#but yeah it’s useful for me to reflect like this to sort of slot of away the new facts into my brain that

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

actually autism posting bc the way my brain works does indeed impact my writing & an observation I’ve made over the last several years is I can’t write with characters I don’t know well which means rotating through the same few (as you know lol). I remember the evening I created jeremiah—I was in maryland & uncomfortable by the idea of writing a new character even if I was writing him from the pov of someone else… but he kind of needed to be there for plot reasons so I wrote him in & liked him so much he reappeared for a longer stretch in an additional chapter even though that felt uncomfortable too. he even reappeared in feeding habits even though it felt weird and uncomfortable to write him again but this time two years later. and then writing him in body back was even weirder because it’d been an additional two years and I was new not only to him but to literary fiction again. and then writing in his pov was uncomfortable too because that was new until it wasn’t & now I’m just really thrilled I endured some of that discomfort to get to this point!!! bc I do indeed avoid writing that feels unfamiliar (resistance to change squad riseeee) but without trying I would not have jeremiah!!!! my favourite guy!!!!! it’s reassuring to see sometimes sitting in the discomfort for a bit does indeed pay off

[delicrieux]

—𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭, ch.3: sweet dreams, chicago

pairing—carmy berzatto x f!reader   genre—drama, romance, age gap, boss/employee relationship warnings for this chapter—anxiety, (+18) masturbation, mb one (1) allusion to a blowjob, swearing, excessive use of cigarettes  word count—3.6k

detailed instructions on how to fuck up your life in 30 seconds

author’s note: tremendously down bad, lonely, and socially inept? not talking abt u LOSER im talking abt carmen. my lil meow meow 

masterlist | buy me coffee☕ | eyvcte masterlist | < back. next >

important! some of the dialogue scenes are written as a script & dialogues that overlap are marked in [] <3  

tell them

not white, gray – the exact color of cigarette ash, the red ember a reflected streak of sunlight; these walls box him in, and it’s always a surprise that space can feel so vast and so confining all at once. the plastic chair he sits on is unforgiving on his back. his foot sounds a pattern on the tiled floor to impair the silence.

he’s aware of it, of everything: his pursed lips, trembling lashes, quick blinks, slight sniffle, flitting irises, the light coat of sweat forming by his hairline. the taunt flex of his muscles; twitch of fingers that have nothing to grasp onto but each other. the tapping. pulsing in his jaw and temple. the tapping.

tell them

he tries to stare ahead, keep straight – it’s not expected of him, but he wishes he could do it. wishes he could face the silhouette sat across, too close and too far.

“well?” she prompts – a prim woman with a kind face sunken from all the miseries she had collected over the years, “how are you, carmen?”

a sharp exhale through the nose, like a humorless snort; corner of his lips pinching into a grimace that could resemble a smile, if one was generous enough, “how am i?” he repeats, “how am i?”

tell them

tell them

tell them your

“chef?”

storage closet. he keeps his hand firmly on the handle and breathes, jaw tense, head bent, illuminated in the shitty buzzing lights. the containers are organized – did it himself. methodically set cans with no spaces between them, all in neat rows. one’s a bit too close to the edge, sticking out. someone had moved it. he rubs his chin before pushing it back.

his hand falls from the handle and settles on his hip as he sighs, looks up, feels a rush of air tinted with spices and the overwhelming noise of the kitchen pierce the coveted silence of his hiding place when the door cracks open. she pokes her head in and he doesn’t look, can’t look, can’t sleep, can’t–

“you good?”

kindness is always startling, even when it’s the standard. her words hold no weight of deep inquiry, only a shallow question mark. it’s enough. he lives on scraps. “yeah, uh, thanks,” his tips his chin in her direction and his eyes flit over the crown of her head. can’t look for long;  he’ll search for thank you and love you despite knowing they’re covered.

“i was just, uh, was just, needed to check,” he vaguely motions behind himself, and the knot in his throat tightens slightly, “something, s-so…” maybe she decides to take him out of his misery. maybe he’s the only one that notices he’s drowning.

“family’s up.” she informs him, offers a small smile that he thinks is pity. can’t be sure.

“yeah, yeah, o-okay, i’ll, uh, i’ll, i’ll join you in a,” the hasty spill of his words slows, quiets. he inhales, brows crinkled and eyes focused on the new streaks on the floor he’ll have to clean, “i’ll join you in a minute.”

“i’ll save you a seat.” not a proposition mentioned aimlessly and left to rot in his subconscious, but a statement. and she’ll always save a seat for him, because he’ll always be late, and in the rare occasions that he won’t, he’ll be too early. she’ll save him a seat by the table and pat the couch next to herself when the staff’ll huddle to watch a Bulls game; she’ll save a slot for him on her free day to come into his office and help sort through papers; she’ll save her hand from others so that he could hold it and she’ll save a pair lace panties the color of her eyes that’ll tear through the flower pattern because he’ll be too rough and because he’ll like the way they look on her.

she’ll save a cup that’ll shatter during one of their arguments, glue it back together. the cracks will show, and it’ll be blotched, but he’ll still use it, even if the edge’ll be chipped and he’ll cut his lip and she’ll be long gone by then.

he’s mostly himself when he joins everyone, if he even knows what that entails. tina’s explaining form to marcus, and sydney’s on her phone, and richie and neil are discussing something with too many theatrics, and the rest of the staff shares idle conversation punctuated by comfortable silence. there’s an empty spot for him, food set in a plastic container and cutlery placed trimly – must’ve been her. too even, she’s borderline about these things. he appreciates them, because he’s like that, too.

a smile eases the tension from his shoulders, if a bit. he pulls the chair back, takes a seat, and her head ticks to the side to acknowledge him. no big speech, no welcome back or you good again, just a slight curiosity that makes her teeth pull on her lip. he dares a glance that doesn’t linger.

"verdict?” he asks the table, feeling the familiar flutter of anxiety squeeze his throat.

sydney: ‘s good. real good richie: too fucking fancy [god] this the type of shit they serve up in yee-whole-fucking-new-of-the-fucking-york? her: wouldn’t expect you to recognize shit from food [fuck you] since your mouth is always full of it richie: oh ha ha [cousin] look at us folks [cousin] we got a fucking comedian with us tina: shut it [so/rry] both of you. not by the table richie: not by the fucking table, kid [fuck you] marcus: i like it

it’s kinda funny, it’s kinda familiar, it’s kinda comforting. he glances at her again, sees her holding up her knife like a sword aimed at richie on the other side of the table. they mimic one another – in movement, in tone, in smiles that are careful not to display too much. friends. carmen watched this happen in his peripherals, sometimes through the haze of cigarette smoke. observed the pointed jabs and nudges that were harder each time as if they were competing who could knock the other off of their feet first. stupid, amusing, the nascence of a friendship.

whatever. it’s not that, it’s just, just that carmen’s the way he is and someone could roll their eyes at him and kill and sydney, well, he got along with sydney instantly – she came at a confusing fucking time, a breath of fresh air, and really, for a while, he only had her to help him navigate the clusterfuck of a dynamic of his brother’s staff. she was new, he was new, and it was natural they stuck together to survive the nuclear winter of a chicagoan kitchen. till he was approved as one of them, and she was, too, but, and it’s nothing, it’s dumb, fucking idiotic, it’s like he’s six again all of a sudden and no one wants to play ball with him in the fucking playground.

he’s not even left out, and he still feels like he’s somehow forbidden to join, even if he doesn’t want to, even if he doesn’t know what to say. as if he’d break some sacred law and inspire a drastic butterfly affect that would ripple into something abhorrent. the other shoe. there’s no first one and he’s already waiting for the drop.

“cousin,” richie calls, “cousin, she’s trying to fucking murk me. pretty sure that violates some sorta fine print.”

“better sleep with one eye open in that case.” carmy mumbles, a faint smile pulling on the corner of his lips as he watches the exchange briefly before he returns to the food. melts in his mouth. holds a sweet, syrupy tang, and, fuck, this is noma, this has fucking noma written all over it, even the cinnamon zest blended with orange peel.

no noma on her resume; dad must’ve taught her, then. how to blend and cook all of this shit to make the chicken taste like butter. probably needed to scour the whole kitchen for leftover ingredients, open a few rusted drawers for pipettes to measure lemon drops. stay up again prepping. filming. not sleeping. don’t look.

needlessly complicated and missing some parsley. coincidentally, they ran out of it this morning.

he looks at her because she’s not looking at him and for a moment he takes in her profile – the slope of her nose and the dip leading to her cupid’s bow. “‘s good.” he says after a short pause, and as soon as she turns in his direction he’s back to his food. the taste, this time, is compounded by added discomfort, “where’d you learn this from, anyway? there are recipe?”

“my dad. sorta,” she explains, “he’s also a chef. and he used to make it for me when i came to visit, soooooo, since it was my first time cooking family ‘n all…i thought, why not? y’know? just to upset richie.”

“heard that, kid.”

he snorts, leaning back into his chair, head dipped and container held in hand. glances at her from under his lashes, and maybe direct eye contact is not as scary when he wants her to be looking back. that small smile of his is pulls on his lips again, “‘s good.” he repeats.

“you like it?” her voice can be soft, and so can her features.

“i like it,” he admits, “thank you, chef.”

she smiles and it’s like a fucking firework.

he tries not to look too hard, scared what he might find there. metronome. dull, almost, like the beating of his heart in his chest, yet it pulses through him, from the back of his head all the way to his feet. the tapping.

tell them

he rubs his faces with his hands, leans forward, as if the words are physically trying to get out. doesn’t want to say it; doesn’t want to admit that he can’t dress for the weather and that he’s wearing a gray woolen sweater which blends into these walls, that he blends in, that he’s invisible.

“i’ve, uh,” pinches the bridge of his nose, wanes the upcoming headache – too many cigarettes and not enough sleep, “i’ve been going through somethin’.”

like her pictures on a late monday night fresh out of the shower. the phone light catches damp hair falling in ringlets. the towel is still slung around his shoulders – white, clean, he’s done his laundry, it’s a fucking miracle. it was a notification that distracted him mid-way putting on a t-shirt, was like a beacon in the dark on his bedside table. bare feet padded to grasp it and here he stands, gaping like a fucking idiot with nothing but boxers on and cold water dripping down his back.

wasn’t supposed to look. made a promise, swore it in the mirror staring into clear blue eyes that held nothing. wasn’t his intention, either, it just happened. everything seems to just happen to him. she just seem to text him at 1 in the morning the recipe from a few days back, and he just seems to find her profile again because he just wants to look. no further reason. she just seems to follow him and he just seems to pretend not to notice because he’s not very good at this, he’s not really good at anything.

and there she is, confined in a little electronic device held in his hand, looking at the camera, looking at him, and he’s not really sure what to do with himself. text back, likely, but he can’t think of a response – thank you? thanks? thumbs up emoji? chef emoji? just to mix it up a bit. the mattress dips when he sits on the bed. where the fuck are his cigarettes?

never too far, and the lighter isn’t, either, so he stands, and his phone is still in his hand like the thing is fucking glued to it, and he cracks the window open to let the summer night in. chicago doesn’t sleep, and neither does she, it seems, but he doesn’t, either, and when his teeth have something to bite onto he feels like he found an anchor.

thank you and love you are objectively interesting detonators, but there are other rare gems. where she’s smiling. look taken off-guard and never by her personally, always by someone else: hugging a bottle in the midnight new york vista, nursing a to-go cappuccino by the bodega too early in the morning, holding up a plastic puka shell necklace in the backdrop of a souvenir shop somewhere in yucatan. hugging her mother wearing a tracksuit while the former’s poised in a neat blazer. they look similar. carmen looks like his mother, too.

she’s more approachable when her eyes crinkle and cheeks apple and lips stretch to reveal a crescent line in the corner. pretty. real pretty. too pretty. maybe that’s why he doesn’t know what to say. maybe she doesn’t expect him to say anything. maybe that’s why she sent the message.

‘s not fair. he knows too much about her. knows her dad’s a renowned chef and her mother’s a business exec with a penthouse in brooklyn; knows she gets her tattoos in-house, on the couch, from some low-key junkie-looking artist that always wears a beanie;  knows she worked in an upscale restaurant in wallstreet. chef whites, neat, trimmed, fitting – nothing he can offer in his fucked joint. fuck is she doing in chicago, anyway? spent last summer backpacking across europe with a distinctly new york-looking art school dropouts that wore the latest sneakers and tiffany necklaces. rich kids, rich kid, what she gets now was likely her daily allowance.

all of that just because he’s noisy. just because he’s curious. just because she’s pretty and he’s too scared to actually talk to her.

shouldn’t talk to her about anything anyway. too awkward – can hardly form a coherent sentence without ripping his hair out in the first place. he’s her boss, she’d think he’s a fucking weirdo if she knew how much he had gathered about her already. just from looking. does sydney know? does richie know? that would be fucked. oddly insulting, even. but since carmen hasn’t heard richie calling her a spoiled brat yet, he supposes it’s safe to assume this information hasn’t reached him yet.

parasocial as shit. he feels on the verge of a panic attack by the way his heart is hammering in his chest. maybe it’s the 5th cigarette. maybe it’s because he’s been sleep deprived. maybe it’s because looking at her makes him lonely and this is fucked and just put the fucking phone down, carmen.

she's really hot, though. but he can’t say so, not out loud. not right now. not here. not in front of the bed, where the mattress sags when he sits, or in the window, where the wind rattles the glass ringing of common sense.

‘thanks for the recipe’ is a good start, ‘cool tats by the way’ is definitely a line that has crossed his mind, but can’t text that, either. too personal. too easy. too close. fuck did he look at them anyway, too busy staring at her tits. fuck.

she’d think he’s a creep because somehow, in the divine comedy of his life, he’d let it slip somehow, because he’s stupid. because thank you and love you slap at him on odd hours during the day. because he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

feels like he’s a teen again and a girl from school sent him her homework to copy. only the girl in a hot rich kid from nyc that works in his restaurant and is so far out of his league that she’s in a different fucking orbit.

the mattress dips again. he closes his eyes, exhales slowly, rubs his face with his free hand. can’t stop thinking. can’t stop looking. staring. wanting. get a fucking hold of yourself. doesn’t want to. too tired. too fucked. too alone.

she’s so pretty.

so smart.

so fucking pretty.

what is he doing? what the fuck is he doing?

he tries to swallow, but it feels like there's sand in his throat. can't think straight, every corner leads to her anyway in a comical gotcha moment. can't go back. can't go forward. can't do anything but sit here, stare at the phone, think the last threads of his fizzling mind will conceive a reply.

say something. say something.

she's so fucking pretty and his dick is so fucking hard.

inhales again, this time slowly. feels the first tremors of an erection ignored, the pulse in his neck, in his wrists.

his heart is pounding and he wants her to look at him, wants to look at her, wants to feel her touch him, wants to show her how much he wants her.

"fucking christ," he can hear the breathless crack in his voice. feel it, taste it.

his face burns and his hair falls over his forehead, already drying. there's sweat on his brow and a lump in his throat from the steady rise of panic, anticipation, desperation, whateverthefuck. the blood in his veins pounds through his chest – he can feel the vibration in his bones, and god, god god god, he’s so fucking horny.

can't move. can't breathe. can't think. can't stand being alone. can't stand the silence. can't stand not doing anything and can’t stand being like this because he’s not supposed to. not allowed, breach of contract, jesus, who does this shit in their spare time? a lot of people, probably, but carmen wouldn’t know.

"fuck."

he wants to close his eyes because she’s so cold on the screen but so warm in his mind. can’t do that. can't stop palming dick over his boxers, either – wants to pull them down, but that would mean looking at himself, so he stares at her picture instead.

he feels like a teenager again, vaguely wants to throw up. can't believe how hard he is. he's not supposed to be like this. this isn't going to end well.

he knows he's gonna fuck this up because he's already fucking it up. can't stop staring at her. can't stop touching himself. can't stop thinking about what she'd do if she knew he was sitting here ready to jerk off to her.

she'd probably freak the fuck out, and she'd have every right to. that doesn't stop that wandering hand of his from dipping below the elastic band anyway.

his breath scratches at his throat, stuck there as he feels his hand brush something warm. glances down, sees his middle finger pressing against the swollen tip. looks back at the phone, sees her smile, the hint of her teeth; his cock twitches at the sight of her like some deranged pavlovian response. his fingers curl around his shaft and go down in a nice, long stroke.

"fuck me," he hisses. eyes squeeze shut and hips push forward and head rolls back to release a small groan.

it's a slow slide of a rough palm, with just enough pressure to cause shivers. he thinks of her lips wrapped around his him. the way her tongue would tease him. the way her hair would tickle his thighs.

"so pretty," he breathes, but the words are lost in the rhythm of his hand, "fuck, sorry."

fingers and palm slide over the sensitive head, each pass adding more pressure until his hips buck and it feels like someone punched him in the gut and he sucks in a breath, the sound coming out more like a moan; squeeze, tighter this time, and he groans louder, caught somewhere between pain and pleasure. teeth clamp down on his lower lip and all the oxygen in his lungs leaves with that.

the hand with the hand pierced by a kitchen knife pumps faster, coating the creases and veins in warm, sticky pre-cum leaking from the tip and leaving a stain on his boxers. he's breathing heavily, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that matches the throbbing of his cock.

he's so close already. so close he feels like he might actually lose his mind if he doesn't come soon.

"hm, fuck," he breathes out, eyes squeezing shut and fist tightening around the shaft as his hips jerk forward to meet the movement.

everything is swimming and spinning in the liquid dark around him, all the sensations coiled up into one chaotic bundle that's threatening to overwhelm him.

"yes," can't be his voice, can it? too raw, too desperate, too loud.

fist tightens even more and the throbbing is too much. feels like something is trying to get out of his body, like it's going to burst through his skin.

"oh fuck. oh fuck, oh fuck—"

everything is happening at once. everything is mounting to a small cry of her name.

he comes. coughs and huffs, head tipping back and hand still pumping. there's a low groan coming from his chest that sounds like it originated from some other person entirely.

then, it stills. his back hits the bed and he tries to gulp down air that stutters down his throat, the phone bouncing on the mattress beside him. the motions ripple in his spine, in tensed muscles that’ve gone lax. calm. outside the window, a siren howls first, then a dog.

he’s spent. feels good. cold air bites skin coated in sweat, like ice melting in the bed of a warm palm. “fuck.”

but the reality of the situation rips through the haze just as quick, and ignited by a sudden fucking unbearable anger, he grabs his phone and throws it across the room, “FUCK.”

ch.4: normal people

tags <3 @rexorangecouny - @astridyoo15 - @elliesbabygirl - @fortisfilia - @diorrfairy - @frequentnosebleeder - @eddiemunsonreader 

more notes: sum fun lil gemmie gems for my narrative lovin girlies in chat  1. timeline is worky asf, things flowing in an out perception - imagine it like moving frames of the show 2. carmy says “’s good” whilst he admires her silently - is he referring to her or the food? 3. who text their boss at 1am? rich kid explain 4. the swearing increases the more he’s distressed 5. major virgin alert, can u tell? 6. this is the only chapter so far where ive used caps lock

[deluxewhump]

Ethan Byrne- 2

Part one

CW: Cameron has just turned 19 in this. abuse, very incestuous overtones, controlling whumper, intimate whumper, bruises, bruise touching, noncon kiss (back of neck), dunking underwater, standing dishwater (this is a new cw)

_

Ethan approached Cameron in the kitchen, where he was dutifully finishing up their dishes for them. He took a fistfull of ashy brown hair, shoving Cameron suddenly and forcefully down so he flung his hands out to keep his head from going into the dirty water. He gripped the edge of the sink with whitening knuckles, keeping his face out of the water by six inches. Ethan slotted one leg between Cam’s from behind to better control him. 

“What’re you doing?” Cameron hissed. His agitation possessed a note of panic.

“Nothing, Cammy. Just seeing how cleaning my house is going for you.” He pushed Cam an inch closer to the sink full of water. He braced himself, using all his strength to keep himself as upright as he could against his half brother’s heavier, more muscled body. Despite Cameron’s height and lanky sort of strength, Ethan had a clear advantage. This was nothing but a crude display of it, and they both knew it.

“Ethan,” Cam said seriously, as if this might just be rough play. “Let me up, man.”

Ethan pushed him closer still, so his forehead broke the surface tension and he whimpered, straining to stay above it. 

“Why should I?” 

“Because— I did what you asked. And I’m… you’re my brother.”

Ethan hummed in barely restrained glee, leaning close to the back of Cam’s neck. “You may have just carved out a new soft spot in me. But don’t brothers do this sort of stuff?”

With his mouth open to answer, Ethan dunked him under, submerging his face in water that was equal parts soap suds and slimy food debris. Cam struggled violently, but he was pinned underneath Ethan’s unbudging weight. After many long seconds, he let him up. 

All pretense of horseplay was gone, now. Cameron coughed wetly and gasped for air. He spat into the water in abject disgust. “Let go!”

“Ask me nicely.”

“Get the fuck OFF of me!” He sent a sharp elbow backwards into Ethan’s chest.

Ethan’s exhale of surprise trailed into a laugh. “That’s not nice.”

“Ethan…”

“Nicely, Cameron,” he said, and dunked him quickly in and out of the water again. 

Cameron sputtered and spat, blinking soap from his eyes. “Stop,” he begged, more like a sob than his earlier demands. “Just please stop, Ethan. Let me up.”

“Warmer.”

“Please,” he repeated, water dripping from his hair and the tip of his nose. He sounded wrecked. “I get it. You’re stronger than me. You don’t fucking like me. I give up. Please, get off of me.”

“That’ll work,” Ethan said, leaning over and kissing the back of Cameron's neck. He cringed in Ethan’s grip and sobbed between grit teeth.

Ethan let him go.

“Look at you,” he said, watching Cameron in the reflection of the kitchen window. “Soaking wet. Let’s get you into some dry clothes. C’mon, you can borrow something of mine.” 

Cameron didn’t move. Hands still on the edge of the sink, he stared straight ahead at Ethan’s reflection in the window, still breathing hard from the struggle.

