gently, “talk to me, sweetheart.”

Logan wets his suddenly-dry lips. “I don’t think I’ve…processed this yet.”

“That’s okay, Lo, it’s not gonna be a quick thing.” Roman glances back. “And certainly not if it’s been happening for a long time. Though, if it’s any consolation, I don’t think any of us have fully processed it either.”

“I…”

Logan gets interrupted by a gentle knock on the door.

“Can we let them in, sweetheart?” Logan nods. “Come in.”

Patton appears first, holding a glass of water out to him. Virgil comes in next, holding a massive pile of blankets, helped by Janus. He can hear Remus take the kit and put it away.

“Hey, there, kiddo,” Patton whispers as Logan starts to drink, “there you go…thank you.”

“How’re you doing, L?” Virgil tilts his head a little. “All things considered?”

All things considered…

Logan takes a deep breath and turns, trying to look at his legs.

Before he can, Remus has his hands over his eyes.

“Ah!”

“Sorry, Lolo,” Remus mutters, “but even I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”

“…if I don’t look, it—I…”

Did it happen? Did I—did it work, did I not—did I do it wrong? It has to be done right, I need to—dull, red, wet, shine, one, two, three, four—

“…alright,” Remus whispers, removing his hands.

The bandages cover most of it.

His hands tremble.

It hurts.

“H-help me.”

“I’m here,” Roman says instantly, rushing forward to pull Logan into a tender hug, “I’m right here, sweetheart, I’m right here.”

He tries to hug him back but his arms are shaking too much so he can’t.

And this, more than anything, is what makes him finally start to fall apart.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

Roman adjusts his grip, settling Logan’s arms over his shoulders. He cradles Logan like he’s something precious, something true.

“Can we help,” comes Patton’s strangled whisper, “can we help too, Logan?”

“Please?”

Patton is behind him in an instant. Remus clings onto him from the side. Virgil wraps them all in one of the weighted blankets as Janus pulls Logan’s legs into his lap.

“Don’t worry about figuring anything out right now,” Patton murmurs, “or jumping through any loopholes. Just…just be for a little bit, yeah?”

Logic disappears in a soft puff as Logan buries his head in Roman’s shoulder and cries.

Set complete.

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#self harm #tw: self harm #tw self harm #dragonbabbles #fic #sanders sides #logan sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #janus sanders #deceit sanders #remus sanders #sympathetic deceit #sympathetic remus #logan angst

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river-bottom-nightmare · 4 years

Text

You Don’t Have To

Happy Birthday @screennamealreadyused !! Your birthday gift is a damijon ficlet. I get the feeling you like overdramatic, soap-opera-y fics based on the kinda stuff you come up with in the server, so hopefully that came across.

What Jon didn’t think other people realized was that Damian, if comfortable enough, enjoyed talking. Of course, the subjects he was interested in were a tad limited, and he mentioned decapitation too often for Jon’s liking, but he enjoyed it. Barring Nightwing, Jon doubted anyone had ever taken the time to sit and listen to what Damian had to say, but Nightwing was his own adult superhero with his own adult life. And despite the fact that Damian was prickly and rude, his holier-than-thou attitude absolutely infuriating, his tendency to just drag Jon wherever he wanted despite the fact that Jon could technically crush him with one foot, despite all of that, Jon decided he wanted to be Damian’s friend. He was interesting, loud and abrasive in a way Smallville never boasted.

Today it was cows. Ma Kent had let Damian milk some of the cows, and now, sitting on the roof of the barn, licking melting ice cream drops off their hands, Damian was telling Jon the story of a couple bulls Ra’s had bought.

“You ever think about going to go visit them?” Jon asked.

“Jon,” Damian said dryly. “Grandfather killed the bulls a long time ago.”

“Oh.”

“Also,” Damian’s voice had dropped, going quiet in a purposefully shy way that Jon had never heard before, “I’m not even sure I would be welcomed back.”

“What?” Jon said, almost on instinct. “That’s nuts! I mean, I know your Grandad is a crazy assassin or something, but your mom...she loves you right?”

“She does,” Damian said, then added, “sort of.”

“You can’t only sort of love someone,” Jon said, because Mom was sharp and pointy, her lips turned up in a smirk as she chased down a story, her fingernails tapping on a paper pad. But she tried to make Jon cookies even though she always burnt them and called Kon over so they could do their nails together and told Jon bedtime stories and she loved him.

Damian hesitated, as if trying to find the right words. “My mother wanted a perfect son. One she could use to reclaim her supposed place by Father’s side, one that would take over Batman title.”

“But...” Jon urged on.

“But I don’t think Batman was ever meant to be a legacy, not the way Robin or Batgirl were. And,” Damian paused, growing so quiet Jon had to use his superhearing to make out what Damian mumbled. “I don’t really want to be Batman.”

Damian cringed, as if expecting Jon to say something cutting, something admonishing. Jon just said the first thing that came into his head.

“You don’t have to.”

Startled, Damian looked up. “What?”

“You don’t have to,” Jon repeated. “You don’t have to be Batman if you don’t want to. You can be some other hero, or even make your own name.”

“I can’t just do that!”

“Sure you can,” Jon said. “What’s stopping you?”

“My mother, I think. Also, I suppose it’s just expected of me.”

“Nah,” Jon said, finishing off the last of his ice cream. “No one’s expecting you are forcing you to do anything. If you don’t want to be Batman, you don’t have to be Batman.”

Damian eyed him suspiciously. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“Maybe not,” Jon shrugged. “But I’ll back you up.”

“She wants me to come back,” Damian whispered, his voice drowned out by the chirping of crickets outside, the sunset approaching.

“What?” Jon asked, scrambling to sit up. His limbs move awkwardly on the bed, moving with the exact opposite of grace, the way most teenagers were known for. But as Damian pulled himself into a seated position, curling up his legs, Jon saw nothing but control and elegance. “Who wants you to come back?”

“My mother.”

“Woah, your mother?,” Jon bounced over to sit next to Damian. “And she wants you to come back to...what? The League of Assassins.”

“Yes.”

“You can’t be serious,” Jon poured every ounce of incredulity he could muster into his voice. “You’re a hero. You’re not an assassin anymore.”

Damian shrugged, limbs taught and face stony.

“Hold on. Damian. You’re not actually thinking of going with her, right?”

“She’s my mother,” Damian said helplessly. “And though she hasn’t always been the best one, she seemed sincere the last time she asked.”

“Let’s go back to the part where you said she hasn’t always been the best mother, because she hasn’t, at all.”

“What do you want me to say, Kent?” Damian demanded. “By blood, she is my mother. By blood, I am an al Ghul!”

“You don’t have to be.”

“It’s not about being, Jonathan. You cannot change what you are.”

“No,” Jon said thoughtfully. “You can’t change Talia being your mom. But you don’t have to be an al Ghul.”

“That’s what her being my mother means, moron.”

“Well by that logic, Dick’s not your brother,” Jon pointed out.

“What!?”

“He’s a Grayson. He was never adopted by Bruce, and he never changed his name either. By blood, he’s a Grayson, and he can’t change who he is.”

Damian was silent, and Jon felt a little surge of pride at being able to render Damian speechless. But there was a time for gloating, and this wasn’t it. “See? Just because you were born an al Ghul doesn’t mean you have to be one of them. You can be a Wayne, with your dad! Or a Grayson. Or maybe even a Pennyworth!”

“Being a Pennyworth does seem like rather intriguing idea,” Damian said, and he was agreeing with Jon, but drawing closer into himself, huddling up into a little ball. So Jon scooted a little closer and, projecting his movements, wrapped his arms around Damian. Damian didn’t relax into it, but made no move to stop Jon or shift away, so Jon kept holding on.

“Just stick with being Damian for now,” Jon said. “You can figure everything else out later.”

Damian hummed in acknowledgement and slowly, oh so slowly, leaned into Jon’s hug. Privately, Jon didn’t know what he’d do if Damian ever decided to leave and become an assassin. You’d think someone like him would have tons of friends, but Jon’s terrible attempts at secrecy and the way he tried to distance himself in order to keep his powers in check turned most people away. That and being miles ahead of everyone else in class due to Damian’s tutoring (I will not stand to have an associate who is of such low intellectual level) led to Damian being the best of his few friends. He would not handle Damian leaving very well at all.

But he knew that was the last thing Damian wanted to hear. So Jon simply hugged him for a little while, until Mom called them down to dinner.

Jon tried and failed to track Damian’s movements, eyes latching onto his best friend. Exercising to work off anger was apparently a saying Damian took to heart, because Damian had shown up at his house in the middle of the day and, after avoiding Jon’s questions, had paced around the living room, somehow angrily done a backflip and scoffed, saying how he was just as capable of acrobatics to a very confused Jon, and was now doing push-ups.

And the view was—the view was really nice if Jon was being honest with himself, but he was sick of Damian ignoring him. So, he sighed and walked over to Damian, plopping down on his back and folding his legs.

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on,” Jon said.

Damian had been startled into pausing when Jon first made his way over, but soon restarted his reps, and snarled, “I don’t need your help, Kent.”

“Well clearly you do, since you showed up at my house on a weekend seething mad.”

“I’m not seething mad.”

“You’re doing anger push-ups.”

“I am not doing anger push-ups. Those aren’t even a thing.”

“Then what exactly are you doing right now?”

Damian was silent.

Jon made an exasperated noise. He’d sworn to break through Damian’s emotional constipation a long time back, but it clearly wasn’t working. “Damian,” Jon said, stressing each syllable. “Tell me why you’re mad.”

For a minute, Jon thought Damian was going to ignore him entirely. Then, all at once, Damian burst out, “She wants Robin!”

“Who?” Jon asked, though there could only be one candidate.

It was like a dam broke. “Mar’i. She wants Robin. It’s not like she hasn’t been training for it, and I was someone who helped with her training.”

“But you’re not ready to give it up.”

“No,” Damian said quietly. “I didn’t realize how much I relied on the role. I have to be Robin.”

“You don’t. You don’t have to be Robin.”

“Yeah,” Damian sighed. “And I want to give it to her, I really do. I want to pass down Robin so Mar’i looks up to me like right now, instead of ending up with a relationship between their replacements like my brothers. And I don’t even want to imagine how Grayson will feel about it if there’s a fight.”

“You don’t need it, Damian. You’re just scared.”

“Robin was the thing that gave me purpose outside my old life. It’s what made me a hero instead of a villain.”

