#in a way that is both menacing and chirpy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

januaryembrs · 1 year ago

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YOU WERE LIKE AN ANGEL TO ME | Spencer Reid x Sunshine!Reader

Request: my DARLING @avis-writeshq says- i’m a menace but i ADORED the spencer fic u posted 🥹 UGH THEYRE SO CUTE YOUR HONOURRRR 👹if it’s okay, may i request another fic with the same couple 🙈 perhaps one day reader is not as sweet or chirpy as she usually is, or she gets injured or threatened in the field? much love and lots of kisses xoxo 🫶

Description: Spencer swore he wanted to hate her. She was too happy, too chirpy, too much for a guy who spent months rotting in prison. But how could he ever hate her when she cried in his chest like that?

Length: 5k (I'm feral for these two)

warnings: post prison reid. Angst. depiction of suicide from the Unsub. gory language used. guns mentioned. mention of $nuff video and other murders. Nothing that hasn't been done on CM already.

authors note: if y'all want to see more with these two just SAY because I am all ears I would die on this ship

There were a lot of times in his time at the BAU that Spencer had wished he could have changed the outcome of their bad guy, surprisingly enough. There was the time they found their UnSub a few minutes too late, and one of the victims fathers decided to take him out then and there with a shotgun to the head. He was just a kid. There was the entire time he was with Tobias Hankel, and he lived in a state of both fear and sympathy for the boy trapped in his own body after years of abuse. There was Nathan Harris, the kid who had stopped him at the subway station and practically begged him for help to stop his urges to murder, only to slit his own wrists before Spencer could get to him because he thought he was tainted.

He could see how it was easy in their job to get wrapped up in saving the day, in saving everyone they could. He just had hoped, on some stupid grace of a god he didn’t even believe in, that she would have at least remained untouched by the bad luck.

Spencer had always thought, since the first day he had arrived back into the office after his stint in prison, that she seemed to just waltz through life easier than anyone else. He knew the concept of luck was not quantifiable, that it was just a coincidence that good things happened to some people, and bad things happened to others. He always grouped himself in with the latter, because what was his entire life if not one bad hand of cards after another?

Part of him had been seething with vitriol jealousy when he first met her. He hated how the elevator doors seemed to open without hesitation for her, no waiting required. He hated how her hair never seemed to fall out of place, while his required primping and preening to upkeep. He hated how she was always so happy, whether it had been she’d been given an extra cookie at the bakery for free, or her coffee had just tasted super delicious that morning, or the road works clogging the city had been put on hold the one day she needed to drive into the office. She was one of those people, he had decided, that life just seemed to smile down upon, and she beamed back in that dazzling grin.

He felt sick to his stomach for ever wishing it gone, especially when she looked like she might never smile again.

They never liked to say that they had easy cases and hard ones, all of their cases were difficult to process. But this one had been a handful above the rest.

“UnSub has been killed on site, all units stand down,” Luke said into the radio, and the entire squadron took a sigh of relief, all of them except him.

Because he saw that look in her eye, the way everything sparkly about her seemed to have vanished.

They had been following Bobbie Wrids for a week. Five bodies in, five men shot between the eyes execution style, almost six by the time they’d arrived on the scene.

She’d gone with Tara around the front of the abandoned building; Penelope tracked their newest victim, Henry Frond, through his phone pinging off the nearest satellite towers, and it had been straight forward from there. Or at least it should have been.

Because by the time Spencer and Luke arrived in their own SUV, Penelope had time to access the rest of Henry’s phone, and it was clear to see the victimology behind all six men.

They were distributing snuff videos of women, some between themselves, some to other usernames on the darkweb, and Bobbie Wrids’ daughter had been one of them.

Bobbie had become somewhat of a vigilante, but he was a grieving father above all. He was a wounded animal chomping at the bit to soothe the ripping pain of his daughter's murder, the same one those men were getting off to.

Tara and her exchanged a glance as Penelope relayed the information over their headsets, her once serious expression falling into something sombre and sorrowful. How could she arrest a man she couldn’t help but feel sorry for, one she couldn’t help but think wasn’t entirely wrong in his actions.

“Bobbie Wrids,” Tara’s voice was stern, cutting through the silence of the desolate building. Their footsteps were careful as they made their way through the hallway, down to what had once been a rec-room, or perhaps a staff room, where they knew Bobbie had Henry, “This is the FBI, we’d like to talk,”

They heard nothing, and she looked up to the older woman hesitantly, her finger hovering over the trigger the way Spencer had taught her. Tara took a minute, knowing she was leading the charge here with the girl being so inexperienced, before she nodded to the door knob and the rookie twisted the handle, pushing the peeling wood open gently.

Bobbie Wrids stood in the centre of the room, moth eaten couches either side of the damp rug, the ceiling tiles half caved in from wear and tear. Henry Frond was already a pulp in the UnSub’s arms, and yet it was Bobbie that her eyes shot to first, sympathy shooting through every fibre of her being when she saw the distraught look on the father’s face.

He was grieving. He was grieving his little girl’s death. He was looking for a solution, and this seemed to be his best bet.

“Bobbie,” Her voice was shaky, her and Tara frozen in the doorway as the man brought the pistol to Henry’s beaten face, cocking it towards his temple before they could even explain themselves. “We’re going to come in, is that okay? We just want to talk, just let us talk-”

They had only edged closer by three paces between them as she was speaking before his knuckles turned white and he squeezed the gun tighter to Henry’s skin, the barrel contorting the flesh, “Don’t come any closer, this pig isn’t worth your mercy,”

“We know,” She said, her and Tara slowly stepping over a fallen ceiling tile, cracking under her boot as she met his desolate gaze for the first time, his head snapping to her. “We know what he did, Bobbie. What they all did.”

His throat bobbed, his bottom lip quivering and the sight of it, a man so broken, forced a frog into her oesophagus, and she willed herself not to cry.

“They hurt my little girl,” Bobbie choked out, his face turning mauve as the tears began to build behind his eyes, “She was my girl. She was only eighteen.”

She nodded, his wetted hues seemingly permissive when she stepped closer to where he held Henry hostage.

“I know, I’m so sorry for what happened to her,” She said, her voice croaky, unstable as she wrenched it into something audible, “I’m so sorry,”

“He doesn’t deserve mercy, none of them did,” Bobbie spat, his forearm crushing against Henry’s trachea in a vice-like grip. The man floundered, a wheeze coming from his lungs, not that she felt much sympathy for him.

She sprung into action, flicking her gun onto safety and holstering it, Tara doing the same as she lowered her weapon to her side. He profiled as a vigilante; he had no reason to hurt them.

“Bobbie, listen, I know they didn’t deserve to walk free, okay?” She said, taking the smallest step towards where the men stood, “But she wouldn’t want this for you, would she?”

The man flinched, his jaw hard as a rock with how he clenched his teeth together, as if holding back a sob.

“Come on, Bobbie. Let him go, we have enough evidence to get him sentenced. We can get you a plea deal, I know a good lawyer,” She begged, because she wasn’t beneath it, because she knew he was a good man backed into a corner, “Please,”

Maybe it was the way her eyes were soft when she looked at him, or the fact two more agents burst into the room from the hallway, Spencer’s eye immediately falling to where she was stood so close to their UnSub, her gun out of hand. Tara stood by, but that wasn’t good enough for him. He edged with light footsteps until he was behind her, his gaze cautious, never leaving the gun in Bobbie’s hand.

“Please,” She repeated, and Spencer saw Bobbie’s shoulders drop, every sliver of resolve draining from his body at her gentle tone, a deer approaching a hunter.

Henry was thrown to the floor, the man practically dead weight as he gasped, almost retching at the feeling of air sucking back into his chest frantically, and Luke and Tara were quick to wrestle him into cuffs, the woman reading him his Miranda rights.

Spencer almost made a grab for her then, because she was still creeping forward towards the man who had a loaded gun still live in his hand. He didn’t care for one second that the statistics said Bobbie wouldn’t lay a hand on her since she wasn’t part of his list. He didn’t care that every sign pointed to their UnSub being benevolent towards women, especially younger ones, that she fit his daughter’s description. Spencer didn’t care, he wanted her as far away from that gun as possible.

His heart lurched into his throat when Bobbie did in fact make a lunge for her, just not the way he’d feared. Because she had grabbed him. She’d pulled him into an embrace, a hug, kind and sweet as she always was.

Spencer cursed her for being so soft. It was going to get her killed.

“Agent,” His voice was terse, worried if you dug a little deeper than the sharp surface, but she didn’t listen to him. She held Bobbie tight as the man unravelled on her shoulder, falling into heart breaking sobs and it was then Spencer realised she was crying with him.

“It’s going to be okay, you’re okay,” She was shushing him, the killer, reassuring him he was safe, as if the killing thing wasn’t still between his fingers that clutched at her back with rough hands.

“They killed my girl, they took her from me, and then they laughed about it,” He wailed, and she nodded, squeezing him even tighter if that was so possible, “No one would listen, the police didn’t listen, I had to do something,”

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry,” This was wrong. She wasn’t supposed to be sympathising with the criminals. But she couldn’t help it, she couldn’t help the gasping urge to comfort the man who had lost his whole world, “I’m listening. Tell me about her,”

“She was so beautiful,” Bobbie whimpered, sniffling into her shoulder. Spencer felt his chest twinge at the scene. He hated that she was so soft. “She never hurt a soul,”

She cried with him, though hers were choked down as much as she could get them, her wet cheeks the only proof she had ever let them slip.

“I’m sorry,” She said again, because no matter how many times she repeated those two little words, it would never bring his daughter back, “I can help you,”

He pulled away from her shoulder, and it was only then that Bobbie Wrids even noticed Spencer, his face taut in anxiety as he watched the man’s hands still holding onto her body as if she was the only thing that kept him upright, which Spencer wouldn’t be surprised if it were true.

He fished the cuffs out of his back pocket, his finger never leaving the trigger as he stared down at their UnSub cautiously. He knew he may be being cruel, knew that ten years ago he would be just as caring as her. But that Spencer was long gone. And what remained was screaming in terror that she was in the line of danger, that she was holding the danger in her bare hands like she didn’t see the jeopardy she was putting herself in.

Bobbie pulled away to look at her, the creases around his eyes deep chasms, and even with the smattering of grey hair, the stubble, the cold, empty look of someone with nothing left, she thought he might have been a handsome man once. He looked at her with a ghost of a smile, and one of his callused hands came up to tuck her hair behind her ear as if it had been second nature to him for eighteen years.

“You’re a sweet girl,” He murmured, and she blinked at him, her chest easing at the way his wails had subsided into something quiet. She could help him, she swore she would help him. He was a good man beneath it all. “But no one can help me anymore, sweet girl,”

And with that he lifted the pistol beneath his chin and pulled the trigger.

—

She heard someone scream before she realised it was coming from her own throat, but her ears were ringing and she couldn’t open her eyes. Her face was wet and hot, and for a second she thought it was tears, but she was beyond crying now. She felt arms pulling her back into a strong chest, and someone was murmuring to her, or perhaps they were speaking normally and the sound of the gunshot had knocked her hearing. Either way, it was like someone had pulled a bag over her head as she brought her shaking hands up to her eyes to wipe.

She managed to crack her lids then when the sludge was gone, only to see the room still a blurry mess. She could make out, in the haze of blobs and crimson tint, Bobbie’s body slumped to the floor, a dark puddle seeping into the rug as those long arms tugged her out of the room. She only then looked down to her hands where she had rubbed her face and she caught the same claret plasma coating her fingers, her white shirt, her pants, her arms. It covered her head to toe.

It was in her eyes, she realised when she saw the ichor coating her fingertips. It was blocking her vision, turning the world a vivid wine colour, and she thinks she whimpered, or perhaps it was a moan of horror seeing the puddle beneath Bobbie’s body growing larger by the second.

“I don’t understand,” She said out loud, her head spinning, and she brought her fingertips up to her eyes again, maybe to get the blood out, god there was so much blood on her face, or maybe because she hoped to everything out there that she would clear her sight and find it all a terrible hallucination, the product of one too many nights of sleepless tossing.

But when she rubbed her lids again, this time seeing the scene a little better, Bobbie was still dead. She had still been too late.

“You’re in shock, you need to breathe,” A voice instructed her over her shoulder, and it was from the same person who had their hands around her waist, pulling her away from the crime scene, as CSI filed in from behind them.

She tried pushing the arms off her, weak because she couldn’t feel anything that wasn’t the horror in her stomach, and it took her a second before she listened to their words and realised she was holding a breath in her chest, the way a toddler does when they’re overwhelmed.

“I don’t-” She gasped, the air rushing through her lungs, so fast it made her cough, “I don’t understand, I was going to help him- I don’t understand- why?”

“I know, just breathe for me, sweetheart,” Spencer. She only just realised it was Spencer speaking, because he had never called her that and the gentle tone he’d taken was nothing like his usual, civil cadence. He had been dropping a few jokes the past few weeks since she’d driven him home, had been more touchy feely with correcting her form when she was at the shooting range, had delicately touched the small of her back when they were navigating a crowd together. He was slowly cracking from his statuesque expression that hadn’t left his face since he’d gotten out of prison, but the softness with which he held her waist was entirely new.

“Spencer, I don’t- I don’t get it,” She said, her voice bubbling into a sob as she allowed herself to be pulled away with no fight left in her. He took her into the hallway, turning her body from the sight of his hand lifeless on the floor with little to no effort. She was damn near limp in his arms, “Spencer, I don’t under-understand, I was going to h-help him, why would h-he do that-”

“Shhh, you need to breathe,” He murmured into her hair, trying to lead her out the front of the building and far away from where she’d just been front row seats to a messy suicide, “Come on, just breathe for me, baby, and then we can talk,”

But she wasn’t listening, and he wasn’t offended. Spencer knew it was the shock. He knew the symptoms by how her respiratory system had picked up in a matter of seconds and it was like she had gone from zero to a hundred. She let out a long whine, tears collecting the blood on her lash line and her chest seized into action, gulping down air, too short to do anything for her lungs, and her legs began to buckle beneath the two of them.

Spencer stopped in the hallway, realising she was in more shock than he must have thought. He knew she was sensitive, hell it was one of his favourite things about her. He knew she felt everything so deeply, burned too easily, like a daisy wilting in a dry heat, or candyfloss melting in his mouth. Spencer knew, as awful as watching death up close was for any agent, it would hit her hardest of all of them.

He moved around to her front, his hands migrating from her waist up to her shoulders, brushing over her upper arms soothingly. But her body felt numb, her head felt heavy, and her eyes were glazed over, down a rabbit hole entirely away from him, even when one of his hands cupped her wetted cheek gently.

“Just breathe, hey, look at me,” He tried a firmer tone, and she bent to his will too easily. It was a punch in the gut seeing everything shining and pretty leached out of her eyes, as if she had become soulless in a matter of minutes, as if she had lost all hope in the world the second Bobbie pulled that trigger. She looked like hell, blood still fresh on her cheeks, in her hair, smeared around her eye sockets where she had scrubbed so hard to get it off her skin, “You need to calm down, you’re going to faint if you don’t breathe,”

She nodded, or something close to it, her eyes falling down to the floor, and she seemed to wrestle for control over her chest then. But what came after was worse, Spencer thought. Her brows screwed together, her eyes welling up with more of those fat tears, and her lips dropping into a devastated pout, her eyes trailing over the mess on her uniform, on her hands.

“Spencer, I don’t understand, I tried to help him, I wanted to help him,” She sobbed, sniffling to herself miserably, and he barely even thought about it when he pulled her into his chest, not caring that her skin would dirty his shirt.

His hand wound into her hair, stroking her sweetly as she buried her wails into his vest. He used his other arm to pull her close to him, which she seemed to have zero qualms about as she clawed at his back to keep him close, as if she didn’t want to face what was going to happen when they left that building.

Spencer regretted ever thinking her sunshine was too bright for him.

–

She hadn’t smiled in a whole week. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She had given Penny a very forced smile when she had fussed over the younger woman the first day she got back, had said thankyou with downcast eyes and a fragile grin when the blonde presented her with a framed picture of a puppy to keep on her desk ‘incase she needed something nice to think about,’

She hadn’t looked at it once, because they both knew it wouldn’t do anything, no matter how much she pretended for Penelope’s sake that she would put it to good use.

He had taken her out for coffee on him that first day, but by the time they had got to the front of the queue, he had been doing almost all of the talking, which had become rare nowadays since he had come home from Mexico. Usually, it had been her filling the silences, because he knew in her right mind she hated the sound of static nothingness, she found it awkward and unnecessary when she could talk to anyone without thinking about it too hard.

They had got to the desk, the barista smiling up at him as he ordered his usual, before he turned to look at her as the woman serving asked her what she would like. But she wasn’t listening, she was watching out the window, nothing particularly invigorating beside a bird cleaning its feathers on top of a stop sign.

He said her name, putting his hand on her back and her head whipped around, her eyes empty as they looked up at him expectantly, “What do you want to drink?”

She blinked, waking herself from a stupor, and looked at the barista with an embarrassed expression, “Hot chocolate, please,”

And that was all she really had to say until lunch rolled around, and she excused herself to head home early. Emily smiled at her reassuringly, her eyes wary as she watched their happy-go-lucky rookie head for the elevators with a desolate look in her eyes.

Spencer hoped she would come around on her own, or maybe even be brave enough to talk to someone about the thoughts rattling around that head of hers, but she just didn’t. She stayed as silent as possible, only ever speaking when spoken to, asking Emily if she could finish off her reports at home, to which the Prentiss woman never protested.

But Spencer had had enough. He’d worried himself sick over her, and where all thoughts of how endearing and lovely and charming she was had sat in his head before, now it was all just ways he could think to make her smile again.

It was the following Tuesday by the time he braved action. She had gone home after their midday briefing, apologising to Emily with tired eyes that seemed to be growing more and more heavy by the day, like she hadn’t slept a wink in a fortnight. Which Spencer thought was entirely possible.

He pulled up to the house Penelope had not so discreetly told him was hers, definitely not because he’d asked, and definitely, definitely not breaching any human resource policies about distributing fellow workers information (meaning Spencer had almost certainly not begged Penelope for the address with those puppy eyes of his he knew could bag him anything).

The peonies in the window bays were wilting but her house was something out of a fairytale. He wasn’t sure why he was really so surprised. It screamed her, everything about it, from the toadstool post box to the little green, cast iron bench that sat in the garden, the metal forged to look like florets of ivy holding the sitter upright.

He rapped the brass knocker, the metal cold under his long fingers. Brushing invisible dirt off his shirt, he hoped she would answer as the present squirmed at his feet.

“Just a second,” He hushed, and as if she heard him, the front door swung open to reveal her bare face he hadn’t seen since he’d helped her wipe the blood from her skin in the back of the ambulance.

She looked at him with furrowed brows, before they quickly shot to the floor, to her cobbled pathway that had clicked under his shoes, and her face washed with a shock.

“Oh my god, Spencer!” She crouched to her knees, a slobbery lick immediately meeting her cheek as the Spaniel rubbed his wet nose up to her ear, sniffing her unique smell, as if it was a bag of Class A’s, “I never knew you had a dog,”

“I don’t,” He replied, kneeling with her to ruffle the soft fur behind the canine’s ear, “This is Ace. He retired from the Bomb Unit a month ago and Penelope sent me his handler’s number. They said he’s the happiest dog in the world,”

“I would be too if I stopped so many people from blowing up,” She said, but before he could ask what she meant exactly by that, Ace had jumped up and attacked her entire face with kisses as if he too thought that statement was worth silencing.

And she laughed. She laughed louder than she had in days, weeks, her eyes crinkling in joy as the little pink tongue stole away her sorrow, tickled away the traces of the blood that had tainted her skin.

Spencer smiled, his eyes watching her face scrunch in a squeal, hands eventually coming up to the elderly dog’s jowls to gently push him down.

“Oh, you are the sweetest guy,” She said, and the words had him tugging at the leash to lick her all over again, “Yes you are, you’re the sweetest little guy around, huh?”

She chuckled, scratching down the mutt’s neck, and her eyes flicked back up to Spencer, who watched her with more intent than she’d realised.

“Petting and receiving affection from pets causes spikes in serotonin in our brain and reduces anxiety, did you know that?” Spencer said, Ace pushing his muzzle into the palm of her hand to prove a point.

Her smile wavered slightly, and she looked at his hazel hues that seemed to see right through her, “Look, I’m sorry I’ve been so off lately, I just can’t sleep at the moment-”

“Don’t apologise,” He cut in, though his tone was kind, and the two of them stood back up to their full height, “What happened was horrifying, even some of the longest serving agents I know would struggle seeing that,”

She scoffed, unusually pessimistic coming out of her mouth, “You wouldn’t,”

His head tilted, not quite understanding what she meant, because she hadn’t sounded cruel when she said it. Then again, he didn’t think she was actually capable of that emotion.

She looked at him, a flash of something vulnerable in her eyes, something like that day he’d held her in the hallway; too fast he almost missed it.

“You’re so brave, Spencer, you’re like invincible. I mean, you survived prison and your mom getting kidnapped and you bounced straight back to work like it was nothing. I can’t even watch a murderer die without spiralling out of control,” She huffed, rubbing the bridge of her nose and before he could respond on just how wrong she was, before he could tell her that that was exactly the opposite of what had happened because he had damn near changed every inch of himself in prison to stop himself from breaking, he caught her murmuring and he thought he might just have been punched all over again, “I wish I was like you,”

His jaw clenched, eyebrows furrowing into a frown as he stepped towards her, and her head shot to him, worried she may have said the wrong thing by mentioning everything that had happened, everything Pen had specifically said was a touchy subject, and she opened her mouth to apologise.

“Do you know how unbelievably glad I am that you are nothing like me?” Spencer said, his voice bordering on furious and her fumbled for a reply, worried she had truly pissed him off.

She wouldn’t blame him for hating her. She’d always worried, until perhaps that day they’d gotten into her car and she’d driven him home, that her very essence annoyed him.

“I’m sorry-” She started, but he shook his head.

“Stop apologising,” He said, his hand reaching up to grab where her fingers tugged together nervously, his hold featherlike, his face softening when he saw her expression, “I don’t want you to be anything like me. I like you just how you are,”

She sighed, eyes doe like with emotion as she looked at him, “Really?”

He smiled, a rare and genuine smile as she seemed to glow under his words, “Yes, really.” Spencer allowed himself to enjoy the way that the twinkle returned to her expression when he smiled at her with something almost like the old Spencer in him, before he cleared his throat, “We all like you. Everyone on the team likes how you are,”

She paused, nodding to herself as if knocking herself out of a silly daze, and Ace bounced on his hind legs trying to get her attention again.

“You don’t think I’m too sensitive?” She asked, holding her palm out for the dog to nuzzle at with that wet nose of his.

Spencer shook his head, “Sensitive is good. It means you feel something. Means you feel the good things deeper too,”

Her smile was blinding, because she’d never thought of it that way before, and she looked like her old self again. Spencer wasn’t stupid enough to think she was never going to think about Bobbie again, he still thought about that first UnSub he’d tried to save. He still thought about Tobias Hankel. He thought about them all.

But he was going to make sure she never turned into him. He didn’t think he’d ever forgive himself if she did. He’d protect her sunlight even if it burned him to know he could never have her the way he wanted. Because she was everything good, and he was him.

She looked down at Ace, the life returning to her as she stood aside for the two of them to enter her house, “Tea?”

Yep. Spencer felt something run hot knowing she would always be out of reach. Didn’t stop him from thinking about it, though.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #dr spencer reid #Post Prison!Spencer Reid x reader #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #matthew grey gubler x reader

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ladymaycrush · 1 month ago

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NEW FIC: "Sketches of You" pt. 1/2

What to Expect: A slow(ish) burn, v soft and sweet, tame and mild

Description: You were just trying to quit your job. He was just your favorite regular. What starts as a crush quietly unfolds into something real and unexpected.

Author's Note: I had fun with this one! It is not as juicy as I usually am...idk...maybe I was feeling a lil sentimental HA! I reallly hope you enjoy! ^.^

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

There was a very specific kind of misery reserved for people like you — people who spent most of their twenties pretending they didn’t want more.

More than stale air and coffee-stained aprons. More than fake smiles stretched across counters. More than endless, chirpy “what can I get started for yous?” when what you really wanted was to disappear behind a sketchpad and not emerge until you’d drawn something worth staying awake for.

You were three shifts away from leaving the coffee shop for good.

Three shifts from finally chasing something real — animation classes, freelance gigs, whatever you could scrape together.

It wasn’t a plan so much as a loosely assembled panic attack, but it was yours. And it was happening.

No more telling yourself that “stable” was the same thing as “happy.” No more hiding doodles in the margins of inventory lists like a fourteen-year-old.

No more…

Well.

Except maybe a little more crushing on Regular Number One.

Doug.

Didn’t know his last name. Didn’t even know his real job.

All you knew was that his laugh had this ridiculous way of making your day feel thirty percent better, even when some finance bro was yelling at you about almond milk shortages.

And when your jokes landed — which was often, with him — his smile looked less like polite customer and more like this is the best thing I’ve heard all week, please don’t stop talking.

Which was dangerous.

Because Doug was… older.

Not “ancient,” not “should be writing Civil War letters,” but still — 23 years older than you.

You used to mercilessly roast you best friend for falling for older guys. And now here you were, dodging heart attacks every time Doug said something like,

“You’re a little menace, aren’t you?” with that crooked grin that turned your spine into spaghetti.

So yeah. The crush? Thoroughly, aggressively unspoken. Or at least, it had been.

Until today.

Because today, he noticed the doodle.

It started like any other Monday — syrup on your shoes, 900 identical cappuccino orders, the register trying to die in protest.

You were just wiping down the counter when Doug slid up to the bar, a little early for his usual order.

You didn’t even look up at first.

“Hey, Trouble,” you said, defaulting to the nickname you used to keep your voice from cracking around him. “You want your regular oat milk latte?”

“Actually…” He hesitated. “…what’s this?”

You looked up — and felt your soul leave your body.

There, right behind you on the specials board, in giant, treasonously visible marker, was the doodle you’d done earlier: A scrappy little cartoon kraken wreaking havoc on a coffee shop.

Complete with a tiny, grumpy barista yelling from the counter: “One at a time, you monsters!”

Doug was grinning at it like it was the first thing he’d found genuinely amusing all week.

“You drew this?” he asked, leaning forward with a glint in his eye. “Please tell me you did, or I’ll habe to interrogate everyone here until someone breaks.”

You wiped your hands on your apron, throat tight

“Uh… yeah. Guilty.”

He lit up – not just amused, but genuinely delighted.

“You’re insanely good,” he said, in that half-laughing, half-serious way that made every compliment sound like a half-joke.

“Do you do this professionally, or just for sport?”

You could feel yourself blushing down to your soul.

“Thanks. I’m actually leaving the shop soon,” you blurted, unable to stop yourself. “Going to, uh… try to do this stuff for real.”

He leaned both arms on the counter, eyes bright.

“Wait — seriously?” His eyebrows shot up. “That’s awesome. About time someone around here weaponized their weirdness properly.”

You laughed — and then immediately wanted to cry because it was him making you laugh. Again.

“You better keep drawing,” he added, mock-stern.

“You’ve got one of those dangerous combos – funny and talented. That’s how empires are built. Or cults. I’m not picky.”

“Wow,” you said. “Finally, a career goal I can get behind.”

He laughed — a bright, full sound that practically bounced off the espresso machines.

Then he did something that almost short-circuited you: He pulled a napkin out of the holder, borrowed a pen from the counter, and scribbled something down.

“Here. Consider this my application to be a part of whatever comes next.”

He slid it across to you.

It was a tiny doodle — a miniature kraken, winking — and underneath it, in all caps:

“DOUG (A.K.A. TROUBLE MAGNET) — TEXT ME WHEN YOU’RE FAMOUS.”

(And his number.)

You stared at it. Then at him.

And for the first time in months of half-flirty banter and buried feelings, he looked just a little nervous.

Which was when you realized:

Maybe this wasn’t just a one-sided crush after all.

Maybe it wasn’t just you.

Maybe Doug had been quietly falling, too.

End of Part One

The espresso machines were powered down.

The chairs were flipped onto the tables.