Ethan tilted his head. “I was just fucking with you. I have to make sure you’re not a pussy.”

Cam turned to look at him over his shoulder. 

“And you’re clearly not,” Ethan continued. “Come on. I have a shirt for you.”

Reluctantly, Cameron followed him into his dark bedroom. Ethan motioned for him to strip, and Cam pulled his wet shirt gingerly over his head. Ethan approached with a dry one in hand, but stopped when he noticed the dark and angry bruising that still bloomed over his ribs from the beating he’d taken back home. He reached out to brush his fingers over the purples and yellows. Cam stiffened. 

“That hurt?” Ethan asked, his voice edging towards tenderness. Cam looked at him guardedly, his body language closed and hostile. Ethan touched two fingers to the bluish center of the bruise. Cameron closed his eyes. 

“Yeah, it does,” Ethan murmured, but continued to touch. He applied light pressure and watched Cameron’s breath catch. 

“I don’t mean to take it out on you,” he said gently, walking two fingers over the dark contours of the bruise so Cameron inhaled sharply. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Our father did. But that’s got nothing to do with us. Not anymore.”

“I thought I was fucked up,” Cam said, his eyes still closed, brows knit in a soft expression of pain. “But there’s something really wrong with you.”

“How fucked up are you?” Ethan asked, massaging two fingers in the center of Cam’s wounded ribs in the way he might touch a girl. 

Cameron took hold of his wrist and pushed it away. “Not that fucked up,” he said, and snatched the dry shirt from Ethan’s other hand.

Ethan smiled to himself as Cam retreated to the shower.

[gravehags]

Nothing Cumulus Ghoul likes more than fresh laundry from the dryer. She's all clean from the shower and puts on a little stretch crop top and purple undies. She catches her reflection-- oh, she's the absolute cutest right now! The stretch top is stretched just so and the undies are the perfect shade of purple, it's been a while since she felt this cute. Maybe she'll just...walk around a little bit like this. Feelin herself.

She crosses the living room and only Phantom Ghoul is there, distracted by his phone. "Oh, don't I look cute today, Phantom?" He glances up and the phone falls from his hands

"Uhh, yeah real cute," he says with a swallow. Somehow his feet are following Cumulus to her room, and she's feeling cheeky enough today. She lets him pet her all over. The stretch top is very smooth, her skin's very soft. The top barely holds anything back but that's kinda the point.

Then she gets a thought. A very evil little thought but the aura of cuteness is making her brave. Like a cat that smacks it's owner from under the couch. "Wanna watch me use my magic wand, Bug?"

The other ghoul looks like he might pass out, gulping air like a fish. "Yesss," he wheezes.

She pulls it out of the drawer plugs it in. Settles on the bed and Phantom does too, peering at her from as far away as possible like he's a guest at the zoo. "You know you can get closer, right?" Cumulus says, teasingly yet still friendly. He slides over, mesmerized. 

She starts the wand up, pressing it between her legs, making faces at him as she watches him look like he's going to pass out. He says something too quiet to hear over the buzz. She shuts it off and he repeats. "May I...hold it?"

Cumulus laughs, brings him close. Shows him how she likes it. "Yes! Like this....hnng--no! No don't press it to me, too hard! Yeah, like that...." 

She's close and she feels his hand grip hard on the swell of her hip. That's what finally sends her off. The swell of the orgasm is fun, refreshing, nothing earth shattering or 'cancel all my afternoon appointments" sort of thing. it's more Phantom's expression that really makes it. Phantom looks shocked, like he's broken something. Eyes widening like he's watching coins spill out endlessly from a slot machine that hit 777. Even though he's been with her a few times before. He's just like that. 

So of course she does what she usually does when she's given him a hard restart: rolls off the bed, pecks him on the forehead and wanders off to her closet to get pants and shoes on. "Well, see ya at dinner, Bug!" He's still sitting there when she leaves for the day. Silly Bug.

🌝

HEHEHEHE THIS WAS PERFECT THANK YOU i like to think cumulus was phantom’s first after he got summoned and he gauges everyone else on the scale of her goddess…ness. she hung the moon as far as he’s concerned.

[abandonambition]

Who drew these Capricorns? It's me! I did it. S...Sorry.

HI TUMBLAR. I'm Dana. I draw animals and mythical creatures (mostly capricorns and dragons). I like to reflect on lesser-known or dark aspects of nature, feelings of distress and despair, or creating designs that just look cool for the sake of looking cool. I have a sort of positive nihilist outlook on life, in that I'm rather upset with the general state of things but I still feel compelled to find or create beauty and interest anyway, even if my darker feelings sometimes come out through my work.

"Abandon Ambition" is both grimly serious and darkly humorous. I was raised in both a household and country that emphasized setting lofty goals of acquiring high earnings and impressive assets, but the timing of my pursuit of these things has laughably aligned with global financial crises, global pandemics and lockdowns, and now global heatwaves and global conflicts. Abandon ambition, and instead embrace what you want to say and do and create and build now; Tomorrow is not yours, and your goals may not be waiting for you there.

Be responsible, and be kind. But hope and wait for nothing.

So uh, yeah, I draw a lot of stuff and explore a lot of things that I think I've been holding back on for years for one reason or another. I want to draw dark goats, glowing bats, tempest capricorns, skinny dragons, snarling wolves. So here they are.

Check out what I made!

A lot of my designs find themselves on fun and/or practical merch! I like to create things that are high quality and have a long shelf life: I don't want to make something thinking it'll go in a landfill in a year, I want you wearing and enjoying my work for a very long time.

Here's a hat that glows in the dark!

Wow! Here's another hat that doesn't glow in the dark, but still looks really nice.

Pretty! If keeping your skull cozy isn't your thing, I've printed my art on fabric, too. I like this idea because if you move house a lot and/or can't afford custom frames, art printed on fabric can be displayed anywhere, and folds up nicely when packing up for your next move, without any breaking glass or anything.

A big part of my thinking when I'm designing products is also what do I myself use in my day-to-day life, and lately I've been desperately trying to cut my phone addiction by going back to pen-and-paper planners and books and things instead of using screens. And to keep track of where I am in my planners and books, I've made bookmarks!

I had so much fun designing these. You have something enjoyable to look at on both sides of the page it's clipped on. How fun is that?

Okay lastly, I make a TON of stickers. A lot of my designs translate really well into small, self-contained things like stickers, and I only ever print vinyl stickers, so they live a long time on your laptop or phone case or wherever you wanna put them.

So that's a small collection of the things I've done and made. Do you like them? I hope you like them. I liked designing them.

A COOOUPON JUST FOR YOUUUU

If you'd like one o' these things for yourself, you're in luck!

You, lucky Tumblar user, can visit my shop and take 20% off with code TUMBLR20. This coupon expires 1st April 2024 (or does it...? That's April Fools' Day after all... Okay yeah it does actually expire then. Sorry).

Oh, commissions?

Hey! Sometimes people like my art style and want a custom commission. That's great, and I'm so glad you're interested!

If you'd like a custom ink mailed to you on a postcard that also features my art on the back (so it's like... you get two pieces of art on one postcard), these are exclusive to my Patreon right here. I have limited slots per every month, so check back often in case I'm sold out.

I also offer what I call "instant order" commissions via my Ko-Fi. You pick out one of the offerings I have, send me your ref sheet, pay, and I just...get it done. It's as close to instant as commissions can get.

Besides those, I also do more bespoke work, so you can send me a message to discuss your idea and we'll work something out. :corporatethumbsupemoji:

Honestly? Thanks!

The internet has become a pretty weird and honestly rather hostile place. I'm a solo act that's as indie as they get. So, it really does mean a lot to me when your eyeballs land on my stuff and you click that little heart or reblog icon, or even better when you add it to your cart and click check out. Your eyeballs land on thousands of stuff every day, so the fact that my stuff brought you joy or interest or something deep that you resonated with means a lot to me. I think in a sense it makes me feel like my brush strokes are going somewhere far beyond whatever canvas I've otherwise confined them to.

This is a pinned post to share who I am and help me get some coins to fund my life and art projects, but yeah you can reblog it and share it around planet earth, I don't mind. It's nice.

So yeah, that's me! Feel free to comment if you have questions or want to know whatever else, I'll uh... reply and like answer them and stuff.

[bingobongobonko]

Hi Bingo! I just wanted to say that I've been lurking and looking at your art for your lancer campaign for a while now and I think it's so cool! You've kinda inspired me to check out the system for myself too! I hope it's not too much trouble/making you retread anything you've talked about before, but I'd be really interested to hear your thoughts on the system and how it's worked out for your campaign! I really love mecha stuff, but I think the genre can be pretty rife with militarism that I'm not super into. I get the sense though that you've been able to find a good way to slot these really cool characters into the setting and focus on their interactions while also getting the fun of that sweet sweet mech combat. My inquiry is very low stakes haha, so nw if you don't have time to gather all your thoughts (I know that if I was tasked to talk about my own campaigns my head would burst into flames just trying to sift through what I'd want to say :P) Anyway, just a little friendly wave to you to say your art is very inspirational, and keep up the great work!

OH WOW this is . whuhh. WOW! sorry im like. wtff. i mean i ramble about my characters a lot but i didn't think anyone else actually gave a fuck which is completely ok, i just WHUHH..!!! holy shit. excitement aside, i get where you're coming from. honestly i was never into the mecha genre, but lancer rpg really made me realize how cool it is! like im not a really technical guy, and i feel like lancer is VERY strategy-heavy in combat; unless you know what you're doing and what everything does, you can easily get overwhelmed with all the features and all the things to consider in the math. for me its a lot because i struggle with spatial understanding and any sort of mathematics. that's my only real gripe on the system, but that might also just be every other system as well. it's more of a personal issue than that of the system, my friends all picked it up super quick. as for the genre, yeah, i find militaristic shit a drag and mecha has the same feel to me. its got a layer of professionalism and seriousness i don't enjoy, nor wish to play along with, so i get what you mean yeah. thankfully my friend who dms the campaign is just. Holy fuck; she just has a huuuge extra care for character stories and weaving them into the narrative she explores. so really, its her i've to thank for making mecha stuff FUN for me. lancer can certainly run hand-in-hand with militaristic-focused rp, i was in a oneshot with that sole focus and while it was interesting, without that interesting narrative stuff you kind of lose steam, but ive grown so fond of dog days cuz of how my friend lets our characters develop AND helps them do that. that and the way she sets up the story, just. FUUUUCK. the military is an afterthought in what is a fight against time and para-causality sinking its teeth into what little sanity we have. we fight against something that is a victim and a perpetrator. we're the worst people to be tasked to be saving an entire planet too, but here we are. as cheesy as it is, it's all about who you play with. thats the feel i get about most systems. honestly why im so ehhh about playing with strangers, when i'd rather play with people i like. all systems strike me as more of a tool; its the way you use em yk? the experience you get from them are more reflective of who you're telling a story with (or fighting alongside, there's no right way to play. i just really like narrative storytelling). so really, ive to thank my friends, especially @spaginithethird who introduced me to lancer in the first place as a dm!!!!!!!!!! TO A LOT OF SYSTEMS ACTUALLY shes rlly knowledgeable abt this stuff and very very very sweet too o7 so yeah really, its a really fun system BUT to me, i wouldnt be playing lancer if i didn't have a narrative to go by and follow with people i like. i am always sayin this but its my favorite thing when it comes to ttrpgs

[erixyin]

Posion Running Through My Veins | Part 2

Well, here's part 2. Enjoy because it's gonna be a bumpy ride! Extra-long chapter - technically two chapters combined into one. Hope you like it

A lot is going on and I don't know how I'm gonna end things, but I don't need to think about that until the next part. Oh boi let's get angsty. This is a heavy Billy Hargrove chapter and also the reader is a singer and songwriter. Reader has written most of the original songs that Corroded Coffin play. It's a long one because I felt like rambling and spoiling you all since it will probably be a bit of a wait until the next update. I don't think three parts is going to be long enough.

I'm sorry it's so bad but I needed something to fill between the last chapter and the gig on Friday. It's not kicking off yet but it's going to. I'm so sorry for the angst.

Tag list: Please let me know if you want to be added in the future!

@sidthedollface2, @yaskna, @ancheyew, @samurai-hearts, @bucky-hydra-hoe-barnes,

Song used: This Love by Taylor Swift

Summary: Billy confronts and comforts you after your fight with Eddie. Reader puts her feelings into a song. Tensions continue to brew about who the song is about. Robin and Steve are worried.

Warnings: crying, mentions of trauma. fem!reader, reader uses she/her pronouns, possessive!eddie, eddie muson x reader, billie hargrove x reader, past relationship with billy hargrove, reader basically has a mental breakdown through her music, mentions of injury, violent and hot tempers, sorry for the long descriptive paragraphs i can't help myself, lmk if I've forgotten anything.

Words: 5003

No minors allowed please and thank you

Please do not repost anywhere. I will be posting on my AO3 account and linking it here.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

"Hi Billy."

He let go of your waist and gave you a boyish grin. It was playful and soft. Not many people saw this side to him. Especially after everything that went down.

You breathe an exhausted sigh. This really isn't what you needed right now after the fight. Your emotions still tight inside your chest. Feeling like you were about to spill over at any second.

You walked past him, hoping he'd get the hint that you wanted to be alone. No such luck. Instead, he kept up pace beside you. Eyes trained on you, your face and you saw him frown slightly at the sight of your other hand trying to cover up the bruise on your wrist that was starting to turn black and purple.

"You finally moved out, huh?" he finally asked. It was phrased as a question, but it felt more like a statement. A reflection on what he had missed while he had been under treatment. Maybe he had heard from Max that you had moved out into your own trailer. Maybe they had driven passed your uncle's house, since it was on the way to the trailer park. Or maybe Billy just knew that after everything that went down last summer, you had to get your life sorted and do what was best for you.

"I... yeah" you stumbled over your words. Exhaustion and pain on your shoulders and you were still winded by the swirl of emotions you had felt in the past few hours.

Billy held you gently by the shoulder, noticing the way you bit your lip at discomfort, before dropping his hand. He stopped in front of you. You were now far enough away from Eddie's trailer that you could start to breathe properly again. You looked back and saw the lights still on.

When you turned back to Billy, the bad boy appearance had temporarily dropped, and he pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He took one out and slotted it in his mouth, then offered you the packet. "I still don't smoke" you said, looking up at him, a twinkle in your eyes.

"I know." His smile was so goofy and friendly that the cigarette almost fell out of his mouth. Words no one else wouldeverhave the guts to describe Billy Hargrove as. His smile grew as you took one out of the packet without another word, a small smile creeping onto your face.

He reached into his back pocket for his lighter. Black covered with doodles of hot pink flames. "I cannot believe you still have it" you raised your eyebrows at him as you leant towards him to light your cigarette. He cupped his hands around the tip to ensure it was lit. He shrugged, not giving you the satisfaction of an answer as he lit his own. Chuckling, you took a long drag of the cigarette. Coughing slightly as the smoke filled your lungs. "Damn I have not done this in a while" you managed to splutter out, choosing to completely ignore the look of pure amusement on Billy's face.

Both of you sit on the table of the wooden bench just outside your trailer. You breathed deeply. The peaceful silence settling in as the stars started to wake up and take their spotlight next to the moon. This was something you had missed. You loved Eddie with everything you had but every moment with him was loud or talkative. You never had a moment where you could just sit together and be comfortable in each other's silence. But then equally, you couldn't as easily talk about things with Billy. It was always a struggle for him to reveal his true emotions. Even with Neil gone, so much had happened last summer. The things he had done, the things that had happened to him. You knew him opening up would be even rarer than before.

"Your boyfriend give you those bruises?" Billy asked, staring straight ahead of him. Of course he noticed you inwardly groaned to yourself.

"He's not usually like this. We just had a bad fight, that's all." You took another long drag, watching the embers of your cigarette butt float off into the air. Looking down at your wrist you gently smoothed over the bruise, sucking in a sharp breath when you did. It was worse than you had thought. Muttering a "fuck" under your breath, you blinked sharply trying to ignore the pain. Your hand shivering slightly as you brought the cigarette to your lips. You didn't want to even think about the bruise Eddie had, in fairness probably accidently, left on your shoulder from the parking lot.

"Was it about me?" he asked, still staring ahead. Eyes unwavering from wherever he was looking. You couldn't read his emotion from the side. If your brain hadn't been so tired, maybe you would have spotted the direction the conversation was going in. Biting your lip, you had no reason to lie to him. But at the same time the emotions you through you had calmed down, threatened to spill over once again. When you said nothing, he just nodded and let out a deep sigh. "He gets like this a lot when he gets mad?" Billy had a way of making his questions sound more like statements of fact. It made it difficult to argue with him, but it also made you face the ugly truth quicker.

"No, he's not like this usually. It's his dad he-" you cut yourself off, not wishing to tell Billy Eddie's trauma just like that. It wasn't your place. "He just lost his temper alright." Standing up you took the cigarette out of your mouth and stamped it out on the ground, ready to leave this conversation. Running away again you heard your voice inside your head, how typical. Shaking your head slightly you pushed the thoughts to the back of your mind.

"Doll" you let him take hold of your non-bruised wrist. Not with the same painful grip Eddie had had on you, but something gentler, still firm. "You and I both know that shitty fathers aren'tan excuse" he looked at you, his icy blue eyes staring into yours.

The unwavering eye contact between someone you know wasn't going to back down, made you finally crack. The first tear fell down and then then the second, and then before you knew it you were crying your eyes out in front of your ex-boyfriend Billy Hargrove. You allowed yourself to lean into his touch as he held you like he did before in the parking lot. Except this time with him sitting down on the bench still, so you could lean into his neck and let him engulf you into a tighter hug.

You stayed their crying silently. The fear from the car ride, the flashbacks of Eddie yelling at you and hitting the steering wheel, the pain on your wrist and the feeling of being trapped. It was all too much for you to keep locked away. Even after everything that had happened to you with the Upside Down, almost losing your ex-boyfriend and the fear of it all coming back again. You thought you could handle relationship drama. You certainly could handle everyone else's, even Steve who was trying to date every single girl in the state.

"I'm sorry" your muffled apology, while Billy just held you. He didn't say anything, he didn't need to. He was better at showing his emotions through actions rather than words. He shushed you gently as you kept trying to apologise as you tried to silence your sobs.

You eventually pushed against him, pulling yourself up and out of the hug. You were about to apologise again, but Billy got up from the bench and put his hand on your chin. His thumb gently grazed your lips, in a gentle attempt to stop the apology from escaping. It fucking worked because it took you a heartbeat longer than necessary for your brain to start working again.

"You need sleep, my girl" he let his hold on your chin linger for a little longer and then added, "And if he hurts you again, you let me know" this time his eyes were serious. You looked at him eyes wide, "I won't hurt him, not until he does it after the warning" he smiled at the end and so did you. Part of you thought he was joking but deep down you knew Billy would kill Eddie if things got too out of hand. He was gentler after everything that had gone down, more in control of his actions. But he still had a long way to go. You knew that more than anyone.

You wiped your eyes and smiled a goodbye as you headed into your trailer. Looking back to give him a small barely audible, "See you tomorrow" something that you usually said to Eddie if you couldn't spend the night at his. You didn't think much of it, Billy knew what you meant, and you went inside and locked up. Ready to have a long night sleep, drained from crying and the emotional rollercoaster you'd been on today.

He lit another cigarette with the black and pink lighter and blew smoke up in the air as he stared directly at the trailer you had come from, the lights still on, a figure in the window. Billy smirked and got in his severely beat up car, it roared as he drove away.

Looking out your window one last time as you heard the car speed off, the lights in Eddie's trailer now off.

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The next morning your head felt heavy, like a hangover or a migraine. The only thing pulling you into the present reminding you that the blur of events yesterday wasn't a fever dream was the smell of smoke on your clothes that you slept in, and the bruises still left on your wrist.

The fight and the words that Eddie has said. rushing back to you but you pushed them down. Not having another mental breakdown, you thought to yourself.

You decided doing the only thing you wanted to do after the fight was to write them all down and maybe turn them into a song. At first, you didn't know what to write. You wanted to do a solo gig or maybe join forces with Robin and Steve on stage, but you hadn't gotten around to figuring it all out. Plus, you didn't know how Eddie would feel about being in two bands, and you definitely didn't want to ask him about it right now.

Maybe after Friday?

Tuning your guitar, you realised you still hadn't called Eddie last night when you had gotten in, and he hadn't called you. "Well, whatever" you muttered to yourself, "he can sweat it a bit after yesterday." It's what he deserved you thought to yourself, but you didn't say it out loud. It felt too mean.

The words starting to flow onto the page and suddenly you were putting chords to paper, playing it and then reworking it with the song.

You grimaced as you looked at the time and realised that you had already missed first period. "Fuck!" You groaned shoving your notebook into your bag and your guitar into its case. This was gonna be a fucking awkward day and there was no getting around it. Looking at the sky, it was thankfully overcast which meant you could wear long sleeves, and no one would notice. Well actually...you thought to yourself before you smacked yourself into gear and shoved a fresh band t-shirt on and the jeans you were wearing yesterday. Shoving your shoes into your docs you darted out to your car.

Locking the door behind you, you heard a roar of a car engine behind you. You saw Billy in his torn up black car, with somehow a working engine. You hesitated. With his driving you could get to school and not miss too much of second period but at the same time if Eddie saw you pull up... It could get ugly. You looked behind his car and saw that Eddie's van was already gone so you couldn't have asked him for a lift even if it had crossed your mind.

But the decision had been made for you when you realised if you were late another time the school would call your folks andthatwas a situation you did not want.

Billy saw you hesitating at your door and the engine roared louder, as if an invitation to get in.

You gently put your guitar in first and then yourself, sitting your backpack on your lap. "Someone's eager to get to school, or maybe you just missed me so much since yesterday." He winked at you, and you just scowled. You were really not a morning person, and you didn't want to give hm the satisfaction of a response.

"Billy just fucking drive" you rolled your eyes and fastened your seatbelt. Billy just nodded and drove, like a fucking maniac, but you were right. You did get into school before the end of second period.