“Giving it up won’t turn you into a villain either,” Jon hopped off Damian’s back. Holding a hand out, Jon said, “Come on. I think an early patrol will help the both of us. You don’t have to be Robin, and I’m gonna show you that you can still be a hero without it.”

Jon wasn’t exactly sure when the title of “Official Damian Wayne Translator” switched from Dick to him. Granted, the two of them spent a lot of time together, and he knew Damian better than himself.

Then again, that was the problem, wasn’t it.

A bunch of random heroes will just show up in Jon’s dorm room and demand Jon talk some sense into Damian, or work through his problems, or do something to make him less unbearable. And usually, Jon did it.

He listened to Damian’s complaints without hesitation, talked through his struggles and worries attentively. And he never once asked for anything in return.

He knew how hopelessly gone he was. Damian was his best friend, Damian trusted him like no one else. It made Jon feel special, though it really shouldn’t. Because Damian sure didn’t think he was special.

Some small, spiteful part of himself wanted to say something the next time Damian came over with a set of problems for Jon to solve. To say sorry, he had an important assignment due and he had to finish. To say he really didn’t have the time, maybe Damian could come back later. To say he was sick and tired of Damian taking him for granted, for believing Jon would always be there to support him no matter what.

But one look at those eyes filled to the brim with trust and Jon’s resolve crumbed. There were very few people in the world Damian trusted, and Jon would do anything to make sure he never fell off that list.

So he sucked it up, stayed quiet, stayed kind, stayed helpful.

Until Damian came to him one day asking him how to ask a guy out.

“Stop,” Jon whispered, feeling something inside him crack. “Just stop.”

“I—what?”

“You have no right being so cruel.”

Damian stared at him, a hint of apprehensiveness in his face. “What are you talking about?”

“As if you don’t know, Damian. Your family is full of detectives, there’s no way you don’t know.” Oh no, Jon’s voice was starting to waver, but he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t control it, couldn’t pull himself together long enough to tell Damian this one thing. “And I was okay with it, because you didn’t really like anyone. But apparently that’s not true. You just don’t like me.”

Jon looked up at Damian and saw nothing but shock in those green eyes.

“But you need to stop,” Jon continued. “Stop always assuming I’ll be there for you, stop treating me like your personal therapist or whatever, stop taking me for granted.”

“I don’t—” Damian tried to whisper, but Jon cut him off.

“Because I don’t think I can take it anymore,” Jon said, and his voice was entirely too raw for his comfort, so he took a breath to gain some semblance of control. “I’m sorry. I really can’t help you with that. But I can still be your friend.”

There was silence, a thick, heavy silence. Jon opted to stare at the floor, watching his feet fidget nervously.

Then, “You don’t have to.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to. Be just my friend, I mean,” Damian clarified.

“You...you really—what?”

“I didn’t know, Jon,” Damian said, sounding almost ashamed. “I swear I didn’t. If I had, well,” Damian trailed off, stepping closer and looking up at Jon, his face filled with pain.

He tugged Jon down into a kiss, and Jon could barely process what was happening, but Damian was kissing him, so he responded mindlessly. When Damian pulled back, though, he realized the other boy was saying something, over and over and over.

“I’m sorry,” Damian breathed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

It was like a slap to the face. Damian never said sorry. He fixed the problem, sometimes avoided it outright, or gave a halfhearted, forced excuse. All those years with the Bats had done little to his pride. But here he was, gripping Jon’s arms and apologizing, asking for Jon’s forgiveness like he meant it.

“I never meant to make you feel like that,” Damian “I would never, I swear. You’re my best friend, and I thought that meant being able to talk to you about anything.”

“You can, you always can,” Jon was quick to reassure him.

Damian shook his head. “But I never offered you the same in return. And that was awful of me and I’m sorry. I’ll,” Damian’s voice faltered. “I’ll apologize as many times as I need if it means I still have you.”

“You don’t have to,” Jon assured him. “It’s okay, you mean it, I can tell.” Then, he leaned down to kiss Damian once more, and mumbled against his lips, “You’ll always have me.”

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#scribbles from the swamp #long post #damian wayne #jon kent #robin #superboy #damijon #dc #damian wayne fic #jon kent fic #robin fic #superboy fic #damijon fic #dc fic

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tinalbion · 3 years

Note

Hey Best Writer- (I really mean it 😔💕💕💕) If you take ask(ik your asks are open but I’m just making sure 😤💕) could u do a scenario/hcs (whichever you want) for Buckman and his S/O that have a L O T (arms, back and legs) of tattoos and is a heavy metal singer- If it’s okay 😂👉👈 I just had this magnificent idea Ps: I luv your writing so much 😔😔😤😤😤🥺🥺❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️👁👄👁

FRUTTI! YOU SWEET AND WONDERFUL DARLING, YOU! Best writer? You’re WAY too lovely, omg, bless you~

You’re always so kind and I love you so, so much! This is definitely okay and I cannot wait for you to read what I have, may you enjoy it! 💖 And I love YOU!!! Thank you~

Mayor Buckman x Reader who is a Heavy Metal Singer Covered in Tattoos

Rating: None

Length: 1.2k

Upon meeting

Coming to Pleasant Valley wasn’t exactly what you signed up for when you got lost on your way to the beach, but the detour sign was the only way you could have possibly gone what with the other roads being blocked or out of service. So here you were, staring ahead looking like a deer caught in the headlights as your car was surrounded by all of these people who had greeted you so kindly, some were even playing instruments as you sat in the driver’s seat. Then suddenly, they all parted to make way for an older gentleman who looked as friendly as the rest of them, his face giving you that sense of ‘everything is gonna be okay’. He was dressed very well and he looked really intrigued by your look.

“Well greetings there, darlin’, Buckman’s the name, mayor’s my game!” He held out his hand for you to shake, and you took it firmly, shaking it and surprising even him with your grip. “Welcome to Pleasant Valley.”

You stepped out from the car to speak properly and that’s when they all got a real good look at you in your tank top and shorts. Buckman had been rendered speechless as you stepped out looking up at the large manor as you shield your eyes from the harsh sun, his gaze glued on you as your attention was elsewhere. You really were a very unique creature and it almost shamed him to look at you like that, especially with his background and his personal beliefs.

It only got worse from there as he kept an eye on you throughout the day. Granny Boone caught you and gave you a glass of fresh lemonade and conversed with you, commenting on your tattoos.

“So darling, what made you think of getting all those tattoos on you? Seems to be a perfect way to ruin your skin…”

You smiled kindly and shrugged. “I’m an artist in a way, I sing, probably not the type of music you listen to, but this is another way to express my artistic feelings and I just think they’re gorgeous. I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, that’s totally understandable.”

Granny Boone listened as she sipped at her glass, quiet as she looked up and down your arms and legs, smirking ever so slightly. “Sounds like a very interesting take on it, dear, I respect that.” And that was that.

What neither of you knew was that the mayor had been hanging around, listening to you speak. It was a completely different way of thinking, he didn’t understand it to the point of getting it inked into your skin, but as Granny said, he could definitely respect it. But what really caught his attention was your confession of being a singer, though you mentioned it wouldn’t be something they may like. He was still genuinely curious about you. You seemed like this really hard, really aggressive-looking person, yet something in your face and in your voice was really sweet, it drew Buckman in like nothing ever had before.

He walked along the dirt roads of the town and gave instruction to the townsfolk for the other guests that so happened to stop into town thanks to their cleverly crafted detour sign, but he firmly instructed that the heavily tattooed gal was to be off-limits for now.

It wasn’t until the sun had gone down that you came out from your quarters and almost quite literally ran into Buckman as you were wandering around Pleasant Valley and enjoying the music that echoed in the air, and you caught your footing before stumbling, grabbing the mayor’s hand before he too fell onto the ground from the impact.

“Oh, I am so sorry, mayor!” you chirped as you dusted off his jacket for him, panicking that you may have upset him or offended him, but when you looked up, he was chuckling. "Oh, I'm sorry?"

"Well, well, if it isn't our little charming camellia," he greeted and placed his hand on yours. "Don't worry so much about it, darlin', you okay?"

You blushed a little and nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine, thank you. What are you doing out here so late?"

Buckman looked around and gestured at the sky. "Well now, the sky is clear, the moon is high, and the evening is still early. Gotta relax and have some fun, ya know? Let loose a little. By the way, I heard about your music, what kinda music do you sing?"

You looked up at him and smiled, wondering just how much you'd scare this poor man with your preference of music. Though showing that he was interested was amusing in itself. "Well, as I mentioned to Granny Boone, I don’t think you’ll be too excited about it. You folks seem to like a certain charming genre while mine is uh, heavier... “ you explained with a grin.

Buckman didn’t seem to mind as he walked alongside you, his hands clasped behind his back as he listened. “You are an intriguing creature, I hope you know that."

You looked up at him and eyed him curiously, unable to hide your smile as you both stopped at the edge of the grassy field that stretched out before you. The moon pulled your gaze away from him and you couldn't help but really admire being out in the country like this and really being closer to nature. You were a city person, you didn't get the time nor the pleasure to get the chance to do this very often.

"Well uh," Buckman began, "I'd be willing to hear your music some time if you decided to stay for the next couple of days."

You looked back at him and smiled excitedly. "Yeah, I'd really like that, mayor."

"Oh now, do go ahead and call me Buckman," he cooed and slipped his hands in his pockets, walking away and making it back to the life of the party, leaving you to your thoughts in the moonlight. And that's where it all began.

Establishing a relationship

After capturing his interest, it ended up going from there and you two grew ever closer, so much to the point that he spared you from ending up on the dinner table that Jubilee. You were in the dark and had no idea of the fates of the guests that had passed through.

The more time you spent together, the more you allowed Buckman to see the real you; you told him your interests, you told him your likes and what drove you, what you were passionate about. He seemed to take interest in these things all without really telling you much about himself.

What seemed like days was almost a fever dream for you and then something had changed. He asked you to stick around even though he warned you that if you did, things would become complicated. You didn't know what that entailed, but despite it being cryptic it was almost sweet the way he asked you these things.

"Aren't I a bit too different for you, though? I mean, this whole 1800s thing, I don't know if I'd-" You were unsure of yourself and yet you were almost leaning toward the choice of staying here with him despite it being very far from your comfort zone. "You mean, you don't mind that I look like this?"

"Darlin', you're one of the most unique individuals I've ever come across, and I've seen a lot of different folk stop through here. I think this place will be good for your soul."