The lights overhead buzzed with that faint, end-of-night hum that always made the shop feel lonelier somehow — emptier than it should.

This is it, you thought, wiping your hands on yout apron one last time.

One small step for a barista. One giant panic attack for my future.

You still hadn’t texted Doug.

The napkin with his doodle and number lived in the back pocket of your jeans, slightly wrinkled from how often you’d unfolded it just to stare at it like a lunatic.

You’d tried to come up with something casual — something clever — but every draft in your head sounded like it was written by a Victorian widow gasping at the sight of a bare ankle.

So you said nothing.

And maybe that was for the best.

Maybe the moment had passed.

The bell over the door jingled.

You turned, heart stuttering out a jazz solo against your ribs —

And there he was.

Doug.

He was wearing his usual long sleeve button down and that wide, easy smile that always made it ten times harder to breathe.

“Am I too late for oat milk mayhem?” he called out. Already smiling like he knew the answer.

You smiled, despite the static crawling up your spine.

“We’re technically closed,” you said, walking out from behind the counter. “But for you, I could probably sneak you a rogue biscotti. Black market style.”

He laughed — and God, you were going to miss that sound.

“I’m not here for caffeine crimes,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket. “I, uh… got you something.”

You blinked.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he cut you off, waving a hand. “Just… take it.”

He held out a small, wrapped package — messily wrapped, like maybe he’d tried to make it nice and immediately given up halfway through.

Your fingers brushed his as you took it, and the contact felt electric in that stupid, cinematic way that made you want to scream into the void.

You peeled back the paper carefully.

Inside was a hardcover sketchbook.

Heavy, beautiful — the kind of thing that screamed “take yourself seriously” even when you didn’t know how.

On the first blank page, he’d drawn another tiny, winking kraken — this time holding a coffee cup triumphantly over its head.

And underneath, in his classic, sharp, all caps handwriting: “FOR ALL YOUR FUTURE CHAOS”

There was no phone number tucked inside this time. No extra note.

Just the weight of the moment — careful, intentional, hopeful.

When you looked up, Doug was watching you with a nervous kind of pride, like he wasn’t sure if you’d laugh or run for the emergency exit.

You clutched the sketchbook to your chest.

“This is…” you swallowed hard. “Doug, this is — seriously, this is the nicest thing anyone’s ever given me.”

He shrugged, one corner of his mouth tipping into that mischievous half-smile.

“Well, statistically speaking, most gifts from customers are just trauma and coins from 1997. So. Y’know. Hope this breaks the streak.”

You laughed — choked on it, really — because if you didn’t, you were definitely going to cry.

“Thank you,” you said, meaning it more than you could ever cram into those two words.

He rubbed the back of his neck — a gesture so boyish it made the age difference feel like a joke the universe was playing on you.

“You’re gonna do great,” he said, softer now. “I mean it.”

You both stood there for a second, caught in a space between worlds — the old one where you were just the barista and he was just the guy who tipped too much and laughed at all your bad jokes…

And the new one, hanging just out of reach, waiting for someone — either of you — to be brave enough to cross over.

You hugged the sketchbook tighter.

“You should let me buy you a coffee sometime,” you blurted, before you could overthink it to death. “Y’know. When I’m not contractually obligated to serve you one.”

Doug’s eyes lit up — really, fully lit up — like Christmas came early.

“That sounds dangerously close to a date,” he said.

“Well,” you said, tipping your head with faux innocence, “only if you promise not to draw krakens in my sketchbook.”

“Fair,” he said. “But no promises if it inspires me.”

The bell over the door jingled again as another customer poked their head in — probably someone wanting to see if the shop was still open.

Doug jerked his thumb toward the door, backing away with a wink. “I’ll let you get back to your criminal empire,” he said. “But… call me, alright? Text. Whatever.”

He smiled again — softer this time, a little vulnerable around the edges.

“I will,” you promised, sketchbook clutched against your heart like a secret.

You would.

Maybe not tonight.

Maybe not tomorrow.

But soon.

Because somewhere between the oat milk jokes and the tiny winking kraken, You’d realized something: Doug hadn’t just given you a way to remember this place.

He’d given you a reason to believe the next chapter might actually be better.

End of Part Two

You sit on your bed with the sketchbook next to you, running your thumb over the cover like it’s some kind of protective talisman.

You’ve stared at Doug’s number for days now. Overthought every possible opener.

Finally — without letting yourself think about it anymore — you type:

“Hey Doug, it’s Lenni. Just wanted to say thanks again for the sketchbook. It’s already full of questionable life choices.”

You hit send before you can chicken out. It feels like throwing a message in a bottle into the ocean.

Less than two minutes later, your phone buzzes:

Doug:

“Hey!! Glad you texted.

And hey – sketchbooks are supposed to be full of questionable decisions. It’s called “process”.”

You breathe out a tiny, nervous laugh. Okay. Okay, this wasn’t so bad.

You type:

“Good to know I’m already on the right track. Might even win an award for “most deranged sea creatures drawn before midnight.”

Doug replies almost immediately:

“You’re a prodigy.

I’m proud.

Expect to be haunted by fanmail and squid merch by this time next year.”

You smile down at your phone before you even realize you’re doing it.

You hesitate a second longer — heart pounding — and then type:

“I owe you coffee. Y’know, since I’m not behind the counter anymore.”

You stare at it for a second. Hit send. Clamp your phone in both hands like it might try to escape.

Doug’s typing bubble appears. Disappears. Reappears.

Doug:

“I’d like that. Coffee sounds very good.”

And then, a second text:

“You can even bring a sketchbook if you want. I’ll bring… poor life advice.”

You laugh, shoulders relaxing for the first time all day.

You type:

“Perfect. Tuesday?”

Doug:

“Tuesday. I’ll find us somewhere with strong coffee and weak moral boundaries.”

You bite your lip, grinning. This — whatever this was — felt real. Easy. Good.

And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t scared of what might happen next.

End of Part Three

The coffee shop Doug picked wasn’t trendy.

It didn’t have velvet couches or a menu full of ironic lattes named after indie bands.

It was small, a little beat-up around the edges — the kind of place that smelled like burnt espresso and old books.

The kind of place you could breathe in.

You spotted him through the window first — hunched over a table, doodling something on a napkin with a cheap ballpoint pen.

Your heart kicked hard enough to make your fingers twitch.

You can still run, a voice in your head said.

Or, another voice countered, you can finally see what happens if you stay.

You stayed.

The bell over the door gave a cheerful jingle as you pushed it open.

Doug looked up immediately.

And smiled.

Not the polite customer smile.

The real one.

The one you’d memorized without meaning to.

“Hey,” he said, standing like he couldn’t decide if he should offer a hug or just keep being awkward. “You made it.”

You grinned.

“I see you’ve already started defacing public property,” you said, nodding to the napkin.

He made a show of hiding it with his elbow.

“It’s important to establish dominance early,” he said.

“They can’t kick me out if I own the napkin.”

You laughed — loud, surprised — and all the nerves you��d been carrying cracked just a little.

He gestured to the chair across from him.

“Sit. I promised poor life advice and I fully intend to deliver.”

You slid into the seat, shrugging off your jacket.

“Only if you’re ready for unsolicited doodles and dangerous levels of optimism.”

Doug’s eyes lit up — that same ridiculous sparkle that had gotten you into this mess in the first place.

“Oh thank god,” he said. “Someone to balance out my pessimism and misplaced rage.”

When the waitress dropped off drinks, Doug took a slow sip, gave you a sidelong look and drummed his fingers lightly on the table.

“You know,” he said, almost like he was thinking out loud, “when I first saw that kraken doodle, I honestly thought: yep, that tracks. She’s exactly the kind of menace I hoped she’d be.”

You laughed again, feeling the warmth pool in your chest.

“High praise,” you said, mock-serious. “Most people just call me ‘mildly concerning.’”

Doug grinned.

“That’s just ‘endearing’ with worse PR.”

Doug blew on his coffee,

“So. Animation, huh? You aiming for world domination or just a mild cartoon empire?”

You shrugged, feeling your cheeks flush.

“Honestly? I’d settle for making something that makes people laugh. Or feel less alone. Y’know… if I can survive the first year of total financial ruin.”

Doug snorted into his cup.

“You’re gonna be fine. You’ve got the most important thing already.”

You tilted your head.

“Which is?”

He set down his coffee.

“You’re funny..”

He smiled — soft and a little shy around the edges.

“You can teach people a lot of things. You can’t teach them that.”

The sincerity in his voice almost knocked the breath out of you.

You fidgeted with the sleeve of your sweater, smiling down at the table to hide how much it hit.

“Thanks,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Doug shifted, clearing his throat like he felt the weight of it too.

Then, in typical Doug fashion, he immediately undercut it:

“Also,” he added, completely straight-faced, “you know how to weaponize sea monsters. Which is honestly… just good life skills.”

You burst out laughing, and the tension between you both snapped, leaving something lighter behind.

You talked about everything after that — cartoons you grew up on, terrible jobs you’d had, dream projects you wished you had the guts to start.

Doug told stories about weird freelance gigs he’d taken when he was younger — you noticed he never got too specific about where he worked now.

And somewhere between a story about him accidentally setting off a fire alarm during a voiceover session and a terrible impression of a pretentious art student, it happened.

He dropped into a voice —

Deep, slightly growling, dripping with mock-evil charm —

and your brain short-circuited.

You knew that voice.

It wasn’t just familiar.

It was iconic.

It was Plankton.

You blinked at him, completely stunned.

Doug noticed your expression immediately and froze mid-sip.

“…Uh-oh,” he said, setting his cup down carefully.

“That’s either the face of someone who just realized I’m horribly allergic to oat milk, or…”

“You’re…”

You shook your head, laughing breathlessly.

“No way.

You’re Mr. Lawrence.”

Doug winced, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Guilty,” he said. “Doug Osowski. Professional idiot. Voice of your favorite childhood villain.”

You stared at him — at the familiar twinkle in his eye, the mischievous grin you’d fallen for without even knowing who he was — and laughed so hard you had to clutch your stomach.

“You’re Plankton,” you gasped.

“And Larry the Lobster,” he said helpfully. “Old Man Jenkins, too. But mostly, yeah — I’m the tiny evil guy.”

You shook your head, still laughing.

Still reeling.

Still feeling like somehow, this made everything even better.

“Well,” you said, grinning across the table, “I guess it’s too late to be cool about this.”

Doug leaned forward on his elbows, smiling that sweet, slightly lopsided smile you adored.

“Good,” he said.

“I was hoping you’d be terrible at playing it cool.

Would’ve been boring otherwise.”

- End of Part Four

You stare at the ceiling when you get home, still riding the aftershock of the night.

You had coffee with Doug.

You laughed so hard you nearly spilled yours twice.

You found out he’s the voice of half your childhood — and somehow, that only made you like him more.

The weirdest part?

It hadn’t felt different once you knew.

It had still felt like him.

You roll over, grab your phone off the nightstand, and — after only a minute or two of second-guessing — type:

You know, you really buried the lead with the whole “secretly a cartoon villain” thing.

Almost immediately, three dots appear.

Doug:

“Was trying to seem mysterious. Pretty sure I just came off like a guy who mutters to himself in line at the post office.”

You grin, thumbing out a reply:

“Not a bad look, honestly. Endearing in a “should we call someone?” kind of way.”

Doug:

“Perfect. That’s my whole brand. Mildly concerning but still emotionally available.”

You laugh quietly, biting your lip to hold it in.

You type:

“Mission accomplished.”

There’s a pause — just long enough for your heart to start doing gymnastics again — and then:

Doug:

“Hey… Seriously though. Tonight was really fun.”

You stare at the message, feeling it settle warm in your chest.

You tap out:

“It was. I’m really glad we did it.”

Doug:

“Me too. You’re even better when you’re not stuck behind a counter pretending not to want to throw coffee at people.”

You let out a breathy laugh, feeling something soft and new blooming quietly between your ribs.

You send:

“Next time I won’t have to hide it. (The coffee-throwing part, I mean.)”

Doug:

“Dangerous. I’m into it.”

Doug (another message, a few seconds later):

“I hope there’s a next time.”

You reread that one a few times before answering, heart thudding in your ears.

“There will be. If you’re not too scared of what else I can do with a Sharpie and poor impulse control.”

Doug:

“Terrified. Definitely showing up anyway.”

There’s a long, easy pause after that. Not awkward — just… full. The kind of quiet where you don’t have to say everything right away because you both already feel it.

Finally, Doug sends one more:

“Sleep good, Kraken Queen. Talk soon.”

You tuck your phone against your chest, smiling into the dark.

Maybe this wasn’t the story you thought you were writing for yourself.

Maybe it was better.

End of Part 5

The next few weeks fell into a rhythm — one you hadn’t even realized you were desperate for until you were living it.

One week later — the bookstore “date”

Doug showed up ten minutes late, hair still mussed from whatever chaos he’d gotten into that morning, holding two coffees and a sheepish grin.

“You said ‘meet me by the comics section,’” he said, handing you a cup, “and I heard ‘bring caffeinated peace offerings.’”

You spent an hour debating the finer points of bad graphic novel covers.

Doug kept making up fake, overly dramatic plot summaries until you had to physically lean against a shelf to keep from collapsing laughing.

He bought you a ridiculous sticker from the register on the way out — a cartoon octopus wearing a cowboy hat.

“No notes,” he said, dead serious. “This is art.”

You stuck it on your sketchbook later that night and smiled so hard your face hurt.

A few days after that — voice acting chaos

You were sketching in a park when Doug called, voice rough with laughter:

“Emergency. I need you to settle a bet. Is it funnier if a shark has a French accent or a Brooklyn one?”

Without missing a beat, you said, “Obviously French. Existential dread fits a shark.”

He laughed — a full, delighted sound — and you ended up on the phone for an hour, tossing out increasingly ridiculous character ideas.

You hung up feeling weightless.

Another week — late night ice cream

Neither of you planned it.

You were both just… awake.

Doug texted at 10:43 PM:

Hey. Wanna go make poor nutritional decisions?

You met halfway at a neon-lit ice cream shack that looked like it hadn’t been renovated since 1973.

Doug got a root beer float. You got something covered in rainbow sprinkles.

You sat on the curb and talked about everything and nothing, your knees almost — almost — brushing.

At one point he bumped his shoulder into yours lightly, grinning.

“You’re dangerously good company,” he said. “I’m going to have to start scheduling terrible people into my week just to balance it out.”

You laughed, not trusting yourself to answer without sounding like a Disney movie.

And now — tonight.

It wasn’t technically a date.

You were just “hanging out.”

Which explained why your hands kept fidgeting and why Doug looked like he’d spent an extra five minutes pretending not to care about his hair.

You were sitting side by side on a bench outside a late-night coffee shop, your sketchbook balanced on your lap, the world around you soft and humming.

Doug was watching you doodle — quietly, like he didn’t want to spook you.

“You know,” he said after a while, voice low and casual, “I could watch you do that all night.”

You smiled without looking up.

“You’re just hoping I’ll draw something embarrassing.”

He chuckled.

“That too,” he admitted.

“But mostly…”

He trailed off, scratching the back of his neck like he wasn’t sure how much to say.

You glanced at him — really looked at him — and felt that slow, inevitable pull you’d been pretending not to notice for weeks.

Doug caught you looking.

His smile faded into something softer, more serious.

And without really thinking about it — without letting yourself second-guess — you closed the sketchbook.

Shifted a little closer.

Doug’s eyes flickered down to your mouth — just for a second — and that was it.

That was the whole decision.

You leaned in first.

But he met you halfway.

The kiss was easy.

Uncomplicated.

A little laugh-breath escaped against your mouth when he tilted his head to fit better, like he couldn’t quite believe it was happening either.

His hand found your knee, steadying you both like the world had tipped a little.

You pulled back first, just an inch.

Doug’s forehead bumped lightly against yours, and he whispered — voice rough and warm:

“About time.”

You smiled so wide you thought your face might crack open.

“Yeah,” you whispered back. “About time.”

End of Part 6

You didn’t move for a second after the kiss.

The world had tilted — just slightly — like someone had nudged it off center without warning.

You could feel the curve of Doug’s smile against your forehead, the easy, quiet joy of it.

Then he pulled back, just enough to look at you properly.

And grinned.

Not a cocky grin.

Not a “yeah, I knew you wanted me” grin.

A stunned, almost disbelieving grin — like he’d tripped into something wonderful by accident and couldn’t quite believe his luck.

“You good?” he asked, voice rough with a laugh he hadn’t quite let out yet.

You nodded, a little breathless.

“Yeah. You?”

Doug rubbed the back of his neck — classic, endearingly awkward Doug — and said,

“Well, my heart is somewhere under that bench, but otherwise… solid.”

You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand.

He reached out gently, tugging your hand away.

“Don’t hide that,” he said, voice softer. “You have one of those laughs that makes people want to write better jokes.”

Your heart did an Olympic-level flip in your chest.

You stood there for another second — both of you not really knowing what to do — before Doug finally shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and tilted his head toward the street.

“C’mon,” he said. “Before I think of fifteen more things to say that’ll make this weird.”

You fell into step beside him, walking slowly down the sleepy sidewalk toward the parking lot.

The night air was warm, buzzing faintly with the far-off sound of cars and crickets.

Doug bumped your shoulder lightly with his.

“Just so you know,” he said casually, “I had a whole plan for tonight. It involved being charismatic and mysterious. Maybe even quoting something clever… and instead I kissed you like a middle schooler who just won the lottery.”

You snorted.

“Flawless execution.”

“I know, right?” he said, grinning. “I really pulled it together.”

You both laughed — low, giddy, private — the kind of laugh you’d been craving without even knowing it.

The walk to your cars took maybe two minutes, but it felt longer — stretched out, sweet and slow, like the world was giving you both a minute to adjust to whatever you were now.

When you reached your car, you stopped, leaning back against the door.

Doug rocked on his heels a little, like he was weighing something.

Then he reached out — tentative, almost shy — and brushed a piece of hair behind your ear.

It was such a simple, stupidly tender thing that you almost forgot how breathing worked.

“I had a really good time,” he said, voice low.

“Better than… I dunno. Most things, lately.”

You smiled up at him, feeling it all the way down to your toes.

“Me too,” you said.

“And not just because you finally admitted you’re secretly an animated sea villain.”

He laughed, bright and surprised.

“Yeah, well,” he said, stepping back just enough to let you open your door, “you can add ‘mild public menace’ to my resume.”

You opened the door but didn’t get in yet.

Neither of you moved, really.

The night hummed around you, and somewhere in the background, the world kept spinning — but here, in this little pocket of parking lot and bad lighting and hearts beating too loud, everything felt exactly right.

Doug stuffed his hands back in his jacket and smiled — the soft, real one you were starting to realize he only gave you.

“I’ll text you when I get home,” he said.

“You better,” you said, bumping your shoulder against his again.

Doug lingered a second longer — like he wanted to say something else — but instead he just grinned, shook his head like he couldn’t believe any of this either, and finally turned toward his car.

You watched him go.

And when you finally slid into your own seat, heart hammering, you couldn’t stop the grin that broke across your face.

This wasn’t just a crush anymore.

It was something real.

Something happening.

And somehow, impossibly, it felt like it was only just beginning.

End of Part 7

You were supposed to be asleep.

You’d brushed your teeth, turned off the lights, climbed into bed, and even tried to close your eyes.

But your brain had other plans — and every single one of them looked like Doug.

The way he’d said “about time,” like it had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for weeks.

The way he’d touched your hair like it was allowed.

The way he’d looked at you after the kiss, half-stunned and whole-hearted.

You rolled over and grabbed your phone from the nightstand.

The screen lit up your face like a flashlight under a blanket.

You stared at the last text:

Doug:

“Sleep good, Kraken Queen. Talk soon.”

You hesitated.

Then typed:

You:

“Still awake.

Still grinning like an idiot.

Your fault.”

You hit send before your self-preservation instincts could scream.

Maybe he was asleep.

Maybe you were oversharing.

Maybe—

Your phone buzzed almost instantly.

Doug:

“Good.

I was hoping I wasn’t the only idiot.”

You let out a laugh — small and stupid and delighted.

You:

“Do you always kiss people like that or is it just me?”

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Came back again.

Doug:

Just you.

Promise.

Doug (again):

“You kiss like someone who’s been stuck in a slowburn comic strip for years and just found the final panel.

Which is unfair.

Because now I’m doomed.”

You buried your face in your pillow, trying not to squeal.

You:

“Doomed how?”

Doug:

“Like… I’m going to start doing stupid things.

Like writing your name in the margins of my script notes.

Or turning down plans because I’d rather hear you describe a cartoon idea for 45 minutes straight.”

Your fingers hovered, heart thudding.

You:

“That doesn’t sound stupid.

That sounds kinda perfect.”

Another pause.

Doug:

“Careful.

Say one more thing like that and I’ll be at your window in a trench coat with a boombox like it’s an 80’s teen movie.”

You:

“Joke’s on you. I live on the third floor and I would let you in.”

Doug:

“Dangerous.

I’d fall harder.”

You stopped.

Let the weight of that settle.

Soft and late and a little dizzy.

Then typed:

You:

“I think I’m already falling.

Not gonna lie.”

Longer pause this time.

And then:

Doug:

“Same.

It’s kind of terrifying.

And also kind of the best thing that’s happened to me in a long, long time.”

You closed your eyes, smile tucked against your pillow like a secret.

You:

“Goodnight, Trouble.

I’ll try to sleep now.”

Doug:

“Sweet dreams, Kraken Queen.

Don’t draw anything too cursed without me.”

You laughed softly, heart full to bursting.

You:

“No promises.”

You set your phone down.

And this time, when you closed your eyes —

you slept.

Really slept.

The kind of sleep you only get when you know something good is finally, finally happening.

End of Part 8

Outside, the night air wrapped around you both — cool and quiet.

Doug walked you to your car, hand still loosely linked with yours.

When you stopped at the curb, he looked down at you like you were a secret he couldn’t wait to keep.

You tilted your face up, not asking — just waiting.

He kissed you again — slow, sure, less surprised this time.

Like he was catching up to something his heart already knew.

When he pulled back, his hand lingered at your waist, thumb brushing soft against your jacket.

Then he hesitated — just a beat — and said, almost shyly:

“Hey… you wanna come see the studio?”

You blinked.

“Like — your studio?”

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s mostly empty this late. Just me and a few dusty SpongeBob figurines haunting the halls.”

You stared at him, the idea settling somewhere between your ribs and lighting a small fire.

“Seriously?”

Doug shrugged. “Figured I’d give you the real tour. You’ve already kissed the villain, might as well see where the chaos gets made.”

You grinned — already nodding.

“Lead the way, Trouble.”

Doug’s smile could’ve powered a streetlamp.

“Try not to faint when you see the original Mermaid Man prop toaster,” he said, opening your door for you like a gentleman. “It’s a little overwhelming.”

You slid into your seat, heart hammering in that delicious, giddy way.

The night wasn’t over.

It was just getting interesting.

End of Part 9

The building was quieter than you’d expected.

No buzzing fluorescent lights. No hum of conversation.

Just the low whir of distant AC and the soft click of Doug’s keycard as he unlocked a side door.

He held it open with a small bow.

“Welcome to the mother ship,” he whispered.

You stepped in slowly, eyes wide, heart thudding.

The hallway smelled faintly of coffee, carpet, and… was that crayon?

Doug flicked on a few lights, bathing the hall in soft, yellow glow.

You passed framed animation cells on the walls — some you recognized instantly. Others looked like relics of forgotten pilots and inside jokes.

Doug pointed at one that featured a muscular seahorse with a suspiciously smug expression.

“That’s Tony. He only appeared in one episode, but he haunts the break room fridge.”

You laughed quietly, trying not to disturb the hush around you.

As you turned the corner, Doug motioned toward a hallway with a glass door at the end.

“Studio’s this way. Sound booths are down there. And over here—” he opened a nondescript door with a dramatic flourish, “—is where I occasionally commit crimes.”

You stepped inside.

It was… cozy.

Not messy, exactly — just lived-in. Paper scraps, doodles, stacked sketchbooks, open scripts. A lamp on a filing cabinet. A half-finished drawing of a squirrel in a mech suit taped to the wall.

“This is your space?” you asked, stepping further in.

Doug followed, flicking on the lamp that cast everything in a warm pool of light.

“Yep. The lair.”

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed loosely.

You wandered in, taking it all in — a figurine of Plankton perched crookedly on a shelf, a post-it on the wall that said “REMEMBER TO EAT,” a notebook lying open with a scribbled list:

• Squirrel mech pilot name??

• Shark with French existential crisis

• Kraken Queen (YES.)

Your breath caught.

Doug saw the direction of your eyes — and didn’t move to hide it.

“Been, uh… thinking about you,” he said, sheepish.

You turned to look at him — fully, intentionally — and felt your heart flip over in your chest.

“You wrote me into your brainstorming?”

Doug stepped forward, hands sliding into his pockets. “Kinda hard not to.”

You sat slowly on the edge of the small couch tucked in the corner of the room, sketchbook still in your bag, but fingers twitching with the urge to draw.

Doug sat beside you, not quite touching, close enough to feel the static charge between you.

“I used to dream about places like this,” you said softly. “Studios. Stories. Being part of something weird and wonderful.”

Doug smiled, voice gentle. “You belong here. You already do.”

You looked at him — and he was already looking at you.

The distance between you shrank.

Like gravity had quietly redrawn its rules.

“You keep looking at me like that,” you whispered, “I’m gonna kiss you again.”

Doug tilted his head, smirking.

“Pretty sure I was counting on that.”

You kissed him.

Slower this time. More sure.

His hand found your cheek, fingers brushing your jaw with a reverence that made your pulse stutter.

He tasted like warmth and peppermint. Like trust. Like yes.

When you pulled back, your forehead resting against his, you whispered, “I can’t believe I almost didn’t text you.”

Doug chuckled — low and breathless. “I was five seconds from summoning you with a kraken sigil drawn in sidewalk chalk in my driveway.”

You laughed — helplessly, lovingly — and curled a little closer to him.

He pulled you in, your head resting against his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you like he’d been waiting for this exact shape to fill that space.

The room hummed with quiet. With color. With potential.

On the desk, a little sticky note fluttered in the air current from the vent.

Kraken Queen – give her something epic.

Doug kissed the top of your head, fingers idly brushing your arm.

“I meant it, you know,” he murmured. “You’re gonna make something amazing.”

You looked up at him, heart full to the brim.

“Maybe I already am.”

End of Part 10

Doug’s arm was still around you.

Your head rested on his shoulder, the low hum of the desk lamp the only sound in the room.

The walls were lined with color and sketches and half-captured ideas — but here, in this small, warm pocket of quiet, everything felt sharpened.

Heightened.

You could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

The way his thumb traced lazy circles on your side.

The way the heat of his body reached across the tiny distance still left between you and pulled at something deeper than want.

When you looked up at him, he was already watching you — eyes soft, intent.

“Do you always do this?” He murmured.

You tilted your head. “Do what?”

He smiled — slow, crooked, devastating. “Get inside people’s heads and rewrite the whole plot.”

Your breath caught.

You sat up a little, turning to straddle his lap — knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his thighs, your hands braced against his chest.

“That a compliment or a warning?” you said.

There was a beat — thick with anticipation — and then his hands found your hips, and he pulled you flush against him.

He gave a small, crooked grin. “Both.”

The kiss started slow.

Hot and unhurried.

His mouth moved against yours with that maddening, deliberate kind of care — like he’d been dreaming of this and didn’t want to rush a second of it.

You rolled your hips instinctively and felt the way he groaned into your mouth, low and desperate, fingers digging into your waist.

“Jesus,” he breathed, barely pulling back. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You tugged his shirt up over his head — messy and impatient — revealing warm, freckled skin and a body that felt more like a story than a statue.

Something real.

Something earned.

Doug leaned back against the couch, letting you take him in. His eyes were dark now — full of heat, yes, but also reverence. Worship, almost.

“C’mere,” he murmured.

You leaned in, kissing down the side of his neck, tongue tracing just beneath his jaw.

He exhaled hard, head falling back, hands gliding up beneath your shirt, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts — feather-light, like he was still asking permission.

You shivered, pressing into his touch.

“Okay?” he asked, voice rough. “You’ll tell me if I-“

You nodded — breathless. “More than okay.”