The drive was silent, you were thankful for that, after the last one didn't go so well. You didn't even ask if Max had already gotten to school, you hoped you hadn't just pinched her ride without even thinking of her.

When you got out the car you gave Billy a quick "Thanks!" Before you dashed in, really hoping that not too many people clocked that you had just gotten a lift to school by the Billy Hargrove.

Making it to second period, thankfully it was music so you, Robin and Steve could do fuck all and sit in one of the little music rooms and just chill. The teacher seemed confused that you had brought your own guitar with you but then couldn't be bothered to ask why so let you three go without a word. "I want to see you perform your creation at the end though!" Mr Bradley called after the three of you basically ran to one of the tiny music rooms.

"Can I copy your notes from Chemistry? I slept in" You asked the room, but it was for Robin. You knew Steve was going to ask the same thing because even though he had been there, he was focusing on other things.

"Only if you have a song that you can perform at the end of this class. Because I am not having Mr Bradley fucking harass me after band with 'when are you going to perform the song you've been working on for weeks' okay? I'm not going through that again." Steve walked over with his tambourine ready and your guitar on your lap and Robin being the musical genius she was able to play the everything.

Reaching into your notebook you pulled out the song you were writing. "Yeah, I have a few things" you said, flicking through the pages. A lot of the ones before the one you were writing this morning were mostly for Corroded Coffin, the one this morning was laced with pain and all the emotions you were trying to get rid of. You saw Steve trying to peak over at the words, but you held the book tighter to your chest. Giving you a confused look, since you were never too secretive with these two about what you were writing, you gave a half-hearted excuse of, "It's not completely finished yet."

"Can I tambourine to it though?" Steve here asking the important questions. You nodded before checking back to read over your rush of notes and then gave a hand gesture equivalent to 'I'm not sure?' "I'll just have to incorporate my genius another way then." He moved his hair with his hand dramatically and you chuckled. You could always trust Steve to lighten the mood.

You knew he was trying to cheer you up. Since neither of them had heard from you after you got into Eddie's van yesterday, they assumed it wasn't good. You knew Steve was trying to dance around the question. But Robin wouldn't be able to hold it in for much longer.

And like clockwork, "So what happened last night?" Robin asked. You shrugged, not really wanting to get into it now since you had only just started to feel better. The negative emotions that had finally started to escape you were now slowly burrowing their way back in.

"Hey, what happened? I know that Billy dropped Max off at the trailer park. Did he see you? What's wrong?" Robin further pressed. You knew she wasn't trying to pry; she was just worried about you. You let out a small 'ow' when she placed her hand on your wrist, attempting to comfort you. Shrinking away when she heard your small noise of pain.

"Show me" Steve said instantly, in his parent tone. You knew there was no arguing around this one. You reluctantly pulled up your sleeve to reveal the purple, green and black bruise bound around your wrist. You heard Robin gasp and Steve looked like he was ready to kill someone with the tambourine he was holding.

"Who did this to you?" Steve was standing, pacing around the small room. You shook your head. You really didn't want to talk about this right now. All of the pain and worry seeping back into your mind that you had tried to push away, to write away, it was now coming back. "Wait you said Billy was at the trailer park, right?" He looked at Robin and Robin was wide eye. You continued to shake your head, but Steve ignored it. "You can't defend him forever y/n! He's a dangerous guy! You saw what he did to all those people last summer!" Steve went for the door, and you blocked him instantly. Putting your hands up to try and calm him down. Robin looking in-between you two, clearly struggling with what she should do. "He's dangerous, and he's not going to change! Look at what he did to you!" Steve was now practically yelling, and you were trying desperately to quieten him. "The first thing he does when he gets out of hospital is to try and drive a wedge in your new relationship and physically hurts you." Steve finally put down the tambourine. "I won't stand for it. You don't deserve that." His voice lower but still firm and seething with disappointment and disgust.

He pulled out his car keys and gently tried to remove you from in front of the door. You, still shaking your head, trying to form words in your mouth but all that came out were panicked breaths. "Steve calm down, this isn't helping" Robin pushed Steve out the way and put her hands on your arms. "Look at me, tell me what's wrong. We just want to know what happened." She could see that you were physically trying to stop yourself from shaking, on the verge of a mental breakdown.

You let out a strangled sob as you looked into Robin's eyes. You looked to Steve, seeing the anger was gone he was more concerned for you. Then in a very small voice you managed to stutter out, "It was Eddie" and then you buried your face into your hands.

Robin pulled you into a hug and let you cry into her.  She looked at Steve and mouthed 'Eddie?' and Steve nodded. Both of them stunned by the fact that it had been Eddie to injure you like this, not the only guy to match and overpower Steve in a fight.

With no malice, but firmly enough you wiped your tears and your snotty nose on your sleeves, pushing away from Robin. Proceeding to sit back down on the chair you had been previously. You put your guitar on your lap and pulled out your pen and notebook. "Please, can we just focus on music right now. I don't wanna discuss this anymore."

You refused to look at them both and eyes planted on the lyrics you had written this morning, more of them coming to mind. Steve was the first one to pick up his tambourine and went, "So what am I doing again?" and let out his best warm smile. You returned it, yours a little sadder as you strummed your guitar absentmindedly.

Robin carefully sat down on the table behind you, managing to sneak a glance at the words written in your notebook whilst you weren't looking. "We got 15 minutes left and then we are gonna rock Mr Bradley's world!" she said it with a forced laugh. The negative feelings crushing under the weight of Steve and Robin's attempts to abide by your wishes and just have a good time. You loved them with all your heart.

"So, I was thinking if you harmonise with me on this note-"

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You ended up telling Mr Bradley that you would perform the song at lunch time, since you needed a little longer to rehearse and perfect it. It was really because you had a free period before lunch and Steve was making both of you laugh at his tambourine slapping hip swaying additions to his performance. Sometimes it felt good to just pretend to be regular teens at school, take a break from the reality of everything.

You knew performing at lunch time would mean that you would miss seeing Eddie, since you had no classes that overlapped today. But honestly? That's what you needed right now. A bit of space. Collect your thoughts and focus on your music.

You checked the tuning on your guitar one last time before double checking everything was fine with the instruments. Your anxiety getting the better of you and you just needed one thing to go right today. You could see the people start to gather for lunch time. You wondered if Eddie was already there waiting for you at their signature lunch table.

Shaking your head like an etch-a-sketch, pushing the only important thing to the front of your mind: Robin was on keyboard, bass guitar and backing vocals, Steve was on tambourine, backing vocals and gonna do a cheeky little razzle dazzle. Leaving you on your acoustic guitar and adjusting your mic.

"Well, I'm waiting" Mr Bradley said down below in one of the audience chairs, with a clip board. You sucked in your breath and looked at Robin and Steve. Counting yourself in. Just before you were about to start playing you saw the hellfire kids get to the table. You paused, knowing that Eddie would be on his way soon. Taking a deep exhale, you started playing and Robin and Steve followed suit.

"Clear blue water, high tides came and brought you in" you started singing, your voice wobbly at first until after a couple of beats it sounded more confident, still quiet. You pushed your nerves down. Even after performing at The Hideout so many times in front of your friends and the odd regulars, your anxiety always heated up on stage. It's just me and my friends performing a song in my bedroom was all you thought to yourself as you continued through the verse.

"Skies grew darker, currents swept you out again." you breathed a sigh, "and you were just gone and gone." It felt and sounded so therapeutic to listen to the words you had written down in your state of turmoil and have them sung back to you in a calming, melodic way.

"In silent screams and wildest dreams, I never dreamed of this" you felt the pull on your heart strings as you sang.

It was still only you on the guitar and occasionally Steve's tambourine to keep you in beat. you took a deep breath, ready for the chorus:

"This love is good; this love is bad. This love is alive back from dead, oh" Robin's keyboard joining you with the vocals and it suddenly sounded so beautiful. You never would have guessed that all of this pain could create such a beautiful song.

"These hands had to let it go free and, this love came back to me, oh"

At the exact moment you sung that line, Robin saw Eddie stroll into the cafeteria. She made no indication to you, but she glanced over to Steve, and he gave a subtle nod understanding. Thankfully you were still buried with the music, just focusing on the mic and playing, nothing else.

Then the second verse began:

"Tossing, turning. Struggling through the night with someone new" and if you had been paying attention it was that exact moment that Eddie clocked that you were performing on stage with Steve and Robin. Steve tried to keep his expression calm, but he noticed Robin almost missing her note on that line.

"In losing grip, on sinking ships. You showed up just in time." You now allowed yourself to get louder, ignoring the bustle of the cafeteria and as it got noisier. You just let yourself sing. Allowing those emotions to flow through and out of you and into this song. Unbeknownst to you, Max came and sat in one of the chairs behind your music teacher with her lunch, shortly followed by El, and then the rest of the hellfire kids. An unreadable expression on all of their faces. Finally, Dustin made his way over and sat next to Max. He looked heavily concerned and kept making sharp eye contact with Steve.

You changed up the chorus after the second verse randomly, almost catching Robin and Steve off guard.

"This love left a permanent mark. This love is glowing in the dark. These hands had to let it go free and, this love came back to me, oh."

You took a deep breath, preparing yourself for the bridge. It felt like you were confessing your feelings for the first time again. Sharing your darkest secrets. But if anyone asked you would say it was just a song and it held no meaning. Even though that wasn'tentirelythe truth.

"Your kiss. My cheek." You blushed but continued, "I watched, you leave. Your smile. My ghost. I fell to my knees." You almost faltered over that last word, but you powered on.

"When you're young, you just run. But you come back, to what you need." You sung that last note with all the power you could muster.

You continued on with the chorus, finishing on "this love came back to me, oh." Finally opening your eyes and allowing it to focus on the audience. You saw the kids all with their lunch on their laps. But your eyes landed on a fluffy haired individual who was leaning against the wall at the back. His eyes on you and you could see thoughts were ticking over in his mind.

Putting down your guitar, you noticed your music teacher looking pleased with your group. "Now that was worth the wait and all the excuses you kept throwing at me; however, I expect to see this kind of effort in every assignment I have for you three from now on." He got up and you saw on his clipboard he had given you all As for this assignment. With that he left, and you could release a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

Sliding off the stage, you were about to head over to Max. Throughout the song she was watching you as if she were listening to all the lyrics properly. As if she knew something else.

But Steve caught your arm and nodded over at Eddie who was only a few steps in front of you now. "Hey sweetheart" he smiled, his usual warm and silly smile. As if all of yesterday evening, hadn't happened. You gave him a small smile back, not yet ready to forgive him fully. Not until the bruises had at least started to heal.

You thought he was about to apologies again or pull you aside and have a talk with you. But to your surprise, instead, "Let's get my superstar singer of a girlfriend some lunch." And gently put his arm round you, carefully avoiding the place where he had gripped you only 24 hours beforehand.

"Only if you're buying." You let him lead you away from the group back towards the cafeteria, which was now bustling with people.

Steve and Robin were having a mental conversation with each other behind you whilst this exchange was going down.

The hellfire kids, all got up with the remainder of their lunches and followed Eddie back to their usual table. Adam, Gareth and Jeff were probably sat there on their own wonderingwhere the helleveryone else was.

All except Max, you said something to Lucas, and walked over to the duo. Biting the inside of her cheek she glanced back at you, laughing about something that was happening between Eddie and Dustin. The red head turned back to Steve, clearly wanting to say something but was clearly struggling to put it into words.

"C'mon kid, spill" Steve said, placing his tambourine down and sitting on the edge of the stage. Robin also crouching down, to sit next to him.

"You won't tell y/n?" She asked. It was clear whatever she was about to say, it was to be strictly kept between the three of them.

"Yeah, pinkie promise or whatever" Steve said holding out his pinkie, as to which Robin and Max rolled their eyes. Only Robin indulged him in the pinkie pact seal. He gestured to Max to spill. The pact now sealed.

After looking at her shoes and messing with her headphones a little She took another look over her shoulder, double checking whoever she was worried about definitely wasn't there or at least out of earshot. She brought her voice into almost a whisper, leaning closer to Steve and Robin's faces.

"I saw her and Billy outside her trailer last night."

[If you liked this please like, reblog, comment and follow for more!]

[thereaderinsertlady]

If the slot on the 2nd hasn’t already been taken (cuz it’s my birthday hehe), I’d love to request some Escargoon x Reader fluff if possible? :3 💕

Maybe something to do with matching Halloween costumes? I think that’d be cute idea but I’d be happy with anything you wanna write 🎃

Ofc if the 2nd is taken then any day is OK! 👉🏻👈🏻💕

Habby birfday!! I always enjoy writing for goonie :3 Here's the link on ao3, and I hope you enjoy!

Escargoon x Reader - Regalia

You stared at the piece of paper on the desk in front of you, twirling the pencil around in thought. After a while, you sighed. "I don't know what I want to be for Halloween."

"You don't know what to be?" Escargoon peered over your shoulder, causing you to immediately blush.

“Escargoon!” You sat up straighter, clearing your throat shortly after. “I… didn’t hear you come in…” 

Usually, he’d knock on your room to let you know that it was him instead of anyone else in the castle, but you must’ve not heard him, too deep in thought in the moment…

Escargoon chuckled, his slimy body wriggling in amusement. "I noticed…” He studied the paper you had been writing on. “So, you’re struggling with… costume ideas?”

"...Yeah, it seems so. I just can't decide on a costume this year…”

Escargoon tapped a finger against his chin, deep in thought... "Well, you could always go for something classic, like a ghost or a vampire. They never go out of style."

“You really could imagine me as a ghost?” You seemed amused. “Or as a vampire?”

“Sure! I think ya could pull it off.” 

“Ah-huh…” You looked back at the list of costumes on the paper. “I dunno… What did you come in here for, anyways?”

“What, I can’t come in here to see my favorite person?” He… then sighed. “But uhm. I was… unsure what costume to wear too.”

You raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You too, Escargoon? I didn't expect that."

He shifted uncomfortably, a hint of pink coloring his cheeks. "Well, yeah. It's not like I go around wearing costumes every day, you know, nor do I celebrate Halloween often.”

“Why are you celebrating this year, then?” You tilted your head curiously.

“King Dedede wants us all to dress up,” he grumbled, folding his arms. “I think it’s silly to dress up… for most people!” He added quickly, realizing that you often celebrated Halloween.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “If you say so…” You took a moment to think– before quickly coming up with an idea. “You know,” you began, “we can dress up as something together.”

“Like a couples costume?”

“Yeah, like a… a…” You blushed a little. Things were a little uncertain between you and him, a little unofficial, so the term couples caught you off guard. “L-Like a couples costumes.”

Escargoon hummed thoughtfully, not bothered by the term at all. “What should we go as?”

“...Good question.” You slowly pouted. After a moment, you glanced around the room, trying to grate some sort of inspiration. Though, in the end, you came up blank. “I dunno…”

He sighed dramatically. “Seems like we’ll need some assistance…”

“And who would we get assistance from?” You smiled weakly. 

Turns out, that would be the first person you and him would come across in the castle halls– Meta Knight. He gave you both an inquisitive look, looking at you two like you were the biggest morons. 

“And… you can’t settle on a costume idea?”

Escargoon groaned. “No, we can’t.”

Meta Knight couldn't help but hide a small smile. "Well, it's fortunate that you've come to me for advice. I've had my share of experience with costumes."

“You? Costumes?” You gave him a long look, glancing at Escargoon– who seemed just as surprised.

Meta Knight nodded slowly. "Considering your dynamic, I believe a theme that reflects teamwork and camaraderie would be appropriate. How about knights in shining armor?"

“...Knights?” Escargoon snorted.

You slowly lowered your bottom lip into a pout before actually considering it. “Well… it isn’t too bad of an idea. One of us could be the knight, and one of us could be a princess.”

“Why can’t we both be knights?”

“Because it wouldn’t be a couples costume if we were both the same thing!” You gave him a playful smile. “Besides, I’d like to see you in a dress.”

“You want me to be the princess?!”

Meta Knight looked between you and Escargoon, rolling his eyes. “Hope you two come to a decision,” he said, his cape flapping to the invisible wind as he took his que to leave. 

You watched him turn the corner before turning back towards Escargoon with a smirk. “Yes, I think you should be the princess.”

“Why can’t you be the princess?” He whined, his shoulders sinking. “I don’t want to wear a dress…”

“C’mon, you’ll be cute!” You put on your best set of puppy eyes. “Please…?”

He gave you a long look, inspecting your expression closely. After a solid ten seconds, he groaned loudly. “Fine, fine… I’ll be the stupid princess.”

You made a cheerful noise. “We should get started on finding our costumes,” you said… before pouting. “I’m not entirely sure where I’m supposed to find a set of armor that’ll fit me.”

“Looks like your shining armor is gunna be shining spray-painted cardboard,” he joked, slithering back towards your room and expecting you to follow.

You trailed behind him, staring at the floor and thinking… “What color dress should you wear?”

“I.” He grunted, heat rising to his cheeks. “I don’t know… What color seems the most flattering on me? As you can tell, I don’t wear clothes often.”

You hummed, looking him up and down. “Maybe red?”

“Red?” He scrunched up his face. “That’s such a bold color! I don’t think I can pull off red.”

“I think you can pull off any color you’d like,” you teased, causing him to groan once more.

“You’re lucky I’m willing to put on a dress for you,” he grumbled, keeping his arms crossed and moving a bit faster. 

You chuckled, appreciating his willingness to go along with the idea. "You'll look absolutely stunning, Escargoon, no matter what color you choose."

“...Ya really think so?”

You gave a firm nod. “Of course!”

He seemed to soften at your words. Conversation flowed smoothly after that, bouncing between other topics than costumes. Once you were back at your room, you began planning out costume designs with him and where you were going to find the materials. Though, all in all, you were just glad to be spending time with Escargoon.

[sketchyonlooker]

(( Actual Bonz vs Bakura with the stream reactions! Trauma 4 all! Link is to Rayne’s original post! ))

<

Lines of white noise kept interrupting the video feed, not that there was much else to see other than fog. The jittering of the camera indicated that the camera holder was still moving at full steam despite being unable to see what’s in front of it.

>

CardGamesSon (v): @/sketchyonlooker. Where are you going?! You shouldn’t run when the fog is so thick. And also seriously what is up with that fog? It came all of a sudden??

Capu4Life (v): lol u scared? And I don’t think sketchy’s paying attention to chat right now.

CardGamesSon (v): …maybe a little. Don’t you feel uncomfortable?

BlueEyesBlondeDragon (v): You do know that some of the Duel Monsters are pretty screwed up. You can’t become a good duelist without a will of steel.

Capu4Life (v): And you’re claiming to have that yourself, Mr. 20-to-life?

BlueEyesBlondeDragon (v): You are not making that my moniker!

CardGamesSon (v): Wait did you hear that?

< 

“—Romero – hanging---monster –” Someone’s voice could be heard through the static. The voice seemed close, but the fog was too thick to see who it was.

A gloved hand reached out as if trying to push away the fog around it.

Something suddenly hummed – like a tuning fork that was just strummed.

The voices became much clearer, the previously constant static only just a crackle every so often.

“A simple defense monster? If you want to talk about low hanging fruit, “ a voice snidely said (Bonz). The man’s gaunt face came into the view as his face became more clear, just enough to see its general features but not much more than that – as if looking at it through a mosaic, “how bout we get a little Gacy in here? With Crass Clown!”

“Did you just make a gay joke using Gacy as the punchline-“ the voice said (Bakura). Unlike the owner of the snide voice, this person’s countenance could barely be seen through the thickness of the fog – as if he were the source of it  – maybe white hair? Or was it just the reflection of holograms off the fog.  

“Now Dragon Zombie,” said the snide voice.

“no that’s fine just ignore me”

“Attack his face down monster!”

Unlike the duelists involved, the monsters were in crystal clear clarity. A round rotund clown and a rotting dragon on Bonz’s side of the field and a single face-down defense mode monster on Bakura’s.

Other figures could barely be seen by Bonz’s side like they were mostly merged with the fog – and their voices more like buzzing than anything intelligible. 

>

I’mYourDaddy (v): How are they dueling in this fog? I can barely see anything but whatever’s on the field.

BlueEyesBlondeDragon (v): In a duel, that’s really all you need.

DMGBeloved (v): I got it! A in C Major.

BlueEyesBlondeDragon (v): What?

DMGBeloved (v): Sorry. Ignore me. So who’s actually fighting? And sketchy are you in a dead zone or something? Your connection is really bad.

CardGamesSon (v): I don’t know about you – oh my gosh that looks really really real.

< 

The zombie dragon spewed out a thick noxious-looking smog on Bonz’s command, roiling over Bakura’s face-down card. Emerging from the card, a jar with some sort of ooze inside it briefly looked over at Bonz’s side with its single eye and mouth before shattering into pieces.

“Aw, what a shame, guess my pottery is history now,” Bakura said.

“Yeah and that means now I-“

“Ah, ah, not yet, my sickly little friend; you triggered the effects of my Morphing Jar, causing us both to discard our hand, and draw five new cards,” Bakura said. The sound of cards entering the graveyard slot were more clear than any other sound on the battlefield – and then also the draw of five new ones. “And because I’m such a nice guy, I’ll even let you attack with Violator, there.”

>    

RexsBiggestFan (v): actually i think that’s crass clown.

I’mYourDaddy (v): ::puerilegiggle::

RexsBiggestFan (v): what?

I’mYourDaddy (v): Nothing.

<

“Crass Clown, attack his life points directly!” Bonz commanded with a scowl on his face.

The large clown lunged its pole right into the man’s body with a loud meaty thud. The man’s face suddenly became a little more clearer as if the strike dispersed some of the fog.

A pained laugh escaped Bakura’s lips.

> 

RexsBiggestFan (v): i’m not entirely sure but didn’t we see this guy before? wasn’t he hanging out with the mutt?

I’mYourDaddy (v): Maybe? I can only really see his hair? And that he’s wearing something blue? If he was really hanging around Joey, he didn’t really leave much of an impression. But why does he sound like he’s actually hurt?