#tinalbion writings #slashers headcanons #slashers imagine #slashers x reader #slasher requests #mayor buckman #mayor buckman headcanons #mayor buckman imagines #mayor buckman x reader #tuttifuckingfruttifriday

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svnflowervol666 · 5 years

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I was wondering if you could write something where Harry’s wife tells him she doesn’t want him in the delivery room when she gives birth. She figures having maybe Gemma or Anne with her. She comes from a family of women, so she just doesn’t think she needs him. Harry’s left torn between agreeing with her because it’s her choice and absolutely broken up over it, because he wants to witness his first child come into the world. In the end she chooses to have him by her side. 🌻💛🌻

Word Count: 2.5k

Author’s Note: THANK YOU for this dad!Harry request!! It is quite apparent that I can ramble about dad!Harry for ages, so if anyone has anything dad!Harry they’d like to discuss, my inbox is open and I will give it my all! Enjoy! Take care and tpwk.

Harry found her by the pool, her already glowing body veiled by a thin layer of sweat. Her sun-kissed legs were crossed one another, body completely bare sans the skimpy swimsuit that she only wore at home due to her current situation. She was nearly 7 months pregnant with hers and Harry’s first child, having gotten to the point where even the thought of leaving the house exhausted her. Knowing this, it made sense to Harry as to why he found her in such an unusual place when he came home from his workout at the gym. She’d always claimed that the hated the oversized pool that took up room for a potential garden in the backyard of their home, so she was rarely seen dipping her toes in the cool, blue water. Harry supposed her cabin fever had gotten the best of her and she’d had to find new ways to entertain herself whilst they both waited anxiously for their baby to arrive.

He could see her through the large, glass windows that faced the backyard, her cell phone perched in one hand while she rubbed absent-minded circles around her swollen bump with the other. Sounds of her sweet, cherubic laugh trailed in through the cracks of the french doors, immediately warming Harry’s chest and causing him to smile in a way that showed off his cavernous dimples. This pregnancy had brought a lot of emotional turmoil in terms of the way her hormones would render her depressed and misanthropic for weeks at a time in some cases, then bouncy and cheery the next as if nothing had been wrong. Harry supposed today had been one of those good days.

It came as second nature to him to make a double batch of the smoothie he routinely drank after he exercised. He’d found out early on in her pregnancy that she’d always try to sneak sips of the sweet, fruity blend due to her new cravings, so he’d eventually just started making two drinks each time to satisfy them both. As he juggled the two glasses in his large, ringed hands, he slid open the door with the full intention of joining her in her sunbathing escapades to cool down after his intensive workout. Maybe he’d even convince her to stick her feet over the edge while he swam a few laps around her. That was until he’d caught the tail-end of the sentence that she’d muttered to whoever was on the other end of her phone line.

“…I was just thinking maybe you or Anne in the room during the delivery, and then Harry can come in and see the baby right after.”

Harry felt his heart sink into his arse at what he’d overheard, almost in disbelief at what he’d just heard her say. Surely, he’d missed a key part of this conversation and the tidbit he’d just stumbled upon was not her saying that she didn’t want Harry by her side when she gave birth to their first child. They’d never discussed it, but he’d always been under the assumption that he’d be right there next to her, holding her hand as their son or daughter made their appearance into the world. However, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling like that was exactly what she had just said.

“Yeah, totally. And then- Oh! Hi, Harry!” She stopped mid-sentence and perked up upon realizing her husband was home.

Harry smiles cheesily back at her, though there was a hint of disappointment in his expression. She was too entranced in her conversation to notice.

“Brought ye’ a smoothie,” Harry raised the glass towards his face to show off the perspiring glass of blended fruit and protein powder.

She wiggles her toes in excitement, the shiny lilac polish gleaming in the sunlight. Harry had painted them for her last week, her having been too far along in her pregnancy to reach her own toes. He always did little things like this for her so she could feel beautiful no matter how atrocious she was convinced she looked in her state. If it were up to Harry, he’d keep her like this for as long as possible; he had fallen in love with her ten times over since she’d been pregnant.

“Thank you, lovie. Gemma’s on the line. She says hi. And also that she’s still your mum’s favorite,” she said to Harry as she pulled the phone slightly away from her ear.

Harry couldn’t help but chuckle at his older sister’s immature banter as he sat the smoothie down next to his wife and leaned down to press a kiss to her damp hair.

He spoke clearly into the speaker so that Gemma was certain to hear him, “Just wait until the baby gets here. Then mum won’t give a shit about either of us.”

Harry didn’t hear Gemma’s snarky response, but he did hear her laugh loudly on the other end mixed with his wife’s own sweet giggles. He gave her bump a few pats with his hand that was cold from holding the glass and silently gestured to her that he was headed back inside. What he had overheard on the phone had killed his desire to lounge in the pool with his wife. He needed to be alone, whether it was to come up with a way to convince her otherwise or simply sulk about in his misery. His wife blew him a kiss which he subsequently pretended to catch and stuff in his hoddie pocket before ducking back into the house.

Whilst Harry was washing off in the shower, his mind was racing. Did she really not want him in the delivery room with her? It was his child, for christ’s sake! Of course he wanted to be there, more than anything, to be there when their baby took their first breaths, when they came out covered in goo and kicking and screaming. All Harry had ever wanted was a family to call his own, and now that it was within arm’s reach, he wanted to experience it all.

Of course, she was going to be the one quite literally pushing a life force out of her body, therefore Harry had no say in the matter. At the end of the day, even if his future efforts to convince her otherwise were unsuccessful, it was her choice and Harry would have to respect that. It just struck him right through his core to think that his own wife didn’t want him there beside her as she gave birth.

Amidst his racing thoughts, he’d lost track of time. The water had since run lukewarm, but he didn’t realize this until he heard the creak of the steamy shower door open and saw his pregnant wife step inside, still dressed in the skimpy swimsuit that she wore when she didn’t want any tan lines.

“Stealing all of the hot water now, aren’t you?” she teased as she stripped herself of the sopping wet material, then tossed it halfhazardly into the corner of the large, stand-in shower.

Harry mumbled a quiet, “Sorry,” before stepping out of the way of the faucet to let her rinse off.

“‘S alright. I’m still pretty warm from being outside,” she reassured him as she worked shampoo through her dripping locks, “Everything alright?”

“Ye’, why wouldn’t it be?” Harry answered his wife’s question, though he knew that wasn’t the truth and he couldn’t hold eye contact with her so he opted to watch as the soap suds ran from her scalp and down around her belly.

“Just seem kinda off is all,” she dismissed her quandaries and reached for the conditioner.

“‘M fine,” Harry lied again, “Wha’ were ye’ talkin’ to Gem about?”

“Oh, just baby stuff. She wanted to know if we’d decided on a theme for the nursery yet so she could start buying us gifts and then we just ended up talking for a while.”

Harry nodded silently as he worked a foaming cleanser into his skin, waiting until she was done rinsing her hair to take his turn back under the running water. He could say something, he really could. He knew that he should, because communication was key and he needed to be prepared for the heartbreak he’d experience when she told him that she didn’t want him in the delivery room with her. But he was nervous, scared almost. It was as if he actually didn’t want to know how she felt and would rather just forget the whole thing happened. However, now was not the time to be cowardly. This was his child and if he wasn’t willing to talk openly with his wife about how they’d approach the situation, maybe he wasn’t really ready to be a father after all.

“Did I overhear you tellin’ Gemma you don’t want me in the delivery room with ye’?”

She stopped running the silky soap through the ends of her hair to look at Harry directly.

“What do you mean?”

“I heard you say somethin’ about mum bein’ in the delivery room with ye’ and then me comin’ in right after. Do ye’ not want me in there?”

Harry’s voice sounded trembled as if he didn’t want to hear her answer his question. She finally picked up on his trepidation, and the look on her face was one of confusion.

“Harry I…I didn’t say that,” she was merely at a loss for words.

“Ye’ kinda did. Heard ye’ say it,” Harry snided.

“I didn’t say I didn’t want you in the room, Harry. My family’s always had only the girls in the delivery room. I just figured I’d do the same. Plus, I didn’t know you even wanted to be there.”

“Of course I want to be there,” Harry stressed, “‘s my baby for cryin’ out loud.”

Right then, she felt an intense flutter in her abdomen that caused her to cup her bump with her arm. This baby sure did love the sound of their father’s voice. Nothing was said between them, only awkward, unbearable silence. The water suddenly felt ice cold, raising chillbumps all up and down her arms and legs. Was Harry mad at her? She didn’t know. There was no malice with her intentions to give birth to their child without Harry in the delivery room, she genuinely hadn’t thought twice about it; it’s how she had been raised to believe how a woman should give birth, with strong women by their side. He was looking at her with glassy eyes like she had utterly broken him and caused irrepairable damage and it made her heart feel heavier than the weight of her baby bump that killed her lower back.

“I didn’t know, Harry,” she whispered, barely audible over the hissing of the faucet.

“Kinda common sense, now, innit? ‘S fine. ‘S your body.”

Harry quickly rid himself of any soap residue and left his wife alone in the ice cold shower before she could say another word. He left her the fluffier, more comfortable towel that he’d chosen for himself, because that’s just who he is.

He avoided her for the rest of the evening. He shut himself in his office for the better part of nearly three hours, hoping to turn his feelings into art and potentionally crank out a verse or two. The thoughts buzzing in his head were far too loud to concentrate on any chord or key, so he turned to answering emails, still not coming out of the room to resolve the argument he’d had with his wife in the shower. He wasn’t even sure what to say, or if there was anything to say at all.

She’d done the same, cooping herself up in their bedroom and taking a nap instead of finding Harry and demanding that they squash this immediately. She was so startled over the entire thing, having been bombarded with more information than she could handle. It hurt her to know that she’d hurt Harry, but at the same time she believed she hadn’t done anything wrong. This was clearly miscommunication on the most basic level, though it didn’t make her feel any better having realized that. Uneasiness settled deep into her bones as she drifted off into a light, relaxing slumber.

Harry tossed the garlic around in the pan with a wooden spoon blindly, only cooking to fill his stomach and not to enjoy it. It was her favorite meal, so he’d figured she’d enjoy the leftovers, at least. His mind kept drifting off to two months down the road, when his baby would be arriving in the sterile, chilly delivery room whilst he, on the other hand, wouldn’t be there to see it.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt two arms wrap around his middle and a protruding bump poke him in the small of his back.

“‘M sorry,” her voice sounded muffled from where she was talking into his shirt.

Harry reduced the heat on the stove and turned around in her grasp to face her. He took her head in both of his hands, forcing her to look at him when she spoke.

“‘S okay. It’s your choice. I didn’t mean t’ upset ye’.”