Your shirt came off next, tossed somewhere onto the floor — who cared? — and then his hands were all over you, sliding up your ribs, holding you like you were something fragile and wild at the same time.

The heat between you built in slow, aching waves.

Skin on skin.

Mouths trailing over collarbones, shoulders, stomachs.

Laughter slipping between gasps.

His hand slid up your thigh, fingertips teasing just beneath the waistband of your jeans.

You met his eyes.

“Still okay?” he asked again — voice gentler this time, lower.

Your lips brushed his, just barely.

“I want this,” you whispered. “I want you.”

Doug groaned — like the words undid something in him — and then his hands were on your belt, and yours were on his, and the couch dipped beneath your weight as you tangled together fully.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t choreographed.

It was soft and frantic.

Teasing and tender.

Full of stuttered moans and whispered names and limbs that didn’t quite know where to go — but somehow always found each other anyway.

His body curved around yours like instinct.

Yours opened to him like trust.

And when it finally happened — when the tension broke, when your name tumbled from his lips like a confession — you felt it in every part of you.

Not just lust.

Not just chemistry.

But something that had been quietly building in the cracks between laughter and late-night texts and shared stories.

Something that felt dangerously close to falling in love.

End of Part 11

#mr lawrence #doug lawrence #mr. lawrence #plankton #sheldon plankton #filbert #fanfic #edits #tiktok edits

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st-kitten · 6 months ago

Text

UCHIHA SASUKE, THE MENACE THAT YOU ARE

sasusaku

synopsis it was no news that uchiha sasuke hated most people. stoic as a boy, an absolute wrathful presence as a teenager, he had a penchant for taking what he wanted without remorse. despite calling sakura 'annoying', he couldn't help but feel burning jealousy when he heard just how many men were confessing their love to her after the war. now now, wasn't she supposed to be obsessed with him?

warnings: !! characters are 18+, possessiveness, degradation (he gets really mean ˙◠˙), rough sex, sharingan use, his version of missionary ig, doggy style, throat fucking, hair pulling, choking, loss of virginity (both), aftercare (because sakura deserves the world) sasuke has 2 arms in this one *not canon

sakura was liked by everyone at the hospital. known for her warm smile and reassuring presence, she has a way of brightening everyone’s day. patients, especially the male ones, often find themselves smitten—some sneak glances her way, while others try their luck by bringing her flowers. though sakura handles it all with a mix of professionalism and good humour, her focus always remains on her work and ensuring the wellbeing of her village.

however, a certain raven haired guy felt bile rise in him upon seeing the girl who used to fawn over him be admired by others. seeing her out and about in the hospital lobby, chirpy and greeting, but also dedicated and focused was a sight that sasuke never expected to find alluring. gone was the sickly, frightened girl who begged him to stay. she had turned into a beautiful woman who was self-assured, stronger than most, and ambitious. so why was the sight of her being pursued for who she was making him sick?

sakura ended her shift and returned to the cosy apartment she'd bought with the money saved from missions. she took her coat off, washed her face and clipped her hair up. she went about her nightly routine, cracking open a can of cold coffee, waiting for a dinner for one, and putting on music, slowly swaying to it. when the food arrived, she collected it and paid the delivery guy. she went to her room to put her wallet back, passing by red eyes that glowed in the dark.

she tensed and whipped around. she'd recognise those eyes anywhere.

"s-sasuke-kun?"

the brooding man stepped out of the darkness of her room, standing in front of her. for a moment he simply stared down at her, taking her homely appearance in.

"what are... you doing here?"

seeing the man she'd loved all this time suddenly spawn in her bedroom of all places had her mind running off to uncharted places and her heart on steroids.

"what. can i not be here?" he asked curtly.

sakura shook her head. "that's... not what i asked."

oh? sasuke held back an amused grin at her assertiveness. years ago this girl would've crumbled at the mere image of him. yet now she confronted him plainly.

sasuke spotted the pile of bouquets on her dresser. "from your fans?"

"patients."

he scoffed. "become popular, have we?"

sakura frowned. she didn't know what he wanted. or why he was being so cryptic. had he walked in through the front door, she'd have gladly let him in. but something was off about his sudden visit.

before she could enquire, sasuke's mangekyou sharingan set the flowers aflame with his amaterasu, eliciting a gasp from sakura.

"what are you doing!?" she tried to pick up a bouquet to salve it from the spreading fire but sasuke caught her wrist tightly.

"stop entertaining your patients. half of them are married men anyway."

"i'm their doctor... i can't just—"

sasuke silenced her with a dark gaze, reminding her of all the times he'd looked at her that way. but this time, it didn't hint at hatred. no, it was something else.

"what's gotten into you, sasuke-kun?"

his grip on her wrist tightened as he pulled her closer. he looked down at her, watching her bright green eyes sparkle in the ambient moonlight.

"hmm? thought you'd enjoy this... enjoy my... attention," he quipped.

sakura tried to pry her wrist away from his grip but who was she kidding; a part of her knew his strength could overpower her if he truly wanted it to and another part of her didn't want him to let go.

he tilted her chin up, running his thumb over her lower lip. that was enough to get her to blush. as he leaned a little forward, sakura panicked and pulled away, but sasuke's grip kept her in place.

"don't fight it. we both know you want this just as much..."

sasuke pressed his lips to hers, sealing with a kiss. her lips were softer than his. her little gasp enabled him to nip at her lower lip, his tongue gliding over it. sasuke wasn't someone who cared about 'first kisses'. but he had to admit, it felt sinfully good to kiss sakura.

"come on... haven't you waited long enough for this?" he whispered against her lips.

sakura, as her mind raced with a million thoughts, kissed him back gently. with a hum of approval, sasuke resumed kissing her. he was far from gentle. he carded his fingers through her pastel pink hair, using it to control her movements as he forced their mouths in a bruising kiss, eliciting another gasp from her. he took the opportunity to slide his tongue in, past her parted lips, claiming hers with an authority she knew not to challenge.

he freed her wrist and let his hand roam around her slender waist, pulling her impossibly closer to him. he let his hand travel down to cup her ass, squeezing the flesh he knew was a recent addition to her grown body. sakura's shaky hands rested on his chest, in an attempt to keep distance from his sudden barrage of kisses, but that was to no avail.

sasuke's hand came back up, kneading at her breast through her red shirt. sakura whimpered at how forward he was being. her childhood insecurity of having smaller breasts was diminishing with every passing second as sasuke's fingers deftly played with her breast, running his knuckles over her clothed nipple, feeling it harden immediately.

he bit her lower lip, before soothing the sting with a swipe of his tongue. he pulled away momentarily, holding her jaw, watching the strings of saliva stretching as their mouths pulled away from each other.

"you know your so called patients want you, right?" he murmured, letting his lips hover near her ear.

"w-what, n-no."

"you may be annoyingly professional... but you're no fool, sakura." he let his hand slip her her shirt, making her stomach recoil with arousal as his fingertips touched her soft skin.

"no? want me to let you in on their thoughts, hm?" sasuke leaned down to kiss her neck, whispering into her ear as he pressed wet kisses on the column of her throat. he let his hand explore further, tugging at her bra cup, and slipping his hand inside to cup her breast.

"every day you put that coat on and walk into their rooms, talk to them, check their pulse. let me tell you, sakura, all they want is for that hand around their wrist to be around something else instead."

sakura's breath hitched at the obscenity sasuke was whispering in her ear. she knew he was brutally honest to a fault, but she didn't know if his words were meant to scare her or confuse her.

sasuke slowly began pushing her towards her bed. "the 'hot' doctor, the 'pretty' doctor... the doctor with pink hair... don't tell me you can't hear them... don't tell me..." sasuke bit into her neck, then licked the spot and sucked on it till it turned red and blue.

"don't tell me you don't see them practically eye-fuck you every time you look at their stupid charts."

sakura didn't know whether to be embarrassed or shocked. she knew all that. but the way he was describing it...

"why do... you... care?" she asked, her voice a trembling murmur.

sasuke pushed her by her shoulders, letting her fall into the bed. he watched her jaw fall agape as she gasped, her hands gripping the mattress, her breasts bouncing a little as she landed on the bed.

he crawled on top of her, straddling her hips. he snaked his hands under her shirt to pull it off. reflexively, her hands crossed over her uneven bra. not that he cared. he forced them apart anyway, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand while the other pulled her bra down, letting the cold night air waft around her exposed breasts. he yanked the bra, the hooks snapping, and tossed it away.

"i don't. but you should." he leaned down to press kisses on her collarbone. "you shouldn't lead them on, sakura..."

"i'm n-not... i—"

"...not when you're mine."

sakura froze when he said that. mine. the way that word spilled out of his mouth was like a commandment carved into stone.

"it was fucking torture. watching you smile at them. smile at me, sakura. blush at me. look at me..." sasuke mumbled, his face pressed on the valley of her breasts. he freed her wrists and used his hands to cup both her breasts from the sides, pushing them together till he was nosedeep into the swells of her breasts.

"don't tell me i'm not the object of your desire anymore," he said mockingly, knowing very well just how much he occupied her mind. he captured one of her nipples between his teeth, tugging gently before soothing the ache with his tongue. he sucked harder when she didn't respond, letting his tongue swirl around the bud.

sakura squirmed under him, welcoming sasuke's impatient touch with god knows what eagerness. if she had any self-respect, she'd stop him, talk to him, clear things out. the rational part of her was screaming at her to sock the shit out of him. but her fluttering heart won over with every thump.

"sasuke-kun... we... we're not... too... soon," she rambled, flushed.

he sneered, his tone dripping with contempt. "how utterly pathetic."

he leaned in closer, his face inches away from hers, his voice, a menacing whisper. "let me make one thing clear. i don't give a fuck if this is 'too soon'. hell, i don't even care if you have some weak excuse of a boyfriend i don't know about, who, let's be honest, isn't gonna keep you satisfied." he had an inkling as to what she was afraid of. "you worried we're not 'together' enough to do this?" sasuke descended once more, his lips trailing fire along her jaw before catching her mouth in a searing kiss, plundering with reckless abandon, teeth clashing, tongues in a frenzied friction.

"let's get real, pink. you've always been mine."

sakura blushed like a tomato, and sasuke chuckled darkly, his hand trailing past her flimsy shorts, diving straight between her legs where he was met with pulsating heat, and dampness that made him feel proud of himself.

sasuke's fingers found the slick heat of her core. he stroked through the folds, keeping his touch feather light, applying pressure here and there. he pressed a finger against her entrance, circling the rim before pushing inside, feeling her walls clench around his invading digit. sasuke groaned in satisfaction. "fucking... tight."

withdrawing his finger, he brought it to her lips, smearing the glistening evidence of her arousal across them.

"taste yourself," he said as he pushed his finger inside sakura's mouth, and watched as her lips involuntarily wrapped around it.

"that's it, take it all in," he rasped, letting his finger shove as deep as he could. he removed it with a lewd pop, and replaced it with his tongue, thrusting deep to foreshadow what he was about to do to her soon, moaning into her mouth. sasuke devoured sakura's mouth with a ferocity that bordered on feral.

breaking the kiss, leaving her lips swollen and her cheeks red, he sat back on his heels, his chest heaving with mild exertion. he hoisted himself up on his knees.

"strip."

with shaky hands, sakura undid her shorts. sasuke's impatience got the best of him and he yanked her panties down harshly, the sound of fabric tearing echoing in the room. with a fluid motion, sasuke shed his clothes too, revealing his chiselled physique in all its glory. his rock-hard erection sprang free, throbbing with anticipation. but it was worth seeing sakura's reaction.

"poor baby... never seen a dick?" he cooed.

sakura resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "seen plenty at the hospital," she smiled slyly.

sasuke's brow twitched. of course. she dealt with patients of all shapes and sizes. it wouldn't be her first time seeing a man naked.

grabbing her wrist, he effortlessly pulled her off the bed, to her feet before forcing her own onto the carpet by her bed. he loomed over her, his imposing figure casting a shadow darker than the room.

"look at me," he commanded and she did so.

"this is what power feels like. forget what you've seen." he toyed with sakura, his fingers wrapping around the delicate column of her throat, while his other hand brandished his dick mere inches from her face, its tip leaking just enough.

"i think it's time you paid proper homage to the man you claim to be obsessed with, hm?" he purred, his thumb brushing over her pulse point.

"worship me with your mouth, sakura, and maybe— just maybe, i'll grant you the privilege of feeling this cock inside you."

the more candid he became, the more sakura felt her world shift. he was harsh when he could be. but in this setting? sakura couldn't want anything else.

she timidly gave his tip a few kitten licks. "aww," sasuke hummed.

"come on..." he encouraged her, his grip on the back of her neck tightening ever so slightly. "open wide... and show me how much you know about 'anatomy'... doctor."

with a subtle push, he guided her mouth to take him in, feeling her lips wrap around his head. he paused, savouring the warm, wet heat enveloping him before withdrawing a little.

"so pretty when you're pleasuring me..." sasuke murmured, his eyes gleaming.

his breath hitched a little as sakura's head bobbed, taking him deeper with each to and fro. the sight of her dainty hands clinging to his thighs, nails digging into his skin sent a jolt of excitement through him

"that's it... take it all," he groaned, his hips instinctively thrusting forward to meet her efforts.

sasuke heard her choke and gag around his girth and oh how he revelled in that power. this was submission incarnate, and he intended to wring every last drop of pleasure from sakura.

"fuck, look at you," he panted, his fingers tangling in her soft pink hair as he began to fuck her mouth with increasing vigour. "so desperate for my dick, aren't you?"

sakura's muffled moans vibrating around his shaft only heightened his arousal. he could feel her throat constricting around him, the slick of her saliva coating his thick length as he pistoned in and out of her mouth.

a low animalistic grunt escaped his lips as he caught the sight of tears streaming down her face, a perverse sense of pride swelling in his chest.

"that's right, cry for me," he whispered, his pace faltering for a moment. "let everyone know who owns this pretty mouth."

with renewed fervour, sasuke resumed his relentless thrusts in her mouth, both his hands grabbing her head, chasing the edge of climax. the raw lust in his gaze intensified as he watched sakura's swollen lips stretch obscenely around his cock, her doe-eyes pleading mercy even as they submitted to his domination.

"fuck, you were made for this," he growled, his voice strained with the patience of holding back his impending release. "built to worship my dick... me..."

with a final, brutal shove, he buried himself to the hilt in sakura's mouth. a guttural moan tore from his chest as he came hard, spilling wave after wave of scalding seed directly down her gullet.

for a long moment, he remained frozen, his hips twitching with the aftershock. as sakura's throat involuntarily milked his spent cock, every last drop of cum from him, he felt a shiver run down his spine. her easy acceptance sent a thrill of possessive triumph through him.

"swallow it all," he commanded, a croak escaping nonetheless. in that moment, perhaps, sakura was more courageous than sasuke.

he reluctantly pulled out from her puckered lips. he watched, transfixed as her tongue darted out to lap at the traces of cum lingering on her lower lip.

"such a good little slut you are, pink."

sasuke's expression softened ever so slightly as he noticed the underlying vulnerability flickering in her eyes. he reached out, his calloused fingers gently tilting sakura's chin up to meet his gaze.

"this isn't a hate-fuck, okay?" he said quietly, his voice lacking his usual arrogant edge. "if anything... it's the opposite."

sasuke's thumb brushed over sakura's trembling lip. "i'm... not some cruel sadist who gets off on making you suffer. but... when i take something... it's because i crave it, because i need it to survive."

sasuke felt an unfamiliar warmth spreading through him, a longing to shield this vulnerable girl he'd known since they were kids, more from his own corrupted desires. in that moment, the cold, terrorising uchiha seemed to soften a little.

"it's... another kind of hell to crave you knowing what i've put you through." he pulled her up to stand, steadying her with his hand on her waist.

"but you know me..." he said softly, leaning forward to kiss her, tasting the salty tang of his own cum on her lips.

with a predatory glint in his eye, sasuke pushed her back onto the bed, making her sit on the edge. he knelt before her, his fingers parting her thighs to grant him unfettered access to the goddess between her legs. her scent filled his nostrils, making him wonder just how privileged he was to be able to do what he was about to.

licking his lips in anticipation, he leaned in, his warm breath fanning over her slick folds. with no preamble, he sasuke dove in, his tongue lapping at her weeping core, the velvety texture sending pleasure straight to his aching cock.

sakura's thighs shut tight around his head in response to that, but he didn't let it deter him. instead, he used the opportunity to bury his face deeper between her legs, his nose nestled against her clit as he continued to devour her pussy with hunger.

the slight pressure of her thighs only spurred him on, his tongue probing and diving in with the same passion he showed when he fought battles against ghosts of his own clan and extraterrestrial gods. her could feel sakura bucking her hips against his face, her desperate attempts to grind herself against is skilled mouth.

sakura looked down once, only to find his deathly sharingan and rinnegan already looking up at her in the darkness, adding to the fearful thrill of their intimacy.

"fuck yes, ride my face," he grunted, his words muffled by her soaked folds, "take what you need, pink."

sasuke grabbed her thigh and threw one leg over his broad shoulder, gaining easier access to her dripping sex. he wasted no time, his tongue plunging deep into her clenched channel with no remorse. the lewd sounds of sloppy oral pleasure filled the room as sasuke feasted on sakura, his lips and cheeks hollowing with each suckle.

"bless this cunt... you're... divine," he rambled, eating her out like a rabid dog.

as sakura's orgasm crashed over her, her honeyed release flooded his mouth and chin and sasuke lapped up every drop. as her breathing steadied, he withdrew from her pussy with a final, sensual lick. wiping his damp mouth with the back of his hand, he looked up at her.

"let me fuck you, sakura," he said bluntly, his gaze boring into hers as he climbed back up on the bed, pushing her down into the sheets, both scooting back.

equal parts terrified and eager, sakura blurted out "sas-sasuke-kun, i've never... i.... I'M A VIRGIN!"

sasuke simply look at her, blinking. "yeah, me too."

it was a brief moment, but both of them felt a wave of relief wash over them knowing they were just as inexperienced yet yearning for each other.

sasuke reached for the condom in the pocket of his pants, feeling no shame to imply that he came to her room with a purpose. as he tore the wrapped, he ran her through the process. part of it was to turn her on, spoiling what she was going to experience, but another part was to simply reassure himself that he was really about to do it.

as he rolled the rubber on his rehardened cock, his breath fanning over her face, he spoke, "you better be sure, pink. because once i'm inside you, there's no turning back."

he brushed his thumbs over sakura's hip bones, pulling her half onto his lap as the rest of her lay on the bed. he followed, looming over her. he could sense that she was zoning out, ready to let it happen to her.

"one last time, sakura... tell me you want this."

sakura whimpered like a frightened kitten, but nodded.

"use your words, baby," sasuke said softly.

"yes... yes. i... i want this."

his lips curled into a small smirk at her timid acquiescence. he pressed forward, the thick crown of his wet cock running up and down her slit a few times before pushing in, breaching her tight passage with a single, slow thrust.

sakura whimpered in pain, hissing at the tear, her gummy walls clenching instantly, as if to push him out. sasuke groaned, his head falling down.

"fuck... relax... please..."

he remained still, savouring the sensation of deflowering sakura haruno. he stayed buried halfway, till he felt her breathe and slowly loosen up. then with a sharp exhale, sasuke began to move, withdrawing until just the tip remained within her before plunging back in, slowly pushing more of his inches inside her. her bed creaked under their momentum.

sakura cried out initially, her hands clawing at his shoulder and bicep as her back arched. his grip on her hips tightened as his cock pumped in and out of her, the sound of skin slapping echoing in the room.

"good girl..." he rasped. "let every" thrust "goddam" thrust "man out there" thrust "know who's... fucking you senseless right now."

sakura let out girlish, lewd moans, all of which sasuke devoured, kissing her open mouth frantically, messily. with a particularly brutal thrust, he buried himself deep inside, grinding against her cervix.

"shit... you feel me, pink? i'm... balls deep... in you."

sakura whimpered and whined and moaned like a braindead, dumbfucked girl. sasuke gripped her throat, mildly cutting of her air supply.

"fucking take it, you... pathetic little slut," he snarled, his thrusts growing harsher, more punishing. "you're... so mine."

sakura trembled and shook as her orgasm hit her like a train, her staccato moans matching sasuke's erratic pace. he shoved his cock to the root and exploded inside the condom, which he wished didn't exist.

he rode out the aftershocks, still hard as ever. just as he felt sakura's body relax into the bed, he chuckled with sadistic delight as he grabbed her limp body and flipped her over onto her stomach, her sticky ass in his view. with a mean slap, he spanked her ass, watching the flesh jiggle.

"keep those legs spread, whore," his voice dripping with playful disdain. "i'm not done with you yet."

any other day, had someone addressed her that way, sakura would've pummelled that person to the ground, six feet under. but sasuke was her one weakness... her guilty pleasure. she kept her shaking legs steady and parted.

sasuke discarded the condom and tossed it on the floor. he leaned forward, his hands on her waist as he rested his chin on her shoulder.

"i only brought one... do you..."

she shook her head.

sasuke let his head fall down on her, his sweaty forehead resting on her shoulder.

"you can... piss it out later, right?" he asked, half ashamed, half pleading.

sakura knew the risks all too well, being a doctor. "yes... but—"

a rare whine escape sasuke's mouth as he murmured in her ear. "please, baby... i still need you... let me... let me fuck you raw. please... please." he went on and on as if he was begging for his life.

sakura sighed, feeling just as needy. "if i end up pregnant, you're dead."

sasuke chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "come on... gotta restore the uchiha clan somehow, right?"

he pulled back, and without pause, gripped her ass and drove his cock back into her, raw, without any layer stopping him from feeling her inside out.

"oh... god..." he groaned as he felt her anew. this position too, allowed him to penetrate even deeper, his balls slapping against her reddened ass with each merciless thrust.

sakura moaned into the mattress, barely holding on, but fucking her hips back into him.

"you love being used like a cheap fucktoy, don't you?" he sneered, his hips snapping forward. "admit it. say yes."

sakura's girlish whines of 'yes' fuelled his ego and his expression twisted into a smirk as her desperate admissions. he continued to pound into her, each stroke designed to claim her.

"that's right, beg for it," he taunted. "beg for my cock to ruin you again."

as if to punctuate his words, sasuke reached around to roughly pinch and twist one of sakura's nipples, adding another layer of agony. her high-pitched whines were music to his ears.

"perfect... i'm gonna keep using you... until you're nothing but a cumdrunk mess, pink."

if heaven ever existed, sakura wished it felt like the exact feeling she was experiencing as sasuke's methodic thrusts stretched her out. but she was just as crazy as her black-haired boy. "h-harder..." she muttered.

a chuckle rumbled in sasuke's chest at her wanton plea. he slammed into her with savageness, the force shaking her entire body.

"you want it harder, slut?" he growled, his hands slapping both the cheeks of her ass before he grabbed her hips tightly, using it for his own gratification. "then take it."

with brutal plunges, sasuke bottomed out inside sakura, his cockhead kissing her cervix as he rammed into her repeatedly.

"i'm going to fill this dirty cunt with so much cum... you'll be leaking for days," he promised. "and then i'll do it again, and again..."

with a roar, he surged forward one last time, burying himself further as both their orgasms crashed over them.

"fuck..." he bellowed, his cock throbbing and pulsing as it emptied its load inside sakura's cunt, his hips twitching with each spurting jet of cum, painting her insides white. when he finally stilled, his spent dick remained lodged inside her, their bodies slick with sweat and copious amounts of fluid.

with a satisfied groan, sasuke pulled out of her, only to immediately smear his cum over her ass. not content to simply leave her dripping pussy untouched, sasuke reached down and plunged two fingers into her depth, scooping up the remnants and bringing them up to his mouth, licking his fingers clean.

"much... fucking better, than that dumb ramen naruto keeps making me eat."

sakura lets out a snort of a laugh into the mattress. with god knows what strength, she gets out of bed, limping to the bathroom, leaving sasuke knelt on the bed in a pool of the mess they made. he manages to wipe himself clean with his own pants. laying against the headrest, he collects his breath, left alone to reflect on what had just happened.

the sound of the toilet flushing jogs him out of his thoughts and he glances at the door, looking at a dishevelled sakura, leaning against the doorframe, shyly looking back at him.

despite the rough treatment he'd put her through, there was an undeniable glow to her post-coital state. with no forethought, sasuke held his hand out to her, a hint of a knowing smile on his face, which only widened into a grin as sakura's face lit up and she trotted to his side, her hand in his.

"not bad for our first time, yeah?"

"call me a whore again and it'll be the first and the last time."

"yes ma'am."

#sasusaku #sasuke #uchiha sasuke #sasuke uchiha #uchiha #sakura #haruno sakura #sakura haruno

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dellalyra · 2 years ago

Note

what kind of man do you envision akio growing up into? i feel like he would definitely be confident and sure of himself (i mean he’s been raised by two people that are incredibly self-assured) and maybe even a little bit cocky. but i think he would also be such a lover and be that person that makes everyone feel warm inside when they’re in their presence

UGH YES

Akio as a baby/toddler is just the purest soul - so full of love and joy, it’s all he’s ever known to surround him. He’s a chirpy, excitable little puppy. Child Akio - starts to discover the thrill of mischief inherited from his dad, and begins to discover his innate status as a Jujutsu Prodigy. Teenage Akio - is just teenage Satoru. A bit cocky (rightfully), extroverted, fun-loving and boisterous - around this age is also when he begins to inherit his parents protective nature - it really sets in the first time his sister Mirai accompanied him on a mission, seeing a curse come toward the 13 year old, 16 year old Akio went feral. Nobody - and he means NOBODY - touches Mirai. (She could have handled the curse with her pinky, but he’s grown up with his big brother role model being Megumi ‘With This Treasure I Summon’ Fushiguro). He can be a little aggressive at times, but not as tempestuous as Mirai who got her Mama’s temper. Akio soon discovers how much he loves kids too, when he’s in his late teens and he gets a nephew thanks to Megumi and Yuuji.

Akio has all the presence of his parents - the ability to command the attention of a room and simultaneously warm it with his ball of energy soul. Akio of course, grows up to be incredibly confident not just in his talents, but also in his looks. His dad’s white hair, but longer and reaching to under his shoulders, Gojo-blue eyes and his Mama’s facial features and 6ft4? The perfect combination of them both, often stopped by agents looking for models. He’s also a genius at weaselling himself out of trouble, being able to charm his way out of any icky situation with ease.

His heart is his crowning glory, however. This young man - he loves wholly, and completely. He’s devoted in his entirety to his family, and his friends and he would burn the world for them. Need picking up at 4am? Call Akio. Heartbroken? Call Akio. Bored? Call Akio. His kindness has gotten him in trouble on occasion, with Mirai suddenly being woken up at 5am by her brother - poking her in the shoulder and plopping a box on her lap.

“Yo - look. I need help until Mama wakes up.” He whispers (he thinks he whispers).

“The fuck - my guy, it’s 5am.” Mirai responds.

“Look in the box ‘Rai!” He points, smiling brightly.

She does.

She finds 6 kittens.

“They’re only a few weeks old - they have worms, we need to get them fed and treated.” Mirai responds, her inherited technique from her mother providing all the information about the kittens she needs.

Akio has clicked on his phone and ordered next day delivery for pretty much everything a kitten could want.

“Where’d you find 6 kittens?” Mirai sleepily asks, quickly checking over the babies and pressing kisses to their heads.

“Mama said she was in the mood for doriyaki last night so I warped to the store to get her some as a surprise for the morning but I found these guys.”

Overall, a cheeky menace to society who is the world’s bigger lover.

#jjk #jjk x reader #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #family formations extras #dad!gojo

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dez78 · 3 months ago

Text

🌹🩸The Predatory Rose🩸🌹

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Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Pairings: Slyus x Artemis (OC x OC)

Warnings: Vicious, brutality, blood, violence, 18+, gore

Summary: The bard proves just how deadly he can be when something of his is taken.

Slyus came out of his tent, he stretched out, Artemis had left for a hunt earlier.

"Good morning, baby bard." Karlach teased as she sat by the fire, eating her breakfast, Gale was still dishing everyone out.