BlueEyesBlondeDragon (v): Probably acting or something. Haven’t we gone through this whole “holograms hurting people” stage? I mean, even Obelisk smacking Frowny didn’t injure him all that much.

Capu4Life (v): just the explosion that came after lol.

CardGamesSon (v): Is it just me, or does it feel like the fog is getting even thicker?

 <

“You know, when Maximillian Pegasus originally drew your fat clown, he drew it with a scythe,” Bakura quipped.

“Huh?”

“He thought it would instill fear in the children playing the game. But Industrial Illusions felt it was “too sinister” and changed it into a pole. Funny, then, that your clown is just an out of shape monk. But enough about de Segonzac’s little doodle, I think it’s time to explain this …Shadow Game.”

> 

 BlueEyesBlondeDragon (v): Oh god. Not another one with Middle School Syndrome.

IHateControlDecks (v): This game attracts a lot of those folks. Lol.

I’mYourDaddy (v): Hey. Do you guys hear that? I think there’s other people?

BlueEyesBlondeDragon (v): No? There’s only two of them here?

 < 

“It doesn’t matter what you call this game,” Bonz called out and pointed straight at the man who was slowly becoming shrouded by fog once more, “The next turn is going to be your last, go on and draw your last card so you can draw your last breath!”

Bakura responded by drawing his card. Even without being able to see his face, there was a sense that he was smiling.

“In Monster World, we call this a cantrip. I activate the magic card Pot of Greed. You know what this is yes?”

“Yeah, a waste of a turn.”

> 

I’mYourDaddy (v): Okay. As a fairly knowledgeable and experienced duelist, I am extremely offended by that statement.

Capu4Life (v): Go sit back down.

<

“Not quite, my little brain dead friend.” Bakura explained as the emerald green pot with the intricate face appeared and disappeared, “You see, it’s called a cantrip because it costs nothing to play and it replaces itself. And not only that, it gives me a second card. Sometimes you just need a little green pot in your life, don’t you?”

Two orbs of light rushed into his deck and, from it, two drawn cards.

“Now I’ll play the monster Card Trooper.”

A little robot appeared on the battlefield, more like a toy tank than anything else.

“Card Trooper? It only has 400 Attack?”

> 

I’mYourDaddy (v): Ooh Machine type. Good taste. Not just 400 attack.

BlueEyesBlondeDragon (v): ::eyeroll::

< 

“Very good, your ability to read the cards is only matched by your overall stupidity. But Card Trooper has a special effect. It lets me send the top three of my deck to the card graveyard to boost its attack by 500 for each card. And do you know what 500 times three is?”

Bonz grimaced, taking a step back.

“That’s right, 1500! Good boy! Add that to the 400, and that’s 1900. Card Trooper, be a dear and destroy that clown for me, would you?”

Only a flash could be seen as the laser struck the Crass Clown down – and then Bonz doubling over holding his chest.

The other duelist took a knee, and with it, a faint whimper.

“Sorry, I didn’t explain the rules of the game! That wasn’t right of me, can’t make it up now can I?” Bakura called out.

A blurred muscled figure suddenly came into view as he tried lifting Bonz up to his feet – as though the close proximity to Bonz gave him visibility and audibility. 

“- mean “rules”?”

“I told you, this was a Shadow Game. The monsters you play here are real. And the more attachment you have to them, the worse their deaths are going to feel. Fitting you’re attached to a clown, I see two beside you now.”

“Hey, who the fuck you calling a clown?” said the muscled figure.

“You, you large oaf. And when you lose life points, you’re losing life points. Of course, I lost more than you but unlike you, I’m not attached to these monsters. They aren’t mine.” Bakura replied.

“What are you talking about? What do you mean they aren’t yours what is this?” Bonz screamed, clearly unsettled. 

>

BlueEyesBlondeDragon (v): Where did that muscled guy come from? He wasn’t there and then he was helping Skull guy up.

CardGamesSon (v): That’s what you’re wondering about? That Skull guy sounded like he really got hurt.  

BlueEyesBlondeDragon (v): ::eyeroll:: Stop being so creeped out. It’s just a game. He didn’t even get hit directly.  

<

”A young man and what I would assume was his lady friend graciously gifted me this duel disk, deck, and locator card earlier,” Bakura explained, “In exchange, I sent their souls screaming into Hell to be alone and lost for all eternity.

The man admired the Duel Disk on his arm before lifting his gaze to Bonz and company. “And once this game is done, all three of you can join them in a world of isolation and shadows.”

“It’s okay, you’ll be able to suffer together.”

>

CardGamesSon (v): Guys. I don’t think he’s joking.

DMGBeloved (v): I’m with CGS on this one. This is the exact sort of thing that made me feel like I needed to quit while I was ahead. @/sketchyonlooker, YOU NEED TO GET OUT OF THERE. LIKE YESTERDAY.  

Capu4Life (v): oh come on he’s just acting. Acting really well. Seriously, do you think people will actually kill each other over these games?

BlueEyesBlondeDragon (v): Didn’t Frowny Mask plant a bomb earlier and made it explode?

Capu4Life (v): Come on. It was just like theatrics. If he really wanted someone to die, he could’ve just used a bigger bomb? Or y’know not plant one right underneath his feet? 

I’mYourDaddy (v): Didn’t he just say there were three of them?

 < 

”Fuck this, I’m done!” A voice called out that belonged to none of the players.

“Sid, hey!”

A redheaded man suddenly appeared right in front of and nearly crashed into the camera. And just as suddenly as he appeared, he ran past disappearing into the fog.

“I’ll just set these two cards face down for now,” Bakura continued as the view settled back on him, “Oh, and my name is Bakura, thank you. Now…”

Something blurry but clearly redheaded could be seen coming through the fog from the other side.

“Ah, thank you, could you go inform your master that my turn is over?”

“Wait, how did-“

“You don’t get to leave the shadows. The fog will cling to you and drag you down to the muck. Now tell your owner it’s his turn. I’m getting bored.”

> 

I’mYourDaddy (v): …But redhead just nearly crashed into sketchy. How did he get all the way over there?

CardGamesSon (v): I’m telling you there is something freaky going on. This is like Final Destination level bad. Sketchy! Why aren’t you leaving yet?!

 < 

“This is dumb. This is fucking stupid!” Bonz said, his gaze locked onto that blurry red figure making its way towards him. “Now I-“

“Not so fast, I’m going to take the opportunity to take three more cards from my deck and put them in my graveyard, to increase my Card Trooper’s attack to 1,900. Okay, now what were you going to say?”

“Wait you can do that?”

“Come on, eternity is waiting.”

“Man fuck you,” Bonz placed a face-down defense monster and switched his Zombie Dragon into defense position.

“A wise decision from a poor man, guess it’s my turn now. Are you done?”

“Yeah!”

“Glad we both understand the outcome. Oh, and as your turn comes to close, I’ll activate both my facedown trap cards.”

“Both? You had two?”

“Two indeed I did, and they’re both Needlebug Nests. These each allow me to discard five cards from the top of my deck and into the graveyard. A fourth of my deck put in the ground, as it were.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because one of us needs to put pressure on me in this duel, and you certainly aren’t managing any of it. Now then, it’s my turn.”

> 

I’mYourDaddy (v): lol okay. That was pretty funny, weird shit aside. I still don’t get what Bakura’s aim is. He’s sending cards into the graveyard to boost Card Trooper’s attack power, but that can’t be the only gimmick. Is he hunting for a certain card that he’ll recover from his graveyard.

BlueEyesBlondeDragon (v): You mean, like Kaiba did with Monster Reborn? He could also be aiming for a card whose effect is triggered by going into the graveyard too.

CardGamesSon (v): You guys. How could you still discuss this duel with all this occult crap going on?!

Capu4Life (v): lol

I’mYourDaddy (v): Because it’s the only thing we can do at this point. Sketchy clearly isn’t leaving. And despite all the creepy things happening, nothing bad has happened yet.

CardGamesSon (v): Yet.

<

“Now then,” Bakura stated as he placed two cards face down on the field and a monster in defense mode. “I’ll activate Card Trooper’s effect once more, sending three more cards to their permanent home. Then I’ll switch him to defense mode.”

“Seems our game is almost done,” Bakura finished.

“You’re mad.”

“Actually, I’m in a relatively good mood, but that’s fine. Go on, the game is over.”

Bonz drew his card from a deck.

“Okay, first I switch Dragon Zombie back to attack, and reveal my Snake Hair as well!”

“Intimidating.”

“Mock me all you want, but the duel is over! Dragon, Snake, attack his monsters!”

“And you activate my trap card,” Bakura said.

“Another trap?!”

“Yes, just one. Behold my…third Needlebug Nest.”

“That’s it?” Bonz agitatedly said with a stomp of his foot. “All you have done is discard your deck this whole duel and you have the balls to call me names? Just to discard cards again?”

> 

Capu4Life (v): Lol... this guy. Man, if I were a card game playing loser, I would follow creepy guy’s example. Look how mad skull-face is. That is what I aspire to.

BlueEyesBlondeDragon (v): Too bad you’re just a Capumon playing loser instead.

Capu4Life (v): Don’t wanna hear that from 20-to-life.

I’mYourDaddy (v): Come on guys. Look. Bakura’s down to his last card now. He loses the turn after. So whatever he’s going to do is going to happen next turn.

<

“And would you look at that, down to just one card…”

“Kill his monsters!”

Bonz’s creatures ravaged Bakura’s side of the board on his command, destroying both Card Trooper and his face-down defense card.

“You done?”

“No, but you are! Now I’ll activate Polymerization! And fuse my Dragon Zombie and Snake Hair, to create this!”

The swirling vortex of Polymerization took both Dragon Zombie and Snake Hair – and its place was a giant golden Mammoth.

“Behold! My Mammoth of Goldfine! Unfortunately I can’t attack now, but I will next turn, but it won’t matter. You’ve lost.”

Bakura draws the last card from his deck.

“I had to do research on the rules for Kaiba’s puppet tournament, and the rules state a forty deck count. No more, no less.”

“I’ve put five cards from Morphing Jar, nine from Card Trooper, and fifteen from Needlebug Nests. Plus the cards themselves. That’s thirty-five. Leaving me with a hand of four and face down card.”

“So, I’ll play the last monster in the deck, the King of the Skull Servants!”

Something emerges from underneath the ground, a bony hand that grabbed the earth and used it to pull itself out of its confines. Clad in red robes and gold trim, the creature stands and moans.

“A King among minions, who gets stronger from every lesser minion tossed aside and forgotten. In fact, the King gets 1,000 attack for every soul lost to the graveyard that bears its likeness. Do you want to know how many that is, Kotsuzuka?”

> 

I’mYourDaddy (v): His entire deck. He discarded his entire deck. For this moment?

< 

“Seventeen. Seventeen servants that have been forgotten and discard. But the King here? Remembers all his lost subjects and is fueled with anger for their loss.”

“But, you’re the one that did that-“

“Bringing his total attack power to 17,000. I believe your Mammoth has 2,200 attack? A respectable amount. Nothing to a King. But what is a King without his accessories? So now I’ll activate this, the magic card Disposable Learner Device.”

> 

Capu4Life (v): lol everyone could learn from this guy about theatrics.

CardGamesSon (v): Don’t you feel like something really bad is going to happen?

Capu4Life (v): come on already scaredy cat. He’s just got commitment to the bit.

< 

“This little magic trinket raises the attack by 200 for every monster in my graveyard. Do you want to know how many?”

“Seven…teen?”

“Twenty-eight. Which means my King gets another 5,600 attack. Now what happens when I do this?” Bakura reveals another Disposable Learner Device that attaches to the King. “Another 5,600 attack. Which brings our total attack to 28,200. My my. Skull Servant King.”

“Kill them.”

The King of the Skull Servants strikes the Mammoth down with a fierce chop, leaving only behind broken bones. The strike is punctuated by the sound of the life point counter hitting zero. 

--

The camera suddenly locks onto Bonz who had just collapsed to his knees, hand covering his mouth.

As the camera slowly zoomed closer, thick blood leaked from Bonz’s mouth and rolled over Bonz’s hands, slowly turning black as he coughed and coughed in increasing desperation.

--

A second and third stream partition appear to the sides of the video showing Bonz’s dying face. A close-up of the redhead and the muscled man that stood beside Bonz showed them suddenly knee-deep in shadows pulling them down. The portions of them that were dragged down didn’t seem to exist anymore as if their bodies melted into the shadows underneath. 

Their desperate final struggle only took moments before their faces sunk beneath the shadows – and then they were gone.

All the while, Bonz’s face came closer and closer to the viewpoint, eventually filling the entire window screen. Thick black liquid seeped from his mouth and eyes, so close that the viewer could almost reach and taste it. Chunks of his skin fell off in patches, turning into more of the black fluid escaping whatever was left of his face. A wet gurgle escaped as he was unable to cough no more. And before long there was just a pool of what was previously a human – and silence.

> 

...

...

The stream was silent as if by total consensus. Or perhaps total fear or disbelief of what was just seen. Seconds ticked by from the moment Bakura last attacked to the moment when the last of the trio disappeared from this earth.

< 

The fog vanished from the cemetery. 

Moonlight shined from overhead.

Only a bunch of gravestones were present where Bakura and the trio of Duelists once were, as if everything had been a dream – or a long nightmare.

But then a voice – that would be in so many nightmares to come – could be heard from far away – and yet somehow so casually close.

“If you want me to take your locator cards, say nothing ever again for eternity?”

A pause.

“Oh, by the way, I lied. You’ll be alone in those shadows.”

>

[inktrailing]

Continuation sorta from this. A “refresher” of sorts as I try to get out of my fic break, before I started working on something else.

Dean looks up at the door opening, the shimmer from the barrier holding them reflecting off its metal. “Go away,” he says blandly, “we're discussing relationship negotiations.” He’d like to think the devil straddling his lap is proof enough of that.

The corporate stooge stares at him, briefly thrown for a loop. Dean would call that a win.

“You have three hours,” the man says at last. “Any last requests?”

“Yeah, eat me,” Lucifer snaps.

The man points at Dean. “That sounds like his problem, not mine.”

“Damn, I like you,” Dean says, “couldja maybe not ritually sacrifice us? I'd hate to have to kill you.”

“Good luck with that.”

They did already fail rather spectacularly there. Fucking witches, Dean thinks.

“How 'bout some blankets and no cameras, huh? I don't need y'all getting freaky.”

“Okay, I'm leaving,” the man says.

“I just wanna say, I think this is a really bad idea!” Dean yells after him. “For the hundredth time, summoning gods never goes well!!”

The door closes.

“You think he'll come back with blankets anyway?” Dean asks.

“No,” Lucifer answers.

“Damn.”

Lucifer blinks, turns his head, and looks at one of the cameras beyond the barrier. “Huh.”

“What?”

“They turned them off.”

“Seriously?”

Lucifer nods.

“You got any super secret escape plans you're been holding out on?”

“No.”

“Cool.” Dean fists his hands into Lucifer's overcoat and pulls him closer to kiss him.

“Dean,” Lucifer says between breaths.

“I got no 'get outta sacrifice jail free' cards,” Dean says, “so fuck if I ain't making use of my three hours.”

“I don't think—”

Dean's breathing stutters and he draws his lips away only to bumps their cheeks together as he catches his breath, one hand clapping gently to the side of Lucifer's head. “I haven't done a Last Night on Earth speech in a long time,” he says.

“So convenience, then,” Lucifer says.

“You know it's not.”

“Do I?”

“Lucifer.”

Lucifer hums and slots their alignment back into place to kiss into Dean's mouth.

“Should I warn you? If they turn the cameras back on?”

“Don't tell me, just fuck me,” Dean says.

[switchspencer]

good evening yes i will would you like to discuss middle of the night “it’s raining outside and i got lonely” sex with spencer?

okay YES because middle of the night sex is sex with IMMACULATE VIBES and ESPECIALLY if it’s raining this is literally the most elite combination of things??

this went a little bit far and there’s actually two sort of blurbs under here.... yikes

word count: 1.5k (the first blurb is 500 words and the other is 1k)

ship: afab! reader x spencer reid

warnings: a storm, penetrative sex, implied creampie, neck kissing, sleepy sex, i think that’s pretty much it!!

i imagine it in one of two ways:

if you’re dating, he’s cuddled up to you. being the big spoon, pressed against your back, his crotch against your ass, his face nestled into the crook of your neck.

he whispers, “are you awake?” his voice is raspy and low, thick with sleep even though he hasn’t been successfully in drifting off yet, and so quiet you can barely even hear it over the pitter patter sounds of the rain at the window. you nod, barely visible in the dim lighting, but he feels it.

his fingers move from where they’re interlocked with yours, skimming over the exposed skin at your waist where your pyjama top has ridden up.

you use your right knee to shift yourself, pushing your body further into his, properly facing him. he doesn’t say anything. neither do you. but your eyes meet, and you can just about make out the outline of his nose as he leans in to kiss you. soft. his fingers following the trail upwards to your nipple, and rolling the left one between his thumb and forefinger. you lift your hips upwards, and feel him grin against your mouth. your hand comes to rest at the nape of his neck, using the hair there as leverage.

his crotch meets yours. he’s hard, really hard, and you gasp. he revels in the noise, it only spurs him to kiss you harder, wiggling his hips to make quick work of his pyjama pants. clumsily, with the hand that isn’t in his hair, you do the same with your own.

surprisingly (or, perhaps, unsurprisingly) you’re wet already. who could really blame you, your incredibly hot boyfriend is so insatiable for you that he’s forgoing precious hours of sleep.

neither of you strip all the way off. he slips inside of you. it’s almost unceremonious, like you’re just meant to slot together like that, nothing out of the ordinary happening. and in a way, it isn’t, you’ve had sex plenty of times. but there’s something different about this time. the way his mouth devours you, the way every move feels measured and thought out.

there’s no loud moans. no cries of each others names. there’s a veil of peace and content shrouding you that neither of you wants to pierce. it’s all quiet gasps, swallowed by his mouth or breathed into his neck while you adorn it with kisses. not harsh ones that will leave marks, just light ones. a small trail down to his collarbone before he captures your lips with his again. his breathing increasing in tandem with your own as he thrusts, your hand threading through the one resting next to your head. the other pulling desperately at his back. to hold him closer to you.

his thumb rubbing over your clit as he slips in and out of you. your head tipping back, biting back a moan as your releases find each other. the pitter patter of the rain never intruding on the moment. just serving as a peaceful backdrop as you lose yourselves in one another.

-

OR version two: you’re on a case together and he can’t sleep. he hears you leave your room, so he pokes his head around his door. you’d gone to the vending machine at the end of the hall to get a snack.

you almost jump out of your skin when you turn around and see him, tousled bed hair, head peaking around the frame of his bedroom door.

“oh,” he breathes, a mock whisper, “sorry i didn’t mean to frighten you. i just wondered who was walking around.”

“just me,” you reply sheepishly, briskly walking the four steps down the hallway to meet him so that your voices don’t draw out the rest of your team on the floor, “sorry, did i wake you?”

he shakes his head, “no. no i was already awake.”

“you can’t sleep either?”

“no.”

“do you want to come and sit with me?”

he tips his head, considering it for a moment. it really isn’t that big a deal, you’ve hung out on plenty of occasions. even shared a bed once, although that time every single breath he’d breathed had caught in his throat whenever you came within an inch of him, his heart leaping out of his chest.

“you don’t have to,” you follow up, and watch his eyes widen, “you just could if you want to. i know it’s no fun being awake alone.”

he presses his lips together thoughtfully, “um, if it’s not too much bother. i wouldn’t want to impose.”

“i invited you,” you say, turning around and using the key card to open your bedroom door, “come in.”

he follows you into the room. there’s a double bed, and your lamp has been left on. you’d had it off when you were trying to sleep, but the storm outside is pretty bad. as if to illustrate your point, there’s a loud rumble, and you’re so startled you almost jump, your hand flying to your chest.

“i wasn’t expecting that,” you laugh.

“there’s a storm coming in from the east,” he informs you, walking in and hovering awkwardly by your bed.

“sit down,” you instruct, “make yourself comfortable.”

you clamber onto the bed yourself. the curtains are shut, but you don’t miss the flash of the lightning that comes two beats after the thunder.

“did you know it takes the sound of thunder approximately 5 seconds to travel one mile?”

“i didn’t,” you reply, crossing your legs, “is it true that you can guess when the lightning will strike based on the thunder sound? i remember hearing about that as a child but i didn’t know if it was true.”

he doesn’t reply for a second. mostly because your pyjama shorts rode up when you crossed your legs, exposing a sizeable amount of skin that he hadn’t been privy to seeing before. he swallows, and your eyes fall down to where his gaze is sat, approximately a milisecond before he tears it away.

the tips of his ears turning pink, his voice cracks on the first syllable, “y-yes, that is actually true.”

“huh,” you nod, “do you want to look at the lightning?”

“w-what?”

right on cue, there’s another rumble. it lasts one, two, three, four, five seconds.

you pull back the curtains, wiggling forward. he follows your lead. the window is only small so you end up pressed against one another as you look at it. all darkness, the window pane smeared with rain that’s beaten down against it. his body is warm, and your heart hammers in your chest at the sensation of your shoulders pressed together. you swear his knees shake before he settles down more properly, sitting on the balls of his feet.

flash. the lightning lasts all of five seconds, but you’re not looking at it after maybe three. instead, you’re looking at him, the last fragments of it reflected in the lenses of his glasses.

“do you like storms?”