“No, H. It’s not okay,” she couldn’t stop the hormonal tears from pooling in her eyes and running down her cheeks that were still warm from the nap she’d taken, “I should have asked you what you wanted. It’s your baby too. I just wasn’t thinking. I don’t you to be mad at me.”

Harry wiped her tears away with the pads of his thumbs, hating to see her cry like this.

“I’m not mad at ye’, love. Just caught me off guard. I’m fine now. I’ll wait outside the delivery room if that’s what ye’ want.”

He really hoped that wasn’t what she wanted, but he knew it was the right thing to do. After a long pause of her collecting her breath and nuzzling into Harry’s soothing touch, she found her words once more.

“It’s not what I want. I want you there. Beside me. Holding my hand when our baby gets here.”

This time it was Harry that started to cry, though he didn’t let her see the salty tears fall becaues he burried his head into the crook of her neck and held her in the dimly lit kitchen they stood in. All she could hear were his sniffles and his rapidly beating heart through is chest.

“I love you,” Harry mumbled into her neck, tickling her sensitive skin.

“I love you, too. So fucking much, Harry,” she gave his abdomen a tight embrace before pulling back.

“But promise me you’ll still want me after you see the baby come out of me. I’ve seen it before and it is not pretty.”

Harry choked on his remaining tears as a laugh roared through his chest. He wiped the wetness from his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

“’M only gonna want ye’ more after that. Promise,” Harry then raised his left pinky towards her in sincerity, the wedding band on his ring glimmering in the stovetop light.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles x pregnant!reader #dad!harry #dad!harry x reader #dad!harry x pregnant!reader #harry styles blurb #asks

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battlestar-royco · 3 years

Text

IT'S BEEN 84 YEARS. LET'S TALK ABOUT NETFLIX'S SHADOW AND BONE.

8.7/10 ⭐️

spoilers for everythingggg under the cut! i'll be discussing its merits as an adaptation vs as a show, characters and plots, and the overall aesthetic and magic/world.

SHOW VS ADAPTATION:

i say this as someone who knows all the books very well and has been in the fandom for nearly a decade, so i'm biased. but. s&b functions better as an adaptation than as a standalone show. alina's plot moves so well, and satisfyingly renders so many iconic scenes and sites from s&b. the worldbuilding is also pretty easy to fall into, with a forgivable amount of voiceover/infodump. and, hurting budget aside, i mostly liked this visual interpretation of the gv.

(sidebar: the in-universe racism... doesn't work. i tried to view it in good faith but imo it was very heavy-handed. if it was framed like, "wow it's a SHU WOMAN saving the world!!!" it might've been better, but it's just racism without recompense. and it's a terrible look to make other characters of color racist. i just. why?)

as for the crows, however... i'm just not sure how strong they'll be for new viewers? i totally understand why they were included, and i really like certain connections the show made between the two series. it was a great decision to introduce the druskelle in the first Cut scene, and showing nina as a ravkan spy.

the new crows stuff felt in character, but i think the show is at its height when it sticks to the books. the first couple episodes switching between tgt and proto-soc gave me whiplash, but luckily it got more organic as it progressed. if i didn't know and love all the crows before going in, i wouldn't be that invested in them based on season 1. aside from a couple fantastic scenes, it really felt like the writers were trying to make fetch happen for like 4 episodes before they figured out what to do with everyone. plus, ravka is such a different vibe from ketterdam--tonally, sartorially, technologically, etc they didn't totally feel like the same world. it was pretty jarring. although i prefer the duo to the trio, s&b is alina's story and she is That Bitch who walked so the crows could fly. so i didn't hate their inclusion but the shoehorned content did at times disservice both plots, imo.

CHARACTERS:

way too many, which is yet another consequence of smushing everyone into one season.

MAL/ALINA/DARKLING: first and foremost, and i PROMISE i'm not saying this just to be a hater, but there needed to be less malina. i'll be the first to say that show!mal really has what book!mal wants. the new pre-fold scenes were so good. li and renaux have amazing chemistry, and their laughter over stolen grapes was a highlight. his stag plot was also good. THAT SAID, there were way too many keramzin flashbacks and malina parallels like.. 🤢🤢why do they want us to love mal so much. for what. they only needed the teacup scene but they clearly thought they were doing something with micro-aggressions and that meadow shot they showed like 6 times. knowing mal's original character, and how they scrubbed his show counterpart almost to the point of flawlessness, he's just never going to be my fave even though i do respect what they did with him. also, why were there like 5 fake deaths for this dude? boring.

the darkling was great. ben barnes knows what the fuck he's about, and he funneled manipulation and charisma into every scene. as for the backstory: at first i really wasn't feeling it, but i eventually did warm up to it and i'm so glad they showed it because oh god the cut and the creation of the fold were SO FUCKING ICONIC. also, love love love the baghra development. WE LOVE TO SEE OLD WOMEN/MOMS WHO AREN'T "EVIL"/"CORRUPTED" BY THEIR MAGICAL POWERS!!!!!!! BITCH! it didn't have to be 12 minutes long though.

i honestly don't have much to say on alina. jml was excellent in her role and very true to the book. without her book narration she feels much more consistently written.

TRILOGY CHARACTERS: i really felt the lack of genya and zoya. genya's character and actress are perfectly layered and effective, even though their roles are relatively minor. i'm so looking forward to her razrushost moment, but i wish they'd laid more groundwork for it. (and i hope throw out the wig and just dye her hair next season.) also like. WHY KEEP THE IRRELEVANT MEAN GIRL/DARKLING THIRST PLOT FOR ZOYA??? AFTER ALL THE EFFORT THEY PUT INTO IMPROVING MAL? they sacrificed so much for malina at the expense of other characters. finally, it was interesting how they decided to kill marie. i love the tailor magic flex. but also they clearly just did that to emotionally manipulate us and connect the crows so. hm.

CROWS: speaking of! the crows storyline felt a little like filler. honestly i wish they waited to roll crows into later seasons. i'd prefer little foreshadowings about them, a la the druskelle cameo or the references to nina and matthias. introducing the crows so soon makes the ice court heist feel less special. the recruitment was super tight and pragmatic, so this felt a little fluffy/fanservicey. kaz also comes off as sooooo old again. especially without the vulnerability of his book counterpart, he just seems like a 40-year-old in a 20something body.

i was pleasantly surprised to find jesper my favorite crow. like wow.... second amendment rights for jesper fahey only!! i like all the crows but book!kanej are my faves by a long shot. they felt a bit stiff tbh, like the actors were a little uncomfy with each other and/or their exposition-heavy lines. however, the one scene that felt EXTREMELY kanej to me was when they killed that dude in the church holy fuck oh my god. WE STAN AN ANGSTY BATTLE COUPLE WHO ARE BOTH DEAD INSIDE. highlight for sure.

and i actually kinda loved helnik? i know helnik is controversial for very valid reasons, but i thoughy their dynamic was fantastic and they were among the strongest performers. it was much less overwhelming than the constantly interweaving kaz/inej/jesper imo. they need to fire their location scout though. those green screen mountains and beaches were um. interesting.

aesthetic and magic:

i really hope they get a bigger budget for costumes, cgi, and sets next season! the keftas are serviceable, but they look a little cheap at times. i will also never forgive ANY of the crows' hats. it's mostly just a personal aesthetic thing but god i fucking hate them. the darkling was best dressed, but in general i liked the ravkan look more than the kerch. why were the crows always in the most elaborate getups? why couldn't they just chill in their waistcoats??? they never seemed relaxed in the way alina and co did; the clothes never felt worn or broken in.

favorite sets: the darkling's room, the crow club, all the grisha tents, the matthias/nina ship, the church where inej killed the squaller, outdoor fountain where they told the story of the black heretic. the lighting was almost always right for each scene, and there was so much detail in every one of them.

THE MAGIC WAS SO COOL! my greatest beef is alina's light--it often looked so fake, and it washed out jml. oftentimes it was fluorescent or blue, and it was used as a forcefield or orb. it's supposed to be sunlight bro. what is so hard about that? the darkling's magic looked good, other than the fold. i've always imagined the fold more like a huge black fog rather than a literal wall. so that was a bit game of thronesy, but not terrible.

and can we talk about the amplifiers? amplifiers are my personal favorite gv lore but season 1 barely gets into them. they never mention the bear zoya slew, nor do they establish the unique strength of the stag, sea dragon, and firebird. BUT THE ANTLER COLLAR FUSED INTO ALINA'S SKIN WAS SUPER DARK AND MACABRE AND I KINDA LIKED IT? ALTHOUGH I HAVE TO WONDER HOW TF IS SHE GONNA SLEEP???

if you made it this far, thanks so much! that's all i have for today.

#shadow and bone #shadow and bone spoilers

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abbystanaccount · 3 years

Text

Abby/Owen St. Mary's set fic "II"

A sexy time fic, anything I wrote in here just pretend I didn't 😳😅. This was done so I figure I should post it for the shipping squad, everyone else keep scrolling pls... I have unfinished fics set before and after but I figure I can just put this one here for now until those are finished, then maybe put the whole thing on ao3... or nah idk.

It was such fun having a secret lover. Ever since Abby had arrived at St Mary’s two months ago, she’d had her eye on Owen, and he the same back. He made her warm and giggly and everything just fell into place a few weeks ago when he kissed her. Just the other day, Owen told her he’d never felt this way about anyone before or even had a real girlfriend.

She never had sex before, and Owen only had a couple of times years prior. But four days ago they did it for the first time in one of the empty rooms, and it’d been amazing. Abby couldn’t help but think about him and the way he felt in her since. Now beyond just him always making her smile, her mouth watered when she saw him. Owen was all she could think about. But she still had her duties to attend to as a Firefly and no one else could know, especially not her dad.

Abby’s shift finally ended and she knew Owen’s did at the same time. As planned, he was going to wait for her by the south exit and meet up with her.

“Psst” she heard him call. Abby spotted him and grinned, half jogging up to him.

“Hey!” she greeted before being pulled in close for a kiss. Owen gripped her body tight, one hand moved to the front of her shirt and held her breast. Abby blushed at his forwardness, he normally kept it cool.

Owen leaned his head down, exhaling hard, “I kept thinking about you all day.”

“Me too,” Abby admitted. Just being near him and holding him was starting to make her wet.

Owen gave her a light squeeze on her side, and then dropped his hand down to hold hers for a second.

“Let’s find a room.”

They went down the halls, peeking in the rooms for a good one. Finding a largely intact and cleanish looking one, Abby pulled Owen by the hand inside. The tall teen shut the door with his other hand and turned to kiss Abby fiercely, holding her close and kissing her as if he’d been starved for it. Abby did her best to keep up, opening her mouth to let in his tongue and pawing at his shirt.