"Good morning, my fiery muse." Slyus said in his usual chirpy tone as he bowed with a dramatic flair. His smile was sweet, but it faltered when he saw Astarion running from the woods.

"Slyus!" He called as he ran up to the companions.

"Astarion? Is everything okay?" Gale asked, the party looked concerned.

"No, Artemis was taken. They knocked me out before I could save her. I just woke up." Astarion said, his face was full of guilt as he looked at Slyus. The bard's face held an expression none of them had seen before.

"What direction did they go?" Slyus said, his voice was low and deep, something his companions had never heard. Syrus looked up, even surprised by his twin's tone.

"I-I don't know, they knocked me out before I could see which way they went." Astarion replied.

Slyus's nostrils flared and his crimson eyes darkened, Astarion took a step back. The persona dropped quickly.

"I'll find her." He said, his voice was growly and it didn't sound comedic, he was serious. Everyone realized, Slyus's chirpy tone was a a ploy, a performance. He chose it because he liked it, he preferred it, but this, this was his true voice.

The bard pushed past Astarion and headed into the woods himself,

"Are you going by yourself?!" Shadowheart called,

"It will be quicker!" Slyus snapped over his shoulder, never stopping.

As a vampire Slyus had an excellent sense of smell and being Artemis's lover, he could easily track her scent for miles. He followed it, his movements determined and unwavering, no clumsiness.

Slyus found the bandit's hideout, he didn't hesitate to infiltrate. His walk was menacing, even though his physical look wasn't intimidating.

The two guards out front looked at him, then chuckled as they looked at each other.

"What do you want, jester?" They mocked, Slyus let out a low chuckle, it was brief. His eyes closed as he unsheathed his short swords from his back.

When he opened his eyes again, they were a burning scarlet, cold and unyielding. His voice was dark as he spoke,

"You have something of mine and I want her back." He growled. The guards looked at him with hesitation as the vampire approached them.

Slyus walked up, not even looking at them as he crossed his arms before slashing outwards, slitting both of their throats simultaneously. He walked into the hideout.

The bard was full mask-off, no jokes, no songs, just pure calculated rage. He walked through the bandit's territory, without so much as flinching.

Three bandits came towards him, swords out, he was an intruder and they the full intent to kill him. Slyus dodged their attacks with practiced ease, they stumbled as he moved from them with little effort.

He punched one of their jaws, knocking him to the ground, he tripped another. The third came up and stabbed him in the abdomen. With such a high pain tolerance in his rageful state, Slyus didn't even feel it. He smirked as he grabbed the hilt of the sword, he got in the man's face.

His voice was low and growly as he spoke with an unhinged smirk,

"You missed my heart, love."

He threw his head forward then, headbutting the man out cold. The second bandit grabbed Slyus from behind, the bard drove his head back, breaking the man's nose. He cried out, Slyus pulled the sword out of his abdomen, his regeneration healing his wound almost immediately.

He used his skills as a martial artist, he slipped free of the man's grip, he jumped, wrapping his legs around the man's neck, he threw them to the ground before pinning him to the ground by his throat.

Slyus flashed his fangs as he growled, he squeezed and a devastating crunch followed. Slyus's eyes landed on the third man waking up. He was on him in seconds, he sank his fangs into the man's throat, ripping it out like a savage.

He stood and headed deeper into the hideout, his mouth dripping with crimson. This was the bard unchained, untamed, utterly vicious. No charm, no antics, just pure vampiric instincts, fury, and bloodlust. He's not just a predator, he's a punishment.

He came into another room, he was welcomed with three more bandits. They charge at him, weapons drawn.

Slyus moves through the room like a blur of motion, his body fluid as he sidesteps a blow, his foot lashing out with expert precision to knock the one of the bandit's off balance before stomping his head into the floor. A sharp twist of Slyus's wrist disarms another bandit, sending his weapon clattering to the floor. The bard doesn’t waste time. Another strike to the throat, and the bandit collapses choking.

The final bandit backs away, panic flashing across his face as Slyus steps forward, faster than humanly possible, his fists moving in a blur as he delivers a flurry of strikes—each one calculated, each one punishing.

Then, in a final, brutal motion, Slyus lands a strike to the last bandit's chest—his martial skills making it look effortless as he watches the life drain from the bandit’s face.

He steps out of the room, Artemis wasn't in here either. He was on a mission. He needed to find her.

Slyus searches for his beloved, his predatory nature unsettling as he moves silently. He opens another door, once again he is welcome by bandits, he sighs as he tilts his head. He rushes forward as they charge him.

Slyus’s feet leave the ground in a fluid, almost ethereal leap—like a predator that has learned the art of silent, deadly flight. In the air, his crimson eyes locked onto the nearest two bandits.

His movements are as smooth as silk, his form like a dancer’s, except he’s not performing for an audience. No, he’s hunting.

In the blink of an eye, his hands reach out—claws extended—and grabs both bandits by the throat. They struggle, hands clawing at his iron grip, but it’s futile. His fingers tighten like a vice.

Slyus lands with a loud thud, his body still graceful as ever. He slams both bandits to the ground beneath him, their heads hitting the stone with bone-jarring force with a sickening crack. They didn't scream. They didn't fight. Slyus held them in place with his weight, his eyes unblinking, watching as they desperately gasp for air blood pooling under their heads.

His lips curl into a wicked grin, eyes darkening with predatory hunger. He leans down, his voice low and laced with amusement

“Pathetic." Slyus finishes them off by ripping out their throats with his claws. All while smirking up at the other two bandits watching. The bard stands slowly, a look of wicked on his youthful features. He unsheathed his short swords.

The other two bandits dropped their weapons to the ground, the swords were loud as they clattered to the floor at Slyus's feet, he ignored it, he ignored their pleas, their begging for mercy.

"Oh darlings, asking for my mercy is hopeless." He says darkly as he lunges forward. His movements are quick, he slices into their abdomens as he's kneeling, he watches them fall to the ground clutching their insides. He smiles over his shoulder wickedly.

He stands, wiping the blood from his swords on their tunics, then he steps over their bodies, leaving the room.

Slyus smelt the air, he was getting closer, he didn't know her exact location in the hideout, but he knew she was near.

As he was walking down the hall, four bandits came around the corner, upon seeing him, they drew their weapons. Covered in their friend's blood, Slyus smiled wickedly as he held his swords at his side.

He walked towards them, slowly, calculated. Like death itself. Once he reached them. He moved in a flash, he was quick and lethal. In this moment he was true predator. The bard was a mask. The vampire is his truth.

The bandit's blood splattered on his face as he sliced through them like a chef cuts through butter. Slyus danced with grace and brutality. His fangs bared in a vicious growl as he cut across one's throat, he fell to the ground, gurgling.

He slashed across another's neck, decapitating him, his body fell to the ground with a thud.

Two bodies lay crumpled at Slyus’s feet, their blood soaking into the stone floor like ink on parchment. He didn’t even glance down—his crimson eyes were locked on the next two challengers.

He circled them like the predator he was, blades raised, fear etched on their faces.

Slyus stood still, short swords gleaming crimson in the sconces light. His posture was relaxed, almost lazy—shoulders loose, head tilted slightly, an amused smirk tugging at his lips.

“Two more? Oh, how tedious.” He drawled, voice laced with venomous charm.

Then he moved. A blur of silver and crimson, Slyus lunged forward with terrifying speed. He ducked beneath a wild swing, spun on his heel, and drove his blade upward—piercing the bandit’s side with such force the man let out a wet, choked gasp.

Before the second could react, Slyus pivoted with a dancer’s grace. His other blade arced through the air like a ribbon of death, slicing clean through the bandit’s shoulder. Blood sprayed across the ground as the man screamed, dropping to his knees.

Slyus didn’t stop. He kicked the first man back, yanking his sword free, then stepped toward the kneeling one with a tilt of his head—eyes burning.

“You look like you regret it." He whispered, low and lethal. “But regret won’t save you.”

With a swift, elegant motion, he brought both blades down in a scissor-cut across the bandit’s neck—ending the man's life.

He stood still for a moment, letting the silence settle around him like dust. The battlefield was quiet save for his ragged breath and the drip of blood from his swords. Then he sighed.

“You don’t take what’s mine and expect to walk away.” He muttered, more to himself than anyone else as he walked out, yet again empty handed. He was getting pissed, if didn't find his beloved soon....

Slyus's strides were unwavering, he came across the last room. He grabbed the handle and pushed the door open, his eyes landed on Artemis as soon as came in.

His face twisted wickedly, the light from the candles flickered against his soaked jerkin-what was once pink, is now a deep, dark crimson, sticking to him like a second skin. His hair is matted, his face streaked in red like a warpaint, and his once cheerful eyes glow a twisted low-burning crimson.

Artemis is chained, bruised, and barely conscious. Slyus's expression doesn't soften, instead his lips curl into a smile. A slow, wicked, sadistic grin that doesn't reach his eyes. He tilts his head ever so slightly, like a curious predator examining it's prey.

And in that low, guttural voice he keeps hidden beneath all the charm, he whispers.

"Did they hurt you, my Moonlit Muse?"

Artemis doesn't reply, Slyus's mouth twitches angrily, his eyes darkening dangerously and his pupils dilating. He steps forward, the blood on his boots squelching.

"Good, now I know who dies first."

He parades towards the eight bandits, the last of them. After seeing Artemis so crippled, the true rage awoke.

Slyus was a brutal storm of lethality. His blades were quick, the bandits surrounded him, but as a bloodthirsty predator, Slyus didn't even flinch.

He used his fangs, tearing out one's throat, slicing into another's chest, and punching another.

Blood splattered as Slyus tore into them, he got his swords knocked from his grip, but it didn't matter. He lunged at another bandit, a feral rage fueling his nature. He slammed the man to the ground, his neck cracking under the force of Slyus's grip.

He jumped up, kicking a man in the jaw, knocking him to the floor, then he used his claws to tear into another's chest, ripping his chest open.

When a bandit came rushing towards him, Slyus used one of the other bandits as a shield, resulting in the man's death. Slyus threw him to the side and grabbed the other by the back of the neck, with a great strength he forced him to the ground, smashing his face into the stone floor.

The man he had kicked stumbled back to his feet, Slyus was quick to snap his neck and throw his body to the side. He picks up his swords from the ground.

The feral bard parades towards the last bandit, he grabs him by the throat in an iron grip. His fangs bared as he growls loudly.

The bandit's gasps grow louder, futile against the deadly force pinning him. Slyus leans in, his eyes dark and unblinking, a glint of sadistic satisfaction in his gaze as he buries one of his short swords into the bandit’s abdomen.

"You think you could just take what was mine with no consequences?"

Slyus's voice is low, the words dragging on like he’s savoring the pain. There’s no joy here, only ruthless satisfaction in reclaiming what they dared to steal from him.

The bandit tries to speak, to beg, but blood pours from his mouth, his attempts weak and broken.

Slyus’s sadistic smile widens, cruel, unsettling. His tone stays calm, as if discussing something trivial, as he twists the blade further.

“Don’t worry… it will end soon. But you will die knowing that I am the one who ended you.”

He rips the blade free and lets go of his throat, with a swift motion, the bandit’s body slumped to the ground, lifeless. Slyus wipes the blood from his face with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving the fallen figure.

Then, he turns. His gaze softens, but it’s not for them. It’s for her.

Artemis.

His entire demeanor changes when he approaches her—there’s still blood splattered across his body, his hands shaking slightly with adrenaline, but his face softens as he kneels beside her. His voice drops to something almost tender as he gently brushes her hair from her face.

"You're safe now, my Moonlit Muse." He whispers, Artemis groans in response, Slyus unshackled her, she dropped into his arms. He looked at her with concern. He bent down, kissing her forehead, before standing and walking out with her in his arms.

#my oc character #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 tav #baldurs gate tav #my fanfiction #tav x tav #female tav #fem tav #female oc #male tav #male ocs #male oc #artemis x slyus #slyus lysandros oc #slyus

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nightlychans · 3 years ago

Text

And Yet

Pairing: Lee Minho x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Word count: 5.53k

Includes: mentions of other members, Soonie, Doongie and Dori

Warnings: suggestive themes (just one line really), minor injury (a glass cut, nothing too serious or detailed!), playful banter that might come off as a enemies to lovers but I swear this is menaces in love

Synopsis: A recollection of your relationship with Minho.

Notes: here’s me playing myself by thinking this would be a quick blurb to write lmao. This is inspired by the movie Set It Up (2018). I would recommend checking it out, not for the sake of this fic but for a good time really. Also THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 200 FOLLOWERS??? I really don’t deserve it with how inactive I am here, or how little I post original work. But thank you guys!!

“You’re grumpy when you wake up.”

Sunlight peeking through the curtains was never an odd instance, especially since Minho liked to have the window ajar at night, the night breeze moving the curtains aside while you both met in your dreams. Something about “drowning in your hair” or “becoming a heater on foot” or something along the lines, his excuse changed each time on why he had the habit. And come the morning, the first rays of sunlight almost always woke you up, rendering your attempts at going back to sleep useless. For Minho, though, it was a welcome experience. He liked the experience: he would let the rays of light kiss his skin and warm him up until the heat became uncomfortable, then he would just get up and begin his day, not without leaving a kiss on your forehead, or waking you up along the way if you had something planned.

This morning too, your sleep was rudely interrupted when a certain angle allowed the light to hit you directly in the face, a groan leaving your slightly dry lips. Throwing your hip to the other side, you moved to seek refuge in the chest of your lover, only to find his side of the bed empty. A wandering hand, over where his body would be soon proved that the sheets were still somewhat warm. As your senses slowly came back to you, a faint sound of the faucet running from the bathroom confirmed that he began his morning routine, either brushing his teeth or washing his face.

You weighed your options: you could bury yourself in the pillows, preferably his since he wouldn’t be needing it back until the night, or maybe you could get up and pull the curtains, maybe close the window while you were at it too, you had air conditioning anyway, why not use that instead? But then, after a brief while, you realized why you couldn’t do that. Two things: one, you were very much naked under the thin layer of the blanket, and two, you were still feeling tired and sore.

Curse you, Lee Minho, you thought before groaning once again and turning to lay on your front, burying your face in his pillow. And curse you, Lee Minho, once again, for smelling heavenly.

And right on cue, as if thinking of him summoned him somehow, he was soon walking back into the room. The light sounds of his bare feet hitting the floor soon became clearer, indicating his presence back in your shared bedroom. “Nice to see you embrace the day, babe.”

“Eat a dick,” You bit back, sounding hostile yet cute to him as your voice was muffled with the pillow.

“Chirpy as always, just how I like it,” A chuckle followed as he sat down next to you, his upper body soon settled on top of your back. Another groan escaped you as soon as he let his upper half fully relax onto you, and a whine came after as you realized he did not plan on moving.

“Get up, you headass,” Turning your head to side, you tried to roll away, but seeing that would not work, you opted to wiggling your way out under the pile that was his body. He made his intentions clear, though, when he wrapped his arms tightly around your frame, ceasing your attempts of breaking free. He soon began trailing the back of your shoulder with kisses, and you knew he meant every single one of them. After all, he chose actions over words when you were being grumpy.

“You’re not aware of your own strength sometimes.”

“Honey? I’m back.” You set your backpack down, hands placed just above your waist as you leaned your body back into a small stretch. The drive to your friend’s home was not something so unfamiliar, but driving her to the airport was. But you didn’t complain. After all, she would be gone for a while, and you wanted to spend a night with her before she had to depart. Minho, on the other hand, did not comment on this, but he kept on messaging you throughout the night. It started with a simple “have you gotten there yet?”, soon followed by a classic “i miss youuuu”, and by the end of the night he was sending you links of cat vlogs he was watching until he passed out.

“Coming!” He shouted, from the kitchen, as you were untying your shoes. The sound of the wooden spoon hitting the pot three times travelled to your ears, his footsteps following shortly after. They, however, got faster as he got closer, and as soon as you placed your sneakers on the rack, his hands found you, fingers settling in their place between yours after he turned you to face him. It all happened fast; one second you were rendering the pleasant feeling of his fingers, the silver promise rings with the cat engravings meeting as your ring fingers have, and the next second his other arm was around your shoulders, pulling your figure towards him.

It felt right to be in that position with him. He felt like home.

Breathing in his cologne, your own free hand sneaked around his waist, fiddling with the strings of the apron he was wearing. The purple one, the one with the flowers on it. The one you got him.

“Ow, ow, ow, you brute! Too tight!” You giggled vain as the hand on his back traveled to his front, as if on autopilot, and you pressed against his torso to push him away, holding back the urge to curl your fingers and feel his firm figure, yet failing anyway. That apron was truly deceiving.

“Just let me hold you for a while, you minx,” His tone was a mix of loving and sarcastic, in an attempt to draw a laugh from you, which was successful in the end. You surrendered to the demands of the man, sighing as your hand once again went around his waist, head laid over his collarbones but still close enough to hear his heartbeat.

He felt like home.

“You can’t lie to save your damn life.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

Uh oh.

You wouldn’t say you were caught red handed, no, that would be a stretch. In the middle of the act? Hmm, not quite.

You see, this was supposed to be a surprise for him. And he was supposed to be back around 8, not 6. Nevertheless, he caught you with a very confused look on your face as you held the fuzzy material on one hand, the building instructions on the other.

“You were not supposed to see this.” You looked around yourself; cream-colored pieces of what you were trying to assemble sprawled all around you on the ground, a couple of screwdrivers you thought you would need to use that never came in handy in the first place, and the cardigan you took off out of frustration surrounded you in where you sat. You could say that this, with the added bonus of him finding you like that, was not a bright moment.

“What was I not supposed to see, whatever you have there or your struggle?”

“I will not hesitate to beat you up with this instructions manual.”

There was truth to your words, he knew it. You could fold the pamphlet back to its smaller form and throw it in his direction, maybe hit him square in the chest to deal some lovely damage. He knew. And that’s why he laughed, earning a glare in return. He shook his head, putting down his duffel bag before walking up to your spot. “This is a cat tree, isn’t it?”

You wanted to bite back, the urge to realize the pamphlet threat was still there for a hot second. But then you saw the look in his eyes. Tenderness, filled his irises with a sweet sparkle as they trailed the pieces. A small hint of humor, as they reached the manual still in one hand, half of it resting on the floor. And finally love, as your gazes connected.

You wanted to bite back, but all your remarks died down in your throat when you realized he was genuine. So, you just nodded quietly. “I thought it would be easier than it seems. I wanted to have it ready for Soonie’s birthday.”

A sigh before he broke the gaze, looking over at the items separating you two before calculating where he could plant his feet. He stepped over the pieces of the cat tree carefully, moving ones by your figure away gently before he got down on his knees next to you. Wordlessly, he took the manual from your hand and took a look for himself, humming as he tried to understand the model. It didn’t take him long, though, as the small smile plastered on his lips grew bigger. He then put down the manual on the ground, taking the piece you had on your other hand, which you assumed to be the bed at the top. He examined the piece for a small moment before looking over at the instructions again. You could see all of the gears shifting in his head when suddenly he looked at you. Gently, he reached over to pet your hair gently, fingers sliding down to the side of your head to pull you slightly towards him as he, too, moved forward. Minho’s signature was small kisses; gentle, faint, butterfly-like touches of his lips against your skin, small pecks that left you wanting a thousand more. But sometimes, like now, he would hold the kiss for a while. Lips warm, kiss firm but still gentle, touch delicate. True to his fashion, however, once he pulled back, he still left a couple small pecks; on the lips, on the cheeks, on the jaw and the chin, wherever he could land his lips on. “Let me help you out, and then we could show it to the children, yeah?”

“Your showers take forever.”

“Lee Minho, wrap it the fuck up already.”

Twenty-five whole minutes he was in there, and every single time you asked him when he would be out, he said “in a few minutes”. He was taking his sweet damn time, and you were getting bored of waiting. How long does it even take to do a face routine?

“I’ll be done in a few minutes, be patient.” He shouted over the sound of the running water. As you listened closer, you could hear the faint sounds of scrubbing.

“Are you still washing your damn body?!” You stomped your foot on the marble floor, knocking on the frosted glass doors in hopes to annoy him out of there.

“Don’t pressure me!” he knocked back, three times just as you did.

“I’ll pressure you all I want,” You knocked, once again three times. “I need to shower too!”

You waited for his remark, for the sound of three sets of knocks on the glass to hit your ears. But there was none of it. Instead, he slid the door slightly before he popped out his head. Droplets of water running down, from his slicked back hair down his neck to his collarbones, from his long eyelashes down his cheeks to the chiseled line of his jaw. “You could have just joined me, you know that right?”

You knew he was right; it wasn’t anything you haven’t done before, countless times at that point. Whether it be washing each other's hair, laughing at nothing until you got shampoo in your eyes and him, worriedly, scooping some water into his palm before washing your face softly, or enjoying a silent embrace under the lukewarm water after a particularly tiring day, bodies becoming one along with your heartbeats as you laid your head on his chest and him on the dip of your shoulder. You knew he was right, and you hated it.

“Fine, but you’ll do my face routine too.” You sighed before reaching to take off your shirt, placing the material on top of his pile of clothes.

“So demanding.”

“You’re really awful at cooking.”

“Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise?”

Minho didn’t usually take mid-day naps, he liked to utilize his days as much as he could. But sometimes he couldn’t help it, work truly took a toll on him sometimes. And it certainly didn’t help that you urged him to take the said naps, even playing with his hair, or giving him tiny lazy kisses, or just massaging his back gently until he fell asleep. He appreciated your efforts into getting him to get some rest, even if it took some convincing sometimes.

And today too, he came back around two in the afternoon, having worked hard to finish his duties earlier to spend some more time with you on a sunny Friday afternoon. But he could not fool you even if he tried, you could literally see the tiredness dripping from his eyes, the very eyes that he could not keep open as he blinked slowly, gaze clearly not focused as it was set on the television. You tsked a few times, telling him to head to the bedroom already to take a nice nap. Per usual, he first refused your offer, shaking his head before rubbing his palms over his face in an attempt to wake himself up a little. It took a bit of bargaining, and a promise to take a bath together later in the evening, but he finally agreed, getting up from his spot on the couch to head to the bedroom, but not before taking your hand in his, a non-verbal plea for you to lull him to sleep as always. And who were you to say no, really.

And now, there you both were, in the kitchen, after two and a half hours to be exact. He looked less tired now, face a bit puffy but eyes clearly more alive. “What do you have there?”

“I’m just trying to make some soup, you made this one last week so I wanted to try making it for you,” You looked back on the counter, the cut vegetables and seasoning still present for him to see as well. You went back to your task before his interruption, stirring for a bit more before adjusting the heat to a bit lower. Stretching, and groaning, as he made his way to you, he peeked over your shoulder to see the broth, eyebrows furrowed slightly as he took in the crime scene. Reaching for the drawer to fetch a spoon, you stepped to the side to give him some room in front of the stove. “Do you want to try it?”

He took the spoon from you, stirring the soup a bit more before scooping up a small amount. He blew on it a couple times, until the steam coming off from the spoon was less dense, and brought the utensil to his mouth. Eyes glued onto his face to see if you’d get his seal of approval, going over each detail as his expression shifted. You did not get the approval; that much you could tell from his wordless reactions.

“That bad?” A small pout danced across your lips as he put down the spoon. You waited for the words to come out, for him to point out what was missing or what was too much; what exactly went wrong with your goddamn soup. But he did not do that. Instead, he gave you a soft smile before walking away to grab his apron, putting it over his head as he walked back to you and turning around, yet another silent plea thrown your way, for you to tie his apron for him. And once again, who were you to say no, really.

“We can still fix it, just follow my instructions.”

“You play stupid pranks on me all the time.”

Minho never thought that incorporating pranks into his relationship would be as entertaining as this. He had done nearly all of the classics; the fake hair snip, the jello gag that ruined one of your eyeshadows, the autocorrect on your phone, you name it. Though, there was still one he had in mind; one more trick to tick off of his list. And now, seeing as you started running the shower, it seemed like the perfect time.

You, on the other hand, had enjoyed a lazy Sunday for yourself, and a shower before dinner did not seem like a bad idea. Dates on Sunday nights, after the dinner, was not uncommon for both of you, so maybe starting to freshen up in the afternoon was a good idea. The water was nice, your shampoo smelled great as always, and the loofah felt good on your skin.

Even better, once you got out of the shower, your fluffy towel was waiting for you, newly washed and smelling fresh with lavender scented detergent. Securing it around your chest, and wrapping another on your head, you soon made it to your bedroom to follow your body routine. The rest followed per usual; lotions, creams, moisturizers, so on so forth. And soon, you have changed out of the towel back to your clothes, making your way back to the bathroom to dry your hair.

Damp towel put aside, you were in the midst of untangling the stubborn knots with the brush when you noticed Minho leaning on the door frame; arms strong, crossed over his chest, head tilted to the side slightly.

“What?” you smiled at him through the mirror, looking back at yourself when he shook his head.

“Can I not watch the love of my life doing mundane tasks?” The look on his face feigned innocence.

“That’s your ‘’I’m-up-to-no-good’ face, what have you done?” Putting down the brush, you reached for the hair dryer, missing the mischievous grin on his face entirely.

“Absolutely—” It all happened too fast. Before he could finish his rather short response, you picked up the hair dryer, held it in position so it would be aimed to the side of your head, and pressed down on the button, on full blast. You, however, were not met with the heat of the device. As soon as the hair dryer came to life, it blasted you with a white powder, stunning you in where you stood. “— nothing.”

Not even three seconds have passed until you turned the power off, but it was fair to say that the amount of what you assumed to be flour sprayed on you was enough to send Minho over the moon with glee, waves of laughter bouncing off the tiled walls of the bathroom. You opened your eyes slowly, looking at him, once again, through the mirror only to see him doubled over, holding his side with one hand and supporting himself up with the other on the door frame. Slowly turning over to him, you took a deep breath before placing the hair dryer down.

“I'm going to give you exactly five seconds before my foot finds your dick.”

“You become too quiet sometimes.”

“... and then the book ends just like that, with absolutely no explanations whatsoever!” he exclaimed, eyes too focused on the glasses, the utensils and the plates he had been rinsing for the past few minutes. Away on a trip to Jeju Island with the boys, he treasured the small moments these chores had created for him, an excuse to lean his phone on one of the bottles, a safe distance away from any wetness that can contact the device, and call you to ask you about your day and tell you about his in return. It was supposed to be a small trip, about 10 days to be exact. And even though he would never admit it, he missed you like crazy each passing day. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment that it all started, but he soon found himself thinking, taking mental notes on the things you could do together, spots where you could take photos, both of and with each other, all the food you could try. Things to enjoy together, just the two of you. And to his annoyance, his friends absolutely picked up on his behavior, often teasing him about his “longing gazes” and “increasing sighs”, Changbin even dared to ask him if they were not keeping him entertained with that high pitched voice of his, which unfortunately drew a chuckle from Minho that encouraged other boys to join in on the teasing. Nevertheless, he would wait patiently for the first chance of being by himself, long enough to call you on facetime.

And now, here he was, washing the remnants of a dinner filled with laughter and good memories, and going off about the ending of the book he brought with himself for the trip while you were nestled in your shared bed, laying on your side and facing the screen of your phone, feeling a bit cold, not due to the weather but due to his absence. You could still recall the day he bought the book. He got back home, just a few minutes after you did, with a huge smile on his face, and spent the dinner telling you about the author and the synopsis of the book. You also remembered not being able to hold back your own smile. There was something so sincere about his excitement, so pure with happiness that you couldn’t help but feel the same delight with him. That night, when you both got in bed, he had put on his glasses and read the first few chapters in a content silence as you dozed off next to him, happily taking the invitation to cuddle up to him and lay your head on his chest as he held the book with one hand and used the other to rest his head on, leaving his side completely open for you to wrap your arms around his frame, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat sounding like a sweet lullaby to your ear, regular breaths rocking you to a blissful sleep.

Now, those memories from just a week or two ago seemed so distant. You, too, would not admit it, just like him. But you missed him just as much, just as crazy.

Now, seeing him talk about this settled an unknown sense of longing, a different type that you never experienced before. It was an odd feeling; one you would not be able to put into words easily. You just wanted to be there with him, maybe. Hold one of his hands as the other maybe went up in the air to make gestures out of frustration, look into his eyes as he talked about something he was truly passionate about, just not through a phone screen.