“i’m not the biggest fan,” he admits.

you’re staring right at him. you see his adam’s apple bob. it does twice before he caves and looks at you. in the lamplight, you can see his pupils dilate, the honey absorbed right before your eyes. there’s a static in the air that the storm can’t be blamed for.

neither of you move. a game of almost chicken. you don’t want to be the one to make the first move incase it’s something he doesn’t want, something he’s unprepared for. but his gaze drops from your lips and back to your eyes, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip and it’s so obvious that it must be deliberate. it must be deliberate because he’s a profiler and he knows better, knows what those kind of non-verbal cues suggest. so when you tilt your head, the faintest bit, and his follows in the same direction you know what’s happening.

there’s a warmth in the air between your lips, searing hot, and your heart thrums with nerves. your nerves couldn’t possibly be quelled, it’s too much, but your knees can’t quite adjust to the movement of your weight and you tip forward, hand resting on his shoulder. if he wanted to stop you, if he didn’t want to do this, now would be an opportune time to stop you but he doesn’t. he stares at you, imploring you to come closer, pursing his lips.

he’s a blur. you’re so close to his face that the features can’t be made out anymore and it’s him, it’s spencer, the one who finally closes the gap and kisses you.

really kisses you. it starts off slow. gentle. tentative. the heat radiates off his hand but he doesn’t bring it to your waist until you lean in to deepen the kiss. and then he holds you.

it moves so far so fast. the kissing is hurried, enthusiastic, as if now you’ve started you can’t quite fathom how you’d go about stopping. shedding clothes, thrown behind you in your haste. the rumble of thunder is the soundtrack as you pepper kisses all down his body, sucking marks that will purple right above his hipbone. pressing him back against the headboard. when he looks up at you, glasses slipping down his nose, he’s no longer the picture of innocence.

it happens so fast you’re not sure how you get there but what you do know is you’re on top of him, riding him, both so fucking loud that you’re not sure even the sounds of the storm can drown you out.

LINK TO JOIN TAGSLIST (for this blog and @reidyoulikeabook )

NSFW Spencer tagslist: @fiftyshadesofspencerreid @holding-on-to-my-youth @spencerreidat3am @muffin-cup @ssareidbby @reidyourmind @lumosemily @reidaissance @hauntedinsomnia @averyhotchner @sunkissglow @reidsacademia @gingertea6460 @opheli-yeah @meganskane @idonotexiste @thosecriminalminds

[bee--blossom]

𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 (𝚌!𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛)

♡ synopsis: you and quackity close up the casino together, but things are harder now. you have an idea to brighten the mood 

(here’s a playlist, if ya want :> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gw-y7lLSbQQ)

♡ word count: 773

♡ pronouns: none!

♡ cw?: a wee bit of language and a wee bit of angst (c!slimecicle death is mentioned)

○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○

It was just about two in the morning, and you were hastily sweeping the dark maroon tiles. The slots were all dark- they looked depressing when they weren't illuminated by the bright LEDs- and the flat images of diamonds, cherries and jackpot symbols barely reflected in their glass casings. From across the room, you could see Quackity counting out bills on a pool table. His hand rested heavily on his cheek as he used the other to toss 20’s to the side. Long black hair covered his face, but you already knew it was painfully expressionless- it had been since Slime died. It was pretty quiet; you could only hear the stiff bristles of your broom and the mindless 50’s instrumentals coming from the jukebox in the corner.

You jumped as Quackity abruptly slammed his briefcase shut, the bills finally sorted and taken into account. You were almost scared to do it, but you looked over at him anyway, watching him cross the room to wipe down the bar. You sighed. This little routine you had fallen into with Big Q every night was depressing without the dumb little green guy following your every move, asking what brooms were or how to sit without ‘sliming’ off the chair or how money worked. The three of you were close, and though you knew he wasn’t truly gone, you still missed him. 

“Big Q…” You hesitantly called out, resting your broom against the jukebox. He looked up at you, hand still polishing the marble countertop. 

He hummed out a response, face unmoving. 

“Come here a sec?” You asked, ushering your hand towards your chest. He hesitated, then put his rag down and walked over to you. 

“What is it?” He asked, finally reaching you. You didn’t know how’d this go, and you were honestly a bit afraid of the man- it’s not like he’s lashed out at anyone, but he hasn’t been responsive to much.

“Look, I know…” You trailed off, carefully selecting your words. “Maybe… I just thought…” He looked at you, slightly furrowing his brows. Fuck. 

“Do you want to dance with me?” You asked, eyes glued to your shoes. You felt dumb. Immensely dumb. It was way too soon, and he was probably weirded out, and now you’d have to deal with his rejection the whole time you were closing up. 

It was silent for about eight seconds - you counted- and then he spoke. 

“Uh… Why?”

You almost wish he’d just had said no. How the fuck would you answer that question?

“Well… uhm… I just think it would, like, distract us for a second? Might be fun, and I always dance when I'm sad, I don’t know why though, I just-” You ranted.

“Yeah, okay.” He sighed.

“Wait. Like, yes?” You asked, looking up at him. He was looking at the floor, now. 

“Sure. Why not.”

-

You punched a few keys on the jukebox and turned towards him. He looked exhausted- eyes heavy, black hair messy and misplaced. His white button down was wrinkled, and when you took his hand it was calloused and dry. 

You took a step forward, then back, and then continued to sway as he followed against you. Quackity had taught you and slime to dance one night (admittedly, after downing a couple of drinks), so you weren’t as stiff and awkward as you used to be. You studied his face, and he studied your feet. 

After a minute of silence, you heard him mumble something under his breath. 

“Hm?” You hummed, missing a beat. 

“Thank you.” He said again weakly, now looking into your eyes. His eyes were glassy, and he had slowed down to a stop. The song faded behind you, and for a second, you didn’t know what to do.

Then you quickly moved to hug him, wrapping your arms around his frame and holding on tight. You put your head on his shoulder, and he slightly leaned into you. It was a couple minutes before you pulled away, and when you did, you noticed his face was a bit puffy. He was smiling, though- the first time you’d seen him smile in a while. You smiled back, and then laughed. And he laughed back. And suddenly you were two psychopaths, laughing at each other and crying in the depth of the night on the dancefloor of a sullen casino. 

When you locked the doors behind you, you noticed that the night air was light and misty. You walked back home together, finally having proper conversations and joking around like you used to. Your hand never left his, and he was finally holding it back.

a/n: sorry this one is kinda angsty, i mayyy or may not be going through a similar situation :,> thank you to everyone who’s followed/liked/commented, i really appreciate you! please feel free to request things!! i’d love to get prompts <3 remember to take care of yourself! 

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Page of Swords

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | three

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You attempt a new skill. Mando attempts to teach you.

Word count: 4.7k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings/tags: gun usage/mentioning throughout, mature language, pining, more dirty thots-ish, angst because why not, does this count as fluff? sure, gun kink if you squint w/o your glasses

Notes: As the reader (you/us) begins to become more familiar with Mando, his perspective starts bleeding in to the narrative, without a blocked off POV. Also, the reader’s past will start weaving (incoherently?) into the story as well. The large italicized chunks denote past tense interactions (which is probably obvious but who knows any more). Cheers x (gif credit: @djarinsgf)

A shot rings out.

Birds explode from the canopy with offended squawks, squalling in a winged flurry to scatter every which way until they recede again into the green, disappearing back into their hiding places. You groan. You thought you’d be better at this.

It’s not that you thought you were some sort of savant, you just didn’t expect to be this bad. Honestly, it’s embarrassing—you’re embarrassingly terrible— like statistically, you should have hit something by now, but you just keep missing—a crowded tree line in front of you, and not a scratch in sight—nary a singed branch nor a bullet holed trunk. It’s almost impressive how poor of a shot you are—and you would be, if you weren’t so damn exasperated with the whole affair. With a frustrated grunt, you throw your hands up, brandishing the weapon haphazardly.

“Careful,” Mando warns slyly, “you could hurt someone with that thing.”

“Yeah, well at least I’d hit something,” you grumble.

The kid had been fussy - almost unbearably so - in the weeks that followed your short stint on Bajic, and your party was itching for some time off the Razor Crest. After his third tantrum in a day, Mando decided to land on some unknown planet you couldn’t even spell to stretch your legs and take a breather.

You had almost sobbed when you saw him drag his menagerie of weaponry over. You knew what this meant, you knew what came next—his weekly, routine buff.

You think he’s doing it on purpose.

Ever since the first time, when you damn near had a conniption ogling him, you swear it’s like he’s doing it just to mess with you. He isn’t—of course he isn’t, rationally you knew that, in fact there was plenty of evidence to the contrary. He’s a Mandalorian—weapons are apart of his religion for kriff’s sake—but Maker does it seem intentional. Premeditated. It’s like you can feel the blistering ray of his gaze on you as he takes his time, roving a leathered hand over the bulge of the shaft—greasing it, stripping it, part by metal part…

It’s all in your head, you told yourself. It’s all in your fucking head and you need to get a grip.

Immediately you sprang into action, busying yourself with anything you could get your stupid, little hands on—in this case, being one of his many blasters.

“I wanna give it a go,” you said.

He let you, surprisingly. He hesitated, at first, his helmet tipping at a disbelieving angle. But he gave in—it took less effort on your part than you’d figured—and Mando conceded. He obliged.

How hard could it be? You thought.

Famous last words.

He’s parked there, settled on a throne of crates pushed flush to the Crest, slouched against the outer hull of the ship as he cleans, from the looks of it, every item in his arsenal—a front row seat to your pathetic endeavor and you’re failing—epically, ridiculously—shot after errant shot.

You line yourself up, scrunching your face in concentration as you bare the blaster in your hands. Maybe this time…

You fire off a round and an animal scampers scared in the thicket. Nothing. Another sublime miss.

You hear a noise come from Mando’s direction, something subtle like a blip of static through his helmet - Maker, he’s laughing at you - and you pivot around to him.

“What,” you ask, although it's less of a question and more of a griping pout. He replies with silence, that fickle language he's mastered to perfection all on his own, his focus pitched down to the bristled rod he’s driving in and out of his rifle, scouring out the residue from the inner barrel. “Ugh, what Mando?” you say, just shy of a whine, one hand slotted on your hip, the other dangling by your side, the pistol foreign and cumbersome in your grasp.

“Didn’t say anything,” he replies with a half shrug, his pauldrons shifting so imperceptibly you almost miss it. You pause, hurling him a look that misses him completely before you heave a frustrated sound.

“Fine, you show me how it’s done then.”

The T of his visor finds you. Its cold and unknowable as he rolls his helmet, tilting it up to you, hands slowing their ministrations to a rest. He’s wears a glare, carved into the steel hollow of the plates—unamused and smoldering—and with it, you feel small; microscopic and withering under his pointed gaze— suddenly too exposed in the open patch of jungled wilderness they’ve landed in and your mouth tweaks, teeth grazing the plush there. You assume he won’t do it. There’s no way he’ll rise to such obvious of a challenge, but he’s sighing—you can see it in the slant of his armor—and marching towards you before you can take it back, drawing closer and closer until Mando’s slated in front of you, expectant and postured and you forget— like the skip of a record, you forget why he’s even there— not a foot before you— and your eyes dance across his helm, flickering back and forth.

“May I?” he nods down to the pistol in your hand and you start - oh, shit - and offer it to him clumsily.

Mando squares off against the untamed green. The air lays hot and sticky around them. There is no trace of wind, no glimmer of breeze, and his cape hangs mute down his back. You’d never seen him fire his weapon. He surrounded himself with them, sure, always had at least two strapped to him at all times— probably even slept with one, you reckon— but you’ve never seen him use one.

With one solid movement, he cranes his arm, taking aim.

Now, you aren’t one to condone violence, but he just looks right doing it; an extension of himself with how natural it is, how innate— an added appendage, born unto him. The pistol looks good in his fist, like it couldn’t possibly belong anywhere else, the orange tips of his glove curling around the hilt, looping over that sensitive release.

He has practiced hands. Methodical. Sturdy. It’s sensual, to watch him like this. Pornographic even— sacrilege in a way. A part of you wants to look away and turn your gaze, grant him privacy as he handles the blaster— delicately, confidently. It’s intimate.

The pistol croons in his palm. She bends, supple and lilting. He knows just where to touch, where to stroke— she does anything he tells her. She melts for him.

Warmth pools in your mouth. Mando pulls the trigger.

He lands an impressive shot onto an impossibly narrow tree trunk nestled further in, and your features contort with amazement. Maybe you want to see it again—like a nosy neighbor peeping in through drawn curtains. Maybe you’re being reckless and smarmy, and maybe you know it. A Mandalorian’s got a gun in his hand and you’re prodding him - brilliant strategy, top marks - but your adrenaline is pumping something fierce and you feel yourself grow bold with each seize of your heart.

“Lucky shot,” you huff.

He pans to you, lolling his head, visor locked onto your face. Without flinching, without gracing you with a remark, he raises his arm and fires— doesn’t even have to kriffing look. The scorch mark sizzles - haughtily, jeering - no more than a few inches away from the first. You nearly choke on the arrogance of it— the lazy, smug performance— like he can’t be bothered with any of it, as if your taunts are all so beneath him.

You have to bite down on your lip to stop it from snaking into a wicked grin.

Mando offers the pistol back to you, flipping it grip-side up in a fancy flourish before striding - strutting - back to his post. You shake your head, a determined set to your jaw and you retake your aim, squinting in the hazy afternoon light, pulling the trigger— and nothing happens.

Again, click. Nothing, click after fruitless click. You make a face, pinching—

“Safety’s on.”

You flush, thanking the Maker that your back is towards him, and switch it down with your thumb. “Right,” you mumble sheepishly, wetting your lip. You align your sights, bracing yourself for the impact—

“It’s your stance.”

Three words.

Three words, the only solace Mando provides before devoutly returning to his work.

You wait for him to elaborate, to edify you— for any manner of sage advice— but the explanation never comes; he leaves you like this, marooned with three fucking words and you have to screw your eyes shut. This man is baffling— maddeningly unhelpful— infuriatingly sparse. It makes you want to howl and rip your hair out— and you whip around violently.

“What about my st-”

Your question comes scampering to a halt, tail between your legs, throat gone dry. Mando has planted himself directly behind you— standing so close you can see your reflection in his beskar, see the blush blurring your cheek under the alien sun.

“What uh, what about my stance?” you ask, mousier now, swallowed up by the sheer size of him so near to you.

“It’s not wide enough.”

You glance down at your feet before looking back up to him. “What do you mean?”

“Turn around,” he says.

You quirk your brow at him before he repeats himself. “Turn around and spread your legs. Hips distance apart.”

Fuck, he has no business sounding like that— like bourbon and smoke and iron tang—but you do as he says. You’re shakier than you want to be— you wish you could be cool and collected but you’re not. You’re anything but, and you’re nervous. Maker, Mando makes you nervous— it’s not just the weapon in your hand, it’s him— setting you off and giving you butterflies like you’re some sort of forlorn schoolgirl. You’re a grown woman, and this is what he’s rendered you to— jittery, molten mush. It’s embarrassing. Fucking mortifying.

You guess it’s the day for it.

He doesn’t touch you, but it hardly matters; you can sense him there all the same, a shadow in your peripheral. He leaves a thick breath of space between your bodies and with your back towards him, you can feel the waves of heat radiate off the bounty hunter, pulsing out out out from him and it’s almost intolerable— as if you’ve flown too close to the sun, waxed wings melting in pearled streaks down your spine.

You scuttle your feet open, parting just outside your hips.

“Arms up,” he says, and you hoist them into position. You’re sure you look as awkward as you feel, if not more, all the angles of your body feeling perfectly wrong and misplaced. “Relax your elbows,” he adds, and you do— you try to, at least.

“Too much. Somewhere in between.”

You try again, strengthening through your triceps and down your forearms.

“Better,” Mando gives. You think you feel him nodding approvingly behind you. “The important-”

Kriff, you panic.

You spin towards him, dropping your form and cutting him off with a humbled, worried look, throwing up barricades and hurdles— landmines for him to dodge. Or step on.

“Wait hey Mando, you don’t- I don’t want to take up your time,” you begin.

“You aren’t.”

“I’m serious, I don’t want to bother you with this.”

“You’re not.”

You blink.

“If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it right.”

He speaks so plainly, unvarnished and matte— unflinchingly earnest in a way that gives you pause. It leaves no wiggle room for interpretation and you sigh, defeated, shoulders slumping as you haul yourself back around.

“Arms up,” he reiterates, but there’s no malice there; he sounds kind— untroubled. It always surprises you how mild he can be— Mando should be anything but, he’d have every reason to, but he’s calm. Patient. You wonder if he even realizes it, if he even recognizes the tenor of his own voice— how gentle it can be— under the helmet. Despite it.

“Think of your posture as firm, without tensing,” Mando explains. “Soften your knees, don’t lock them— same goes for your arms— don’t stiffen against the recoil, let your body absorb it.”

You mirror what he coaches, shooting him a curious, hopeful look over your shoulder.

“There. Good,” he says. “Now, which is your dominant eye?”

Your arms fall down to your sides. “My what?”

“Dominant eye.”

You give him a baffled look like he’s speaking another language - in all fairness, he is - and Mando emits another puff of air through his modulator, chortling.

“Eye dominance. We’re all either right handed or left handed. Eyes work the same— right eyed or left eyed. We favor one or the other— you’ll focus that one to aim.”

Oh, huh.

You still appreciatively, basking in the novelty of the information. “Really? I didn’t know that. That’s- that’s actually pretty interesting,” you muse. “Brains and brawn, huh?” You flash a cheeky grin back at him.

Mando grunts, nondescript and unaffected and robotic but he swears he can feel pink creep over his clavicle, tainting the tan of his skin concealed there.

He fits his gloved hand over yours, if only for a second, and you do your best to ignore the rough patch of his leather grazing against the thin flesh there. You try to ignore the chill that sweeps across the curve of your waist, how the peach fuzz prickles up, electrified and magnetized, as he unfurls your fingers from the gun, letting it slip from your grasp. He tucks it under his arm, keeping it pinned there with his bicep.

“Hold your hands out like this.” Mando shows you, creating an oval with his fingers— like a view finder or a scope. You mimic him, feeling like every bit of an idiot, but you don’t contradict him— you do as he does. “Now, set your focus out on a fixed point through your hands,” he instructs and you do, setting your sights on a gnarled tree branch.

“Got it?” he asks.

“Got it,” you respond.

“Now alternate closing each eye. The image should stay in the frame with one, and then shift out of it with the other.”

You frown, concentrating, and close the right before blinking over to the left— kriff, he’s right.

“Oh shit,” you mumble. “My left. It’s my left eye.”

“You sure?”

You check again, squinting through either eye, the tree bouncing in and out of the frame of your fingers. “Mhm. Yeah, my left eye keeps it centered.”

He makes a thoughtful sound. “Left eyed but right handed. Interesting,” Mando murmurs.

You glance up to him, dropping your hands. “Why is that interesting?”

“Not common. The brain’s typically wired the same way all the way down— one side of the body will be dominant. It’s not usually split.”

“You telling me my brain doesn’t work properly, Mando?” you quip dryly.

“You said it, not me.”

He holds the blaster out to you and you swipe it from him with a huffed snort, returning towards the tree line and stars your face hurts. Your face hurts and it’s burning with this asinine smile that’s digging mercilessly into your cheeks. It makes you want to massage your jaw, get the damn thing to relax. Honestly, it makes you want to give yourself a slap.

“Make sure to cross your center with it. Line it up towards the left.”

“Maker, do you think about all this every time you shoot?” you ask, mystified, as you fix your aim.

“Muscle memory takes over eventually. You’ll get there with enough practice.” Mando replies gruffly and you guffaw, loud and wonderfully ugly. You seriously doubt it.

After a series of very near misses— you are getting closer, you’ll give yourself that— your arms grow tired; the joints and muscles protest as you extend them out from your body, taut and tense— the gun dead weight in your wobbly hands.

Your shoulder smarts where you injured the tendon in the explosion. You roll it out, earning snaps and pops as it notches over the bone there. They told you you were lucky. They congratulated you - it’s not a complete tear! - and it’s on the mend well enough, but it’s weak. It doesn’t matter the weight of the object.

The longer you hold anything, the heavier it feels.

You suppose you could throw in the towel at any point, but the fact of the matter— as terrible and true as it may be— is you want to impress him. That awful, nagging feeling— you want to impress the Mandalorian. You want him proud of you— you want to be nice and shiny for him to admire, like one of the guns he polishes until it’s sparkling, until he can mount it on display and show it off. It’s absolutely nauseating— but you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to, and you don’t. You don’t want to.

He isn’t blind to it. He sees the exertion, the tax— how beads of sweat congress around your temples, dampening the base of your scalp, butterfly kissing your skin with a sheen. A trail of wet salt, one lone pilgrim, ventures down the back of your neck, wandering lower and lower, past the hem of your shirt, disappearing into the soft valley of your spine where Mando can’t follow. His throat bobs rough against his cowl.

Transferring the pistol into one hand, you shake out the other, flexing through it and relaxing your grip.

“Wait,” he says and you cock your head back at him. Mando’s retreating to his pile of guns, rifling through the metal anthill before selecting something sleek and chrome. “Here,” you exchange pistols, giving him back the bulkier of the two. Immediately you feel the relief of this new one— it’s lighter and smaller, slighter in your grasp, too— and you turn it over in your hands, noting the way the nozzlelike barrel glitters in the sun.

You’d almost consider it pretty if it weren’t a literal killing machine.

“That’s a CDEF model. Lightweight, reliable, Dedlanite casing, standard issue for CorSec officers.”

You nod along, as if you have any clue what he’s talking about— you don’t. You really, truly don’t.

“Should be easier.”

“Mm,” you hum out in ignorant agreement, slotting your arms back up into position.

“Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire.” You rest it against the slide of the barrel, hovering nearby.

Mando shifts closer towards you, the grass grinding under his feet as he takes a half step in to your backside.

“Breathe. Don’t hold it in. Let me hear it.”

Fuck, this feels like a sin; this small gap of distance he’s erected between you as tense, as strained and feverish, as whispered confessions in the dark. Like sneaking back into your parent’s house late at night— the morning moon peering down at you with a heavy lidded gaze— knowing, knowing, keeping your secrets to herself, pressing them to her chest, winking sleepily.