AN: ok I figure by now the people not interested in this aren't reading so if you want to have a premium reading experience, I based this fic off a risque set of renders made a few months ago. Warning graphic 18+ PLS don't click unless you want a good time lmao link

Owen leaned his head to the side to stop and guided her to a chair in the room. He sat down with a plop and wiped the dust off it. Abby glanced around, she supposed it was better than the old hospital bed.

“Sit on my lap, babe,” Owen offered, and with a shy smile Abby obeyed and went over to sit on him. She hoped it wasn’t uncomfortable for him, that she wasn’t too boney or heavy, but Owen seemed happy and leaned in to kiss her again. It was turning her on so much how he was leading the way.

Their makeout seemed to spice up a bit as Owen moved his hand to the crotch of her pants, rubbing her over the fabric. Abby hummed and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. After a moment his other hand wandered to her shirt and Owen pulled it up revealing her tummy and lacy red bra. Owen paused to look and admire her.

“You were wearing something so sexy this whole time? You’re such a bad girl, Abigail.”

Abby felt a tinge of self consciousness, “How am I bad if I’m doing it just for you?” She played with the collar of his shirt. “Shouldn’t that make me good?”

Owen gazed intently at her, “Yeah, you’re right. You’re a good girl. But good or bad,” he began rubbing her crotch again over the pants in circles. ”I’ll take either one.”

Abby bit her lip and kissed Owen again, desperate for more feeling. She then brought back her hands and undid her belt, then struggled to pull her pants over her thighs and ass which were thickening with muscles from the tireless training she’d been doing.

Abby then pulled up and over her shirt leaving her in just her red, silky underwear. She remembered finding this set at an abandoned store on the way to Salt Lake. She’d discreetly tucked them in her bag, hoping no one noticed. Abby always did kinda of like pretty or girly clothes, it’s just she was never in the environment to wear them. She always had to be ready to be down and dirty, though sometimes she’d dream what it’d be like in the old world, hanging out in something flowy and soft at the park with her friends.

Abby’s daydreams were interrupted by Owen’s strong fingers now rubbing her crotch over her thin panties, she could feel the warmth of his hand over the thin layer of fabric. When Owen had done that during their first time, he’d driven her crazy with anticipation. It seemed they were both at a point though that the teasing needed to go further.

“Take them off,” she told him.

His amber eyes looked black as they met hers and Abby squeaked as Owen pulled off her panties with one hand and pushed in two fingers with the other.

“You’re so wet.” He murmured and Abby inhaled sharply.

“Because I want you so bad.” Abby responded and bit her lip. Owen moved his hand in and out, and her slick pussy squelched. Abby groaned and gripped his shoulder ducking her head. His fingers were thick and he curled them in her as she moaned.

“Fuck….” Abby whimpered, she made eye contact with Owen and it was almost intimidating, he seemed so dominant.

Then he pulled out his fingers and Abby opened her mouth in protest. Owen responded by sticking the digit he’d had in her into her mouth. Abby began to suck them as she figured that’s what he wanted. She tasted sweet on his skin.

“Damn, you are such a good girl,” Owen hummed, his pupils were wide. He pulled out his hand and began to shimmy down his pants. His cock, Abby thought, pressing her thighs together. She wanted it.

Owen pulled out his thick member and rubbed it vertically against her pussy. Abby adjusted herself on his lap. “Where’d you learn all this, Goober?” She asked, putting a hand on his face.

Owen tilted his head. “Porno DVD’s. That and Manny telling me shit in great detail. It’s way better in real life though.”

“Are you gonna fuck me hard?” Abby teased. He’d been gentle the first time but she could handle it. She was almost trembling next to his cock.

“You want that, don’t you?” He purred, putting a hand on around her jaw.

His cock was hot and grew rock hard as she could feel it pulse next to her. She was getting so wet.

“Yes… please put it in me,” she whispered to him. “I want it.”

“Hmm,” hummed Owen, giving her a confident smirk. He hooked a thumb through the back of Abby’s bra and gave it a tug, undoing the clasp. Abby gasped as it came loose and Owen leaned forward to give her chest and nipple kisses.

Abby moaned and held the back of his head as he kissed her. He was teasing her so much it was torture, Abby grasped at his cock, craving at least some friction. Owen growled and Abby pressed herself up against him. “Put it in me,” she practically begged.

Owen shifted them both and leaned back to align himself up with Abby’s entrance. Abby lifted herself up and could feel the head pushing to get into her. Her nails dug into Owen’s shoulder and she gasped as the slickness of her pussy allowed his dick to slide in. Abby scrunched her face and toes as he slid in deeper and deeper until Abby was sat all the way down in her lover’s lap, him pressed against her. Abby let out a dangerously loud noise and threw back her head. Owen brought his hand around her thin waist to her clit, and Abby began to shift her hips around in circles with him in her.

“Happy now, baby?” Owen asked her in a low voice, and Abby moaned a “Yes!” and nodded.

It felt so good, Abby wanted to cum already. She was really enjoying this sex thing, it beat just sticking her fingers in herself and wishing they were someone else’s.

Abby got the urge to move around a bit more and adjust her weight to her limbs, moving her hips a bit more. Owen moved his grip to help her, the smack of their skin reverberating throughout the room.

Abby gripped the arm of the chair and used her legs to push herself up and down. Owen’s cock went in her deep as she bounced up and down in her lover’s lap.

“Fuck, fuck…” Abby moaned.

Owen held her hips as she moved, but her moved one up to grab her breast as he thrust.

“Your tits are bouncing as much as your braid,” he kneaded it, “I love your beautiful little tits.”

“Mmmm,” Abby hummed, appreciating the dirty talk. He just turned so possessive when he had sex, and she was loving it. Abby was also happy he found her attractive and it made her feel wanted. She found him very attractive as well, so handsome and tall. The sound of the bodies hitting together filled the room, Abby wasn’t well versed in having penises in her, but his felt really good.

Abby leaned back into the seat and looked at Owen. He lifted up her leg and brought it in, moving his hips. This angle felt even better and Abby moaned needingly as she stared at him.

“You like how my cock feels?” Owen asked, his eyes full of lust.

“Yes!” Abby mewled with a gasp, she figured he’d like dirty talk back. “It’s so big. It feels so fucking good, Owen.”

Owen leaned in and kissed her ferociously. He then gripped her tight and started thrust up rapidly and Abby squeaked against his mouth as she struggled to keep steady. She was getting close and moaning as it built.

Owen could tell and brought a hand to her clit, going in circles, the pressure was just what she needed.

“Fuck! Owen I’m gonna cum!” Abby buried her face into his neck, his pace was merciless as his balls slapped up against her and his length moved in and out. “Owen! Oh my god, fuck! Owennnn!” She dug her nails into his shoulder.

He shouldn’t cum in me. Dad would be so mad if I got pregnant! But for some reason Abby didn’t care, and felt her orgasm take her over the edge as Owen thrust up in her rapidly. Abby squeezed her eyes shut and held onto him for stability and moaned as she felt the pleasure hit her in waves, the pressure from his hand and his cock stretching her magnifying the feeling.

“Owen… cum in me,” Abby groaned, her pussy was extremely sensitive from the orgasm, but it was what she wanted to feel. He’d pulled out the first time, shot his warm loads all over her tummy. But now Abby wanted him in her so bad.

“I want to cum in you too, goober,” Owen responded, but he seemed a little hesitant.

“Do it, please!” Abby begged, burying her head into his neck and squeezing her nails again into his shoulder.

Her boyfriend grunted and clenched Abby’s hip hard as he moved her body to his liking. His cock twitched in her and was deep in her as it came its multiple loads.

Owen cursed and groaned loudly and Abby felt him grip her tightly onto him as his hot cum began to fill her and then bubble out.

“Oh my god,” Abby gasped, unable to keep her thoughts straight. She could hardly believe she was in this position with someone. Three months ago she’d have never have guessed. But three months ago she wasn’t in love.

They stayed there for a minute, breathing hard. Eventually, Abby knew she had to get up and gingerly pushed herself off of Owen gasping as she felt him leave her body. Everything was so sensitive. Owen had gone semi-limp and watched her as she stood up naked, cum beginning to run down her leg.

Abby swore and took an old cloth to wipe it off. In her peripheral she saw Owen sit up.

“The way your ass jiggles, Abs… maybe there is a god.”

Abby snorted and gave him a look of disbelief. She tossed him the cloth as he looked like he needed it.

They put back on their underwear, but when Abby reached for her shirt, Owen grasped her forearm and guided her back to the chair. She let him pull her into his lap again, despite knowing they had to go soon or people would notice.

She put her legs up and Owen wrapped his arm around her bare legs and torso almost as if she were a baby.

“Hey, goober,” Abby murmured to him with a smile.

Owen’s face was relaxed but confident, “I love you,” he told her. “Sorry if that’s too early to say. I wanted to say it weeks ago, though.”

Abby felt her stomach flutter, she almost felt like she was in one of those teen romances she used to read. In this hard world she lived in, maybe this was the closest thing she’d ever get to that. She was good with that.

“I love you, too.”

#my fanfic #abby x owen #abby #owen

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stenbrozier · 4 years

Text

Curse Words and Butterflies (Platonic!Eddie Kaspbrak x Stanley Uris x Reader)

Plot: One night, drunk at Bill’s house, you and your two best friends, Stan and Eddie, decide to give each other stick and poke tattoos

Warnings: drunk!Stan, drunk/surprise artist!Eddie mention of blood, underage drinking + swearing

A/N: Eddie with a stick and poke tattoo >> everything else. Also I indirectly made this modern so they got phones and shittttt. Also also, this is based off the time I got a stick and poke on my middle finger which says “Fuck” :D

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It all started with a bottle of tequila that Bev had snuck from her father. That turned into a few bottles of wine Richie’s parents had let him bring over after work if he was “responsible and stayed inside.” Then Bill’s parents left for the weekend, giving all eight of you free reign of the house. Two bottles of wine later, you were sitting in Stan’s lap, giggling softly as you watched Richie and Bill bicker over what movie you were all going to put on. You draped your legs over Eddie’s lap, his fingers lazily going to tap your knees. You were slightly passed tipsy, not quite drunk, but you could tell that Eddie was beyond salvageable. He didn’t drink very often, so when he did, he let loose and would go crazy. You were 95% sure he’d drank three fourths of one of the bottles of wine, rendering him useless for the rest of the night. Stan lightly tapped his fingers along your shoulders, catching your attention.