“Honey?”

You snapped back to reality, not realizing how you had lowered your phone a bit, hands sliding down his pillow eyes had trailed off to where his head would be normally. “Hm?”

“Are you feeling sleepy? Did you not get enough sleep last night?” he put down the cup he just rinsed, the water no longer running as he turned his body fully to his phone, leaning in a bit to see you better. Even through the call, you could see the worry in his eyes, feeling guilty for unsettling him. You shook your head slightly, hoping he’d pick up the move without any buffering on his end of the call, image clear. Wordless as you stared at each other for a few seconds, he took off his gloves, hanging the wet latex by the sink as he picked up the phone in his hands, getting ready to leave the kitchen to go on the balcony for privacy. You didn’t even notice him finishing up, rinsing every single piece and putting them on the drying rack. Once he had shut the balcony door behind him, he took a seat on the wooden chair, his attention now fully on you. “You didn’t forget to eat, did you?”

“No, no, none of that. I just...” you began, taking a deep breath before pulling his pillow towards yourself, hugging it close to your body before licking your lips. Here goes nothing. “I just missed you a bit too much today, you know?”

To say that Minho wasn’t expecting these words to come out from your mouth wouldn’t be bizarre. Sure, he was certain that you would miss him too, but that really was not what he was expecting to hear at that moment. Regardless, the feeling of his heart swelling in his chest, as well as skipping a beat or two, did not go unmissed by him. Now it was his turn to wander off into the distance, eyes trailing into the starry sky that he knew you too would see if you looked out of the window. “I missed you too.”

“You have a tendency to bottle up your feelings.”

“Fuck!” The sound of a thud and glass breaking came from the hallway before his voice did, alerting you and the three cats hanging around you, especially poor Dori on your lap, briefly before you muted the television, leaning on the other side of the sofa to see what just occurred. Getting up to investigate, not before placing Dori on the ground safely, you found Minho standing next to the bathroom door, the framed painting that Hyunjin did for you two on the ground.

“Babe, what happened?” You walked up to him, carefully looking around to see how far the glass had spread on the floor. As you assessed the damage, thinking that luckily both of you were wearing slippers, you noticed the small scrape on his ankle, a red line slowly appearing on where the flying glass would have contacted his delicate skin. Feeling a pang in your chest, you frowned before looking up at him, seeing him in an almost trance-like state as he kept his eyes closed, unmoving, taking deep breaths. “I’ll clean this up babe, okay? Just get back in the bathroom and clean your cut, you know where first aid kit is.”

When you returned to the hallway after fetching the vacuum cleaner, as well as a trash bag to dispose of the broken glass, you were met with an empty hallway, relieved to see that he listened. You could tell he had a bad day; you knew him too well to read his signs. He was quiet ever since coming back home, held you a second too long when he embraced you, retreated into the bathroom to take a short shower after the dinner, outlandish and uncharacteristic of him, and quietly got dressed and dried his hair afterwards.

After wrapping up the cleaning process carefully, and throwing out the trash bag as well as putting the vacuum cleaner back to its place, you wandered off to the bathroom quietly, only to find Minho sitting on top of the toilet with the first aid kit resting on his lap, eyes emptily focused on the fuzzy rug he insisted on putting on the floor when you first moved in together. Without saying any words, not needing to anyway, you approached his defeated figure, taking the small bag off his lap before leaning in to plant a kiss on his forehead. He closed his eyes once again, this time in what you hoped to be in ease, one of his hands finding your waist in a tired attempt of holding you. Picking up the said hand, you gave another kiss to his palm before sitting on the floor, cross legged, and putting the injured foot on your lap. Thankfully, it was not a deep cut, nothing a few days couldn’t fully heal, but still needed cleaning. Unzipping the first aid kit, you began to dig through the contents and placed the ones you’d need on the ground next to you. “Do you want to tell me what happened today hm?”

“It’s nothing important,” he answered quietly, watching you carefully as you began cleaning up his wound with tender hands.

“If it’s bothering you, it’s important for me, Minho.” You stopped your movements for a second, looking up into his eyes with a determined gaze. “If there is anything I can do to help, even if it’s just listening to what’s on your mind, I will do it and you know it.”

“I know it, I don’t doubt that. It’s just... work related. I’m being undercut,” he took a second to select his words. “My promotion is being postponed again. I know I have been working hard, if not harder than anyone else. I know I am putting quality work on the line and I know I am a good fucking employee. I want to quit this goddamn company already but I don’t want to start at somewhere new and climb that ladder all the way up again. Even the guys brought it up to the manager and he is still not... I’m just so tired of this.”

“Why didn’t you talk to me sooner babe?” You asked once again, voice veiled with concern as you finished taking care of his cut, placing the band aid with smiling grapes printed on it over the sterilized skin. You did not move from your spot, however, hand caressing his calf soothingly.

“It’s just work stuff and there is absolutely nothing we can do about it. It feels useless to complain about something I can’t fix.” He answered, overcome with emotion as his throat swelled and tightened a bit, voice cracking towards the end of his sentence as tears of frustration occupied his lower lids. He was quick to take a deep breath to calm down, however, gulping down the lump in his throat before wiping at the wetness that trailed down his cheeks slowly, shaking his head.

“Well, regardless of whether you can— we can fix it or not, I don’t want you to hold it all in like this. I don’t want your worries and your problems to go unsaid.” You explained, in a calm and caring voice, before leaning in and resting your head on his knee, feeling his hand on your head as he did not hold back the sob that climbed its way up his throat this time. “I love you too much to see you upset like this. Even if there is nothing I can do to help, I will still sit down and listen to you. We’re in this together, okay? Don’t forget that.”

“And yet...” you trailed off, staring into the glass of red wine in your hand while a stupid smile was plastered on his face, heart heavy with emotions he could not fully verbalize.

“And yet... I still love you so much.” Looking into your joined hands on the small table set on the balcony, dinner now long forgotten as you both focused on the wine instead, you couldn’t help but lean closer to him on the loveseat. A smile, mirroring his own with just how naïve and dazed you must have looked, adorned your face. You couldn’t help but look up into him, getting lost, for what could be the millionth time, in the warm brown of his eyes. Long lashes directed towards you, he blinked slowly with nothing but love in his eyes as the sounds of the city night, along with the soft song from the playlist he made Chan create for the occasion rang through both your ears, blending into a pleasant duet.

Words did not come easy with him, and there were certainly moments where you felt like punching him in the kidneys. But it was true, he loved you so much. And you knew it was pure, deep within his heart.

“I feel like I love you the most.” You couldn’t help but tease, almost knowing what his response would be while your smile was beginning to be colored with tones of playfulness.

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.” There it was, the overwhelming feeling of a tingling in your hand, ready to be balled into a fist that would love to meet him. But you just scoffed.

“You ass...” Leaning your head up, you caught his lips in a graceful peck, mimicking his style of leaving small kisses rather than long ones, the taste of the wine blending as your lips did momentarily. It seemed to work, and that he got a taste of his own medicine, because you could not hold back the small giggle that dared to escape your mouth when he chased after you, a newfound silent plea to add to his list. He smiled once again, letting go of your hand to grab your chin softly as he leaned in. The second kiss, somehow even sweeter, lasted longer, left you feeling like a field full of butterflies dancing around spring blooms. Soon, his lips left yours to wander off to the side, blessing your cheeks with small pecks, as well as your nose, before leaning his forehead on yours, eyes closing in comfort.

“Happy anniversary honey.”

“Happy anniversary babe.”

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stark-alchemy · 3 years ago

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WAKE UP BABE! NEW AU DROPPED!

I submit to the Council of Simps for SimpTember: Splatoon 3!au aka The Candy Shop!au aka "Insert Tidal Here"!

This au features Sun as a Heavy Starfish, a species of Deep Water starfish, Moon as a Gulper Eel, and me and my brothers Spatoon characters, Jam-oo <Ja-moo> and Stark.

Story goes; that Stark is a 20-something inkling that's been living in the Splatlands since she was a teen. Initially from Greater Inkopolis, Stark traveled that way to explore and get away from home and enjoy life and turf wars. On the way there she met a Young Sun and Moon, also headed to Splatsville and the three became close friends.

Over time the brothers opened up a candy shop, selling ability enhancing candies to the kids in Turf battles. Sundrops provide an energy boost and speed enhancement, while Moondrops, are defense building and can increase weapon damage temporarily! While theyr'e very freindly, they're noted to be quite menacing to visitors, but it's mostly due to Sunnys overbearing sweet personality and his habit of keeping rules and rulebreakers out, and Moon's general large smile he pulls when he wants to scare the late night visitor who he thinks should be sleeping. Stark tends to be the friendly face of the the shop that Inklings and Octolings know.

Sun is a huge fan of Anarchy Rainbow, and Moon was a fan of Harmony's band, Chirpy Chips, and sees her as a pretty cool musician. Both Sun and Moon have difficulty seeing well during the day, since they're used to a darker environment, but they make due. Sun can see better than Moon, due to his lenses and the extra eyes at the end of his arms. Moon keeps the backrooms where they store stock dark and he likes to laugh at Sun when he stumbles in after being outside in the light after a long day.

Stark is showing her brother Jamo around her home and spending time with him since he'll be moving to the Splatlands as well with how the city is expanding. Stark figured that starting with their roommates would would be the best to start off with. Shame it doesn't work like that and he just ends up worried they're gunna eat his sis, despite the three of them living together for 10+ years.

Added sketches of the meeting comics I'm working on!

Sun knowing no boundaries, Moon being creepy on demand, Stark being protective but not helpful, and Jamo knowing no peace.

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kuvvydraws · 3 years ago

Note

are there any raavi bitty hcs?

You have some previous asks about bitty!Raavi here and here

But now I'm going for bitty types as well, so under the cut it goes!

These bitties are not for the faint of heart. They don't look dangerous if one overlooks the fangs and sharp tail, but that's not what makes them a menace - it's their minds. These bitties have limitless reserves of energy and most of it will be spend either machinating or enacting pranks. More fun that perilous, but always unexpected, so their owner will be on their toes a lot of the time until they've formed a bond with their bitty and they settle.

They're harmless little creatures, outside of their pranking, and will easily bond with most bitties if their owner has them. If not, it's recommended, as Raavi bitties need a lot of company if their owner can't be with them. Under this circumstances, it's pertinent to remind new owners that Raavis will cause mischief anywhere, including the workplace, so it's advised against taking them there if they're not completely sure their bitty will obey when told to behave.

These bitties are fidgety and affectionate, and will try to spend a lot of time on or around their owner, or by other bitties if they're not available. They enjoy chatting, and some lazier bitty types might find them annoying. However, Raavis are not picky nor confrontational, and they tend to get along with most types, learning to match their energy and preferred activities in order to fit in. Raavis are highly adaptable types, and will happily share their space with new or old companions, human or animal.

Raavis are rather indecent bitties. Nor only is their blubbering neverending, it tends to deviate from proper conversation topics and twist into more shameless alleyways as their comfort with their new companions strengthens. Raavis are impenitent flirters, and will dish sugar at any moving target that doesn't seem too dangerous. At the same time, dangerous is a matter of perception, so no even the brazen bitty types, be it Bosses or Edgies, are safe from them.

Raavis are good companions for shyer owners, as they can carry a conversation (or two or three) on their own, be it with their owner or a store clerk, if needed. Despite their overbearing personality, Raavis can actually tone down their energy when comfortable, and they make for reassuring companions. They're prone to praise as well, so nor their owner neither they bitty siblings will feel the need of an ego-boost ever again.

These bitties, despite their extroverted character, tend to get nervous in new situations. Reassurances, some kissing and compliments are the way to go to bring them back to their usual chirpiness.

Despite being perfectly able to climb and jump, and will do when needed, Raavis prefer to be carried around, taking advantage of their cute looks to get free rides if their owner indulges them.

It's unwise to pair these bitties with types prone to mischief only. While it's true they come in pairs of siblings, as most skeleton types do, pairing a Raavi and an Órdago together with no other bitty to balance them is dangerous. While it's true they compliment each other, they're both chaotic bitty types, and they need an extra source of calm to reign them in. In this case, the owner must be aware of Órdagos' behavioral patterns in order to partner with a bitty that can be tolerated.

A Raavi left with an Órdago has a lot more magic at their disposal to make mischief, and Órdagos' sense of danger is even more twisted than the prior's. At the same time, Órdagos will feel more relaxed when around a Raavi, their aggression less patent, but they tend to become overprotective and develop a short fuse, of which the Raavi will take advantage.

#kuvvytalks #raavi #órdago #bittybones #hc #this ends a bit abruptly but oh well #undertale

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olivinesea · 4 years ago

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Wait on the Sun

a/n: hello! It’s been forever, I had to turn my brain off for a hot second but I’m back, ready to roll. Some implied/referenced abuse but it’s vague.

Tadpoles are turning into frogs; or Aaron & Sean spend a day at the river. ~4.4k

He was running. He’s not sure where he’s running to but his breathing tastes like blood and he can feel the menacing presence chasing him gaining ground. He can’t quite hear its approach but the fear of it grips his heart like a vice.

He knows he can’t stop running.

If he stops he will be caught and pulled into the vortex of fury he feels close on his heels. Sweat rolls into his eyes, blurring his vision and he misses his step, ankle rolling and knees giving out. He crashes hard onto his palms and knees, feeling the skin ripping away on impact. Whatever or whoever has been chasing him closes the remaining distance between them. He hears whistling as something large and heavy cuts through the air, aimed at his helpless form. He opens his mouth, sucking in air to scream in fear and frustration, caught once again.

A small hand patted his cheek insistently, his name whined in concern. His eyes flew open as the strangled scream died on his lips. He blinked rapidly, bringing Sean into focus, standing right beside Aaron’s bed, small eyebrows drawn together.

“Aaron?” he repeated, worried.

He closed his eyes, inhaling through his nose, noticing that the air still seemed to drag through overexerted lungs. “It’s okay, Sean,” his voice was raspy and faint. He felt lightheaded but ignored that to push himself upright, sliding his legs over the edge of the bed. Sean pressed his small body against his side, leaning into him, seeking comfort for them both. Aaron wrapped one arm around his little brother’s bony shoulders and used the other hand to rub the remaining sleep from his eyes. He felt as drained as if he hadn’t slept at all. With dreams like that one a common occurrence, it was rare that he got any meaningful rest at night. It left him a little dazed, a little slow during the day. If anyone noticed they thought he was being sullen. He found he didn’t mind what they thought as long as they didn’t ask questions. His shirt stuck to his skin with sweat from the nightmare and the hot, humid air that hung thick from the moment summer began. Sean twisted to look up at him, bottom lip sucked in between his teeth.

“‘m hungry,” he said.

Aaron let out a soft laugh, more exhale than laughter. Sean was always hungry. This didn’t bother Aaron, in fact it was the opposite. He took pride in caring for his brother, watching how he grew bigger year to year, hitting all the appropriate milestones for a kid his age. Rather than feel resentment at the contrast in their childhoods, he felt a desperation for Sean’s to be perfect, for him to have everything he needed and more. He was relieved at Sean’s lack of hesitation to state his needs, to assert his presence in the world.

“Go put on some clothes and I’ll make you breakfast,” he said, giving Sean a gentle push between the shoulder blades, pointing him towards the doorway. Once Sean was out of sight, he carefully peeled off his shirt to exchange it for a clean one. He hesitated, it was far too hot for long sleeves, even for him with his perpetually chilled skin. The summer air was more than just hot, it was heavy and it pressed close against him. He glanced down at himself, taking a quick inventory. There wasn’t much to worry about, nothing he couldn’t explain away with a shrug and a vague comment about clumsiness. Besides, he didn’t plan on seeing anyone today anyway. He put on a loose t-shirt and some old jeans he’d cut off at the knees.

Sean was already waiting for him in the hallway, his pale blue dinosaur shirt on backwards and a grin on his face. “I want pancakes,” he said in his chirpy child’s voice. Aaron reached down a hand to ruffle his hair but glanced at their parents’ closed door.

“C’mon you,” he said quietly, steering him to the staircase. He strained his ears but didn’t hear any sounds of movement. If he was lucky it would be awhile before either of them made an appearance.

Once downstairs he pulled a bowl and cereal out of the cupboard and milk from the fridge. Climbing into a chair, Sean whined a little. He really wanted pancakes. But it was far too hot to be cooking anything plus Aaron didn’t want to risk the mess that came with the production of pancakes. He set a bowl of sugary cereal in front of Sean and tried to encourage him to eat it by pretending to steal a bite. When Sean just sat and pouted at him, he chewed on the corner of his lip, trying to think of what else he could offer that wouldn’t be loud or messy.

He returned to the fridge and found a package of raspberries. Sean kept his eyes on Aaron’s back as he busied himself with something on the counter, out of sight. Aaron turned around and approached the table, hands behind his back. Sean watched him, spoon in one hand, eyes narrowed. Aaron had the slightest smile on his face, just the corner of his mouth quirked up. Once he was within reach of Sean he swung his hands in front of him, wiggling his fingers in Sean’s face. His surprised giggle was the sweetest sound, breath catching as his eyes scrunched up. He grabbed one of Aaron’s hands with both of his own, pulling it close in order to bite off one of the raspberries, not being particularly careful about sparing Aaron’s fingers in the process.

“Hey!” he snatched his hand back from the ferocious five year old. “I need those.” He then slid the remaining raspberries on top of Sean’s cereal, popping the last one in his mouth. The fruit juice woke up his stomach, which growled around its emptiness. He glanced briefly at the bowl of cereal Sean was now happily crunching through, wistful for a moment, almost tasting the competing soft and crispy textures, the overly sweetened milk. He debated getting some for himself, maybe just a small bowl. He rubbed his fingers together as he thought, weighing the risks of indulging his craving, giving in and eating something that was expressly not for him.

Sean looked up at him smiling around the spoon in his mouth. “Can I have some more?”

Aaron laughed, “That’s probably enough sugar for you. It’s not even nine a.m., kid.”

Sean pursed his lips, prepared to argue his case, filled with promises of good behavior and doing exactly as he was told all day. Aaron had heard it all before. The kid could never overcome the sugar rush, no matter his sincerest intentions.

“I’ll make you a sandwich. Drink your milk.”

Aaron was in the middle of slathering bread with peanut butter when a loud crash came from upstairs. He looked up startled, then over to Sean who had been pretending to be a cat as he lapped at the milk in his bowl. He looked up at Aaron, milk on his chin, expression curious, unsure.

“Go put on your shoes,” Aaron said in a low voice. He anxiously wrapped up the sandwich as Sean disappeared into the washroom behind the kitchen. He put everything away, making it seem as if they were never there. Straining his ears, he thought he could hear the muffled sound of voices. He closed his eyes, willing himself to keep moving, he didn’t need to listen to know what sort of conversations were being had.

He found Sean fumbling to tie his shoelaces, still a little too uncoordinated to be successful. Aaron shoved his feet in his own sneakers, not bothering to untie them, heels folded under his feet. He handed Sean the sandwich and knelt down to quickly arrange the uncooperative laces.

“I can do it myself!” Sean protested but Aaron shook his head, still listening to assess whether anyone was coming down the stairs. He’d fallen asleep to the bitter sound of his mother crying and he didn’t want Sean to see whatever might emerge from their bedroom first thing in the morning.

“Let’s go,” he stood up and pushed Sean gently towards the back door in the same motion. He closed the door softly behind them, eyes lingering on the little bit of the interior he could see through the window. Turning around, he saw that Sean had wandered off into the open space beyond the house. He was looking closely at the ground as he walked, searching for treasures only perceptible to young children. Aaron jogged to catch up with him, shoes slapping against his heels. He wiped a hand across his forehead where sweat beaded already. He was worried Sean would ask questions, would wonder at the connection between the sounds from upstairs and their swift exit. But when he looked up, his childlike features round and open, there was no trace of worry. His cheeks were flushed in the heat and his shirt was sticking to him. He shifted his shoulders, trying to adjust the fabric so it didn’t cling and looked longingly back at the house.

“It’s too hot out here,” he was trying not to whine but the heat was truly unbearable. It hadn’t been much better inside, the air still and oppressive, but at least there hadn’t been the sun glaring directly down on them.

“I know, buddy,” Aaron was sympathetic. He also wished for somewhere cool and safe but he knew they wouldn’t find that inside that house. “Let’s go to the river.”

Sean brightened, immediately launching into a list of things he wanted to look for along the water. He started moving again, more purposefully, brushing his fingers along the tops of the tall grass that covered the field. Aaron walked beside him, half listening to his elaborate plans, half of his attention taken with calculating how long he could keep Sean out of the house. The summer came with far more problems than he liked. It would be a surprise to learn that someone so young had such an ambivalent view of the season most children anticipated with restless excitement—the chance to be free of rules and routine for a few endless weeks. To allow their thoughts and feet to wander in ways they didn’t have time for the rest of the year.

But to Aaron, all that unstructured time only increased the instability in the foundation of his existence. Nowhere to be meant nowhere to hide, no routine meant more opportunities to accidentally cross paths with his father. And now, since Sean had gotten old enough to be more independent, unafraid to be away from his mother’s side, Aaron felt it was his responsibility to make sure he stayed out of harm’s way. Keeping a kid out from underfoot required a lot of energy, a lot of ideas for activities to occupy him. He did his best to distract him from the tension of frayed nerves that threatened to snap at any moment as the heat constricted their movements. Each day was a test to see how far he could make it without attracting his father’s attention, how long he could successfully keep to the background. It usually meant taking Sean out of the house (it’s hard for a five year old to play quietly all day long) and as the days got deeper into the summer, the weather outside became more and more unbearable.

They reached the trees that marked the edge of the woods, the river only a little further beyond the border. The shade dropped the temperature by several degrees, the soft dirt absorbing rather than radiating heat. Like a pebble rolling downhill, Sean’s steps sped up as they got within sight of the water. Aaron followed closely behind, only just catching him by the back of his shirt as he tripped on a rock and started to pitch forward into the water. Instead of being scared Sean screeched with excited laughter, the joy of being at the river completely outweighing any earlier disgruntlement.

Aaron let go as he regained his balance and they both kicked off their shoes. The chill of the water was bright and sharp against his skin as he stepped into a shallow sandy patch. He felt the fine grit of the dirt between his toes and smiled, wiggling them slightly. He turned to Sean who was silent beside him, squatted down so low on his knees he was in danger of fully sitting down in the river. He was peering closely at the water that pooled between larger rocks along the shore. His eyes waited for the silt they’d dislodged to settle again and reveal every child’s favorite prey.

A few moments later there came a happy shriek, “I see one!” Aaron bent forward to get in line with Sean’s view and spotted the the little brown tadpole, its tail wiggling furiously. Then, like a lens coming into focus, they could suddenly see dozens, hundreds more of the oddly proportioned creatures, with round front halves that nearly overbalanced them. Their tails waved frantically to propel them, lurching from place to place. They congregated thickly along the edges of the rocks and in patches of underwater grass. Some of the larger ones even had tiny back feet poking out to the sides, not yet large enough to be helpful but showing the beginnings of a promise fulfilled.

The boys stepped carefully a little deeper into the river, positioning themselves in a way that corralled the tadpoles in front of them. From there, they bent close to the water, hands poised just above the surface. They froze like that long enough to convince the tadpoles the shadows they cast were nothing to fear, then scooped down swiftly, attempting to capture one of the wiggling creatures. The tadpoles were fast and burning with self-preservation instincts, their only aim to evade capture and achieve the next step in life—something more autonomous, more independence available with the addition of limbs and lungs. They were awaiting the chance to be predators rather than prey. Until they made it, they would use every trick they possessed of speed and deception and camouflage to survive their uncertain youth.

This didn’t dissuade the brothers’ enjoyment in any way, the chase was entirely the point of the activity. Sean’s hands were too small to have a good chance at catching one but Aaron managed to cup one, bringing it carefully to Sean’s eye level. They were hypnotized by the way it launched itself from side to side in its new enclosure, burrowing against the cracks where his fingers met, searching for a tunnel to freedom. No matter how hard it thrashed its tail, it couldn’t build up enough force to escape. After a minute Aaron gently lowered his hands to the water, releasing the tadpole, which dove down and away from them as fast as it could.

Aaron felt an odd sense of longing as he watched it go. Surely it was ridiculous for a human to feel jealous of a tadpole, and yet, their lives were so simple, so inevitable. He was snapped out of the thought before it went too far by a large spray of water against his side. Sean looked at him with a wicked grin and splashed him again. Aaron retaliated with a much larger wave of water. The two boys laughed and shouted, splashing each other, quickly making enough noise to scare the tadpoles into further hiding, seeking calmer locales to continue their single minded development into frogs.

To stop him from splashing more, Aaron pulled Sean in against his side, laughingly begging for mercy from the vicious water attack. Sean’s giggles died down into a sigh as he rubbed his face against his brother’s hip, inhaling the familiar scent of laundry and river water. He loved his brother so much when he was like this. When he was smiling and playful, not distracted or insisting Sean be quieter. Sean thought the world would be perfect if he could have this Aaron all the time.

“I wanna swim.”

Aaron sighed, “Not today buddy.” He wasn’t up for swimming and all the risks that it might entail. Sure they were alone right now, but anyone could appear at any moment. It was more than hot enough to drive people to the nearest water source and frankly, he was a little surprised to have the place to themselves. Swimming meant a level of vulnerability that he couldn’t deal with right then. He was too tired, barely able to sleep between the nightmares and the sounds that haunted the hallways of their home late at night.

“C’mon, let’s get out. You’re wet enough to have been swimming anyway. You look like a drowned rat.”

“Do not!” Sean swung his hand across the surface, splashing them both heavily with the displaced water. Aaron laughed and picked him up under the armpits, carrying his squirming body, all muddy feet and wet hair, back to the bank. He set him down and warned him not to wander too far before finding a flat rock to settle on himself. Sean hummed at him, back already turned and engrossed in a new curiosity. Aaron leaned back, eyes heavy as he watched his little brother use a stick to poke at the ground along the shallow edge of the water. He smiled a little, thankful that, though opinionated, Sean was usually good about following directions. He wandered slowly, occasionally bending close to the ground to get a better look at something.

Aaron’s thoughts drifted, floating as aimlessly as a dandelion seed, the kind people said to make wishes on. He’d never had any of his wishes come true so he’d stopped trying. Though maybe it had been his own fault, maybe he’d had the wrong kind of wishes in the first place. He’d never wanted normal things, tangible items like a new toy or a puppy. Things that could be granted instantly. The things he wished for took time—strength, security, love. Maybe it was just a matter of patience.

He wondered if Sean had learned about dandelion wishes yet and decided he’d show him and hope the kid had better luck than he’d had. He felt drowsy though he knew he needed to keep an eye out, Sean was fairly responsible but still so young, too young. His stomach growled and he wrapped his arms around himself, pulling his knees into his chest, trying to trick his insides with external pressure. Mindlessly he picked at a scab on his shin, the result of a bug bite he’d scratched at too much. He had a hard time leaving them alone, always worrying at it until it bled, always making it worse somehow. His eyes closed, the heat wrapping him like a down comforter, the exhaustion catching up to him now that he was relaxed in this moment of relative safety.

A heavy buzz in his ear startled him, his eyes flying open as he waved a hand to swat at the mosquito. He looked for Sean and didn’t see him immediately. He scrambled to his feet, cursing himself, horrible scenarios jumping easily into his mind.

“Sean!”

No response.

“Sean!” he yelled louder. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling a little too hard. He was inhaling to yell again, stepping off the rock to search, when Sean appeared, standing up from a crouch, much farther away than Aaron would like. The next time he called Sean’s name it was sharp and angry and the smile he’d had when he saw Aaron faded a little. He trotted back, clutching something to his chest. He stumbled once on the uneven ground but regained his balance without letting go of whatever riches he’d amassed.

“You shouldn’t go so far away,” Aaron scolded.

Sean shrugged and unrolled his shirt, glancing at Aaron to gauge his reaction. He revealed a dozen or so small, flat rocks and long streaks of mud. He was clearly proud of his findings and though Aaron grimaced at the dirt, he did his best to match Sean’s excitement. He would just rinse the shirt out before they went home. They sorted them into piles of larger and smaller rocks and found a place to stand where the water was widest in order to practice skipping them. Sean was still learning but had been getting better this summer, finally coordinated enough to get the tiny rocks to jump two or three times before sinking. Aaron, with his longer arms and a decade more of practice, could reach a much higher number, one even making it all the way across to the other bank. Sean sucked air through his teeth, impressed.