It would be so much easier, so much simpler, if he just put his hands on you. Placed your body where he knows it should be, force you into the shapes and positions he’s so intimate with himself, but he doesn’t. He draws it out. He respects your space and autonomy and it makes it worse. Your imagination fills the void separating you two, and it’s running wild and rampant and depraved and—

“Focus,” he utters, his voice no louder than a purr. You’ve never heard something so mechanical make a sound so deliriously smooth, and you have to suppress a nervous scoff. Focus, he says, as if he isn’t suffocating you with how close he’s standing— as if you aren’t enjoying it— as if you aren’t vibrating down to your very bones at the proximity of the bounty hunter—so close, you bet he can hear them, rattling and slapping against each other deep beneath your skin.

“Remember what I said about your posture,” he suggests quiet-like and murmured, without a trace of condescension there—a harmless reminder. You make the adjustment, fixing your shoulders down your back, and release the stress in your arms.

“Firm without tensing,” you respond under your breath—more for your sake than his— striking it from your mental checklist.

“‘Atta girl.”

No.

No no no, Maker, you feel it. You can fucking feel it—how something low and resonant spasms beyond your belly, the clench of your empty cunt at the encouragement—the heady praise of it all.

Atta girl.

He said it softly - rudely husky - just above a whisper, something tailored specifically for you—almost like it slipped from his lips and he didn’t even notice its passing. It meandered out of him, so easy—too easy. It practically sauntered.

You’re trembling— stars, you hope Mando doesn’t see it. It’s humid and muggy and yet you’re shaking as if it’s freezing, as if you’ve got icicled snot dripping from your nose, and your nerves go haywire, fraying in every direction as you sip in a whistled breath.

You can do this. You can do this. Focus.

“Take the shot,” he orders.

Focus.

Pressing into the slope of the trigger, you fire.

You gasp excitedly— a surprised, whooping laugh tearing through you and you whip around, giddy and beaming - bright, beautiful - a lock of hair sticking to your lip. It’s the youngest, the freest, Mando’s ever seen you; maybe the happiest, too, and his stomach twists at the sight, a tourniquet cinching around him, winding and coiling until he’s convinced it’ll burst. His fingers twitch, every instinct begging him— demanding him— to reach out and return the stray strand behind your ear alongside the others but you beat him to it. Deftly, you flit it away yourself instead, and he’s relieved.

Devastated, too. Gutted.

“Did you see that?” you ask, gleeful as a child.

He pries himself off you, dragging his gaze over your shoulder to where you struck the trunk, a coaled mark charred there into the bark, before returning his attention back to you. You meet his eyes, despite the blackness of his helm— you hold them, for a breathless, ageless moment, you hold him there.

“Not bad.”

He can’t muffle the jolt of his heart as it rumbles through his chest, breaking his mouth wide open into an aching smirk. He doesn’t know if you hear it. He fears you might.

He prays you do.

///

“Cooling vents,”

Metal scrapes against the table as you place the delicate bits down, deconstructing the blaster. The Mandalorian nods, silent as a specter.

“Gas refill valve,”

Another clunk.

“Actuating blaster…” You turn over a particularly knobby bulb before peeking up at Mando through your lashes, a wry grin tugging rosy and coy at your lips. “… thing-”

“Module,” Din corrects.

“Module, right, that’s what I said.”

He sits across the galley from you, arms folded over his chest as he eases back against the hull of the ship, overseeing as you take apart the blaster, the slender little thing he gave to you - he rarely uses it anyways - as you name the pieces and parts just like he’s taught you.

“Keep it,” he told you.

You resisted. You fought it, laughed it off incredulously— stubborn to the end— argued you wouldn’t even have a need for it.

“What am I gonna do with a gun, Mando?” you balked, and Maker he’d hoped you’d never have to use it, would never have to see a firefight in your damn life let alone be in the middle of one, but he wants you to have it— have a part of him, strapped to your hip— the closest he’ll get.

He’s selfish. Din is a greedy, selfish man. He wants to see himself on you, wants you to carry him around like a souvenir from something unforgettable— something irreplaceable— a memory like warm bathwater you dip into long after it passes, and he’ll take whatever he can get— just like you, hungry for anything you’re gracious enough to feed him. And fuck, if he doesn’t hate it— doesn’t want to bury that feeling, cold and lifeless, six feet under the earth. No ceremony. No elegies. Dead and gone, returning to the dust from whence it came, crawling back into the ribcage it sprung from.

Din said your name. Firm— gentle, too.

“Keep it.”

They’ve been at this ever since you managed to hit the target that first time. Hours have passed, dawdling by on the fat little legs of a toddler, plodding and slow. The sun had set, and winged bugs the length of your palm had taken up residency in the dark rainforest, making themselves known with a haunting tune, screeching and singing into the lush wood. After the child had tried making a pass at one, no doubt in the mood for a quick snack - isn’t he always - you had agreed to retire back inside the Crest.

You were so excited, your whole face lit up— like fireworks he remembered once, through the eyes of a boy in the summered night— and you wanted more; like a sponge, sopping up all you could, sucking Din in and ringing him out for it and fuck, he couldn’t say no.

He can’t say no to you.

You start prattling out questions about everything and nothing - what blaster do you prefer, do you have a favorite rifle, what’s the difference between plasma and gas charges, you have a flamethrower on your wrist? - and before long you get him lecturing, going on about weapon safety and trigger discipline and slide bites and ammunition rounds and gun brands and serial numbers and Din knows this isn’t you. You’re a borderline pacifist for kriff’s sake— he’s almost certain that if push came to shove, you’d rather lay down your life than take one. You’re no gunslinger, and you don’t hold any aspirations to become one.

But here you are, fist tucked under your chin and leaning in to him, hanging off his every word.

You have no personal interest in weapons. Frankly you’d be pleased if you never held a gun again in your life. No, and whether Mando realizes it or not, you want to know because it’s him. You want to know him. And maybe it’s because its the most he’s given to you since you stepped foot aboard the Razor Crest— almost a month, and what you’ve gotten from him today alone has been more than he’s given in weeks— not a door so much as it is a window into his life, an allowance, a glimpse behind the beskar. Its more attention, more words and insights, more tiny gestures and maybe you’ve been a little starved for it— maybe you’ll eat up any scraps Mando tosses with a calloused glove, molded and rotting, from his plate.

Even if it’s this, even if its fucking firearms.

You want to know.

It’s who you are: it doesn’t matter what someone’s passionate about, you’re interested in their interests. You care what they care about. If they matter, then it matters. It’s who you are, webbed and weaved into the innermost fabric of your being, and you can’t pretend to be anything else; you don’t know how to unbecome.

You’re splayed before him— a bleating heart, kaleidoscoping and blooming and twisting in his hands. If only you could pry open your chest— turn yourself inside out at the seams, spill yourself to splatter, sanguined and slippery right there on the deck. You’d do it, if you could.

Am I loving enough  Am I giving enough  Have I paid my debts  Am I worth this now, finally— Worth that which I offer, have I earned it back

So effortless, this vignette, seated here in his galley, dismembering a blaster and labeling the parts, terminology klutzy on your tongue— tripping over yourself just to get it out— looking to him for hints and clues, fluttering your doe eyes with cartoonish bats.

He answers. You laugh. He smiles.

The kid is in his pram, entranced by all the shiny baubles and bobbins just out of his reach - thank the Maker -  and giggles at their little game— happy, for once, just to watch.

You and me both kid, Din thinks. You and me both.

[meltwonu]

| 🎃 𝕸𝖔𝖓𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖍 🎃 |

↪ ✦ casanova ✦

this chapter pairing; incubus!vernon x succubus!reader

genre&warnings; incubus!au, cocky!vernon, lots of banter, breathplay/choking, slight fingering, blowjob, dirty talk, degradation, namecalling, fucking in a public place 😗

notes; oh the way cocky vernon hits so different 🤤🥵 low-key I was imagining bad clue vernon for this one but then I was like mmm thats a little too dapper for this fic so instead my mind was like 🤤🤤🤤 fear era vernon~ Anyway~ oh! I'll make a notice probably tomorrow that I won’t be online this weekend(thurs-sun) at all, but I'll log in to post the last 3 monster mash fics! I’ll also be answering all the thirst posts/comments/etc. throughout the week once I get back! 💕 have a good day/night! all my socal bbys, stay safe! see u tomorrow! 💕🎃👻 

word count; ~2600

chapters; 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - x - x - x - x

i’m here lying on the bed of your tongue;

my heart listens to the sound of your war drum

steady tiptoeing to your neck of the woods;

i feel danger on your lips but it tastes good.

You take a seat at the bar, legs crossed and a bored expression on your face.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look this awful.” The bartender comments, sliding a drink across the countertop. “It’s, uh, on the house.”

“Thanks, Seungcheol.” You mutter, graciously accepting the free drink.

Tonight should’ve been an easy night for you; just a quick visit to a few of your regular humans and you would’ve been easily sated. But for whatever reason, not a single of them provided you with any sort of satisfaction and you’d left out of boredom before they’d even gotten you to cum.

“You okay? You look... Like you’ve seen better days.” He laughs, leaning over the counter top. “It’s Halloween, you out of all people should be busy.” You quickly down the drink in one shot, passing Seungcheol the glass as he goes to fill it up again, back turned to you. “See, you’d think that. But it fuckin’ sucked. Dunno, nothing really satisfied my craving, I guess.”

“And what are you craving, princess?”

A voice from behind you has you spinning on your barstool as you come face to face with Vernon. “Ugh, it’s you.” He laughs lightly, taking a seat next to you as he shrugs his suit jacket off.

“Fuck you mean, ‘ugh’?” Vernon scoffs.

Seungcheol comes back with your drink and one for Vernon as well, sliding them to your side as he sighs. “Okay, why are you both here? Seriously, it’s Halloween! Feeding should be easy!” You roll your eyes, glass in hand as you stare Seungcheol down. “And what are you doing here, Seungcheol? Shouldn’t you be feeding?”

The male raises a brow at you, “What do you think I’m doing on my breaks? This place is crawling with humans trying to get caught up in the mix.”

Vernon sighs next to you, quietly taking a sip of his drink. “And you? Why are you here, Vernon?”

He places his glass down, half turned to face you. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Seungcheol chuckles, hip propped up against the countertop as he butts in. “She said nobody is ‘satisfying’ her tonight.” Vernon’s expression falls into that of understanding as you groan.

“Ugh, ‘Cheol, go mind your business!” The said male backs off laughing, walking towards the other side of the bar to service other patrons.

“Nobody’s satisfying you, huh? And why’s that? All your regulars getting boring?” Vernon asks; a lazy smirk on his features.

“I could ask you the same fuckin’ thing, Vernon. Or is it that you can’t get it up maybe?” You tease.

The smirk falls from his face, eyes squinting at you. “Is that what you think? That I can’t get it up? And how about you? Is that pussy of yours scaring off all of your regulars? Or maybe their dicks are too small and can’t satisfy how fuckin’ much you want your cunt filled.”

You lean in at the same time he does, fingers looping into his necktie as you pull him in even closer.

“You talk like you can satisfy me.” “Are you tryna find out? ‘Cause I’m willing to let you. But don’t go crying when my cock’s too big for you.” Vernon grins.

“Prove it then, casanova. Show me you’re worth my time.”

Vernon pushes you into the employee restroom, Seungcheol shouting in the background as the door locks into place.

The red lights in the small space make it feel more intimate and sensual; the complete opposite of the way Vernon’s teeth clash with yours when he kisses you hard.

You moan into the kiss, hands tangling into his hair as he presses you into the door and he slots a leg between your own, letting you grind down onto his thigh as he smirks against your lips. It’s a battle for power between the two of you; neither of you willing to give up your natural dominant nature.

Vernon pulls away, eyes hazy and the same cocky smirk on his lips. “So fuckin’ desperate to get fucked, you’ll use my thigh too, huh?”

“Maybe that’s your only charm point?” You retort. He doesn’t take too kindly as he shakes your hands out of his hair and he drags you over to the countertop.

In the mirror, you take in your appearance, your own drunk eyes staring right back at you. “God, you talk so damn much, you know that?” He murmurs, nosing at your neck. His hands roam your body, hiking your dress further and further up until he can run his fingertips over your panties. He wastes no time, locating your clit through the material before he pinches it hard.

“O-oh, fuck!” You cry, eyes clamping shut at his rough touch. Your panties get wetter and wetter and you find yourself grinding your ass into his hardening cock.

Vernon kisses your skin, leaving small love bites in his wake as he continues to tease you through your panties. “Mmm, you’re getting so wet and all I’m doing is touching your ‘lil clit through your panties. Is that how easy you are? Just a little taste and you’re already putty in my hands.” He smirks against you, fingertips pulling your panties to the side.

“You say I talk too much? You fuckin’ talk too much, Vernon. Hurry up and finger me already!”

He laughs, running his fingers through your wetness before he sinks his index and middle fingers up to the knuckle in one fast movement.

A garbled moans floats past your lips as he starts fucking you with his fingers and you watch your own expression contort in pleasure at the way his fingers were already providing you with more satisfaction than anything else tonight. “Oh, g-god, fuck, that feels suh---so good…”

Vernon ruts into your ass, smoky eyes gazing into the mirror. “You’re so pretty getting drunk on my fingers fucking you open. How are you gonna look once it’s my cock inside of you?”

“G-god, we won’t g-get, ah, there if you don’t s-shut up!” He rolls his eyes, nipping at the junction of your neck.

Vernon lets you grind against his fingers for a moment, eating up the way you seem to forget about everything around you as you chase the pleasure. But he  gets bored, pulling his fingers out of you almost just as quickly as he’d first sunk them in.

“H-hey!”

“Oh, baby, you can’t be the only one benefitting from this.” Vernon pulls away from you, uncaring that he uses his sticky, wet fingers to undo the button and zipper of his pants. “Hope you’re ready to take my cock. All those people that couldn’t fuck you right tonight were all just pregames ‘til now, huh?” He grins, wrapping a hand around his cock.

You can only see so much from the mirror’s reflection; watching as Vernon places a firm hand on your shoulder as he pushes your upper half further down onto the countertop. “Get comfy, princess. Wouldn’t want you to break a nail or something.”

“Just fuck me already, damn it!” Whining, you place your hands palm down on the mirror as you jut your ass out further. You watch with hazy eyes as he smirks at you in the mirror and you soon feel the head of his cock teasing your entrance.

“God, you are so lucky I’m just as impatient as you are.”

You’re about to complain about him taking too long again, but you’re quickly left breathless when he starts inching his cock into your wet pussy. “Fuh---fuck, oh, go---god you’re, ah, b-big!”

“Get used to it, you’ll be begging me for more.”

You choose to ignore his cocky comments as you focus on the way his cock stretches you out perfectly, eyes rolling to the back of your head when he finally bottoms out. His cock taps against your cervix and you resist the urge to just start fucking yourself on his cock, impatience muddling everything else in your mind.

“Mmm, your pussy is so tight and warm around me, baby. Maybe it’s that personality of yours that scares off your regulars.” Vernon chuckles under his breath, but it’s immediately cut short when you clench around him hard. “Shit, fine, fine, I get it!” He grumbles.

Vernon draws his hips back before slamming his cock back into you and for a second, your clammy palms pressed up against the mirror almost lose their grip with how your body jerks forward. “God, yes, yes fuck me hard!” You cry, already meeting his harsh pace.

“So this is why they can’t do it for you, huh?” His hips snap into you; the sound of skin slapping getting drowned out by the loud music on the other side of the door. “You wanna be fucked like a little cumslut tonight and nobody wants to give it to you.”

“Ngh, y-yeah… s-so what’s y-your fuckin’, ah, d-deal?”

Vernon scoffs, “Maybe I just wanted to treat someone like my own ‘lil cockslut tonight and nobody was doin’ it for me either.” You grin in return, hazy eyes focused on yourself in the mirror.

“Guess t-this was where, ah, we were meant to be t-tonight.” You lick your lips, working your hips back as you start to chase your orgasm. “By the w-way, don’t--don’t cum, hah, inside m-me…” He slows his pace a little, leaning over your back as he nuzzles into your shoulder. “Oh? Why’s that? Don’t want people to know I fucked you in Seungcheol’s employee restroom? Or is it that you’re scared you’ll get addicted to me cumming inside your hot little cunt. Maybe you’ll even go home and fuck my cum deeper inside of yourself wishin’ it was still me and not your hands or your dumb little humans.”

His words are almost filthy enough to make you change your mind, but you harden your stare, crimson eyes meeting his in the mirror’s reflection. “Don’t g-get too cocky, Vernon. Just don’t fuckin’ cum i-in me. I’m s-still going out, mmh, after t-this…”

He shoots you an incredulous look, leaning away from you shoulder as he starts to double his pace. “Wow, fuckin’ bold of you to even go out after this. But okay, you’ll come crawling back to find me and I’ll be waiting at the bar for you. Maybe you’ll even be so fuckin’ desperate for my cock, I’ll even make you beg me. And beg for me to cum inside of you.” Vernon pauses, snaking his hand up your spine before he circles it around the column of your throat. “For now, you’re gonna cum on my cock, get it nice ‘n soaked. Then you’re gonna suck me off and I’m gonna cum down that pretty throat of yours.”

“F-fine…”

Vernon gently applies pressure to your throat, restricting your airways slightly as you start to get tighter around him. “Touch your clit, make yourself cum.” He commands.

You’re quick to take his lead, trailing a hand down your body until you can rub quick circles on your clit. “G-god, yes, fuck, ah, I’m gon---gonna cum, fuck! My pussy’s so fuckin’ full, I---mmph!” Vernon’s hand on your throat quickly travels up until his palm is pressed firmly against your lips, effectively muffling you.

He uses this as leverage, pushing you backwards until your back meets his clothed chest. Your body jerks in his hold as he fucks into you hard, cock slamming into your cervix with each thrust. “Fuck, you have such a filthy fuckin’ mouth. Everyone can probably hear what a little whore you are. But I bet that gets you off, doesn’t it? Letting everyone know how fuckin’ good you’re getting it.” He licks the shell of your ear, hips pistoning into you as you cum; moans and cries muffled by Vernon’s hand still over your mouth.

“That’s right, cum on my cock, baby. Your tight cunt feels so good around me.” Moaning, he slows down his thrusts, watching you through the mirror as you take your pleasure.

It doesn’t give you any energy like feeding from a human would, but the pleasure still feels good enough for shapes dance beneath your eyelids as he fucks you through your orgasm.

“Shit, you really are pretty like this.” Vernon scoffs under his breath as he finally removes his hand from over your mouth. Your body slumps forward as you catch your breath; soft whimpers on your lips. “Now it’s my turn, baby. I expect you on your knees now~”

You groan in return, somewhat drained. This is why you never fucked with other incubus; there was no energy gain and it left you more tired than anything else.

But you only think it’s fair, so you drop to your knees, wincing slightly when the tile bites into your kneecaps. You open your mouth and stick your tongue out, ready for Vernon to hurry up and cum down your throat.

“Hmm~ I think you’d be even prettier with my cum all over your face. Whaddya think?” He grins, eyes twinkling down at you.

“Do you ever wonder what it’d be like to have your dick bitten off?” You growl.

Vernon takes the hint as he threads a hand loosely into your hair and you use a hand to wrap around his cock that’s already covered in your wetness.

You immediately sink your mouth down onto his cock; deepthroating him and hollowing out your cheeks around him. Tucking your hands underneath your thighs, you let Vernon use your mouth, moaning around him to help throw him over the edge.

He groans from above you, hips thrusting into your mouth as he feels his orgasm coming on, only a few minutes later. “Fuck, ‘m gonna, ah, c-cum. Swallow it all, baby. Show me what a good cumslut, hah, you a-are.”

Humming around him, you bask in the way his moans are clipped and stuttered with your teasing.

Vernon could be so easy too, despite his cocky nature.

You feel his cock throbbing in your mouth, the salty substance hitting the back of your throat as you aim to swallow it all down.

“Ngh, look at you. Not even a drop spilled. You’re a pro~” He quips; tugging you by the hair as you cough and sputter. A thread of cum and spit connect your lips to his cock and for a second, Vernon thinks he can get used to seeing you like this.

You move to stand, legs shaky as you rest your back against the countertop that he’d had you bent over, moments prior. “At least one of us is.” You smirk at him, wiping your lips with the back of your hand.

“God, you really just don’t quit, do you?”

“Hey, some of my humans like it, asshole.” You turn to face the mirror, taking in your disheveled appearance.

Vernon stands beside you, adjusting his clothes and hair as you do too. “Speaking of, are you really still heading out after this?”

Tugging your dress down, you check your appearance in the mirror one last time before you reach for the doorknob and unlock it.

“Yeah, ‘cause that drained me of any energy I had.” You pause, turning slightly to face Vernon who stands behind you. You bite the inside of your cheek and despite the snarky banter between the two of you; Vernon wasn’t half bad. 

“Maybe once I get some of it back, I’ll meet you at the bar.”

His eyes flash a darker shade of red, lips ghosting across the shell of your ear when he leans in.

“I’ll be waiting on you, baby.”

[melisa-may-taylor72]

QUEEN BEFORE QUEEN

THE 1960s RECORDINGS

➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖

PART 4:

THE OPPOSITION

JOHN DEACON WAS THE QUIETEST MEMBER OF A MIDLAND-BASED FIVE-PIECE WHOSE GREATEST AMBITION WAS TO PLAY ANOTHER GIG.

Initial research John S. Stuart. Additional research and text: Andy Davis.

John Deacon was the fourth and final member to join Queen. He became part of that regal household 25 years ago this month, enrolling as the band’s permanent bassist in February 1971. His acceptance marked the culmination of a six-year ‘career’ in music, much of which he spent in an amateur, Leicestershire covers band called the Opposition.

From 1965 until 1969, Deacon and his schoolmates ploughed a humble, local furrow in and around their Midlands hometown, reflecting the decade’s mercurial moodswing with a series of names, images and styles of music. The most remarkable fact about the Opposition was just how unremarkable the group actually was.

Collectively, they were an unambitious crew: undertaking precisely no trips down to London to woo A&R men; winning only one notable support slot for the army of chart bands who visited Leicester in the ‘60s (opening for Reperata & the Delrons in Melton Mowbray in 1968); and managing even to miss out on the option of sending a demo tape to any of the nation’s record labels. The band’s saving grace is its solé recorded legacy: a three-track acetate — although even this was done for purely private consumption, and has rarely been aired outside the confines of their inner circle.