“I want a tattoo,” he said softly, showing your his pale and bland wrist. “Like...like I want a little bird or something.” You furrowed your eyebrows at him, looking at the seriousness on his face. “Do you think Richie knows how to do tattoos?”

You shrugged, sitting up so that your legs feel off of Eddie’s lap. He looked at you in surprise, apparently you scared him, and you started running your fingers over Stan’s wrist. You took out your phone, googling how to you could do a stick and poke for Stan. You noticed that you’d need something called “India Ink”, and you cocked your head to the side.

“Hey, Mikey?” Mike looked over to you, seeing your slightly flushed cheeks from the wine and smiling. He could tell you were a little drunk, so he was going to take this very cautiously. “Can you run to the drugstore and see if you can find something called ‘India Ink’?” He furrowed his eyebrows in sort of a disapproving way. “Please?” You gave him puppy eyes and he sighed, grabbing his car keys and shaking his head.

“I’ll be back,” he shouted, trying to get everyone’s attention, ultimately failing. “I’ll grab a needle and some disinfectant wipes, too.” You smiled and turned to Stan, seeing a small smile on his face.

“You sure you want a bird on your wrist?” you asked softly, watching him nod his head. You looked over at Eddie, noticing him staring at you and Stan. “You okay, Ed?”

“I-I think I want a tattoo,” he whispered incredulously, as if he couldn’t believe the words that were leaving his mouth. “Like...the word ‘fuck’.” Your eyes widened. “I do. Put the word ‘fuck’ on my wrist.”

“O-okay,” you said softly, nodding. You looked down at your wrist, sighing as you examined it. “Maybe I’ll give myself a butterfly.”

“Aw!!” Stan screamed in your ear, causing everyone to look at him. “Guys, (Y/N) is giving me a bird!” Richie rolled his eyes with a weird look on his face, going back to watching the movie with Bill. Bev took another swig of the tequila she was nursing as Ben held her in his lap, his eyes shut and soft snores leaving his lips.

“Like a real life bird?” Bev made a face, confused as to what he meant. “Stan, are you getting a pet bird?!”

“No, no. Like a little tattoo bird,” he clarified, drunkly lifting his wrist up and letting it flop down dramatically. “It’ll be cute, just you wait.”

After that exchange, everyone focused their attention to the weird, indie movie that was playing on the TV. Mike came in silently, handing you the bag as well as a bag of your favorite chips.

“Just cause,” he said with a soft smile. “I noticed you hadn’t eaten anything tonight, and if you’re going to give Stan a tattoo, you need to eat something so you don’t get all woozy.” You smiled at the gesture, giving him a nod before dragging Stan and Eddie into the kitchen with you.

You dumped everything out of the plastic bag, taking out the sanitary wipes. You used one to wipe your hands, then used a clean one to wipe off Stan’s wrist. You searched through the draws of Bill’s kitchen, looking for a lighter to sterilize the needle with. You found a big one, unpackaging the sewing needle as you held it over the lighter’s flame. You walked back over the Stan, noticing that he was rather anxious.

“Eddie, hold his hand,” you said absentmindedly opening the ink bottle and dipping the needle in there. “I’m gonna do those little ‘m’ shaped birds cause that’s all I can do, okay?” He nodded, burying his head into Eddie’s neck as you poked through his skin. He hissed, leaning further into Eddie to which Eddie almost gagged at the stench of tequila that had been wafting off of Stan for the past hour.

After a few more pokes, you noticed blood starting to prickle up on the surface of his arm, and you quickly grabbed a paper towel, dabbing it away gently so that you could continue drawing it. When you finished the one ‘m’ bird, you pressed the paper towel against it again. Thirty seconds later, you removed it to see the ink had gotten a bit faint, but the design had still stayed.

“Stan,” you said, tapping his shoulder. He lifted his head up and looked down at the tattoo, smiling softly. “Do you want a couple more?”

He shook his head, admiring it. “It’ll fade anyway. Wow, thank you, (Y/N/N).” He brought you into a hug, kissing the side of your head. “He’s so cute.” He gave the tattoo a teeny little kiss, rushing out to show Richie and the others. “Richie! Richieee!”

You smiled up at Eddie, watching him move into the seat Stan was just in. You grabbed another wipe, cleaning yourself then getting one for his arm, and then you grabbed a second needle. You repeated what you did before, except you tattooed the word ‘Fuck’ on his wrist instead. You tried to keep it kinda small, just in case he regretted it in the morning. He was surprisingly a lot calmer than Stan was, possibly because he couldn’t feel the needle, and his body was definitely a little numb. You finished, dabbing it off with a clean paper towel. He smiled down at it, looking back up at you with droopy eyes and red cheeks.

“Yeah,” he smiled softly, nodding his head. “Do, uh, can I do yours?” He hiccuped after he finished is sentence, giving you and even bigger smile. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

Your mind was slightly hazy so you nodded. “Let me prep. You’re fucking wasted.” You giggled at your words, watching his face contort into sadness at your words. “I just don’t want you hurting yourself.” You handed him a wipe before you started to prep all of the supplies for the third time that night.

“What’d you say you wanted?” he asked, throwing his wipe away. “A butterfly or caterpillar?”

“Butterfly,” you answered back quickly, holding your wrist out as he carefully picked up the needle and started to puncture your skin. You hissed in pain. “Fuck, Eddie. Calm down.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled as he slowed his movements. “I’m just excited.” You nodded, your eyes clasping shut as he got closer and closer to the veins. After what felt like hours, he pulled away with a soft smile. “All...all done.”

You looked down at your wrist and saw and beautiful outline of a monarch butterfly, wings spread out. “Eds!! It’s so pretty.” He blushed, setting the sewing needle down and cleaning up the wipes. He tossed all three needles in the trash while you rushed out to show the rest of the guys your tattoo.

“Woah, did you do that yourself (Y/N/N)?” Richie incredulously asked. You shook your head, smiling back at the kitchen to see Eddie coming out after his cleanup of the counter.

“Eddie did it,” you shrieked happily, running up to him and tackling him. “Isn’t he an amazing artist?!”

“(Y/N/N), Stan, go wash them off,” he said sternly, a blush on his cheeks as he pointed to the kitchen. Stan zoomed into the kitchen, the water being heard immediately. You walked in after him, nudging him to the side so you could share the sink.

“Woah! That looks so cool,” Stan mumbled in awe. “I should’ve had Eddie do mine.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved him as you dabbed off your tattoo, seeing it faded a bit, but it still looked just as pretty as it did when it was first done. You shut off the water, walking out of the kitchen behind Stanley.

“They all want me to give them stick and pokes,” Eddie whispered in your ear when you walked back in. You shrugged your shoulders and looked up at him.

“Maybe you should,” you answered. “You are an artist after all.”

#i love yall and your support #eddie kaspbrak x reader #eddie kaspbrak headcanons #eddie kaspbrak smut #stanley uris x reader #stanley uris headcanons #stanley uris smut #richie tozier x reader #bill denbrough x reader #mike hanlon x reader #beverly marsh x reader #ben hanscom x reader #it chapter one imagines #it chapter two imagines

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atxlxs · 3 years

Text

Beyond The Veil: Chapter 7

(This chapter is going to be a bit shorter this time but the next will be back to the usual length! I wanted the suspense of ending it where I did >:) )

As Muska watched, her classmates flooded in from the locker rooms.

First of all, that is a fuckin robot. Robocop was starting to fit more and more. Next, Yoyo was looking anxious as all hell and was scrunching into herself. Probably due to all of the skin showing at the moment.

Muska cringed a bit at that. She had seen her quirk in action the other day so she knew that skin was needed, but wearing clothes you were uncomfortable in was a great way to enhance body dysmorphia and anxiety in all the bad ways. Clothing was supposed to empower you, not make you cage up.

Midoriya and his absolutely horrible bunny costume hood, it looked like those bad leather kink memes Eras would send her at 4 in the morning from the pre-quirk era, came bouncing over with stars in his eyes. Uraraka not far behind.

“Wow! Viridis, you look so cool!” Midoriya cheerfully stated, the bounce never disappearing. That was kinda adorable. Honestly what a cinnamon roll.

“Yea!” Uraraka commented, drawing Muska’s attention to her, “Its so fashionable while still staying practical! The witch aesthetic is also unique in the best of ways!”

How did snarky and sarcastic Muska manage to make friends like this, all sunshine and smiles, when she had a resting bitch face and would not hesitate to stomp a bitch?

“Thanks, my friend designed it for me along with my gear,” She started, motioning to the visible whip and brass knuckles that were stylishly black with white accents, “Yours too, I like the space vibes. Midoriya looks like a bunny.”

“He does!” “Wha-!”

Uraraka giggled while strawberry-midoriya made an appearance. Before they could tease him too much though, All Might(?) called their attention in order to start the lesson.

The battle trials were team based and the teams were picked through a drawing, much to Robocops chagrin, Pairing Mido up with her. Uraraka managed to pair with Yoyo and it looked like a soon to become girl boss team. Their opponents seemed to agree considering the gay panic coming off of Jirou and the bisexual disaster that was a Kaminari was barely keeping himself from short circuiting.

Her gaydar was sharp but the fact that she could tell what emotions they were feeling helped too.

Muska’s team was called and she followed Mido out to the city scape and stopped in front of the building that they would soon throw down in. Worryingly, ever since the announcement of the teams and their enemies, Mido has been an anxious mess. He was verging on panic and that was not good. Before Muska could ask though, Greenie opened his mouth.

“So I went to school with Kacchan,” and wasn’t that worrisome considering that the greenie was practically vibrating out of their suit right now, “and he will definitely come after me first. He doesn’t work with others well,” -an understatement really- “and will probably leave Iida to guard the bomb.”

It took a second to remember who Iida was before it clicked. Considering Muska hadn’t bothered to remember the annoying blue teens name. Mido was about to say more but Muska cut him off.

“Alright, I bet you and your self sacrificial tendencies will say you're going to go after him alone despite not having a handle on your quirk that’s good enough to not break bones.” yes, she was calling the green bean out.

Considering the shocked expression she got in return, she was right on the money. Sighing while dragging a hand down her face in exasperation, silently debating on whether this is what Eras felt every time she did something dumb as fuck, Muska shook her head and stared at Midoriya. Decidedly not impressed by the greenie’s idea.