“I wish I could do that,” he pouted. He was determined to be just like his big brother.

Aaron laughed, “Don’t worry, it’ll happen buddy.”

Attempting to get Sean to smile again, Aaron, now out of rocks, pretended he was going to use him as a skipping stone. He’d lifted him under the shoulders and knees and was swinging him back and forth, pretending to gauge his throw when the first thick raindrop landed.

At first it was a relief from the unrelenting heat, turning their faces up to the cooling drops, eyes closed as the water rolled down their cheeks. But the rainstorm intensified quickly and they could hear thunder crack loudly in the distance. Aaron quickly pulled Sean out of the water and away from the river. Almost instantly, the world had turned a dark purple, clouds thick and menacing above them. Aaron, kneeled down, scrambling to get Sean’s shoes back on, while Sean stood wide-eyed, still gripping his last rock tightly in his fist. He was busy tying the second shoe when lightning hit again, this time close enough that it illuminated the sky for a moment, the thunder following quickly behind it. Sean grabbed Aaron’s shirt with his other hand, fabric bunched in his small fist. Aaron softly disentangled Sean’s fingers as he stood up and put his feet in his own shoes. He used a finger to pull the heel out from under his foot while continuing to hold Sean’s hand with the other hand. It was now raining so hard there was water running into his eyes.

He straightened just as the lightning cracked again, striking a tree on the opposite bank. He was blinded, no sense of anything beyond the thunder immediately sounding and the air that smelled like burnt wood and ozone. Aaron stared at the tree, drawn in by the powerful electricity, tempted by the burn mark. He was fascinated by the way the change was so instantaneous. No waiting, no build up, no years of patience in order to become something else. Just here and then gone in the space of a heartbeat. He was completely frozen by the thought, an unexpected shortcut through the dull regularity of time. Distantly he felt Sean’s hands tugging at his shirt, heard his small whimper. Guilt flooded his system when he looked down at his face, blond hair plastered down, water soaked through his clothes. Sean needed him here now.

“Hop on,” he turned and bent his knees so Sean could climb on his back, wrapping his arms tightly around Aaron’s neck. The pressure was a little too strong, narrowing his windpipe but he didn’t say anything. He shifted him slightly, making sure he had a good grip on his legs before running back toward the house, away from the river in the woods and the tree with the enticing burn. The sky lit up a few more times and they heard more thunder as they raced back to the house. Aaron’s lungs were burning by the time they got there, both completely soaked through. He ran up the back steps and opened the door, too high on adrenaline to consider what he might be rushing them into.

Their mother was standing in the kitchen, chopping vegetables. She turned her tired eyes to them as they crashed into the house. As Aaron helped Sean slide down to the floor, she eyed the puddle they dripped around them.

“Don’t wake your father up,” she sounded dull, voice monotone. She wore a turtleneck, sleeves pulled down to cover her thin wrists despite the stifling heat. Aaron closed his mouth, face now expressionless, the wildness of the lightning draining away, leaving a hollow obedience. He nodded, compliant. Sean went to take a step off the mat and Aaron pulled him back against his legs with a palm against his small chest.

Sean made a sound of protest. He was home, he was safe; he also had the energy of the storm running through his skin and all he wanted was to run to his mom and press himself against her warmth. Aaron rubbed his thumb in a small soothing circle against his collarbone, feeling how Sean’s heartbeat danced against his ribs. He met his mother’s eyes and they exchanged a silent understanding.

Sean wriggled harder against the restraining hand. He felt like he might cry, whether from fear or frustration or relief he didn’t know. He just knew that this scene they found themselves in felt off, the contrast of the silence of the house with the chaos outside amplifying his discomfort. He twisted, ready to lash out at his brother. This was all wrong.

“Come on,” Aaron said quietly, “let’s get you cleaned up.”

He picked Sean up, which was not exactly what he had wanted, but the closeness brought some comfort. He wrapped his arms around his brother’s neck and rested his head on his shoulder, his breaths evening out, warm against Aaron’s wet skin. He couldn’t understand the look he’d seen in his mother’s eyes. Like Aaron, sometimes she confused him, happy one moment and solemn the next. He was never sure what he’d done to make her draw away from him. He sniffled into Aaron’s shirt collar.

Aaron rubbed his back as he carried him up the stairs. “It’s gonna be okay, buddy.” He tried not to grit his teeth as he said it, wanting so badly for it to be true.

Sean nodded against his chest, still willing to believe his big brother would take care of everything.

#Criminal Minds #Aaron Hotch Hotchner #sean hotchner #young hotch #criminal minds fanfiction

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hydrangeasimagination · 5 years ago

Text

Crossover Crush Competition

Wherein which our dear characters meet their rival for your affections.

The twist is that they're from somewhere else.

Another universe!

I've been writing a lot of BNHA but we need some more love for the two other fandoms I write for!

But let's get into the contestants.... Shall we?

Thoughts in quotes are italicized.

In Kusuo’s case, words spoken through telepathy are bolded and italicized and are in quotes.

~ Dari

Round 1

Saiki Kusuo VS. Manuda Kaede (Saiki K & Kakegurui)

"It seems this is a running theme."

The thought was drier as the would-be tone used. Saiki's eyes didn't leave the bouncing form in the distance, the blur of two figures coming closer and becoming more clear with every step.

He'd wait though.

Always for you.

With that sweet as sugar smile he silently admired, you practically sang, "Kusuo!!"

His gaze drifted to the tall boy beside you. Just barely able to keep his expression neutral when he felt the onslaught of unpleasant thoughts from his head.

"So, this is the one that Jabami mentioned... I don't quite see what the fuss is."

Saiki nearly cringed, catching himself before he'd rolled his eyes.

It seems brooding megane were the type you attracted.

"What a pain."

"Kusuo, this is my friend from school," You gestured "Manyuda - senpai, this is Kusuo! My childhood friend."

Violet clashed with onyx, gazes hardening once they've crossed.

The psychic nearly considered taking off his own lenses, but with you there, he couldn't risk it.

No matter.

"Nice to meet you." The white haired male stiffly greeted. "I will be joining you both on this study session."

Kusuo just nodded.

Slowly, dark eyes flickered to give him a once over whilst the dialogue in his head played out. "There's nothing noteworthy of this Saiki Kusuo, seemed I was concerned for nothing. I don't understand why there's nothing but pictures of him in that notebook."

A fury blazed under his skin once those thoughts reached him, it'd apparently started showed in his face as he sees Manyuda narrow his eyes in return. But he didn't let him get the satisfaction for losing his temper for no good reason. Especially not in front of you.

"Ku?" The chime of your voice was filled with concern, making butterflies come alive in his stomach to overtake the anger.

"Let's go, my mom probably set out snacks."

Pointedly, he made eye contact with Manyuda and reached to take your hand.

A smug smile threatened to pull at his lips as he saw his shoulders tense.

"... Perhaps he is more of a threat than I thought."

Oh, he had no idea.

Round 2

Teruhashi Kokomi VS. Bakugo Katsuki (Saiki K & BNHA)

Teruhashi had a problem with Bakugo Katsuki.

He was a brute would be her first gripe.

Crude, rude, mouthy - not to mention cocky, self-righteous, and just straight up arrogant. It'd made him completely immune to her charms, even though he'd never hope to match up to her beauty.

Though she begrudgingly admitted he is good looking, though not enough to act how he does.

But that wasn't the root cause of the issue.

He was smart.

So much so that he could tell that she was putting up a front the entire time. It was frustrating how observant he was as it'd made him call her out even at risk of his own reputation.

Though it's clear he didn't care what people thought about him anyway so he has nothing to lose. He looked through her like it was the easiest thing he'd ever done.

But that wasn't the problem either.

Even though he drove her nuts with his indifference to her, his annoyance at her very presence.

How he'd branded her a “fake” and an “extra” boiled her blood.

She was tough - as thick skin was something she had to have as the pretty and perfect girl.

Bakugo Katsuki is a menace.

A handsome, smart, talented, menace that knew what he wanted.

They'd be a powerful pair if it weren't for one factor...

Her problem was him being around you.

Her crush.

You were lovely! So charming and soft, there's no pressure to be perfect around you because of that sugary aura and lovingly accepting nature. That tendency to fire back and match a flame makes you terribly alluring...

Much to her dismay, she wasn't the only one that thought so.

She sees how he looks at you.

How different he treats you to the rabble...

It makes her skin crawl.

"Hello, Teruhashi - san!" Chirpy and upbeat, bright eyes and all, the requisite greeting she'd grown endeared to.

"... Faker." Bakugo hissed, eyes suspiciously trained on her smile.

He stood unnecessarily close to you, hands stuffed into the pockets of his sagging pants. She could tell he was itching to hold your hand, not unlike her.

The two of them were prideful though.

Unwilling to back down.

"Shall we go? That sweets shop isn't going to be open forever." Kokomi beamed at you nonetheless, radiance pouring from her.

There was no stares of envy directed at them, likely having been scared off by the explosive blond. Knowing of his dislike for her helped in that case too.

"Sounds good." You hummed, unaware of the tension between your friends.

Carmine met sapphire.

Bolts of electricity shot between them, competitive and fiery.

It pained her to admit that he was a worthy rival.

But there can only be one victor.

Round 3

Saotome Mary VS. Uraraka Ochako (Kakegurui & BNHA)

Carefully setting teeth, careful not to grind. Withholding from speaking ruinous words lest favor is tipped differently. Peals of jealously curled deep in her gut, only barely offset by the feelings of affection blanketing her in warmth.

Uraraka was simply too cute.

Too nice.

There's no way she could be this naive, right?

Mary teetered on that fine edge, unable to tell the motives of her apparently oblivious rival in romance.

She'd barely able to keep herself composed when it came to matters of the heart. Her quirk went haywire, turning so red that she'd match the blazer Mary donned.

Sutbly nonexistent in Uraraka's dictionary, plain and simple,

But her suspicion remained, ever looming and growing.

Then there was you.

Genuinely oblivious, charismatic, kind, and so endearingly stupid... No wonder the both of them vyed for your attention so readily.

Though it seemed to be unknown to Ochako that Mary was even competition.

Her thoughts buzzed, "Or...."

Biting the inside of her cheeks, golden gaze narrowing into pinpricks.

A wash of irritation.

"She didn't think I was noteworthy enough to be considered."

Not until today.

Today would be the day.

"Uraraka Ochako."

The brunette looked startled, standing betwixt her friends. Of whom were surprised to see Saotome standing before them, her head held high with a burning fire in her gaze.

Uraraka suddenly felt uneasy, judging by her look.

Both of them knew of each other, yes, but only because of associating with you.

"C - can I help you, Saotome - san?" She squeaked out, confused.

Plantings her hands on her hips, the girl in question straightened her back and stared right at her.

Between parted pink lips, dropped a bomb, "This is a declaration of war."

"E - eh? Saotome - sa -"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, not even you can be that much of an airhead." Mary scoffed gently, reaching her hand up and sweeping her pigtail back.

Her friends were unable to speak, unable to believe that this was in fact happening.

"For..."

The blond fixed her rival with a gaze, a little vindicated to watch her flinch back at the syllables of your given name. Nothing but a determination lined her eyes and she was going to make good on the promise she made.

"The rules are there will be no sabotage," She plainly stated "and we will be happy no matter which one of us wins out."

Uraraka still stood, gaping and red in the face.

Mary didn't stay for her answer, turning on her heels and knowing exactly where to find you.

This was her day after all.

She didn't turn her head, just kept walking.

Distinctly, she wondered if she'd been mistaken.

Ochako's shout made her pause mid-step, made her wait to make sure it was her rival that spoke...

After this night, there will be no mercy.

"... Let's do our best!!"

"Let's go to war."

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fic-al · 5 years ago

Text

The Last Temptation of Tom Hereward

December 1962

Tom stood at the bus stop on the main road adjoining the street where the Turners now lived. Tom was pleased with his morning's work. Over a cup of Typhoo tea and a lemon puff, Edward Patrick Turner's christening had been meticulously arranged. Most of the morning, however, had been taken up by a fully-committed Angela giving the young clergyman an extensive tour of her new house; much to Shelagh Turner's obvious discomfort. There was some embarrassment on both sides as Angela refused to leave out an inch of her new kingdom. He just hoped Timothy Turner would never become privy to the knowledge that the curate had once been in his bedroom.

Tom tightened his scratchy Woolworth's scarf around his neck and pulled his overcoat collar up. Mrs Turner had been right to keep the little girl indoors, even though it had resulted in a hint of petulance from the child. The back garden may be Angela Turner's favourite thing about her new house, but she was definitely better off inside the centrally-heated, detached new build.

Suddenly, a streak of blue whizzed past his eyes and then pulled up sharply. An all too familiar voice shrieked back at him.

"Hello Tom! Where are you off to?"

It apparently wasn't as cold as he and Mrs Turner had thought, looking at Trixie Franklin waving to him from the passenger seat of an open-topped sports car.

"The London, Trixie. Mr. Samuelson." Tom explained.

"Oh, that dear man," Trixie's exuberance dampened momentarily. "Why don't you try and squeeze in, we will drop you off. Won't we Sweetie?" Trixie smiled that smile at the driver.

Christopher Dockerill and the curate exchanged a glance and a more reserved smile. Tom assured Trixie that the No.52 was due any minute. He guessed the dentist was on his dinner break and didn't want to share any of that precious time with anyone but his lunch date.

Trixie gave Tom an apologetic smile as she waved goodbye and soon became a blue blur in the distance. Tom smiled. If Trixie had married him, she would be stood at this bus stop with him or maybe one like it in Newcastle. Instead, she was speeding through Poplar in a sports car. She looked amazing; she looked happy, she looked the part.

Tom was still musing over the differing paths his old love and he had taken as he mounted the stairs of the dirty, red London bus. A familiar voice shook him from his reverie,

"How do, Reverend. Where are you off to then?" Tom looked up to see Fred's cheery face beaming from the seat behind the stairwell.

Tom told Fred about his proposed visit. Fred closed the newspaper he had been reading and sighed. "Poor old Sammy eh! Too bad, known him all my life, since I was nipper. Grand bloke."

Tom felt he may have given too much away about his concerns for his parishioner and changed the subject.

"Catching up with the news, Fred?"

"Na, not me it's all gloom 'n' doom. If you ask me this country is going to the dogs. I just get it to see how many the 'ammers got beat by and to have a look at the gee-gees." Fred wafted the well-thumbed copy of last night's Evening Standard at Tom.

His voice lowered. "Between you 'n' me Reverend, there is a good thing in the 2:35 at Aintree today. Never been beat, class against muck. Handicapper has let one fly, if you know what I mean?" Tom hadn't the faintest idea what Fred meant, it was like he was speaking another language.

"I will just say this young man, with the help of this little beauty, my Violet can expect something special in her Christmas stocking. If you catch my drift?"

If Tom could have pushed the next sentence that left his lips back into his mouth, he would have. "Fred, I am sure Mrs. Buckle would be pleased with any gift you can afford. Safe in the knowledge you aren't risking your hard-earned wages on gambling."

"You weren't so high and mighty about a little flutter on your stag do, was you Reverend. Weren't so proud when it got your girl that big fancy carousel?"

Tom was horrified he had not meant to sound so preachy and Fred was a friend, a good friend. He had been given a stag night to remember, well some of it he remembered. It had all been because of this kind and thoughtful man.

"So what you got the missus for Christmas then, bit hard to top your own personal fairground, ain't it? Set of dodgems, is it?"

Fred stood up and pulled the cord to ring the bell for his stop. He saw the clergy's crestfallen face and wondered if he had been a bit harsh? He liked Mr. Hereward a lot.

"Never you mind vicar about presents, newly-weds can make their own funfair at Christmas." He winked at the curate, trying to ease the tension between the two.

Tom's visit to the London turned out better than he expected. Mr. Samuelson looked so much better than he had on Tom's last visit to his home. The old man confessed to the curate that he was hoping he would be in hospital over Christmas; surrounded by wonderful caring nurses, who reminded him of his late wife Mabel and a grumpy matron who reminded him of his old Sergeant Major.

His renewed optimism regarding Mr. Samuelson didn't bolster the curate's spirits for long. He couldn't forget his earlier conversation with Fred. What was he going to get Barbara for Christmas? The wedding and simple honeymoon had practically cleaned Tom out. How was he going to top a carousel? When he couldn't even afford a sherbet lolly. He remembered Trixie waving to him from her new beau's status symbol. He knew Barbara would never expect or even want to go skiing for Christmas or be driven around in a sports car. The nearest they got to that was when she let him ride her bike and she had a croggy on the handlebars.

He thought about the scene of domestic bliss he had witnessed this morning. Barbara's and his children wouldn't have their own bedrooms. They wouldn't have a garden to play in. They would play out with all the other kids on the streets of Poplar. The clergy's children would play with the docker's kids. Would they survive? Would they be bullied? He thought of Timothy Turner; he had grown up on the East End streets, no one picked on Tim, he was accepted. Playing violin and piano when the other kids were playing British Bulldogs. Going to Grammar School while his mates got jobs on the docks or in factories. You couldn't get a more well balanced, happy teenager than Tim Turner, could you? Tom gave himself a shake. She had married a clergyman not a doctor or a dentist and if anyone knew what that meant, Barbara did. Yes, she deserved everything and more that her friends had, but she had chosen differently.

As Tom headed across Whitechapel Road, he noticed a new addition to the line of shops near the station. Tom had read somewhere that since bookmaking had been made legal last May, that over 10,000 Betting Shops had arrived in High Streets across the UK. That did seem rather a lot. In his line of work he had seen many families ripped apart by gambling, just as he had by drinking. Yet he still enjoyed a pint of mild, when he had the chance and felt it in no way threatened his and Barbara's happiness or comfort. Everything in moderation his father had always said.

The same thing applied when he looked at Fred. Violet knew all about Fred's little flutters, of course she did and she didn't seem to mind. Then there was Dougie Roberts, renowned for not been able to pass up a bet. What was that expression about gambling and two little boys and a wall? Well, that applied to Dougie. One look at his wife Ruby, told you she wanted for nothing. His two girls were always immaculately turned out and as for their boy, well it was widely acknowledged that nothing was too good for little Douglas.

The building was small, and the windows blacked out making it look secretive, menacing almost. He was inside before he even realized what he was about to do. The smell of stale cigarette smoke hit him first. As his eyes adjusted to the artificial light, he glanced at his fellow occupants in the tiny room. No one looked at Tom. The curate made sure his scarf was wrapped tightly around his throat and the collar of his overcoat drawn together to hide his dog collar.

"Alright Darling, next race 2:35 at Aintree."

Tom turned and blinked at the young woman behind the small counter. "Ain't seen you in here before, I'd 'ave remembered. First time is it?" She winked at him.

The bleached blonde with the beehive flashed him a mischievous smile. Tom inwardly chastised himself for putting himself in this position, but before he could make a break for it. The cheeky blonde was beside him and had thrust a small piece of paper in his hand, along with a ridiculously small pencil. She was explaining that all the information he would need on runners and riders was pinned to the wall in front of him.

"Just put, the race time, horses name and how much you want to bet on there, sweetheart. I will do the rest." She flounced back to the counter, leaving a scent of cheap perfume and polo mints behind her.

Tom knew he had to leave now. If only at this point the chirpy assistant hadn't turned up the volume on the solitary black and white television set, following a request from a punter. It spouted;

We will just take a look at the runners for our next race the 2:35 at Aintree. The commentator's voice startled Tom. No.1 is a big outsider, first time at Aintree for Glorious Gilbert..."

Tom heard no more, his heart missed a beat. Maybe this wasn't a mistake after all. Tom rushed to the pinned up papers, found what he needed. He scribbled on the tiny slip and presented it to his curious new ally behind the desk. Searching in his trouser pocket, he hesitated only for a second, as he took out a precious ten bob note and handed it over to its willing recipient. It took Tom a full minute to realize what he had done. He moved to a place where he could get a good view of the flickering set. He longed to unbutton his coat, but instead he pulled the collar tighter.

The small room was overheated, a fierce looking electric heater in the corner was whirring and spluttering. They were going down; the commentator informed him, in a few minutes it would all be over. No one would ever know how stupid he had been.

"Reverend! Well this is a right turn up for the books, twice in one day!" Tom froze as a large hand patted him on the back. The girl behind the counter started coughing uncontrollably after swallowing her Polo mint whole.

Rather weakly and somewhat defensively, Tom retorted. "I could ask you the same question, Fred."

Fred didn't bat an eyelid. "I often does a bit of business on Whitechapel Market, just thought I'd pop in here for a warm."

"Friend of yours Fred?" the assistant had regained her composure.

"Alright, Thelma love?" tactfully leaving the enquiry unanswered.

Tom was grateful, realizing Fred must have just popped in for a lot of warms recently. Fred led Tom away from listening ears and asked him why the last person he was expecting to meet in a Whitechapel Betting Shop was stood next to him. Tom could have said he was looking for a parishioner or putting on a bet for old Mr. Samuelson. Tom knew he was a fool, but he also knew he wasn't a liar. Tom handed his friend the slip he had been clutching so tightly. Fred just asked him why?

"For Barbara," was all he could reply. Fred pulled off his woolly hat, scratched his head and looked bewildered at the curate. "I was pulling your leg, winding you up, you silly sod."

Fred felt bereft he had maybe had some part in the choices Tom had made that afternoon. He looked so uncomfortable, so out of place. "Gambling is a mug's game. I know I am a mug."

Tom protested, "What about Walthamstow, what about Galilee Lad...?" Fred interrupted, "Dogs is dogs. A good dog can beat another good dog any day of the week. Now your thoroughbred, that's a different animal. You've got to know your oats. So to speak."

Tom felt sick and hot and stupid. Fred looked at Tom's slip and shook his head. "66/1, it's a maiden!" Fred couldn't hide his exasperation.

All Tom could offer was that he thought it was a stallion. Fred snorted. "Yes, It is a bloke. A maiden just means it's never won a race. You know, like a maiden's never..."

"Yes, I get the picture Fred, thank you." The simple question, “Why?” Came again from Fred's face of pity.

"For Barbara.” Came back the reply.

Fred explained he had popped in for another warm earlier and had put on an accumulative bet called a Round Robin. The favourite in this race was Mr. Minty and if he came in for Fred, it was happy days. Tom wondered if a Round Robin was a special type of wager just for the festive season, but didn't ask.

Thelma turned the volume on the television up another notch. As the race announcer declared, And they're off!

"That's yours in the red and white stripes." she nodded at Tom. The curate looked bewildered at the black and white picture. Fred grinned, winked at him and shook his head.

Even with Tom's untrained eye, he could see Mr Minty looked like a different class from the rest of the field.

"Jumps like a stag!" Fred beamed with pride.

"You mean there are fences!" Tom cried.

"It's winter Mr. Hereward, the National Hunt season."

Not for the first time, Tom wondered why no-one was speaking English today. The six horses seemed to take each fence in their stride. Mr Minty led from the off and literally flew over every obstacle. Emerald Eyes fell at the 6th. Tom offered up a silent prayer for the horse and jockey. Remarkably, both bounced back up on to their feet. Emerald Eyes, now rider-less, soon caught up to her competitors. Welsh Wonder refused to jump at the 7th and was pulled up. Bobby's Girl unseated her jockey at the 9th. Gorgeous Gilbert was last of the 3 remaining runners, it was no threat to Mr Minty, but seemed quite happy to plod on behind and appeared to relish the jumps.

"Your nag has stopped to eat some grass." Fred mocked. Tom realized he no longer cared. As long as horse and jockey got home safety, that was all that mattered now.

"One more jump and we are home and dry, go on my son!" a very excited Fred Buckle yelled. Mr Minty took off for the final time and so did his jockey. He took off from his saddle and somersaulted over Mr Minty's head. The jockey landed unceremoniously on his behind on the turf. Mr Minty didn't miss a step and galloped home triumphantly.

Fred swore. Apologised to Tom and then cursed again. Tom and Fred's gaze returned to the screen, while the cameras had been focused on the fate of the unfortunate favourite. Tom's horse had made up ground on the second. Blonde Bombshell was coming to the last now, as the unexpected favourite. She jumped the fence cleanly but stumbled on landing. Her jockey pulling hard to maintain his balance. Gorgeous Gilbert jumped beautifully and was now just a length behind the tiring leader.

Fred suddenly became animated. He grabbed Tom's sleeve. "You're in with a chance here Reverend."

Tom was perspiring, feeling sick and dizzy due to the heat, the confinement of the small shop and the overpowering cigarette stench; compounded by his confusion at his own actions. Fred was now jumping up and down shaking Tom's arm. "Come on you beauty, come on for Mrs H!" He screamed.

The enthusiasm of his friend did not go unnoticed by Tom. Fred had shaken off the disappointment of his own loss and was right behind Tom's fortunes. The broadcaster continued his quick-fire commentary.

It's a long run in here at Aintree, Blonde Bombshell is tiring, she is losing ground. Gorgeous Gilbert is gaining on her. Here he comes. There is just a neck in it now. They coming up to the line. He has done it! The outsider has pulled off a shock today here at Aintree, Glorious Gilbert the winner at 66/1.

Fred was now kissing a very dazed Tom. The feel of Fred's stubble on his cheek jolted Tom back to reality. Fred pushed Tom towards a grinning Thelma.

"Where you taking me tonight then, Handsome? Now you've cleaned me out."

Fred gave Thelma a stern stare, and the assistant took out a wad of notes and began counting out Tom's winnings. "What do you fancy in the next then?"

Tom shaking with the money in his hand replied, "I don't know. I will have a look."

A large hand grabbed Tom's arm and before he knew it, Tom was finally outside. His lungs shuddered with relief at the cold fresh air. Fred had him by both shoulders and was staring Tom right in the eyes. Tom felt faint with the sudden environmental change and the smell of tea, jellied eels, and sweat.

"Now you listen to me, Tom! You got lucky, you were given a break. Betting is a mug's game. I know cos I am a mug see. Apart from the day I stepped up at Nonnatus House and the day I married my girls' mother and, of course my Vi."

Tom was getting his bearings, and Fred had his full attention. "I know how you feel mate. Of course I does, your missus earns more than you do. You can't get her the things you'd like to. You don't want her feeling second best. You don't want people thinking you're not a real man because your wife works, or it looks like you can't provide for her. Well, none of that matters. They'll soon change their minds when they want a baby delivering or christening when they want marrying or burying. They'll soon remember then how important you and that young lass are to Poplar. When they're in trouble, when they have need of you. They will remember and so should you!"

Fred finally let go of Tom and the smaller man swayed slightly. "Now keep that stash, safe in your pocket and go and find a nice present for Mrs H, that's what all this is about. Ain't it? He smiled at Tom and added, "Let that be the end of it."

"The end of what, Fred?"

The last question didn't come from Tom's soft brogue but from a higher pitched voice, a feminine voice and one that held a hint of anxiety. Fred knew he couldn't answer Mrs Hereward's question and made his swift goodbyes and was lost in Whitechapel Market in a heartbeat.

Tom stared at his wife in disbelief, a feeling mirrored by Barbara. After accompanying a patient to the London for admission, she had not expected as she crossed the Whitechapel Road, to see her husband and the Nonnatus handyman coming out of a betting shop.

Barbara repeated her question, this time to Tom. Tom knew he was a fool, but he was not a liar. His confession poured from his heart. How he resented not being able to give Barbara the lifestyle she deserved. How she should have the sort of things her friends were quickly becoming accustomed too. It broke his heart to see Trixie swanning off skiing, when he hadn't been able to give Barbara a proper honeymoon. He wanted their children to have a room of their own and a garden with a swing and a slide. He hadn't even been able to buy his love an engagement ring. He hadn't been able to bear the thought of their first Christmas as man and wife exchanging some worthless trumpery from the market.

Tears welled up in Barbara's eyes, she held both his hands in hers. "Do you know me so little, that you think I would envy a skiing trip or a ride in a sports car? Do you think I give a damn about the latest fashions or hair styles? For one moment do you think I would swap our cosy little flat in the centre of our bustling, vibrant world for a big house on a faceless new estate somewhere, where we know no-one. Where we would have to cycle or get the bus every time we wanted to see our friends. Tom I would live with you in a bus shelter and would not care if we never stepped out of Poplar again, as long as I was with you."