It is perhaps indicative of the Opposition’s modest outlook that their most promising bid for stardom, a beat contest, was called off before they had the chance to play in the finals. For John Deacon and friends, it seems, merely being in a band was reward enough.

Considering of all of this, it’s easy to imagine the response to the following story, related in the ‘60s to one of the Opposition’s guitarists, Ronald Chester:...[ ]

...[ ] “There was a teacher who worked at Beauchamp School, which John attended, who told fortunes. They went to see her one Saturday and were told, ‘John Deacon is going to be world famous and very, very rich. Of course, they all fell about laughing. She was determined that this was going to happen. But they all thought it was a joke."

What particularly amused Deacon’s colleagues was the unlikeliness of this scenario, given the plain facts of his demeanour. John was born in Leicester in 1951, the product of affluent, middle-class, middle England. As a youngster, he was known to his friends as ‘Deaks’ and grew up to be quiet and reserved, what Mark Hodkinson referred to in ‘Queen — ‘The Early Years’ as “a ghost of a boy".

“He is basically shy,” confirms Richard Young, the Opposition’s first guitarist/vocalist, and later keyboardist. “I suppose he was quieter than the rest of us — but he was fairly static with Queen if you look at him on stage.”

Ron Chester agrees: “John was quiet by nature. His sister, Julie, was the same. Once he got going, though, he wasn’t any different from anybody else. But on first approach, you really had to coax him out of his shell. We’d have to pick him up. He couldn’t walk down the road to meet us."

CONFIDENT

Despite any lack of personal dynamics, Deacon was a capable teenager: “He was very confident," recalls another of the band’s guitarists, David Williams. “But in a laidback sort of way. He didn’t have a problem with anything. ‘Yeah, I can do that’, he’d say. We used to call him ‘Easy Deacon’, not because of any sexual preferences, but because he’d say something was easy without it sounding big-headed. I remember saying to him once, I’m going to have to knock off the gigs a bit to revise for my ‘A’ levels. What about you?’ ‘No’, he said, ‘I don’t need to. I’ve never failed an exam yet, and I’ve never revised for one’. Ultimately, he was just confident, with a phenomenally logical mind. If he couldn’t remember something, he could work it out. And, of course, he got stunning results.”

John’s earliest interest was electronics, which he studied into adulthood. He also went fishing, trainspotting even, with his father. Then music took over. After dispensing with a ‘Tommy Steele’ toy guitar, John used the proceeds from his paper round to buy his first proper instrument, an acoustic, when he was about twelve. An early musical collaborator was a school mate called Roger Ogden, who like Roger Taylor down in Cornwall, was nicknamed ‘Splodge’. But his best friend was the Opposition’s future drummer, Nigel Bullen.

“I’d first got to know John at Langmore Junior School in Oadby, just outside Leicester, in either 1957 or 1958,’' recalls Nigel. “We were both the quiet ones. We started playing music together at Gartree High School, when we were about thirteen. We were inspired by the Beatles — they made everybody want to be in a group. John was originally going to be the band’s electrician, as he called it. He used to build his own radios, before we had any amps, and he fathomed a way of plugging his guitar into his reel-to-reel tape recorder. He was always the electrical boffin."

The prime mover in the formation of the group was another Oadby boy they met on nearby Uplands Park, Richard Young. “Richard was at boarding school," recalls Nigel Bullen. “He was always the kid with the expensive bike. He played guitar, and what’s more had a proper electric, with an amplifier. He instigated getting the band together. Initially, we rehearsed in my garage, and then anywhere we could. John played rhythm to begin with. He was a chord man, the John Lennon of the group, if you like."

SWITCH

Despite his later switch to the bass, Deacon’s technique on the guitar also developed, as Dave Williams reveals: “Later on, I remember he could play ‘Classical Gas’ on an acoustic, which was a finger-picking execise and no mean feat. It’s a bit like ‘McArthur Park’, a fantastic piece of music, and when I heard it, I thought, ‘Bloody hell. You dark horse!’ Because he never showed off."

The Opposition’s first bassist was another school friend of John’s called Clive Castledine. In fact, the group made its debut at a party at Castledine’s ouse on 25th September, 1965 (their first public performance took place the...[ ]

...[ ] following month at Gartree’s school hall). Clive looked good and appreciated the kudos of being in a group, but he wasn’t up to even the Opposition’s schoolboy standards. “I was the least proficient, to put it mildly,” he admitted to Mark Hodkinson.“His enthusiasm was 100%,” adds Richard Young, “but his actual playing ability was null, so we had a meeting and got rid of him.” Deacon took over, initially playing on his regu­lar guitar, using the bottom strings. “John was good,” Young continues. “It was no problem for him to switch to bass. He hit the right notes at the beginning of the bar, and we were a better band for it. Whereas Clive made us sound woolly, as anyone who just plonked away on any old note would, John was solid.”

DIARY

Young turned out to be the Opposition’s archivist, keeping a diary of each gig played, the equipment used, and the amounts of money earned (as indeed did John Deacon). Richard’s diary documented the day Deacon — now, of course, bassist in one of the world’s most famous groups — first picked up his chosen instrument. “In an entry for 2nd April, 1966,” says Young, “it reads, ‘We threw Clive out on the Saturday afternoon. Had a practice in Deaks’ kitchen, and Deaks went on bass. Played much better.’ John didn’t have a bass, so we went down to Cox’s music shop in King Street in Leicester, and bought him an EKO bass for £60. I paid for it, but I think he paid me back eventually.”

“John’s bass style with the Opposition was the same as with Queen,” reckons Nigel Bullen. “He never used to play with a plectrum, which was unusual, but with his fingers, which meant that his right hand is drooped over the top of the guitar. Also, he plays in an upward fashion, which I’d never seen before, certainly when we were in Leices­ter. Over the years, I’ve watched many bass players adopt that style. I’d say he has been copied a lot. I’ve mentioned this to him, but he doesn’t agree.”

Clive Castledine wasn’t the last member of the band to be dismissed. “The vocal and lead guitar side of the Opposition was changing all the while,” recalls Nigel. “Myself, John, and Richard Young were always there — as were Dave Williams and Ron Chester later on — but we had a succession of other musicians who I can hardly remember now. There was a guy called Richard Frew in the very early days, and a young lad called Carl, but he didn’t fit in. After we began playing proper gigs, Richard decided he wasn’t happy with his singing and wanted to move onto keyboards, so we brought in Pete Bart (formerly with another local band, the Rapids Rave) as a guitarist and vocalist. He was good, but again, didn’t last long.”

“Bart was a bit of a rocker, while we were all mods,” remarks Dave Williams. “We were impressed by mod bands like the Small Faces and the original Who. Bart seemed to come from a different era altogether.”

“Deaks had the Parka with the fur collar,” remembers Ron Chester. “And short hair, a crew cut. Mirrors on his scooter.” Richard Young agrees: “John was more of a mod than us. But you couldn’t really pigeonhole the band, because our music went right across the board”.

”Buying Deacon his bass was no one-off, and Richard Young is remembered as the group’s benefactor. Being older than the others, he had a steady job working for his father’s electronics company in Leicester, which brought him a regular, and by all accounts, generous wage. He rarely thought twice before splashing out on equipment for the other members.

RECEIPTS

“Richard bought me a P.A.,” recalls David Williams. “But he didn’t ask, he used to think that the group needed it. He’d buy it and then say, ‘You owe me this’. My mum used to get really annoyed. She’d was at that going- through-my-pockets stage, probably looking for contraceptives. She once found a receipt from Moore and Stanworth’s, a local music shop. It was for a Beyer microphone, which cost about £30. I was still at school, getting pocket money, and my mum said, ‘What on earth is this?!’ Receipts on the Sunday dinner table, that sort of thing. It was good, though. The group needed it.”

“I was dead serious about the band,” claims Young, who switched to organ with the arrival of Williams in July 1966. “Perhaps more so than anybody else. I could see it going nowhere if money wasn’t pumped into it.”

“Dick Young was an accomplished organ player,” adds Dave, “and he improved the group quite a lot. He always had plenty of dosh, and a car. But he was totally mad, a crazy bloke. He’d come round with an organ one week, then next week, he’d have a better one. He ended up with a Farfisa, with one keyboard on it, then one with two keyboards — one above the other. Then he had a Hammond, an L 100. which was really heavy. Then he had a ‘B’ series one. The ‘L’ was top-of-the-range and he sawed it in half to make it easier to carry!”

Dave Williams helped to improve the group as well. “He was at school with us,” says Nigel Bullen, “but in another band, who we always looked up to.” That band was the Leeds-based Outer Limits (who went on to issue several singles — without Dave — in the late ‘60s). “I joined the Opposition after they asked me to watch them and tell them what I thought,” recounts Dave. “The Outer Limits were older lads, all mods, but I was after something a bit more easy going, and the Opposition were my own age. They were okay, but I first saw them at John’s house, when they were still practising in bedrooms, and they were absolutely awful. I said, ‘Have you thought of tuning up?’ They said they had. But it sounded like they were playing in different keys — totally horrendous. It was so funny. They were so conscientious, they’d all learned their bits, but hadn't tuned up to each other. That was my first tip.”

“Our first proper gig was supporting a local band, the Rapids Rave, at Enderby Coop Hall,” recalls Nigel Bullen. “They used to play at this village hall every week. and then we ended up doing it every week for quite some time.” Richard’s diary records the Opposition’s debut taking place on 4th December 1965, and that the band’s fee was £2. Thereafter, they began to offer their Services in the local ‘Oadby & Wigston Advertiser’, which led to bookings in youth clubs and village halls in local hot-spots like Kibworth, Houghton-on- the-Hill, Thurlaston and Great Glen.

SCHOOL WORK

By spring 1966, the Opposition were playing every weekend, school work permitting. The peaks and troughs of their career are illustrated by the following memorable gigs: one at St. George’s Ballroom, Hinckley, on 23rd June 1967, when just two people turned up and the band went home after a couple of numbers; and a September appearance in a series of shows at U.S. Airforce Bases in the Midlands, at which they were required to play for four-and-half hours with just two twenty-minute breaks. It was nothing if not diverse.

“It didn’t seem to matter what you played,” says Dave. “People would clap simply because you were making music. They never said, ‘Do you do Motown, or soul stuff?’ ” The band’s repertoire initially consisted of chart sounds and the poppier end of the R&B spectrum. “Although we were inspired by the Beatles, we never did any of their songs,” claims Nigel. “But we covered the Kinks, the Yardbirds, and things like Them’s ‘Gloria’, and the Zombies’ ‘She’s Not There’.

They also altered their name slightly to the New Opposition, which they unveiled at the Enderby Coop Hall. “The name-change was decided overnight, when John moved from rhythm to bass guitar,” recounts Richard, whose diary records the date of the transition as 29th April 1966. Interestingly, though, it makes no mention of another local group also called the Opposition, long thought to have been the reason for Deacon’s crew adopting the ‘New’. The change did act as an impetus for further development, however, instigated by Dave Williams, who soon took over as the group’s lead vocalist.

“When I joined they were doing all Beach Boys stuff,” he recalls, “and I think I may have brought in a little credibility. In the Outer Limits, I’d been playing John Mayall, the Yardbirds, that sort of thing, plus that group was into really good soul like the Impressions, and fantastic vocal bands from the States. So I had a broad musical knowledge by then, whereas the Opposition had been a bit poppy.” Appropriately, the words “Tamla” and “Soul” were now added to the Opposition’s ads and calling cards.

Towards the end of 1966, the New Opposition were enhanced further by the arrival of Ron Chester, who’d previously played with Dave Williams in the Outer Limits, as well as in an earlier band, the Deerstalkers. “Ron Chester was a bit eccentric,” claims Richard Young. “He never used to go anywhere without his deerstalker. He was a really good guitarist (“stunning”, adds Dave Williams). We were probably at our best when Ron was in the band.”

On 23rd October 1966, the New Opposition entered the local Midland Beat Contest. They won their heat, landing themselves a place in the semifinals on 29th January 1967. They won this, too, and steeled themselves for the finals, which were due to be held on 3rd March 1967, when they were to be pitched against...[ ]

...[ ] an act called Keny. The stars of the show would have been the nearest the Opposition came to having a rival: an outfit called Legay. (A year later, incidentally, this band issued a now collectable single, “No One” (Fontana TF 904,£80J.) Unfortunately, for all concerned, however, the contest never took place. “That was a fiasco,'' laughs Ron. “Somehow we won those heats, but in fact, I don’t remember seeing anybody else playing. I don’t know whether we won by default or not. After that, they pulled the plug on the competition — probably because they knew we’d be playing again!”.

CASINO

“The heats took place in a club in Leicester called the Casino, which was the place to play,” adds Nigel. “The guy who ran the competition was an agent for the club. His company was called Penguin (or P.S) Promotions and he walked like a penguin too, with his feet sticking out. The final was going to be held in the De Montford Hall, which is still the main venue in Leicester. We thought, ‘Crumbs, this is it, perhaps we might make the big time.’ But the guy did a runner with all the money — people had to pay to come to the heats. So the final was called off.”

David Williams wasn’t too fussed, as he scored another prize that night: “I remember taking a girl back to Dick’s car on the strength of us winning our heat. I said, ‘Can I borrow your keys, Dick? He said, ‘What for? You can’t drive!’ “

Were the New Opposition — or the Opposi­tion, as they dropped the ‘New’ again in early 1967 — left in limbo by the cancellation of the Beat Contest? Having achieved the most public recognition of their talents so far, were they disappointed with the loss of the chance to prove themselves further?

“No. It was almost insignificant,” reckons Ron. “We didn’t really look upon it as a stairway to stardom.” And what would John Deacon have thought? “Nothing really,” suggests Chester. “ ‘It’s cancelled. What are we doing next, then?’ That would have been about the depth of it. We were a village band, all gathering at the church hall to try and improve our abilities. The financial aspect of it wasn’t in the forefront of our minds. We were more concerned with our music, and if we could get a booking doing it as well, to pay off some of the equipment, then that was a real bonus. Three bookings a week was enough for us while we were working or still at school.” Despite any dodgy dealings, history does have the Penguin promoter to thank for the only professionally-taken photograph of the Opposition. (“We didn’t go much on photos in the band,” remembers Dave Williams.) On Tuesday, 31st January 1967, two days after winning the semi-finals, the ‘Leicester Mercury’ dispatched a staff photographer over to Richard Young’s parents’ house in Oadby. Here, the group lined-up in the front room, looking more like refugees from 1964, rather than 1967. The only indications of the actual date are perhaps Ron Chester’s deerstalker hat and the ridiculous length of David Williams’ shirt collars — seven inches, no less, from neck to nipple.

“Dave was very extrovert,” recalls Nigel. “But we all had those silk shirts with the great long collars made by our mums and grandmas for our stage gear.” Dave admits: “Our clothes were all a bit mixed up. We had silk shirts with tweed jackets — which were fashionable for a while — and bell-bottoms. Musically, we were pretty good, better than...[ ]

...[ ] most of the local bands around that time, but we had this squeaky-clean, schoolboy image which let us down. I used to get frustrated when we were billed with other bands, and they’d all play with so many wrong chords but had a better image and still the punters applauded. Were they stupid? We were still at school — we didn’t leave until we were eighteen — and weren’t allowed to grow our hair long”.

“After the mod thing,” he continues, “long hair became really important. Bands were growing their hair right down their backs. I remember getting to one gig with John and Nigel a year or so later, and the other group were already on. And when they saw us they turned round and said, ‘Look! They’ve got no hair!’. We were quite upset about that”.

“We also went through the flower-power look,” Dave adds. “And then we got into those little jumpers without any sleeves that Paul McCartney used to wear, the ones so small that half your stomach showed. And then it was grandad shirts without the collars and flares.” Ron Chester: “The flowery shirts and flared trousers were everywhere. We looked like a right shower of poofters. But so did everybody else. You stood out if you didn’t wear them.”

1967 also heralded the arrival of an additional attraction to the Opposition’s stage show: two go-go dancers. At least, it did if the existing literature on the subject is to be believed. “I vaguely remember it,” admits Richard, “but speaking to Nig, neither of us can recal who those dancers were”.

Dave Williams throws some light on the subject: “They were the jet-set girls of the sixth form, they came from the big houses. They came to a couple of gigs and just started dancing. Somebody who booked us for the following week actually advertised us ‘with go-go girls’. But they were never really part of the show.”

ART

On 16th March, 1968 for a gig at Gartree School, the Opposition changed their name once again. “We called ourselves Art,” reveals Nigel, “because Dave was arty, that is, he was training as an artist. It was as simple as that.” Dave agrees: “It was my idea, because I’d been doing art at school.” Nigel Bullen was aware of another band using that name around the same time (the pre-Spooky Tooth outfit), but assuming them to be American, reckoned they’d be no confusion. As the Leicester-based Art never made it to London, there wasn’t.

Despite wording like “A time to touch and feel, to taste and experience, to hear and understand” appearing on the group’s tickets, Richard maintains that Art was “just the same band” as before. “Nothing changed."

“It was mutton dressed up as lamb, really,” admits Ron Chester. “We thought if we were called something different, people might come because they were curious. But it didn’t make a lot of difference. The audiences were captive at the places we played anyway. There was nowhere else to go on a Friday or Saturday night. Everyone used to roll up to see whoever was on, whether they’d heard of them or not.”

1968 was the year psychedelia caught up with many provincial British bands. The Art were no different, but their acknowledgement of what had been last year’s scene in London was via sight rather than sound. Their light shows seem to have been particularly memo­rable, as Dave Williams explains: “They were brilliant. We used the projectors from school, filled medicine bottles with water and oil, and projected through them to get this lovely golden, amber backdrop. As the image came out upside down, when we poured in some Fairy Liquid, it dropped straight through in a blob, but came out on the wall like a giant green mushroom cloud. It was amazing, and we had about four of them at the back, projecting over the band.”

John Deacon was party to another of Dave’s exploits. “One day,” recalls Williams, “John and I bought a 100-watt P.A. — which was pretty big for those days — and took it into the lecture theatre full of kids at Beauchamp School (which Deacon had attended since September 1966) for our version of Arthur Brown’s ‘Fire’. We cranked it up as loud as we could, put the light show on, and let off these smoke bombs, which were DDT pellets we’d got from the chemist. All the kids started choking, and then the headmaster walked in...[ ]

...[ ] with a load of governors. You could see the fury in his face. One of the governors asked what we were doing. ‘It’s a demonstration in sound and light, sir,’ I said. ‘We’re using these ink bottles turned upside down, but we’re a bit worried about these DDT pellets so we might knock the smoke on the head, but we’re still experimenting.’ And he fell for it!”.

INFLUENTIAL

Towards the end of 1968, a crop of new groups began to have a profound effect on the maturing schoolboys: Jethro Tull, the Nice, Taste, and in particular Deep Purple. Ron: “We used to buy Purple records and learn to play them. We’d seen John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers and the Downliners’ Sect in Leicester, the Nice, King Crimson. These sort of groups. We learned a lot from just watching them. They were influential. There was always a big discussion in the band as to whether we should do a particular song. Once we’d decided that, there’d be another big discussion as to how we should do it. Everybody had their say.”

Hair, too, had finally began to grow: “John grew his quite long,” recalls Ron. “We all had longish hair, but not shoulder length. We couldn’t look too unkempt for the normal side of life, but we didn’t want to be too prissy for the other end of the spectrum. That was when we started playing universities, and we went a bit heavier. The audiences were far more serious minded about music and more enthusiastic. In some of the youth clubs we’d been playing, the audience would be moving around on roller skates, or peeling bananas all over the place, things like that”.

“We felt we were making an impression towards the last year or two of the band,” he continues. But it went no further: “We were at school, some of us had jobs, and there was an element of common sense overriding what we would have liked to have done. None of us wanted to chuck in our apprenticeships or courses. If we’d had a flair for writing our own material, we might have taken off. But we just played what was popular, nothing different from most other groups. That wasn’t a basis on which to launch ourselves. So it never happened."

“We didn’t think that far ahead,” admits Richard Young. “I just thought of playing and getting repeat bookings. John was probably the least ambitious of all of us, to be honest. I think he felt that there was no mileage in what we were doing, although it was good fun. I think he had the impression that this was a hobby, a phase he was going through.”

Sometime in the Sixties, possibly 1969, but maybe earlier, Art recorded an acetate. Whatever the date, the crucial point is that John Deacon was present at the session. “We weren't asked to do it,” recalls Nigel. “We just wanted to make a disc. I think it cost us about five shillings.”

The venue was Beck’s studio, thirty miles south east of Oadby in Wellingborough, Northamptonshire. “I’d never been in a studio before and it seemed awesome, really,” recalls Dave Williams. “It was a fairly decent-sized room for acoustics. It was all nicely low-lit, with lots of screens. The guy knew what he was doing.” Richard Young was less impressed, though: I’ve been in studios all my life,” he says. “That was just another session. Nothing about it stood out.”

The “guy” Dave remembered was engineer Derek Tomkins, who informed the group that they could record three tracks in the time allotted. “We’d only gone in there with two, ‘Sunny’ and ‘Vehicle’,” says Nigel, “and we didn’t want to waste the opportunity, so Richard knocked up a little instrumental called Transit 3’ — named after our new van, the third one — right there in the studio. Although we were purely a covers band, everybody had a bash at writing, but we never did anything of our own on stage. The exception was Transit 3’, which was incorporated into the set after this session.”

“ Transit 3’ was about about the only track we ever wrote," reckons Richard Young (“Heart Full Of Soul”, as reported in ‘As It Began’, is in fact a Graham Gouldman nurnber). “I initially had the idea, but I can’t really remember anything about it. It’s very basic. It wouldn’t take a great deal of effort to write something like that.” To the objective observer, “Transit 3”, taped in mono but well recorded, is a fairly uncomplicated, organ-led scale- hopper, reminiscent of Booker T & the MGs.