“Yea no. First of all, I won’t fight you about this since you look like you’ll retaliate with bad reasons until I agree, but I will be nearby on standby. It's better to go ahead with two against one to quickly end the fight. Secondly, after we subdue Blasty we’ll go ahead and get Robocop. My quirk, which I’ve already explained, will be great to counteract someone that just moves fast.”

The fight slowly drained from Midoriya’s eyes under her glare and silently he nodded. Though, there was less tension in his shoulders and he wasn’t as vibraty as before so she’ll count that as a win. God, she was going to have to talk some sense into Blasty using authoritarian force at some point… wasn’t she? Curse her luck.

An alarm sounded along with All Might's voice booming through their given headpieces, telling them “The Fight Has Started!” with enthusiastic energy.

Well, as long as they stick to the strategy they should be fine. At worst she would just have to fix some bones before passing Mido off to Recovery Girl while also talking to the heroine herself for medical lessons.

----

Whoever cleared a very angry Pomeranian to carry fucking BOMBS on his arms was going to feel Muska’s eternal wrath.

The fight started easily. They walked together silently up the stairs and through the hallways, navigating the building and checking all the doors for possible bomb locations. Sure enough, as greenie predicted, the angry Pompom boy could be heard before he was seen. Angry shouts of “DEKU!” reverberated through the hallways and the telltale sign of quirk use through explosive sounds guaranteed it.

Muska caught Midoriya’s eyes and raised an eyebrow. Nonplussed at the anger issues coming off the blond in waves.She couldn’t really judge the anger issues though, plus that seemed like a childhood problem that therapy could probably help. Midoriya sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck before they were forced to turn their attention to the angry pomeranian.

“Deku…” Bakugo started, his agitation clear in the venom the words were spat with. Subtly, Muska felt for his emotions and was decidedly not going to deal with whatever that was.

The explosive blond was angry, that's for sure, but there was also confusion and guilt. The guilt was triggered by the anger, which then made the blond more angry because he either didn’t want to continue to feel guilty or didn’t want to be doing what was making him feel guilty which was frustrating. Which made him angry again. It was a violent circle of emotions that was complex as all hell what the actual fu-

Muska’s thoughts were cut off as Midoriya and Bakugo lunged at each other, Mido dodging and Bakugo exploding empty air before dodging Mido’s retaliation. Blood thirsty punches were exchanged as Midoriya’s shoulder held tension and eyes held determination.

Muska hid around the corner of the hallway, observing silently for an opening. The beat down was verging on brutal and by the look on the blonds face, he wanted it that way.

She unlatched her whip from her belt and loosened its coiled up state. Gripping the handle, she turned back to watch just as Midoriya body slammed Bakugo into the ground. Backing up a bit to hold a fight stance. Breath coming haggard from exhaustion. The slam seemed to empty Bakugo’s lungs as he gasped for air.

Muska rushed in, dragging the capture tap out of her pocket and binding Bakugo’s hands together as he attempted to get up. He shouted angry curses at her, his face holding an almost feral anger to it. Muska actually stepped back at that slightly. Something seemed off.

She stepped away slowly and when she began to believe he was captured, All Might’s declaration of so calmed some nerves, she turned to Midoriya who was staring at his hands like he had never seen them before. Disbelief conveyed through his expression. Muska brought up a hand to wave in front of his face when she heard All Might yell through the headphones.

“BAKUGO DON’T! YOU’VE ALREADY BEEN INCAPACITAT-” The teachers shouting was cut off by the sound of metal clinking together.

Muska whipped around with wide eyes. Bakugo was standing, hands that used to be restrained were aimed in her direction and one was settled on the pin of a gauntlet, anger radiated off of him as his mind refused to acknowledge any of the other emotions she could feel through the energy surrounding him.

“Fuck you DEKU and YOU! I Wouldn’t have been captured if it weren’t for your fuckin interruption!” He screamed, eyes clouded a bit as he lost control.

Muska went to move but felt frozen to the ground by the all consuming anger she felt, Midoriya moved first. Grabbing her and starting to move himself. All Might's warning lost to the wind as the tell tale clink of a pin being removed seemed to echo in the near silent hall.

“They won’t die if they manage to dodge!” was the last thing she heard before a blast rendered her hearing to nothing but ringing and pain.

Burning pain.

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Tags:

@baguettehead

#bnha #mha #mha oc #mha fanfic #au

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toothpastecanyon · 4 years

Text

Mizar the Mediocre, Chapter 3

Alcor gets a summons from a strange Mizar. Maybe there's still something to recognise, here.

See most updated version on Archive of Our Own.

______________________________________________________________

Mini golf turned out to be surprisingly fun. The three of them spent a couple hours knocking balls down courses and through neon clown heads. Mart turned out to be pretty good at it after all; he’d line up a shot, shoot a wink at his daughter, and putt right into the hole almost every time. Apart from the course where Ashley bet him he couldn’t shoot a ball over the windmill and stood around snickering when it came back down and hit him in the face, he had a great game.

“Looks like I won, Dipper Pines.” Martin waved the score card in his face. “How’s about that fifty dollars, huh?”

Dipper distinctly remembered not taking that bet, but he handed it over nonetheless and took the gloating ride back to the apartment as a form of payment. It was nearly sunset, now; he sat back in his seat, and stared up at the silhouetting skyscrapers as Mart’s words washed over him.

This had been a good day, he thought. A good day with a fun Mizar… why hadn’t he visited this one sooner? Ah, well. As a Mizar like him would probably say, there’s no time like the-

“Stop! Stop!”

Brakes squealed and Dipper was nearly thrown into the legroom. The next thing he could hear was Ashley’s voice.

“What the hell, Dad! You nearly T-boned that guy!”

“Yeah, sorry, sorry!” Mart turned around in his seat. “Is everyone okay? You okay, sweetie?”

“Yeah, no thanks to you! Pay attention to the fucking road, Dad!”

“You’re right. Sorry.” Mart tried to reach a hand out, but drew it back when she glared at him. “Sorry. I was just, I was, I was talking about mini golf, and it was really fun, and we were havin’ a good time… I-I’ll just drive. Keep my eyes straight ahead, right? Where they’re supposed to be, right? Heh…”

No one laughed at that. Dipper sat back as they started moving again, and put his seatbelt on.

As the night set in, the city came alive. Bright lights shone out from every headlight, every storefront, every towering casino with spotlights shooting up to the heavens. Neon was everywhere he looked: neon red flashing arrows, neon yellow strobing signs, neon brands sticking out of every neon neon-soaked building they passed neonically screaming for his attention.

Under their glaring light, the little people passing one another on the street were rendered faceless. The sky, rendered starless. Mart pulled up to the casino, and the great big neon sign above the entrance bathed their car in blood red before plunging them into shadow. On the other side, Mart peered out at the parking lot towards the back of the building.

“Ugh,” he said, and let out a nervous chuckle. “I always forget how dark their, uh, parking is. Guess this is why they want you to let a valet do it.”

Ashley groaned. “Why don’t you ask, then? I thought they were free here.”

“No, that’s the other casino I go to - the, uh, Florencian. They’re not as nice about that here… but hey, as long as they comp my room, they’re pretty nice in my book!” He started grumbling as he turned the wheel. “But a whole sixty dollars just to drive my car into a parking space… nobody told me it wasn’t free here, I would’ve done it myself.”

The car cruised right into the centre of one white line, and Mart turned off the car with a grin.

“See? I’m a great driver! Don’t even need a valet, sweetie - just need these!”

He wiggled his hands, and Ashley stared at him for a second. Without a word, she opened the door and got out of the car.

“Oh, uh… Wait for me! No, really, the parking lot gets kinda sketchy sometimes Ashley, I’d really rather you…?” He watched her disappear behind the bend. “O-okay, I’m coming! I’ll catch up to you!”

Mart left his car and half-jogged after his daughter, leaving Dipper to follow along. He followed them through a lobby still filled with chattering guests and tired clerks, and turned his head to see the casino on their way to the elevator. It was down a few steps and through an archway. Judging by the number of voices emanating from down there, there were a fair number of souls within it.

Dipper couldn’t see them, though. All he could make out was the flashing of slot machines before they passed it by. There was a pat on his shoulder.

“Looking at the real fun, are you?” Mart cracked a grin. “I might go down there tonight. You can come too, if you want!”

Dipper frowned at him, which only made him chuckle.

“What? Aw, c’mon! It’s what you do in Vegas! I won five hundred dollars on the slots once, first try!”

Ashley said something, but it was drowned out in the chatter.

“What was that, sweetie?”

“I said, then you lost it, Dad.” They got into the elevator, and the doors closed shut. “So you didn’t really win anything.”

“Aww, yeah, that happens. Part of the fun, y’know? You win some, you lose so-”

“Mom said you lost two thousand dollars.”

Dipper could hear a pin drop in the silence that stretched between them. The elevator moved up. Music played. Mart shot a glance down at her, and then forced out a laugh.

“That was, uh… she told you that?”

“Not on purpose, if that’s what you’re trying to insinuate.” Ashley glared down at her phone. “It was a loud argument. Maybe because you lost two thousand dollars of her money. All part of the fun, though, isn’t it?”

Dipper glanced sharply at Mart, who wasn’t meeting his eyes. The doors opened, and Mart made a show of ushering everyone through.

“Heh, after you, sweetie!”

She stormed past him without a word.

“Alright, haha… after you, Dipper!”

Dipper didn’t know what to say, so he just stepped off and started following Ashley to their room. Mart slung an arm around him.

“Well, uh, mini golf! That was fun, huh?”

They rounded a corner.

“Yeah, it was pretty fun-”

“And you’re really not down for going down to the casino, huh?”

Dipper raised an eyebrow. “No? You’re still going?”

“Just for a little bit, don’t worry. You can hang out with Ashley - you two’ll have so much fun!”

“You’re asking a demon to babysit your daughter.”

“Babysit? Hah!” Mart clapped his shoulder. “No, she’s a smart girl, she doesn’t need a babysitter. You two can keep each other company, though! Put on some movies, play some games, do whatever you like!”

Dipper smiled a bit at that, but he couldn’t stop looking at Ashley as they followed her down the corridor. “What about, uh, that stuff Ashley said? About you losing two thousand-”

“Oh, there’s our room!” Mart said loudly, then made a show of fumbling in his pockets. “Ashley, sweetie, you got my keys, don’t you? Why don’t you just go inside?”

She stared at him for a second.

“Go on! You wanna order room service? I know it’s about your dinner time - go look at the menu!”

No reply. After another moment of uncomfortable silence, she unlocked the door, swung it open, and slammed it behind her. Mart flinched a bit at that, but turned back to Dipper with a wide, wide smile. He put another hand on Dipper’s shoulder.