Tom was struggling to hold back the tears now. Barbara had not finished.

"You are so incredibly dear to me, Tom. I feel I am the luckiest girl in the world. On Sunday morning, I feel this when I hear you preach with understanding and compassion, not judgment and prejudice. I feel blessed beyond belief, when I watch you hold a dying man's hand, comfort a widow, help those in need find a way or just make a child feel important. I burst with pride every time someone calls me Mrs or Nurse Hereward, because that means that out of the whole world the best man I have ever met, chose me."

Tom pulled her close into a soft salty tear stained kiss. He didn't care if anyone noticed his dog collar now. He promised to never be so foolish again.

"Just tell me Tom, how much did you lose?"

"I didn't lose anything Barbara, I won. I won over 30 quid!" Barbara blinked and then gasped in disbelief.

She wouldn't tell Tom just yet, but the pensioners Christmas dinner and the children's party were definitely going to be remembered this year. Their first year as the curate and his wife. As Mr and Mrs Hereward.

"I guess I beat the odds when I married you, Barbara," Tom continued.

"Never mind about that Mr Hereward, I have just finished my shift and if you come with me. It's a dead cert, that you are on a sure thing."

Barbara had pulled Tom onto the No.52 bus before he realized what she meant. Not for the first time today he realized he had backed a winner.

#call the midwife #christmas 1962 ctm #tom and barbara hereward #fred buckle

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small-leviathan · 7 years ago

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The themes of the Splatoon series

(Heads up, this essay analysing Splatoon is literally 2300 words long. You’re gonna be for a while if you decide to stick around.)

In case you've missed it until now, Splatoon has taken the world by storm. Nintendo's cephalopod-based multiplayer shooter series has sold almost 12 million copies across two games in just about three years, and as a result of this still young franchise has cemented itself as one of the legendary Japanese game developer's new hallmark series. Nintendo seems inclined to agree, as Splatoon's central Inkling characters have been featured prominently in the marketing for their latest game in the prestigious crossover series, Super Smash Brothers Ultimate, with the Inkling girl even earning a prominent spot on the game's cover art alongside titans like Mario, Donkey Kong and Link.

So perhaps some of you would scoff at the idea that Splatoon has a deeper message behind it than it first appears. Nintendo isn't really known for baking thought-provoking stuff into their games, and this seems like it'd be doubly true for a game that is first-and-foremost a competitive multiplayer shooter. I don't know if I'll be able to convince you otherwise, honestly, but I do sincerely believe that Splatoon has something to say and in this essay, I will explain why I believe that to be the case, and just what that thing is.

Let's start by describing the most important elements of Splatoon's narrative, and just as a heads up, I think it goes without saying that I will be spoiling pretty much every major reveal across all of Splatoon 1, Splatoon 2, and its DLC, Octo Expansion. Splatoon is set twelve thousand years after global warming and environmental pollution has wiped out mankind as well as most mammals. Having taken our place is a large assortment of evolved sea critters, including crabs, jellyfish and most prominently, cephalopods. Squids and octopi alike have evolved the ability to shift into humanoid forms, becoming known as inklings and octarians, respectively. Unfortunately, our squishy successors didn't get along very well, as rising sea levels forced them into a violent conflict known as the Great Turf Wars. This conflict was eventually won by the Inklings, letting them claim the surface while the octarians were forced into hiding in great underground cities.

Splatoon proper takes place a hundred years later, and the Octarians have been reduced to just a distant memory in the mind of Inkling society. Trouble is brewing under the surface, however, as the leader of the Octarians, DJ Octavio, is planning an attack on the hub city of Inklingkind, Inkopolis. The player takes control of a customizable inkling who is recruited by the military veteran Cap'n Cuttlefish to help take down the Octarian menace before they can start their campaign. Along the way the player, now dubbed as "Agent 3", is helped not only by Cap'n Cuttlefish, but by his granddaughters Agent 1 and Agent 2, who are eventually revealed to be the two members of the pop idol duo The Squid Sisters, Callie and Marie (to no one's surprise, the game does not try very hard to conceal their identities). Long story short, Agent 3 defeats the Octarians, ending in a grand battle against DJ Octavio. The Octarian threat is defeated and DJ Octavio is captured, with inkling society none the wiser.

Splatoon 2 unfolds two years after the events of the first game, and a lot has changed. Callie and Marie have drifted apart, following a popularity contest ending in Marie's favour, and taking their place as the number one musical act is a new duo known as Off the Hook, consisting of the rapper Pearl and the DJ Marina (who looks suspiciously like an Octarian, but more on that later). Marie discovers that DJ Octavio has escaped his containment, and now alone due to Cap'n Cuttlefish and Agent 3 having gone on a new mission and Callie suddenly disappearing in the midst of a trip, she is forced to follow her grandfather's footsteps and recruit a new Agent, this one being our new playable character, Agent 4. Not much is different from that point onward, except for the eventual reveal that DJ Octavio is responsible for Callie's disappearance, having kidnapped her after he escaped and is now brainwashing her with a pair of hypnotic sunglasses. Nonetheless, Callie is saved and DJ Octavio is defeated once again.

You might be wondering why I bothered to explain all of the plot of Splatoon's singleplayer content, and the reason for that is that I believe that understanding all of this is necessary to explain the first and most important of Splatoon's themes: The positive power of pop culture and self-expression.

Splatoon heavily encourages that the player uses its system to express themselves. Aside from having character creation, there is an emphasis on fashion, both in the culture of the inklings themselves and in the gameplay proper, with the player having access to a wide variety of clothes, headwear and shoes with which to accessorize their characters. It might be easy, perhaps even tempting, to read this in a cynical manner and characterize inklings as a bunch of shallow trend-chasers, slaves to consumerist fads built to wring as much cash out of them as possible. And this interpretation is, in all honesty, valid, but it's certainly not a philosophical standpoint that Splatoon itself agrees with. The game encourages mixing and experimenting with its fashions, but all of that fashion is bought with a currency that you earn by playing the multiplayer game, which in-universe is explained to be a kind of competitive shooting sport, not unlike paintball, that seems to be the hyperfixation of every single inkling teen like the player character. It's a bit hard to read the game's take on fashion as cynical when you literally earn money by doing something you were not only going to do anyway but were also actively seeking out and enjoying. The multiplayer mode itself is also encouraging self-expression, in a way, due to there being a wide variety of weapons available, all of which feel distinct and unique, allowing the player find the ones they like the most and use only those. This isn't "do tireless work to keep spending money", it's "do the things you like to get the things you like." And I feel like that is a very clear subversion of consumerist culture, unless you feel like pointing out that Splatoon itself is something you have to spend money on to play and therefore it is inherently a part of consumerist culture, in which case, alright then, Holden Caulfield, don't you have anything better to do?

Moving on, there is also a massive focus on music in the setting, with a lot of different fictional bands, all of which sound completely unlike each other. Crucially, the "pop music" in Splatoon is not as heavily standardized as our own pop music is, in Inkopolis everything from the Bottom Feeders' Celtic rock to Chirpy Chips' chiptune to Diss-Pair's... whatever they are, can find mainstream success and popularity. Perhaps the most telling sign that Splatoon thinks music is important is that all of the most important characters are artists, from Callie and Marie to Pearl and Marina and even the antagonist himself, DJ Octavio.

That said, there is a very important distinction to be made here. In an interview with Famitsu from 2015, series art director Seita Inoue stated that the music that plays during the singleplayer levels is composed by DJ Octavio and his subordinates, and that "it’s like the Octo side broadcasts their music in order to control the many Octarians.” When this is combined with the fact that DJ Octavio uses a pair of sunglasses to brainwash Callie, I think it's clear that the true face of his villainy is shown. DJ Octavio isn't just the antagonist because he's the final boss, but because he takes music and fashion, which the game has established as ways in which to express personal freedom, and repurposes them as tools of control and oppression. DJ Octavio is literally the antithesis of Inkling society and Inkling values.

There is one final point I want to make, but it requires delving into Octo Expansion a bit to explore, so we'll start that now. Octo Expansion is the paid singleplayer DLC for Splatoon 2, adding a pretty sizable new story campaign. In this new story, the player takes the role of an Octoling (the Octarian equivalent of an Inkling, though I will be using two terms rather interchangeably in the rest of the essay) who wakes up in an underground subway with no memories. Here, they meet Cap'n Cuttlefish, who explains that they had been in a fight with him and Agent 3 before all three of them got swept away to the locale they are now in. As Agent 3 has gone missing, Cap'n Cuttlefish teams up with our amnesiac player character to find a way out of the subway, giving them the nickname Agent 8 in the process. Along the way, the two of them end up coming into contact with Pearl and Marina, the previously mentioned music duo, who resolve to help Agent 8 and Cap'n Cuttlefish escape. A lot of things happen between the start and beginning of the story, but I want to focus on the most important revelation: Marina is revealed to have been a high-ranking member of the Octarian military who deserted after the final battle between Agent 3 and DJ Octavio in Splatoon 1, and was inspired to become an artist after hearing the Squid Sisters perform their iconic hit song Calamari Inkantation, the very same song that was stated to have inspired Agent 8's desertion as well. Calamari Inkantation was always played up as being a very special song, as said by Marina herself: "Once our souls have been freed, there's no way we can continue to live under the oppression of Octarian society."

So at this point, it's not even subtextual but literally textual, Splatoon sincerely believes that music has liberating properties, able to make people realize that they're being held back by societal structures and also gain the willpower to break free of those shackles. The lines are very clearly drawn here: In Inkopolis music and fashion are ways in which people express themselves and therefore it is an idyllic and diverse place, but Octarian society is an oppressive dystopia where these things are used to control the populace. To really hammer the point home, in the final battle of Octo Expansion, in which the very fate of the world hangs in the balance, the day is saved by Pearl and Marina (and Agent 8) working together and combining their talents and technology to destroy the giant superweapon threatening their home. The world is literally saved by a pair of musicians. It doesn't get more explicit than that.

There are two more themes I think Splatoon play with, but to a much lesser extent than the one previously mentioned. The first of these is the importance of moving on and not being stuck in the past. This is an explicit character trait in both of the central antagonists. DJ Octavio, who was the leader of the Octarians in the Great Turf Wars a hundred years ago, has been holding a grudge against the inklings for all this time when he could have been focusing on trying to improve his people’s living conditions, or even broker peace with the Inklings, who clearly don't have an issue with a bunch of Octolings running around following the events of Octo Expansion. The second case study is the antagonist from Octo Expansion, Commander Tartar. An ancient AI built by a human scientist before their extinction to pass on their knowledge to whatever species inherited the world to come, Commander Tartar fails this mission because it holds humans on such a high pedestal that it sees the flaws of the Inklings and Octarians as proof they aren't worthy to pass the torch to, and resolves to wipe them both out and create its own "perfect species" instead. Additionally, I think it's worth mentioning that the weapon it plans do this is with is a repurposed statue resembling a Greek marble bust, a relic of the past that becomes a literal metaphor for how Commander Tartar's mindset is destructive.

The second of these themes is the recurring motif that despite all of their differences and their conflicts Inklings and Octarians become complete when working together. The first sign of this is their opposite traits as species, Inklings are energetic, flighty and have a short attention span while Octarians are more serious, work-focused and obedient. It's pretty clear that both could stand to learn from each other's positive traits, and a bit of dialogue from Marina in Octo Expansion implies that she hopes as much. Off the Hook themselves are also an example of this theme in action, Pearl had trouble finding herself as an artist and was not doing very well before meeting Marina, and it's through Pearl that Marina gains the chance to follow her dream, and their cooperation makes them so successful that they become Inkopolis' number one artists. This theme is also a part of the final battle of Octo Expansion, as mentioned earlier, as it is the cooperation of Inklings and Octarians that saves the day.

If there's anything to take away from this overly wordy essay, it's this: Splatoon wants you to know that there is no shame in enjoying "shallow" pop culture, that there is meaning even in things not deemed "high culture". Splatoon wants you to know that the value of something lies not in the value of its production, but in what it expresses and the joy it brings to the people observing it, and the people making it.

Because to Splatoon, these simple things have the power to unite, to free us, and ultimately to save the world.

And personally? I think that's a pretty worthwhile message.

#splatoon #splatoon 2

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welllpthisishappening · 7 years ago

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Getting Chirpy

A few weeks ago @distant-rose was like...what if there were fans who were upset about Will’s nickname for Matthew Jones?? Because Dr. J was a very famous basketball player. And I was like that’s actually hysterical. It’s taken some time, but it’s been a day and a half for Ro and she deserves some hockey feelz. So here’s that. In, like, spades.

“Ok, ok, ok, I know we’re not supposed to look at headlines, but—“

“—Are you looking at headlines, Lucas?”

“Shut up, Cap,” Ruby snapped, slamming the door behind her and marching into the restaurant with a purpose that made Emma sit up a bit straighter. She winced at the movement, the bench unforgiving against the small of her back and several different worried glances shot her direction.

She rolled her eyes.

“Hey,” Ariel muttered, leaning over the top of the bar and pointedly ignoring Eric’s rather pitiful attempts to stop her. Her feet weren’t touching the ground anymore. “Here.”

Emma blinked when she realized what was being thrown her direction – a goddamn pillow and she probably should have known, but it was the beginning of the season and maybe things had been a little more hectic this time around because this time around she also had a recently-turned-three-year-old to contend with and a home opener that was a week later than usual and—

“Don’t ask,” Ariel warned, rolling her eyes when Killian tried to object or explain or something. It didn’t really matter one way or another because everyone in that entire restaurant knew Emma was going to covet that pillow like it was made of actual gold.

That had totally been his plan.

Idiot.

“I think he’s got some stashed everywhere,” Robin mumbled knowingly. He didn’t move his eyes towards Emma though, far too preoccupied with that recently-turned-three-year-old. Matt was perched on the edge of the stool, laughter ringing in the air around him and both his hands resting on Robin’s jacket, David hovering a few feet behind to make sure the whole thing didn’t dissolve into disaster.

“Where else would he put them?” Emma asked.

“Think of a place and they’re probably there.”

“That’s insane.”

“I’m not disagreeing with you.”

Emma laughed, squirming again when the pillow seemed to rebel agains the bottom of her spine and she couldn’t figure out where to put her arms. There was just…way too much in front of her and of her and several other ways of expressing the words far too pregnant without actually saying those words because they felt kind of horrible in that particular order.

“This one’s been here for seriously years,” Ariel shrugged. “I think he forgot it was here.”

“You know I’m sitting right here, right?” Killian asked, the words barely audible when he didn’t move his mouth away from the glass in his hand. Water. All water all the time.

It’s the start of the season, Swan.

And probably something about her inability to drink alcohol.

He was the world’s biggest idiot.

Ariel shrugged again. “That doesn’t exactly sound like an objection. How long has this pillow been here?”

“I genuinely do not know.”

“And you don’t think that’s a problem?”

“Why did you know it was there?”

“You do know that this is my restaurant, right, Cap?” Ariel seethed, waving another distracted hand over her shoulder when Eric started to object to that particular point. “Like. I’m letting you hang out here. With your home goods.”

“I legitimately forgot it was there.”

“The first step is admitting you have a problem,” Will muttered, not quite able to keep the laughter out of his voice while Robin and David made eerily similar noises. “Em, if I get more onion rings, you want to split ‘em with me and Dr. J?”

Emma shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m sorry, what? Are you turning down onion rings? Cap, are you hearing this? Shouldn’t you be going into imminent second child crisis mode?”

Robin mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like shut up, Scarlet, groaning when Matt moved onto his thighs and it took less than a full second for David to pull the kid into his arms – earning several kicks for his efforts. Mary Margaret took a picture. It was even more impressive with her own kid in her arms.

And Killian grinned at Emma.

She was going to throw the pillow straight at his face.

She wasn’t entirely sure she could move enough to do that.

“That’s not what’s happening here,” Killian grinned, moving across the restaurant quickly and easily and it probably wasn’t supposed to be attractive but stupid pregnant was basically Emma’s excuse for everything at this point. He tapped the side of her ankle when he stopped short of the booth, but Emma didn’t move, just twisted her lips and waited for whatever slightly strange game of flirting they were playing to move to the next level.

Or whatever.

She’d lost total control of the metaphor.

God, she wanted onion rings. And like…maybe just straight onions? That was a disgusting thought.

Killian chuckled lightly, hooking his forearm under her calves and lifting her feet up so he could sit down. He couldn’t quite mask his own groan when her heels collided with that one bruise on the side of his thigh, and that probably should have worried her more. She was far too distracted by whatever his thumb was doing against the top of her shin, tracing out absent-minded circles with a smile on his face and a secret stash of pillows across the greater Manhattan area.

“Was anyone going to explain what was happening here, then?” Will demanded. Killian didn’t look at him, didn’t stop moving his thumb either, but his lips twitched slightly and it took a few seconds for him to twist enough that his right hand landed on Emma’s side.

“You are a menace,” she accused, and he hummed in response. She wished he’d stop doing that thing with his mouth. She hoped he didn’t stop doing that thing with his mouth.

“Yes, and I’m pretty sure our kid learned his distinct lack of limb control from you, Swan.”

“Wow, that’s rude.”

“An observation.”

“Still,” Emma argued, and she’d forgotten entirely about the rest of the restaurant and whatever Regina-esque metronome Ruby was tapping out with her heel. “Not exactly positive.”

“His flailing limbs are not inherently negative.”

“Whatever. I refuse to take responsibility for that. You’re the professional athlete. Teach him better and while you’re at all it, deal with the other one.”

She’d done it mostly – entirely – for the reaction and the gasp that swept across the entire restaurant was oddly satisfying, Killian’s eyebrows jumping up his forehead and lips parting slightly and Matt was standing on top of the bar now.

“Doing backflips,” Emma continued, like that wasn’t a huge deal or endearing or several other words she didn’t want to consider when Killian’s entire hand moved over the swell of her stomach. “Or running sprints or something.”

Killian’s head snapped up – eyes bright and smile wide and for one vaguely distracting moment Emma considered jumping him in the booth. That would probably end with the pillow on the floor though, and she didn’t want to challenge her spine like that, and there’d been rumors of possible bed rest at the last doctor’s appointment and—

“Was anyone going to actually get Emma the onion rings she wanted?” Mary Margaret asked, and it shouldn’t have been surprising she knew. It wasn’t really. “Because I think Killian’s kind of forgot and Ruby looks like she wants to kill all of us.”

“Oh, you’re all going to die incredibly gruesome deaths for whatever nonsense I just had to witness,” Ruby announced. She slung an around Roland, muttering words when he tried to pull away and keep playing some form of pick-up hockey with Henry that just looked like them trying to bounce the puck on their stick for prolonged periods of time. “But it did actually kind of segue into the headlines that, just for the record, Cap, it’s my job to know about.”

“Then why did you ask?” David asked archly.

“David, you were the one who told me!”

There was another collective notes – oohs and ahhhhs and the matching sounds of Will and Ariel’s laughter. She’d jumped onto the bar as well at some point, Dylan moving onto her lap and Matt hanging off her back and Ruby was absolutely all going to kill them.

“It’s Scarlet’s fault,” David argued. That got Will to stop laughing.

“Wait, what?”

“You think you’re way too clever.”

“I mean, that’s true,” Killian mumbled, hand still on Emma’s stomach and something that felt a hell of a lot like flirting settling on his face. Again. Or whatever.

“Ruby’s going to kill you first,” Emma chided.

It sounded a bit like Ruby growled. And Roland hissed when her arm apparently tightened too much. “Ah, damn,” she sighed. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, Rol. Listen, I need you to blame everyone else on this team for whatever is happening.”

“You haven’t actually said what’s happening, Ru,” Roland reasoned.

“Smart kid.”

“Rubes, you are not doing yourself any favors with this storytelling,” Emma said. “Burying the lede as it were.”

Ruby narrowed her eyes, hooking her chin over Roland’s shoulder and leveling Emma with a stare like she was worried she was going to do something detrimental to her health if she said anything. “It’s really not bad,” she started, eyes flitting towards Killian. “It’s just…kind of absurd.”

“How absurd?”

“Like literally the most absurd thing that’s ever happened to us.”

“Hands down,” David added, Emma and Killian groaning in tandem.

“If this is about playing and Mattie…” Killian said, voice low and slightly captain and Emma moved her fingers towards the back of his neck. She tried, at least. There was just…so much of her.

Ruby waved her hands through the air. “No, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s, ok, apparently someone in David’s precinct is, what what would you call it?”

“A super Nets fan,” David finished.

Emma blinked. “The Nets? Like the basketball team?”

“One and the same.”

“What does that have to do with us?”

It took Robin, exactly, one head tilt and a slightly strangled gasp to understand. Emma still didn’t. Killian’s hand didn’t move. “Oh my God,” Robin shouted. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, David is right, Scarlet. This is all your fault.”

“How do you figure?”

“How did anyone find out?” Robin asked, glancing at David. Mary Margaret answered.

“I think it’s actually my fault.”

It couldn’t have been good for Emma’s blood pressure to keep being surprised like that. She hadn’t gotten her onion rings yet. “You guys are all absolute garbage at telling stories. Also, if any of you let my kid fall off that bar, I’m not going to stop Killian from inevitably suffocating you with this pillow.”

“Yeah, he’d do it too,” David mumbled, flashing Emma an apologetic smile. “Ok, so, uh…I had to work a couple days ago when we played the Stars? But Cap scored that goal and Mary Margaret was taking video post game and she showed me the other day while I was still in the office and, uh…”

“Scarlet could be heard calling mini-Jones Dr. J,” Ruby finished. “And, well, that super fan in the precinct complained about it on the internet and—“

“Wait, wait, he complained about it on the internet?” Robin interrupted.

Ruby scowled – clearly biting back several stating retorts and she couldn’t cross her arms when she was still draped over an obviously frustrated Roland. “What part of crazed fan do you not get?”

“But aren't the Nets horrible?”

“Yes. Why do you think that would stop them?”

“Where exactly do the headlines come into it, Lucas?” Killian asked, and Emma knew that tone of voice. Overprotective dad mode, activated.

“We cover the Nets.”

“We?”

“MSG Networks. And they’ve got their own show and Rook was going to be on Arthur’s coaching show and they film right before that and, uh…they were talking about it. On the show.”

“They realize Matt is three years old, right?”

“You don’t have to challenge them to a duel, Cap. I’ve taken care of it.”

Killian opened his mouth, only to close it just as quickly because he was absolutely going to challenge some TV present to some kind of duel and he clicked his tongue when Emma scooted further towards him. “Oh, shut up,” she mumbled. “And maybe move your hand to my shoulder.”

“Which one?”

“I genuinely do not care.”

Ruby made another noise, throwing her head back to the ceiling and Roland didn’t appreciate that other. “I’m not intentionally trying to choke you, Rol. Just…all the adults in this restaurant are idiots.”

“What’s the headline, Rubes?” Mary Margaret asked, a picture of calm that was as much a ruse as anything else. She held her hand out expectantly when Eric moved behind the bar, a plate of steaming onion rings in his hand. “Don’t burn your tongue,” she said, a smile on her face when she slid onto the opposite side of the booth from Emma and Killian.

“Yes, Mom,” Emma muttered. She burned her tongue anyway.

“Guys,” Ruby whined. “Seriously, I did some pretty goddamn fantastic things today and before Scarlet starts coming up with more absurd nicknames for mini-Jones two-point-oh—"

“—Stop insulting my nicknames, Lucas,” Will said. “They’re way better than yours and that kid’s going to get a William in his middle name, I’m sure of it.”

“It’s going to be a girl,” Killian promised, no hint of anything except certainty in his voice and they hadn’t found out this time. They were over competitive weirdos, the both of them.

“Guys,” Ruby shouted. She stamped her foot. “I have headlines!”

Emma waved her hands through the air, nearly smacking Killian in the back of the head in the process. “Sorry, sorry, Rubes. What’s your headline?”

“Julius Erving’s daughter.”

“Excuse me?”

“Julius Erving. Better known as Dr. J, was a very good basketball player who played for the Nets when they weren’t as horrible as they are now, Scarlet thinks he’s hysterical, you guys named your kid the way you did and Nets fans, apparently, didn’t appreciate a hockey star stealing the nickname. There were those internet headlines, the TV show, and I decided to screw them all and went straight to the source.”

“Well, some of the source,” David amended.

Ruby rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, Julius Erving was unavailable. So we went to his people and—“ She brandished a Post in front of her, expression triumphant and it wasn’t a big story. It didn’t deserve to be a story, but, Emma, supposed, it was kind of nice in the same way the pillow stash was kind of nice, a defense and a family and absurd nicknames and traditions.

The headline was, admittedly, pretty catchy.

Dr. J’s Daughter Promises Blueshirts Nickname A-OK

There were more words, promises that it was honoring my father’s legacy and actually kind of funny and Will was probably going to frame it. Emma was out of onion rings.

And Matt never fell off the bar, but he did move towards Will demanding down, down, down, moving as fast as his legs could carry him until Killian scooped him up and it took, exactly, eight minutes for him to promptly fall asleep.

“So, I’ve saved all of us from being shamed by the Nets,” Ruby said, hours later and more food and a distinct lack of alcohol. It’s the start of the season, Swan. And an incredibly pregnant Emma. “And ensured we can have more ridiculous nicknames. You’re welcome.”

Will saluted. Ruby threw a fry at him.

“I’m telling you, Lucas, something, something, William Jones. It’s happening.”

Killian shook his head. “I wouldn’t hold my breath, Scarlet.”

“You know more than you’re giving up, Cap?”

“Nah, just a feeling.”

“He’s positive,” Emma added, and she couldn’t stop the smile from settling on her face. Will didn’t look convinced.

It didn’t matter, a few months and several weeks of barely-agreed-to bed rest later, and Emma wasn’t sure Killian had stopped smiling once. He kept bobbing on his toes, a distinct glint in his eyes that made it difficult to fall asleep when all Emma wanted to do was fall asleep, but he looked torn between overjoyed and a little overwhelmed and—

“We heard there was a kid in here,” Will said, leaning around the open hospital door with his own smile and Matt hanging off his side. There was a small crowd behind him. “You want to confirm those rumors about a future star defender, Cap?”

Killian shook his head, the bundle he refused to put down making a frustrated noise at the sudden influx of sound. “Margaret Elsa,” he announced, and Emma’s eyes darted up quick enough to see Mary Margaret’s hand fly to her mouth and her shoulders sag a bit and she probably shouldn’t have been able to hear the slight whimper that fell out of her, but it felt like the kind of day for auditory miracles.

“Ah,” Will sighed, not able to shrug when Matt was trying to stand on his shoulders. “She’ll probably dominate the league anyway. We allowed to come in?”

“If you promise to be quiet.”

“Deal.”

Mary Margaret was dangerously close to sobbing, Ruby’s eyeliner a lost cause and both Robin and Regina had their phones out already, one of them undoubtedly FaceTime’ing Colorado. And there weren’t any more headlines, no mention of absurd nicknames or overprotective family members with the cellphone numbers of every member of the New York media.

Matt reached out slowly as soon as he and Will moved in front of Killian, tiny fingers shaking a bit. Will wrapped his hand around his wrist, directing him and holding him back slightly, quiet mumblings of soft, Dr. J, like we talked about and Emma was glad she hadn’t fallen asleep.

“You ok?” she asked, glancing at Mary Margaret perched on the side of the hospital bed.

She nodded. “Better. I…thank you.”

“We think we might call her Peggy.”

“I love it.”

“Here here,” Will muttered, voice shaking a bit and Matt was mumbling introductions to his recently-acquired sister. “Good nickname. You’re just dominating today, aren’t you, Em?”

“Something like that. Did I steal your nickname-creating thunder?”

Will chuckled lightly, hitching Matt further up his side when he started to slide towards the ground. “Nah, I think you get a pass today. Don’t you think, Cap?”

“Decidedly,” Killian answered. He didn’t let go of Peggy when he moved towards Emma, pressing a kiss to her still-slightly sweaty temple.

“Exactly. I’ll wait for the next Jones kid anyway. Surprise you all with my nickname tendencies and middle name honors then.”