 “Everybody was listening to ‘Green Onions’,” confirms Nigel, “so Booker T would have been an influence there.” But for all that, it’s well- played, with memorable lead and twangy, wah-wah guitar passages courtesy of Dave Williams. And, crucially, John Deacon’s thumping bass is plainly audible throughout. On this evidence, the Opposition were clearly a tight, confident outfit. “Transit 3” could have been incorporated into any swinging ‘60s film soundtrack, and no one would have jumped up shouting, “Amateurs”!.

UNFAMILIAR

The other two tracks, covers of Bobby Hebb’s ‘Sunny' and the more obscure, soul- tinged ‘Vehicle’ (later a hit for the Ides of March), featured a vocalist, but an unfamiliar one: another of the Opposition’s fleeting frontmen. “We had a singer for a while called Alan Brown,” recalls Nigel. “He came and went fairly quickly. He was good, really good. Too good for us, I think. That wasn’t him saying that. We just knew it.”

On both songs, Brown is in deep, soulful voice, sounding not unlike a cross between Tom Jones and the early Van Morrison — if such an amalgam can be imagined. The Art’s reading of “Vehicle” is edgy and robust, dominated by Richard Young’s distinctive keyboards and Nigel Bullen’s bustling drum work. Dave Williams is again in fine form, delivering more sparkling wah-wah guitar, while on the cassette copy taped from Nigel Bullen’s acetate, at least, John’s bass is very prominent, over-recorded in fact, booming in the mix.

“Sunny” goes one better, breaking into jazzy 3/4 time halfway through, before slotting back into the more traditional 4/4. It’s an imaginative arrangement, with alternate soloing from both Dave and Richard, while the whole track is underpinned by swirls of Hammond organ and John Deacon’s pounding bass.

“We did ‘Sunny’ as part of our stage set,” says Nigel, “but I don’t recall us ever going into the jazzy bit. That’s quite interesting. We might have talked about that before we went into the studio, but I think it was just for this session. Dave had two guitars, a six-string and a twelve-string, or it could even have been twin-necked. I still quite like the wah-wah he played on that track. By this time Richard would have been onto his second or third organ — he was heavily into Hammonds and Leslies."

Operating as they did in a fairly ambition- free zone, and having prepared the listener for a mundane set of recordings with their trademark laid-back approach, Art’s acetate comes as something of a revelation. Let any bunch of today’s schoolboys loose in a studio for an afternoon and defy them to come up with something half as good!

Just two copies of the Art disc are known to have survived. John Deacon’s mother is believed to own one and Nigel Bullen has the other. “I’d forgotten all about this record,” admits Nigel. “We know that one copy was converted to an ashtray!. We stubbed out cigarettes on Richards at rehearsal one night.” Although treated with anything but respect at the time, the importance of the disc is now apparent to Nigel Bullen: “This is probably John Deacon’s first recording, apart from tracks he did in his bedroom on his reel-to-...[ ]

...[ ] reel, which are probably long gone. Although, knowing John, they’re probably not!”

The beginning of the end for Art came in June 1969, when John Deacon left Beauchamp. With a college course lined up in London, his days with the band were obviously numbered. He played his final gig with the group on 29th August at a familiar venue, Great Glen Youth and Sports Centre Club. By October, he’d moved to London to study electronics at Chelsea College of Technology, part of the University of London.

Another blow was dealt in November, when the band's lynchpin, Richard Young, left to join popular local musician Steve Fearn in Fearn’s Brass Foundry.

“They were a Blood, Sweat and Tears-type of group,” recalls Richard, “and paid better money than I’d been used to. I was out five nights a week, on about £3 per night, against an average of about £10 between us.” The previous year, Richard had played session keyboards on the Foundry’s two Decca singles: “Don’t Change It” (F 12721, January 1968, £10) and “Now I Taste The Tears” (F 12835. September 1968, £8).

SAVAGE

Ron Chester departed shortly afterwards, and gave up music: “I left in the early 70s, after John Deacon moved to London. John was replaced by a bass player was called John Savage, who unsettled me. He had different tastes and drove us a bit hard. His approach was totally different from Deaks's, and he was much more interested in the financial side of things. We’d all been mates before, we didn't just knock about for the band. It just wasn’t the same.”

Nigel, Richard and Dave pushed on into 1970 with the new bassist, changing the band’s name again, this time to Silky Way. They returned to Beck’s studio to record a cover of Free’s “Loosen Up” with another vocalist, Bill Gardener, but that was the band’s last effort. Dave left after falling into Nigel’s drumkit, drunk on stage at a private party one Christmas. “I waited for them to pick me up the next day,” he recalls sheepishly, “but they never carne.”

Richard and Nigel moved into a dinner- dance type outfit called the Lady Jane Trio — “Corny, or what!”, laughs Bullen — but Nigel left music altogether soon afterwards to con­centrate on his college work. Richard turned professional, moving into cabaret with the Steve Fearn-less Brass Foundry, before forming a trio called Rio, finding regular work on the holiday camp and overseas cruise circuit. In the late ‘70s, he joined a touring version of the Love Affair.

Down in London, John Deacon caught a glimpse of his future world-beating musical partners as early as October 1970, when he saw the newly-formed Queen perform at College of Estate Management in Kensington. “They were all dressed in black, and the lights were very dim too,” he told Jim Jenkins and Jacky Gunn in ‘As It Began’, “All I could really see were four shadowy figures. They didn’t make a lasting impression on me at the time.”

While renting rooms in Queensgate, John formed a loose R&B quartet with a flatmate, guitarist Peter Stoddart, one Don Cater on drums and another guitarist remembered only as Albert. The new band was hardlv a great leap forward from Art: they wrote no originals, and when asked to perform their only gig at Chelsea College on 21st November 1970, supporting Hardin & York and the Idle Race, they hastily billed themselves — in a rare fit of self-publicity for the quiet Oadby boy — as Deacon.

A few months later in early 1971, John was introduced to Brian May and Roger Taylor by a mutual friend, Christine Farnell, at a disco at Maria Assumpta Teacher Training College. They were looking for a bassist. John auditioned at Imperial College shortly after­wards. Roger Taylor recalled Queen’s initial reaction to Deacon in ‘As It Began’: “We thought he was great. We were so used to each other, and so over the top, we thought that because he was quiet he would fit in with us without too much upheaval. He was a great bass player, too — and the fact that he was a wizard with electronics was definitely a deciding factor!”

How did the members of the Art/Opposition back in Leicester, view John’s success with Queen? “It wasn’t sudden”, says Ron Chester. “First we heard he’d got into another group. We couldn’t believe that — were they deaf? There were all these sort of jokes going along. Then we heard he’d got a recording contract and the next thing he had a record out. It was a gradual progression. No one dreamed he would end up the way he did.”

“I don’t think we expected success for any of us" admits Nigel Bullen. “Richard maybe. He was the first one to go professional. But when John left for London to go to college, he left all his kit here. I thought that was the end of it for him. He had absolutely no intention of continuing. His college course was No.1. It was only after he kept seeing adverts for bass players in the ‘Melody Maker’ that he became interested again.”

He also seemed to lose some of that ‘Easy Deacon’ touch which so impressed Dave Williams in the ‘60s. “He’d ring up these bands,” continues Nigel, “but when he found they were a name act, he bottle out. When he went to auditions for anonymous bands, where he would queue up with about thirty other bass players, he had a bit of confidence. He just wanted to play in a decent band. Once I heard what Queen had recorded at De Lane Lea, and John played me the demo of their first album, I thought they were well set.”

CABARET

By early 1973, Dave Williams had forsaken a career in animation to join Highly Likely, a cabaret outfit put together by Mike Hugg and producer Dave Hadfield on the back of their minor hit, “Whatever Happened To You (The Likely Lads Theme)”. While Dave was in the band, they recorded a follow-up single which wasn’t released, before evolving into a glam rock outfit, Razzle, which later become the Ritz, who issued a few singles. “During Queen’s early days, before they’d had any real success, John came to see us once,” recalls Dave, “and said, ‘I wish I was in a band like this which could actually play some gigs’.” Dave concludes: “I remember John coming round once around that time, saying I’ve got a demo’. ‘So have I!’, I said. So we put his on first, and the first track was ‘Keep Yourself Alive’. My mouth dropped wide open and I thought. ‘Bloody hell! What a great track’. I remember saying that the guitarist was as good as Ritchie Blackmore — who was still our hero then — and thinking ‘They’re serious about this. This is the real thing’.”

RECORD COLLECTOR Nº 198 FEBRUARY 1996

⬅PREVIOUS: SMILE

https://melisa-may-taylor72.tumblr.com/post/639672109315014656/queen-before-queen-the-1960s-recordings

➡NEXT: IBEX, WRECKAGE & SOUR MILK SEA

@natromanxoff, @mephisto92, @moviestorian, @x5vale, @39-brian, @onegoldenglance, @crosmopolitan, @an-abyss-called-life, @his-majesty-king-mercury, @i-live-for-queen, @brian-39-may, @toomuchlove-willkillyou, @brimaymay, @sail-away-sweet-sister, @drummerqueenrmt, @old-fashioned-roger-boy, @briianmaay, @inui-mycroft, @deacytits, @iminlovewithrogscar, @drowseoftaylor, @brianmayislongaway, @balticlover, @astrophysicist-guitar-god, @miez-lakatz, @brianmayoucease, @jesus-in-a-life-boat, @aslongasthereismusic, @roger-taylors-car, @silapril, @sherrifanciesfriskyfreddie, @tenderbri, @brianmydear, @thosequeenboys, @millionairewaltz-carpediem, @painandpleasure86, @bribrifrenchfry, @xlucylennonx, @a-night-at-the-abbey-road, @inthedayswhenlandswerefew, @madformeddowstaylor, @queenrogertaylorfan, @let-roger-get-a-lunch, @queen-for-life, @rethought, @drivenbybrianmay @mymakeupmaybeflaking, @old-but-still-a-child, @let-roger-get-a-lunch, @warriorteam1924, @funnydressesweirdhairanddance, @painkiller80, @thefanhuman13, @yourtieddownmother, @hgmercury39, @brimi-stardust, @thefairyfellermercury,  @retroromantics, @sailawaysweetbrimi, @sophiaintheskywithdiamonds, @holybrianmaywritingbear, @lydiannode, @39-yellow-daffodils , @ure-gonna-loveme-when-u-seeme, @kaykaybeachgirl, @foxmonkey, @deakysgurl, @redspecialandclogsandcurls, @briansrainbowsocks-deactivated2, @delilahmay39, @ohmybribri, @bless-the-queen, @everythingaboutfreddie, @doitforthevine67, @recordsoftheseventies, @rhysjoejoshtomfarisblog, @tenementfunsterwithpurpleshoes, @drummah-in-a-rocknroll-band, @beatlegirl1968, @maylorsqueen, @autumnscenemcyt, @gralto, @alittlepeoplemagic, @rainbowsockbrian, @frejudy, @drivenbybri, @yourlocalmusicalprostitute, @saik-ava, @omb-xx, @sassymaylor, @somekindofroger, @starlightmay, @freddiemercuryismylife, @sunshine112, @chrysochromulina, @glitteryloveravenue, @deakyislife51, @0-primejive-0, @just-a-skinny-lad,  @bluewillowmom, @sassiesillie, @stesichoreanpalinode, @farrokhbulsaramercury, @tayloredofqueen, @rushingheadlong, @izzy-is-slightly-mad, @scandalacious, @0-my-fairy-queen-0  @39-volunteers-to-space@zodiacaldust, @deakytaylor, @queenband70s, @deakyeveryday, @drivenbybrimay @70smay​

[collisiondiscourse]

on the wonder duo (part 1)

(BNHA Analysis Post Ahead! This isn’t explicitly romantic, but it is an analysis of the relationship between the two most popular characters in BNHA--Katsuki Bakugou and Izuku Midoriya. Split into two posts because I realized that this was gonna be long as HELL)

yall ever think about the fact that the wonder duo is perfectly set up in so that bakugou and deku together are the better version of all might?

bc like. ive been thinking.

everyone knows the win to save and save to win parallel. How they are supposedly two halves of a whole perfect hero (which, previously, was defined as all might)

but ever since bakugou and deku started working as one—growing together to win AND save and continuously reminding each other that they shouldnt try to do things alone, ive realized that its BECAUSE theres two of them that they surpass all might. its not a case of deku and bakugou both being 50% of an ideal hero, but rather i think that they are 100% of what all might SHOULD HAVE BEEN from the very beginning.

as early as the AM v AFO battle in kamino, we see the effects of all mights flawed existence. the fact that he, the greatest and supposedly infallible symbol of peace, was destroyed—society had begun to collapse. there was suddenly no pillar to hold people together and the impacts were so severe that even in the latest chapters of mha it keeps on getting worse. the truth is, all mights biggest mistake was the burden he placed on his own shoulders

with bakugou and deku... its different.

its different for them because down to their attributions, they seem like two halves of a whole person.

i think that the wonder duo are going to surpass all might because of the fact that they work together.

@bakugoukatsuki-rising @svpercraigus @tybee​ @isaustraliaathing​

(batshit crazy and conspiratorial essay under the cut !)

1. Complementary Colors

I’d like to first preface literally everything I say by the fact that I am not an expert analyzer or literary major in any way. I am literally just some random fan on the internet who has wayyy too much time and looks wayyy too deep into things, but here we go!

A common thing we see when we talk about bakugou and deku is the way they are... sort of an inverse of one another.

Down to the design of their features and the way they move, Deku is the obviously softer of the two. There’s an intentional contrast between the two of them, in the way that Deku’s drawn with round shapes and curvy hair and the way Bakugou is literally all spikes and half-mast eyes and rough muscles. Bakugou’s movements too are languid and showy, with the way he leans when he walks and splays his legs and kicks open doors. Katsuki, in a casual sense, is loud and dramatic. 

Deku on the other hand s finicky. He jitters when he walks and he’s often fidgeting and mumbling. Comparatively, the aura he radiates is energetic and frenzied, even self-conscious to a point unlike Bakugou’s calm and confident movements.

the point is, there’s a clear difference in how either of them are designed and what exactly they are supposed to represent. They utterly complement each other down to the way they behave and even their main colors (red-orange and blue-green) being literal complementary colors.

Now, moving to my more ungrounded points, this is quite a bit of a stretch so I’ll try as much as possible to make sense of these with hyperlinked sources because. yeah.

Down to their names, I think Deku and Bakugou both symbolize something deeper. I think that the way Hori expresses characters and what they’re meant to do is something that we have to pay close attention to when we talk about the Wonder Duo’s rise to success.

Izuku Midoriya (緑谷 出久), as some of us may know, does have an interesting meaning when broken up. According to a lovely fan translation of his name, ‘Izuku’--while not an actual name used commonly in real life--means to ‘Come out’ or ‘Long time’. ‘Midoriya’ on the other hand means (Midori) ‘Green’ and (ya) ‘valley’. The translator further pointed out that his first name ‘Izuku’ could be a reference to him being the first legendary hero to come out of the long-running All Might Era. (or, if you’ve been reading @/bakugoukatsuki-rising’s posts, the first significant anime protag in a long while to come out as queer, ppfft)

but that isn’t my focus right now.

We know that Hori LOVES telling stories with names, and more often than not in the BNHA universe, names alone tell us a lot of things about the characters. When referring to Izuku’s last name, Midoriya, it’s important I think to step back and realize that hey, maybe there’s something more to Green Valley than just the fact that his motif is all green.

After searching for a lil on the specifics of green valley, I’ve found out that across many cultures, the colour green and valleys in general tend to represent life. From dream analysts, to Christianity, and even old Taoist teachings, valleys are seen as areas of fertility and escape. They are seen as safe havens and often escapes for people to come to after running away from bad circumstances.

(Sound familiar?)

Deku, in essence represents life and peace. He represents being the “salvation” that the world in BNHA needed. To me, it sounds like Horikoshi is trying to say that he is the long-awaited hero in the sense. The one that people can feel will create a society that feels safe for everyone after years of All Might just saving people from themselves as a band-aid solution.

On the other hand, we have Katsuki Bakugou (爆豪 勝己), who’s name we commonly know means (Katsuki) Winner and (Bakugou) Explosion Master. He is essentially, the champion. The power. His name means success and power and all the things that make up winning.

When putting them side by side, it then becomes increasingly... interesting to me how their names almost perfectly slot into All Might’s save to win and win to save mantra, and how they are both quintessential parts to what made All Might as a hero.

2. Hero Too!

Now, I’m not even gonna really TOUCH much of what happens in canon. If you want me to do a step by step breakdown of their arcs in regards to the plot of manga and anime, feel free to send me a gratuitous ko-fi tip so I can pay for the headache I get after trying to organize my thoughts into word vomit.

What I WILL talk about on the other hand, is the subtle shift both of them slowly have in regards to how they look. Bakugou and Deku, while growing up, seem to have MANY many parallels--but before I elaborate on all of that, I wanna talk about something else.

Detour: Deku’s Red Shoes 

We all know the iconic symbol being Deku’s red shoes. For all his life, save for some outfits like his hero one, we see Deku more often than not wearing his signature red sneakers which have become a running joke in fandom.

But the funny thing is, in Japan, red shoes seem to have an interesting connotation.

In 1922, a popular Japanese nursery rhyme was written, called “Red Shoes”. The interesting part to me about this song was the symbolism that, in my tiny pea-sized brain, I could connect to the story of BNHA.

The story goes that there was a little girl with red shoes named ‘Kimi’. She was from Shizuoka prefecture (which, if you didn’t know, is most likely where Musutafu supposedly is) and was raised by a single mother. When she was young, her mother had to entrust her with a foreigner under the impression that they would give her a better life in America. The stranger is a man named Charles Hewitt (who was described to have blue eyes) and supposedly took her away. 

The singer of the song (supposedly the mother, but some argue it was written from the perspective of a childhood friend) believes that Kimi is happy and living a better life away from them, when the reality of the situation was much worse. The young girl with red shoes in actuality had Tuberculosis, and thus the foreigner whom she was entrusted to had left her to fend for herself and eventually left her to go to America while she died alone and orphaned.

“When I see red shoes, I think of her.”

A very interesting story with very interesting implications indeed.

-

Anyway, moving on to the more... “nuanced” and connected parts of this section, I have every reason to believe that Bakugou and Deku were simply MEANT to be working together down to how they dress. Now, I’d like to discuss their hero costumes.

At the start of their series, using these godawful pics for reference, it’s clear to see that neither of them seem alike in any way--reflecting the dissonance in their relationship at that point in canon.

ough. deku why. (yes we know why its because you love your mom you stupid little bunny <3)

Anyway, we see an immediate gap in how the two of them are. Deku’s first costume is one that reflects how he treated his dream of being a hero. He was still in that childlike idolization phase, the one where his dreams and aspirations were hinged on pure feelings and inspiration from All Might. Katsuki on the other hand was a lot more tactical--professional to an extent. The gap between their respective development with their quirks is something that is clearly felt in every fashion decision they’d made.

(Notice how Deku’s green is a lot brighter and less like the green accents Katsuki has all over his costume.)

As time progressed however... their costumes changed. The colors, the silhouettes, the practical functions, most things.

(Deku’s Gamma Costume and Bakugou’s Winter Costume used respectively)

we begin to notice a few similarities.

As the show goes on and we see more evolutions of their costumes, it almost seems like they begin to look like a matching pair. Deku’s green grows darker and almost teal in nature, while Bakugou’s orange is veering towards red territory. This is important to note because red-orange and blue-green as I said earlier were complementary colors as compared to simply orange and green. The minute shift is something I really wasn’t quite sure was intentional, but something I find interesting to pick up nonetheless as the colors they used to accent their costumes begin to match up.

Secondly, I think and important thing to note is silhouettes. The way that both Bakugou and Deku’s costumes are designed follow a lot of parallels that typically we don’t see with the rest of 1-A. For one, they both have a combination of tight long-sleeved tops with a bulkier set of bottoms. They also share the use of utility belts and metal pieces typically worn around their necks. Deku has his bunny-eared hood that mimics All Might’s hair, while Bakugou has his orange and black explosion ear-pieces that mimic his own quirk.

i don’t think any other people in class 1-A match each other as subtly yet strongly as these two. Uraraka and Deku and Bakugou and Kirishima do come close however.

“But Codi, you fucking knob!” I hear you plea. “This is such a reach and tells us practically NOTHING!” And yes, I’m inclined to agree with you! You’d be sort of right in the idea that this is a reach. Maybe I am looking too much into this, and maybe it really isn’t that deep--but I do think that them subconsciously matching outfits means something quite brilliant.

In the way that their costumes are designed, each aspect of either outfits have a very logical explanation. The changes were strategic and made with their fighting styles vividly in mind, so what that tells me is that BECAUSE these costumes are so complementary or similar in nature (Bakugou’s reinforcing his arms while Deku reinforces his legs), these two are implicitly showing the audience that their combat styles are complementary as well. 

The evolution of their design choices and similarities tell us that even unknowingly, their minds line up in strategy on the battlefield--a clear exhibit for why they would be INCREDIBLY POWERFUL as a Hero Duo to begin with.

When I look at their hero costumes side by side, I see a mirror. I see the way that these two are reflections of each other and are strong where the other isn’t. The point I see in BNHA repeatedly is that EVERYONE HAS A WEAKNESS. Nothing is infallible, regardless of how hard you train or how powerful your quirk is. Everyone will always have a weakness, but the significant difference I see when fandom discusses the future of Pro-Hero Society is that the new generation is finally raising itself to be RELIANT on each other. 

Observing their fighting styles and the simple use of their quirks, its obvious that they are indeed two parts of a whole hero. Bakugou, who’s quirk emphasized his arms and hands and the power that comes from it, while Deku who’s quirk now emphasizes his legs and lower body and the way he’s always running to save people.

IN CONCLUSION:

As they become heroes, it is easy to assume that if nothing else, Bakugou and Deku will cover each other’s weak spots (especially when you consider the way Deku probably won’t be able to keep using his arms with the way both the anime and manga are going...) (also chapter 285, anyone?)

-

Part Two: Interactions, OfA

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