“Buddy…” he started. “So, uh, alright, you’re good here?”

“What? No, I asked you about-”

“The money thing. Look, that was a mistake, that was years ago. I’m sorry if it got kind of awkward in the elevator, but there’s nothing to worry about, seriously.”

Dipper peered at Mart’s aura. Something in his omniscience was needling him.

“So we good?”

“That was…” Dipper frowned. “That wasn’t years ago. It happened nine months ago.”

“Jeez, it isn’t even a year yet?” He watched Dipper’s frown deepen. “No, I wasn’t trying to lie or anything, I just - huh! It feels like it was longer.” He started scratching his beard. “Well, I guess the divorce was in August. Then I was… y’know, sleeping in cars, doing odd jobs… I guess that really makes you lose track of time, you know what I mean?”

Dipper shifted uncomfortably. “No, uh, not really. I’m… sorry to hear about-”

“Yeah. You know, the casinos are super nice - if you do a bit of gambling, they’ll sometimes just give you a room for free! It’s crazy!” He chuckled, and put his hands in his pockets. “That’s really the only reason I go anymore; y’know, I save up those offers for weekends with Ashley. Just so we’ll have somewhere nice to stay, you know? So it’s really all for her.”

“Oh… I guess that doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Nah, it’s not bad. See, you get me.” Mart pulled him into a squeezing hug. “You’re the best buddy ever, Dipper Pines.”

At that, he snorted. “You’ve only known me for a few hours.”

“...Well, I suppose I have. Huh. I guess I just have no sense of time today, heh.” He pulled back, his grin softening into something more wistful. “I guess you just - you give off these sorta old friend vibes, you know what I mean? It really does feel like I’ve known you forever.”

Dipper stared down at that gentle smile, those twinkling eyes, that wonderful soul nestled within him… and he found himself smiling right back.

“I know what you mean,” he said, and Mart pulled him into another hug. Through all the things that were different, through the beard scratching against his suit and the funky smell of that leopard print dressing gown… this felt so achingly familiar. He missed this.

Dipper wanted to hold on longer, but it was only a short hug. Then Mart pulled back, gave him one last grin, then shot off finger guns as he backed away down the corridor.

“Right, buddy, we’ll hang out later! Have a nice time while I, uh… figure out which way the elevator is! Man, walking backwards is hard!”

“It’s on your right.”

“My right or your right- ohh, you said my right! You’re way ahead of me! Alright, to the casinoooo!”

He chuckled as Mart backed into a wall and awkwardly shuffled out of sight. Yep, that man was definitely a Mizar.

…

What was he doing again? Oh, yeah, watching Ashley!

The door was locked when he tried it, so he checked for cameras before phasing through. Mart’s suite was darker now than when they left it; most of the light came from the glow of the city from the far window, and from the glare of a phone screen off Ashley’s face as she sat on her bed. She frowned when he flipped a switch.

Dipper waved. Ashley didn’t respond. He cleared his throat. She didn’t look up.

“Uh… hey,” Dipper started. “So your Dad’s, uh, gonna be gone for a bit tonight…”

He paused there, but she didn’t have anything to say to that.

“...so it looks like it’s just you and me! You want to do anything? Put on a movie? Play board games?”

She reached into her pocket, and brought out a pair of earbuds.

“I’ve got any game in the world if you wanted… wanted to… oh, you’re, uh, putting those in.” Dipper watched her stick them in her ears without casting him so much as a glance. “Want to be left alone? That’s okay too! I’ll… do my own thing, I guess.”

He stood in the doorway for a moment, twitching his wings as he looked around the room for something to do. His eyes fell upon the TV mounted to the wall; he floated over.

“Hey, where’s the…” he started, but trailed off. To his surprise, Ashley pointed to the remote sitting on the end of the second bed. “Oh… oh! Thanks.”

“Not much on this late,” she said. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Oh. Any requests?”

“I just told you there’s not much on.”

“Oh, sorry, sorry…” Dipper shied away to the ceiling. “I’ll just see what’s on.”

He turned on the TV, and was instantly greeted by one of those strange commercials that only played after nine. He assumed it was advertising some kind of car, but all the women in bikinis made him roll his eyes and change the channel. It switched onto a medicine advert, and then a food advert, and then it dropped him right in the middle of an intense fight scene where a man got knifed across the cheek and put an hand over the blood and yelled out, “You fucking bi-”

Dipper gasped and scrambled to shut it off. He was met with a loud snort; Ashley was snickering into her chest, and he gave a nervous smile.

“Yeah, that was, uh, funny.” He discreetly floated the remote back to its position on the bed. “I guess it’s too late for Magical Mizar to be on, huh?”

She just kept snickering away, and he felt his cheeks redden a little. How long was Mart gonna be gone for, again? He cast his mind down the stairs and found him gushing about Ashley to a poker table; it seemed like he was having a good time.

Maybe he should find something else to do.

Dipper summoned a little flame, flicking it between his fingers as he thought. Just to the left of him was the window, and the city that shone out from it. It was impossible to ignore he was in Vegas; the whole room seemed to lead his eye out to the Strip, forced him to focus on the beautiful lights and the beautiful lights only. And there was beauty, in the beautiful lights. There was a luxury, an excitement lent to being here, a rush to seeing all those blinding lights laid out beneath his feet. It was like he was on top of the world… and all else was black. All else was hidden. The lights were beautiful.

Someone said something.

…

“Alcor?”

“Huh?” He looked up at the name, then over at Ashley, who was still looking at her phone. “Oh, do you need something?”

“No. I said, you don’t need to babysit me if you’re bored.”

“Oh, I’m not bored, don’t worry!”

“You’re just staring out of a window, dude.” She tapped her screen. “I’m not a little kid, you can leave if you want.”

“No, it’s okay, you shouldn’t be on your own the whole night. Mart wanted me to stay here until he gets back.”

Ashley finally looked up at him. She raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“He did not say that.”

Dipper frowned. “Well, he didn’t say that explicitly, but I’m sure that’s what he meant.”

“Oh, really.”

“Yeah! So don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

To that, she rolled her eyes and looked back down at her phone. That seemed to be the end of the conversation, but then she paused, made a face, and looked back up at him.

“Is it like a demon thing?”

Dipper blinked. “Is what a demon thing?”

“Did my dad, like, make a deal so you gotta stay here, or-”

“No, no, no! We didn’t make a deal or anything-”

“Then why are you here?”

“What do you mean?”

Ashley made a face. “I mean, I’m not trying to be rude or anything, but, uh, you’re a demon, right?”

“I am.” He twitched his wings, and sighed. “Yeah, I get what you’re asking. I know it probably seems a little… weird, that I hung out with you guys all day without a deal.”

She didn’t say anything to that. He continued.

“It’s just… you know, it was fun! With Mart, it was fun!”

“Okay?” Ashley snorted. “I didn’t know Alcor the Dreambender liked mini golf that much.”

“Heh, I mean, I didn’t mind what we were doing.” He gave a little smile. “It was nice to catch up with Mart, though.”

“Catch up?”

“Huh?”

Ashley sat up. “‘Catch up’ with Mart? Do you know my dad, or something?”

He froze. Oh. This might be a little difficult to explain.

“Have you guys met before?”

“Uh… no? I mean kind of, but I haven’t met your dad before, like your dad the person! I, uh…” He watched Ashley’s face as it morphed into a confused frown. “I know… I know his soul.”

“His soul?”

“Yeah! He’s, uh… Mizar.”

Silence. For a moment, Ashley just stared. She looked he’d told her Mart came from outer space. Her jaw had actually dropped, and her eyes were bugged out. He cringed.

“Yeah, uh, I know that’s kind of… kind of a lot to take in, but-”

“My dad’s Mizar?!”

“Yeah-”

And Ashley laughed. She collapsed on the bed, laughing until tears were in her eyes, and Dipper raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

She didn’t respond immediately. He crossed his arms, and found himself wrapping his wings around his sides. Finally, her howling turned into a lighter chuckle.

“Sorry,” Ashley started, wiping her eyes. “You just - that’s got to be a joke. That’s amazing.”

“What do you mean? Mart is a Mizar, he’s-” Dipper paused when she let out another wheeze. “Why’s that so funny?”

“He - he can’t be Mizar, oh my stars.”

“Why not?”

“Well, he’s-! Well, Mizars are like, legends, you know! Like Mabel Pines, I learned about her in school!” Ashley cackled at the thought. “Oh my stars, you’re telling me my dad is Mabel Pines.”

“Well, no, he’s not Mabel Pines-”

“Gee, I hadn’t noticed.”

“But he is a Mizar! Look,” Dipper struggled to explain. “He’s… it’s just… Mizar is just a specific soul, I’m just saying he has her soul-”

“Oh my stars, Magical Mizar!” Ashley wiped the tears from her eyes. “I am never going to watch that show the same way again.”

“Heh, yeah…” He made a face. “Yeah, I know this might be a bit weird. Maybe Mart doesn’t… exactly fit how people think of most Mizars-”

“Understatement of the century.” She saw him open his mouth and cut in: “L-look, look, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, I know Mizar is, like, part of your demon business… but it’s kinda weird that you’re saying my dad is part of your demon business. I mean I’m trying to think of him, like, busting cults…” she started cracking up. “I-in his dumb, smelly old dressing gown… a-and his crocs, hahaha!”

“Heh, yeah. That is pretty funny, but, uh… yeah.” He looked away, out of the window. “Mart’s… a special person to me.”

Below Dipper’s feet, a million lights twinkled like stars in the sky. A smile graced his face.

“He’s always been special,” he said, quietly. “Every time I meet her, she’s always special, in some way. Always finds some way to surprise me, you know?”

“...uh, sure?” A pause. “Alcor?”

After a moment, he tore his eyes away from the lights. They took a moment to adjust and focus back on Ashley. “Yes?”

She was giving him an odd look. She opened her mouth, took a breath… then closed it. Offered only a shrug.

“Nevermind,” she said, and reached over to the phone on the bedside table. “I’m gonna order dinner.”

“Okay.” Dipper watched her pick up a plastic menu. “Let me know if you need anything.”

She grunted in response to that. After a moment of silence, his eyes drifted down. They settled on the baseboard for a moment, then followed the line it made to the left, to the window, then outside.

Outside, where a million beautiful stars twinkled like the shine in Mizar’s eyes. He smiled, wistfully, then sat back in the air, and took in the view.

This sky was full of surprises.

#transcendence au #dipper #Martin #ashley #mizar

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