“Yeah, sure thing, Scarlet.”

Emma fell asleep eventually, the room cleared out and Matt staying with Will and Belle again and she probably wasn’t supposed to let Killian on the bed with her, but they both hated putting Peggy down and neither one of them could stop smiling. There weren’t any headlines.

#cs ff #captain swan #blue line one shots #THERE IS PRESEASON HOCKEY TOMORROW EVERYONE #GET READY FOR THE INFLUX OF HOCKEY-FEELINGS AND HOCKEY-FUELED FIC #CAN'T STOP WON'T STOP

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bonbonswirl-blog · 6 years ago

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Perfect

ALL THE CHARACTERS BELONG TO @brueklynn I OWN NOTHING. This is like..uhhhh idk?... a 'batim' au idea? I guess? Im Not sure idk..its just that I got the idea from there and Instead of bendy its jokey, but not really exactly what happend there in batim. Plz ignore the bad portrayed scenes XD blondie is a lot OOC here. Enjoy if you only can thx.

It was a typical afternoon, the sunlit clouds drifted across a clear blue sky, fresh air filled the atmosphere swaying the palm trees gently by a breeze. David was at the recording room, a mellifluous melodic singing voice rose high, following the sweet, piping notes produced by the musical instruments around. After such a lilting, everyone toke a break, david sat on a chair, holding the lyrics for the new song in his hands. He saw a shadow approaching him, revealing his only cheerful boss. "Oh hey Mr. Blondie!! How are you in this lovely day!" "Hello david! Just checking on my young talented singer! How is the new song going?" "Its going great! Im just reading the lyrics again now!" "Thats good!...you know david...have you ever thought about how much the children love your jokey voice?" "Oh! Thats intresting...im sure everybody enjoy listening to it!" "Yea! they do....have you ever felt some...connections...to jokey?" "Connections? Mmmm well...I do feel that we both share a good love for the stage and thrilling the audience! along with the love to asssist other people and spread some optimism in the air!" "Thats beautifull!...Have you ever considered before...becoming this star that all those kids appresciate?" "That...looks pretty Mr. Blondie! But what do you mean?" His boss began to equivocally chuckle, it was low but icy, wasnt like his usual gleeful ones that gave an auditory hug, but david overlooked that, remaining unruffled till the answer. "David. Can you come with me for a while?" "Sure thing! But..what about the new song?" "Dont worry! It can be done in another time! now follow me!" They both left the recording room, the animator leading the ginger boy across the studio, while on their little trip to the unknown room they are walking to, david catched from away a sight of henry, tommy and norman talking together until a rueful rob drew near them, starting a conversation. David didnt mean to eavesdrop anyone, but their high voices did reach his ear. "Guys! Have any of you heared ANYthing lately about harriet? I cant find her anywhere! She didnt come to work and she is not at her home! I called her many times but she doesnt reply! Im really so scared..." rob vented, the three told him thag they didnt see her too. David felt sorry for the fellow worker, hoping that harriet is alright and will be back soon. He looked forward, though he only saw blondie back and his wheelchair, he could feel that he is trying to ignore something, he may have heard a little of the talking out there, maybe he feels sad too? But david was in his mind for a bit, wasnt aware of the time until he sensed that blondie stopped moving. This is when he noticed he is in an unrecognizable area he didnt see before, maybe this was a new place that got built recently?, " Here we are david!!" In front of both was a dark long way of stairs, it was only one storey up, just like one of those half open basemant stariecases. David knew not both will be able to clmib this, he was ready to push that wheelchair up, he looked at blondie concerned, whom just returned a grin. "Dont worry about me! I have my own ways for climbing those!" David didnt really get it, but he just let it go and left blondie to use to his own way, watching him in every step making sure he wont be close to any harm.

Dont ask how blondie climbed the stairs, he just did. that was a really narrow hall they were both in, in front of them a wooden door, blondie toke out his keys and opened it, only for both to be greeted by. "Finally!! Where Were ya!!" an angry wallaby yelled, looking as if he lost patience, it seems blondie was late to whatever meeting they should have done earlier, the room wasnt so small, almost looks like a little hallway with a wall at the end. The view was...tensed, it was a dark room with only a little bulb barley lighning it, orange colored light struggling to penetrate the darkness in thin thread rays. It was almost as if candles were the ones giving the slight shine here. Wallaby, paul and murphy were there, standing near the sides of the walls, everyone in a specific place, two at the right wall and one at the left one, only a mile spearting each two. the menacing aura holding david in a tightening grip, why do blondie have such a grisly decorating tatse...He wasnt sure if entering this room is a safe idea. "Guys!! I Brought Our Last Guest!!" Blondie exclaimed in a chirpy tone, closing the door behind himm Last guest? What does he mean? "Can we PLEASE Finish This Now And Go out?" "Come on paul dont be such a killjoy! Enjoy the place!" "If you are telling us to enjoy this creepy atmosphere then I had lost all my faith in you." murphy sneered, clearly not comfortable or trusty with how this 'gathering' is going to end, nobody knows the goal behind it. "Come on David! Here! This Is Your Place!! Stay Still And Dont Move Ok?" Blondie said while putting david on a specific spot on the left wall. "Sure! Wont Move A Shoe!" David obeyed, blondie looked at him, but this time, although he had his usual smile that showed his white glowed teeth spreaded on his face, his eyes had shimmers with some inexplicable spite. "Everything is set~" He whispered this under his breath while walking to one of the corners, nobody heard that one. Three of the invited four toke a look at blondie whereas he was doing something uncanny at that distant corner. David turned at the person in front of him, which was paul. "Oh! hey Mr.Paul!" But being the tedious man he is, paul didnt respone, only focusing on the book on his hand, thats why wallaby seemed as if he was gabbling to himself. The young boy then looked to his right side and saw murphy, still keeping an eye at blondie in a suspicion, despite not understanding a thing from what he was doing, nobody can just fetch someone to a room like this without being not up to something. "So Guys! Why are we here?" "I Dunno david! Mr. Blondie just went to me and told me that I gotta get here cuz he needs me for somethin, well I dont see anything! All I do is just standing on dis here spot not movin a leg!! What about ya paul?" "I dont care I just came here so he can stop nagging me." " I came here after he told me that I can be a 'star' like jokey." "Wait you gonna be a star? Ooh! Thats why we standin on a star!" "What?!" Wallaby words strongly drived murphy attention, making him watch the ground, they all noticed it now, they are standing on 'stars' that are drawn on the floor. David felt inside him a very straied premonisition feeling that was telling him to move, he didnt understand it, why would his guts tell him to move away from a single drawing on the floor? He promised his boss he will stay still there....how could a star drawing hurt anyone? Since whe do drawing harm people? But no matter how much he tries to brush off that feeling, it feels like a stiff weigh was being held on his chest, it made him feel so sick, maybe he just needs to move because his legs hurt him? Yeh yeh thats just it. The cheeky lad toke one step only out of that star shape, he tried to persuad himself its his legs aching and not because of a sixth sense, and that was really something he should be thankful for because. "Guys! I think we gonna be a stars!" "Wallaby...I dont think this star shape is used fo-" "GOODBYE MATES!!"

And with a casted spell and a flash of an eye, everybody was drowned with an unknown colorful sticky liquid that fully covered them, gluing them to the ground. Expect David, who fell down to the ground aspect with a horrible fear that rised behind his eyes from the grisly vision that immediately happend.

Blondie Stood there, watching him in enmity.

Blondie turned around, only to be so bothered by seeing the surviver. "Oh it seems I missed a shot! Im going to fix this~" The words had deserted david, the color quickly drained from his face, a cold wave embalmed him and his mouth ran dry, sweat poured down his body, Heart began to hammer against his chest, every muscle in his body shouted at him to flee. To escpae this imminent threat. He hurried to the door, using every little cell of power left to open it, but no matter how much he quickly moves the handle in fright, the door didnt open, oh yes, blondie locked it. Seeing no hope, he knocked on it so expeditiously and hardly, trying not to make his words stumbled, begging for someone outside to hear him. "HEEEEELLLP!!! HELP ME!!! PLEASE!!! ANYBODY OUT THERE?!?!? PLEASE HELP ME!!" "Come on David, why so nervous?" Blondie snickered from behind him, his voice hinting he is oncoming, his tone ringing in a sick icy way, sending chimes ringing in david ears, but he kept screaming for a rescue, he was not frightened nor afraid, he was beyond such mere nouns, he was going crazy, his boater hat fell from his head, it only reminded of how much he wants his family NOW in this profound situation, he just wanted to go back to them again, stay with his father marley at home and go to beach together or golf or car or wherever his father wants to go, staying in his parents arms was all what he desired, he would never wish anything anymore after this. He could no longer control his hands they were shaking in an odd trembling rhythm, his legs collapsed underneath him, teeth chattering in fear, He slid down the door, bringing his knees up to his chest.

"I-I-I-I-I-I D-D-DONT UNDERSTAND!!!!!!"

"You dont understand? I hated you! Im who created jokey! He was my friend since the childhood! My friend since the start!! But you! I saw every little detail I gifted him in you! You were perfect, perfect for him, more perfect than me! Now that I had a studio of my own, I wanted him to be alive! I reached my wish by the help of you all, by animating and presenting him to all the children around the world, they loved him, just like me! But lately, I didnt feel that I made this dream come true yet...how can a cartoon character offset me of a friend who always stayed by my side that I cant make real! But now I found a second chance, a second chance to revive him, to this reality. Thats it! Thats the chance! By using some souls to bring those stunning characters and that convival cartoony world I created to reality...that was always my biggest dream...and whats a better chance than to have the voice actor whom I influenced the traits for the children 'star' right at my hand~ People will love you david~"

Blondie was right, if david dyed his hair black and wore some cheeks make up, he could exactly like a real life jokey, but who would need a cheap costume when you can bring jokey himself to reality. David recalled the times when he sometimes thought uncle harry may have been a little overprotective of him. He thought his uncle needs to ease a bit, nothing so dangerous will happen for him. Now, he regret thinking this, and wants him to overprotect him forever and ever. Fear became a tangible, living force that crept over him like some hungry beast, immobilizing him and his brain, holding him a captive and took control of his entire body, Shadows and echoes play on his senses warping shapes and sounds. That outlandish substance already reached his legs, his life flashed before his eyes and he ushered his bright unearthly ones shut.

Yeb, this is the angel end.

#brueklynn #blondie rodgers #wallaby wallstone #david angel #murphy hillsborugh

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weshallc · 8 years ago

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Nonnatun Christmas Card Exchange:Christmas 1962 Tom & Barbara

This is a story I wrote for @jlyspio for the Nonnatun Christmas Card Exchange. She has kindly given me permission to share it with you. As they are not too many ‘Herbert’ stories, I thought why not.

This is my first and maybe my last. Many thanks to Rachel for very generously finding time for me aboard the busy Polar Express. Big shout out to @eatapinkwafer who has patiently endured 4 of these Christmas offerings in the last few days and been incredibly supportive.

Tom stood at the bus stop on the main road adjoining the street where the Turners now lived. Tom was pleased with his morning’s work. Over a cup of Typhoo tea and a lemon puff, Edward Patrick Turner’s christening had been meticulously arranged.

Most of the morning, however, had been taken up by an over-enthusiastic Angela giving the young clergyman an extensive tour of ‘her’ new house - much to Shelagh Turner’s obvious discomfort. There was some embarrassment on both sides as Angela refused to leave out an inch of her new kingdom. He just hoped Timothy Turner would never become privy to the knowledge that the curate had once been in his bedroom.

Tom tightened his scarf around his neck and pulled his over coat collar up. Mrs. Turner had been right to keep the little girl indoors, even it did result in a bit of petulance from the child. The garden may be Angela Turner’s favourite thing about her new house, but she was definitely better off inside the new centrally-heated, detached new build.

Suddenly, a streak of blue whizzed past his eyes and then pulled up sharply. An all too familiar voice shrieked back at him.

“Hello Tom! Where are you off too?” It apparently wasn’t as cold as he and Mrs. Turner had thought, looking at Trixie Franklin waving to him from the passenger seat of an open topped sports car.

“The London, Trixie. Mr. Samuelson.” Tom explained.

“Oh, that dear man.” Trixie’s exuberance dampened momentarily.” Why don’t you try and squeeze in, we will drop you off. Won’t we Sweetie?”

Christopher Dockerill and the curate exchanged a glance and a smile. Tom assured Trixie, that the No.52 was due any minute. He knew the dentist was on his lunch break and didn’t want to share any of that time with anyone but Trixie.

Trixie gave Tom an apologetic smile as she waved goodbye and soon became a blue blur in the distance.

Tom smiled. If Trixie had married him she would be stood at this bus stop with him or maybe one like it in Newcastle. Instead she was speeding through Poplar in a sports car. She looked good, she looked happy, she looked the part.

Tom was still musing over the differing paths his old love and he had taken as he mounted the stairs of the red London bus. A familiar voice shook him from his reverie.

“How do, Reverend. Where are you off too then?”

Tom looked up to see Fred’s cheery face beaming from the seat behind the stairwell. Tom told Fred about his proposed visit. Fred closed the newspaper he had been reading and sighed.

“Poor old Sammy eh! Too bad, known him all my life, since I was nipper. Grand bloke.”

Tom felt he may have given too much away about his concerns for his parishioner and changed the subject.

“Catching up with the news, Fred?”

“Na, not me it’s all gloom ‘n’ doom. I just get it to see how many the ‘ammers got beat by and to have a look at the gee-gees.” Fred wafted the well-thumbed copy of last night’s Evening Standard at Tom. His voice lowered.

“Between you ‘n’ me Reverend, there is a good thing in the 2:35 at Aintree today. Never been beat, class against muck. Handicapper has let one fly, if you know what I mean?”

Tom hadn’t the faintest idea what Fred meant, it was like he was speaking another language.

“I will just say this young man, with the help of this little beauty, my Violet can expect something special in her Christmas stocking. If you catch my drift?”

If Tom could have pushed the next sentence that left his lips back into his mouth, he would have.

“Fred, I am sure Mrs. Buckle would be pleased with any gift you can afford. Safe in the knowledge you aren’t risking your hard earned wages on gambling.”

“You weren’t so high and mighty about a little flutter on your stag do, was you Reverend. Weren’t so proud when it got your girl that big fancy carousel?”

“So what you got the missus for Christmas then, bit hard to top your own personal fairground, ain’t it? Set of dodgems, is it?”

Fred stood up and pulled the cord to ring the bell for his stop. He saw the clergy’s crestfallen face and wondered if he had been a bit harsh? He liked Mr. Hereward a lot.

“Never you mind vicar about presents, newly-weds can make their own funfair at Christmas.” He winked at the curate, trying to ease the tension between the two.

Tom’s visit to the London turned out better than he expected. Mr. Samuelson looked so much better than he had on Tom’s last visit to his home. The old man confessed to the curate that he was hoping he would be in hospital over Christmas, surrounded by wonderful caring nurses, who reminded him of his late wife Mabel and a grumpy matron, who reminded him of his old sergeant major.

His renewed optimism regarding Mr. Samuelson didn’t bolster the curate’s spirits for long. He couldn’t forget his earlier conversation with Fred. What was he going to get Barbara for Christmas? The wedding and simple honeymoon had practically cleaned Tom out. How was he going to top a carousel, when he couldn’t even afford a sherbet lolly?

He remembered Trixie waving to him from her new beau’s status symbol. He knew Barbara would never expect or even want to go skiing for Christmas or be driven around in a sports car. The nearest they got to that was when she let him ride her bike and she had a croggy on the handlebars.

He thought about the scene of domestic bliss he had witnessed this morning.His and Barbara’s children wouldn’t have their own bedrooms. They wouldn’t have a garden to play in. They would play out with all the other kids on the streets of Poplar. The clergy’s kids would play with the docker’s kids. Would they survive? Would they be bullied?

He thought of Timothy Turner, he grew up on the East End streets, no one picked on Tim, he was accepted. Playing violin and piano when the other kids were playing British Bulldogs. Going to Grammar School while his mates got jobs on the docks or in factories. You couldn’t get a more well balanced happy teenager than Tim Turner, could you?

Tom gave himself a shake. She had married a clergyman not a doctor or a dentist and if anyone knew what that meant, Barbara did. Yes, she deserved everything and more that her friends had, but she had chosen differently.

As Tom headed across Whitechapel Road he noticed a new addition to the line of shops near the station. Tom had read somewhere that since bookmaking had been made legal last May, that over 10,000 Betting Shops had arrived in High Streets across the UK. That did seem rather a lot.

In his line of work he had seen many families ripped apart by gambling, just as he had by drinking. Yet he still enjoyed a pint of mild, when he had the chance and felt it no way threatened his and Barbara’s happiness or comfort. Everything in moderation his father always said.

The same thing applied when he looked at Fred. Violet knew all about Fred’s little flutters, of course she did and she didn’t seem to mind. Then there was Dougie Roberts, renowned for not been able to pass up a bet. What was that expression about 2 boys and a wall? Well, that applied to Dougie. One look at his wife Ruby told you she wanted for nothing. His 2 girls were always immaculately turned out and as for their boy, it was widely acknowledged that nothing was too good for little Douglas.

The building was small and the windows blacked out making it look secretive, menacing almost.

He was inside before he even realized what he was about to do. The smell of stale cigarette smoke hit him first. As his eyes adjusted to the artificial light, he glanced at his fellow occupants in the tiny room. No one looked at Tom. The curate made sure his scarf was wrapped tightly around his throat and the collar of his overcoat drawn together to hide his dog collar.

“Alright Darling, next race 2:35 at Aintree.” Tom turned and blinked at the young woman behind the small counter. “Ain’t seen you in here before, I’d ‘ave remembered. First time is it?” She winked at him.

“Just put, the race time, horses name and how much you want to bet on there, sweetheart. I will do the rest.” She flounced back to the counter leaving a scent of cheap perfume and polo mints behind her.

Tom knew he had to leave now. If only at this point the chirpy assistant hadn’t turned up the volume on the solitary black and white television set, following a request from a punter.

We will just take a look at the runners for our next race the 2:35 at Aintree.” The commentator’s voice startled Tom. “No.1 is a big outsider, first time at Aintree for Glorious Gilbert...”

Tom heard no more, his heart missed a beat. Maybe this wasn’t a mistake after all.

Tom rushed to the pinned up papers, found what he needed. He scribbled on the tiny slip and presented it to his curious new ally behind the desk. Searching in his trouser pocket he hesitated only for a second as he took out a precious ten bob note and handed it over to its willing recipient.

It took Tom a full minute to realize what he had done. He moved to a place where he could get a good view of the flickering set. He longed to unbutton his coat, but instead he pulled the collar tighter. The small room was overheated, a fierce looking electric heater in the corner was whirring and spluttering.

They were going down, in a few minutes it would all be over. No one would ever know how stupid he had been.

“Reverend! Well this is a right turn up for the books, twice in one day!”

Tom froze as a large hand patted him on the back. The girl behind the counter started coughing uncontrollably after swallowing her Polo mint whole.

Rather weakly and somewhat defensively Tom retorted. “I could ask you the same question, Fred.��

Fred didn’t bat an eyelid. “I often does a bit of business on Whitechapel Market, just thought I’d pop in here for a warm.”

“Friend of yours Fred?” The assistant had regained her composure.

“Alright, Thelma love?” Tactfully leaving the enquiry unanswered. Tom was grateful realizing Fred must have just popped in for a lot of ‘warms’ recently.

Fred led Tom away from listening ears and asked him why the last person he was expecting to meet in a Whitechapel Betting Shop was stood next to him. Tom could have said he was looking for a parishioner or putting on a bet for old Mr. Samuelson. Tom knew he was a fool, but he also knew he wasn’t a liar.

Tom handed his friend the slip he had been clutching so tightly. Fred just asked him why?

“For Barbara,” was all he could reply.

Fred pulled off his woolly hat, scratched his head and looked bewildered at the curate.

“I was pulling your leg, winding you up, you silly sod.” Fred felt bereft he had maybe had some part in the choices Tom had made that afternoon. He looked so uncomfortable, so out of place. “Gambling is a mug's game. I know I am a mug.”

Tom protested, “What about Walthamstow, what about Galilee Lad...”

Fred interrupted, “Dogs is dogs. A good dog can beat another good dog any day of the week. Now your thoroughbred, that’s a different animal. You’ve got to know your oats. So to speak.”

Tom felt sick and hot and stupid. Fred looked at Tom’s slip and shook his head.

“66/1, it’s a maiden!” Fred couldn’t hide his exasperation. All Tom could offer was that he thought it was a stallion.

Fred snorted. “Yes, It is a bloke. A maiden just means it’s never won a race. You know, like a maiden's never...”

“Yes, I get the picture Fred, thank you.”

The simple question why came again from Fred’s face of pity.

“For Barbara.” Came back the reply.

Thelma turned the volume on the television up another notch. As the race announcer declared, “And they’re off!”

“That’s yours in the red and white stripes.” She nodded at Tom. The curate looked bewildered at the black and white picture. Fred grinned, winked at him and shook his head.

Even with Tom’s untrained eye, he could see Mr. Minty looked like a different class from the rest of the field. “ Jumps like a stag!” Fred beamed with pride.

“You mean there are fences!” Tom cried.

“It’s winter Mr. Hereward, National Hunt season.”

Not for the first time Tom wondered why no-one was speaking English today. The 6 horses seemed to take each fence in their stride. Mr. Minty led from the off and literally flew over every obstacle.

Emerald Eyes fell at the 6th. Tom offered up a silent prayer for the horse and jockey. Remarkably both bounced back to their feet. Emerald Eyes, now rider-less, soon caught up to his competitors.

Welsh Wonder refused to jump at the 7th and was pulled up. Bobby’s Girl unseated her jockey at the 9th. Gorgeous Gilbert was last of the 3 remaining runners, it was no threat to Mr. Minty, but seemed quite happy to plod on behind and appeared to relish the jumps.

“Your nag stopped to eat some grass.” Fred mocked.

Tom realized he no longer cared. As long as horse and jockey got home safety, that was all that mattered now.

“One more jump and we are home and dry, go on my son!” A very excited Fred Buckle yelled.

Mr. Minty took off for the final time and so did his jockey. He took off from his saddle and somersaulted over Mr. Minty’s head. The jockey landed unceremoniously on his behind on the turf. Mr. Minty didn’t miss a step and galloped home triumphantly.

Fred swore. Apologised to Tom and then cursed again. Tom and Fred’s gaze returned to the screen, while the cameras had been focused on the fate of the unfortunate favourite. Tom’s horse had made up ground on the second.

Blonde Bombshell was coming to the last now as the unexpected favourite. She jumped the fence cleanly, but stumbled on landing. Her jockey pulling hard to maintain his balance.

Gorgeous Gilbert jumped beautifully and was now just a length behind the tiring leader. Fred suddenly became animated, he grabbed Tom’s sleeve,

“You’re in with a chance here Reverend.”

Tom was perspiring, feeling sick and dizzy due to the heat, the confinement of the small shop and the overpowering cigarette stench compounded by his confusion at his own actions. Fred was now jumping up and down shaking Tom’s arm. “Come on you beauty, come on for Mrs H!“ He screamed.

The enthusiasm of his friend did not go unnoticed by Tom, Fred had shaken off the disappointment of his own loss and was right behind Tom’s fortunes. The broadcaster continued his quick-fire commentary.

“It’s a long run in here at Aintree, Blonde Bombshell is tiring, she is losing ground. Gorgeous Gilbert is gaining on her. Here he comes. There is just a neck in it now. They coming up to the line. He has done it! The outsider has pulled off a shock today here at Aintree, Glorious Gilbert the winner at 66/1”

Fred was now kissing a very dazed Tom. The feel of Fred’s stubble on his cheek jolted Tom back to reality. Fred pushed Tom towards a grinning Thelma.

“Where you taking me tonight then, Handsome? Now you’ve cleaned me out.”

Fred gave Thelma a stern stare and the assistant took out a wad of notes and began counting out Tom’s winnings. “What do you fancy in the next then?”

Tom shaking with the money in his hand replied, “I don’t know. I will have a look.”

A large hand grabbed Tom’s arm and before he knew it, Tom was finally outside. His lungs shuddered with relief at the cold fresh air. Fred had him by both shoulders and was staring Tom right in the eyes. Tom felt faint with the sudden environmental change and the smell of tea, jellied eels, and sweat.

“Now you listen to me Tom! You got lucky, you were given a break. Betting is a mug's game, I know cos I am a mug see. Apart from the day I stepped up at Nonnatus House and the day I married my girls mother and of course my Vi.” Tom was getting his bearings and Fred had his full attention.

“I know how you feel mate. Of course I does, your missus earns more than you do. You can’t get her the things you’d like too. You don’t want her feeling second best. You don’t want people thinking you’re not a real man because your wife works, or it looks like you can’t provide for her. Well none of that matters. They’ll soon change their minds, when they want a baby delivering or christening, when they want marrying or burying. They’ll soon remember then, how important you and that young lass are to Poplar. When they’re in trouble, when they have need of you. They will remember and so should you!”

Fred finally let go of Tom and the smaller man swayed slightly.

“Now keep that stash, safe in your pocket and go and find a nice present for Mrs H, that’s what all this is about. Ain’t it? He smiled at Tom and added, “Let that be the end of it.”

“The end of what, Fred?” The last question didn’t come from Toms soft brogue but from a higher pitched voice, a feminine voice and one that held a hint of anxiety.

Fred knew he couldn’t answer Mrs. Hereward’s question and made his swift goodbyes and was lost in Whitechapel Market in a heartbeat.

Tom stared at his wife in disbelief, a feeling mirrored by Barbara. After accompanying a patient to the London for admission, she had not expected as she crossed the Whitechapel Road to see her husband and the Nonnatus handyman coming out of a betting shop.

Barbara repeated her question, this time to Tom.

Tom knew he was a fool, but he also knew he was not a liar. His confession poured from his heart. How he resented not being able to give Barbara the lifestyle she deserved. How she should have the sort of things her friends were quickly becoming accustomed too. It broke his heart to see Trixie swanning off skiing, when he hadn’t been able to give Barbara a proper honeymoon. He wanted their children to have a room of their own and a garden with a swing and a slide. He hadn’t even been able to buy his love an engagement ring. He hadn’t been able to bear the thought of their first Christmas as man and wife exchanging some worthless trumpery from the market.

Tears welled up in Barbara’s eyes, she held both his hands in hers.

“Do you know me so little, that you think I would envy a skiing trip or a ride in a sports car? Do you think I give a damn, about the latest fashions or hair styles? For one moment do you think I would swap our cosy little flat in the centre of our bustling, vibrant world for a big house on a faceless new estate somewhere, where we know no-one. Where we would have to cycle or get the bus every time we wanted to see our friends. Tom I would live with you in a bus shelter and would not care if we never stepped out of Poplar again, as long as I am with you.”

Tom was struggling to hold back the tears now. Barbara had not finished.

“You are so incredibly dear to me, Tom. I feel I am the luckiest girl in the world.Every Sunday morning, I feel this when I hear you preach with understanding and compassion, not judgment and prejudice. I feel blessed beyond belief, when I watch you hold a dying man's hand, comfort a widow, help those in need find a way or just make a child feel important. I burst with pride every time someone calls me Mrs. or Nurse Hereward, because that means that out of the whole world the best man I have ever met, chose me.”

Tom pulled her close into a soft salty tear stained kiss. He didn’t care if anyone noticed his dog collar now. He promised to never be so foolish again.

“Just tell me Tom, how much did you lose?”

“I didn’t lose anything Barbara, I won. I won over 30 quid!”

Barbara blinked and then gasped in disbelief. She wouldn’t tell Tom just yet, but the pensioners Christmas dinner and the children’s party were definitely going to be remembered this year. Their first year as the curate and his wife. As Mr. and Mrs. Hereward.

“I guess I beat the odds when I married you, Barbara,” Tom continued.

“Never mind about that Mr. Hereward, I have just finished my shift and if you come with me. It’s a dead cert, that you are on a sure thing.”

Barbara had pulled Tom onto the No.52 bus before he realized what she meant. Not for the first time today he realized he had backed a winner.

#ctm #tom and barbara #fanfic #christmas 1962

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