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abizarreyodelingincident · 4 years

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Our Nightly Confidant 4

War Games

Warriors needs fresh air.

The hand resting in the crook of his elbow is soft, but its grip is threatening to cut off the blood circulation to his hand. The pain has steadily numbed as the ladies exchange thinly veiled insults about this or that province and this or that financial ruin.

He used to like this.

The attention, the admiration, the glory! When did it start to taste like ash in his mouth?

If his queen heard that thought, she'd have another one of her brutal truths for him. 'When war stopped being a game and became a duty.'

When he realized that not even being the Chosen Hero of Courage would shield him from the game. That it made him twice the target every other soldier was. When the bodies of fallen comrades couldn't go past the numb exhaustion that took him every evening.

“Lady Farosh, Lady Ordonas, if you'll excuse me for a second...” he says, flashing them his flashiest smile.

Lady Ordonas brings out her fan to hide her rosy cheeks and agrees with an obvious giggle. Lady Farosh, whose fingernails are on the verge of piercing skin, delays her reply by the barely polite amount of time.

“Oh, Captain Link, you cannot abandon me so swiftly,” she tries, eyes flickering to her father, an esteemed general in discussion with Impa.

“But of course not, only a second to freshen up.”

The instant she releases him, he pulls away and bows. Though, despite his instincts screaming at him, he doesn't run a straight line for the glass doors of the Queen's ballroom. Lady Farosh would take it as an insult. He weaves through conversations, dropping the minimum expected of him here and there, snarks at a Legend that looks ready to murder Lord Lonnayru (and Warriors wishes him to succeed), never touches a drink or bite offered that he did not pick for himself, and eventually reaches freedom.

The cool night air is a balm on his skin as it strokes his hair and face.

Even the small, military tents he's slept in during the campaign didn't feel half as stifling as that ballroom. And some of the tents, he couldn't even stand up inside!

Above, the moon shines its silvery glow down to the garden's fountain. With the ball in full swing inside, no one walks the peaceful path of stone amidst the roses and the arches. Shame. It's a beautiful place. His first stroll there had been a pleasant experience, though not his first conversation with his queen. Impa had chased away the rest of the escort and glared the patrolling guards into submission. Any attempt to bargain had been met with stony silence and a dare to prove themselves worthier of the Queen's protection than her Sheikah general and mentor.

Warriors stops by the hedgerow. If he focuses, he can see the spot where Zelda sat down, where she picked a rose for him, and pinned it on his breastplate.

They had had hopes for the future. Have. He still has hopes. Don't get him wrong. But he's a little more tired than he used to be. Where had the time gone?

'Captain Link, I must introduce you to my daughter.'

Must. Must. Must. Always a 'must', never a 'may'. Duty traps him and the wild beasts know it. They sniffed his blood long ago, and he can only ever bandage the wound so much before it becomes infected.

Traipsing around with the heroes of previous eras is a blessing and a reward that Hylia offered him. A thank you, he feels, and perhaps the beginning of an apology.

“You shouldn't be out there on your own, Captain Link.”

Those are normal words, spoken with careful reverence. Nothing about them should bring his walls up this quickly. But Warriors is no longer accosted by the common soldiers. Hasn't in a long time.

The cracks on his heart spread just a little further. Deeper.

“Someone might try to hurt you, sir.”

The reverence is gone.

And the spear points straight at his chest.

He doesn't have time to bring out his sword.

A snarling mass of fur tackles the traitor, and by the time Warriors can react, the cry of fear stops abruptly. In its stead is a steady gurgle, a fading wheeze. A limb that thuds against the garden grounds.

Warriors doesn't flinch. He's seen worse.

Once his prey has been deemed sufficiently mauled, Wolfie turns to him, muzzle dark with blood, and worry clear in his eyes.

“Good boy,” he says, absentminded, a hand ruffling through the beast's sinfully soft fur.

It's a testament to his companion's state of mind that no warning growl responds to the familiarity. Warriors doubt he would hear it anyway. He's staring at the dead body.

The guard was young. Maybe... Hyrule's age. He must have hated the war, if he'd gone to the front lines. Hell is hardly enough of a description for the dance of bodies and hacked limbs. He had probably lost a brother or a father or a cousin to the fighting, if he was earning his keep in the Queen's castle at that age. Maybe Impa had taken pity on him.

“Simple-minded fools who can't resist basic mind magic,” Warriors repeats, a wobbly chuckle in his voice.

Wolfie noses his hand, and the little shock of cold and wet jolts enough that he can avert his eyes from the traitor. Defeated, the events of the night all playing on loop, he drags himself to a secluded spot by the hedgerow. One from which he can see people coming, with his back to the branches. Wolfie plops down next to him.

“Mind magic. What I wouldn't give for that to be the case,” he confesses to the wolf-like companion. “Hylia. I'd take cowards over this. I'm not asking them to fight my battles for me. Not even fight by me. Just...”

His fingers curl into his scarf. Holds onto the lifeline.

“I just want to be able to turn my back on the people I protect. Is that really so much to ask for?”

Soft fur fills his sight. He ought to resist the urge. An officer must be strong. Cannot let the soldiers down. Fear spreads like wildfire. One spark, and the whole army goes up in flame.

He knows this.

He knows, and he sobs anyway. Farore, please, just for an instant, allow him to be weak.

He buries his face in Wolfie's shoulder, relishes the warmth and protection that comes from the sacred beast. It doesn't matter that some blood splatters might stain his official knight armors. It doesn't matter that for a split second, he doesn't scan his surroundings for exits, potential ambushes and traps. He gives the taut ropes of tension inside him just enough relief.

Until he pulls back.

Sniffs twice, wipes his face once and plasters the charmer smile.

“I'm alright, Wolfie... I'm alright.”

Wolfie doesn't buy it. Makes an inquisitive little whine. A question.

His hand trembles in the fur. “I am. I will be.”

Wolfie turns, quick not to notice one's tears. Strange for a wolf, but he doesn't pounce on their weaknesses. They trust he never will.

Silly as it sounds, there's more than a few noble daughters in that ballroom that could take lessons in civility from Wolfie. At least, in his presence, he doesn't feel like a bloody piece of meat dangling in front of a pack of wolves. Now, that's irony.

“You know... you kind of make me miss Midna.”

Warriors jumped back when Wolfie suddenly straightened, his eyes laser focused.

“Yeah, I know her,” he said, feeling a hint of a real smile. “We have a statue for her in the Temple of Souls. Hell of a woman.”

His hands went to his sword the second his ears picked up a low growling noise, only to realize it had come from Wolfie. Was... was their canine companion protective of the Twilight Princess? Or, Hylia forbid, jealous? Goddess, that was too cute.

“Shh, don't alert the others,” Warriors said, hands held in front of him in mock surrender.

Wolfie, with very Hylian-like intelligence, puts a paw first on his muzzle, then scratches one of his ears. It's a good point. He'd know first.

Warriors relents before Wolfie starts nipping. He remembers Time's mud bath. “She mentioned you too. Called you her favorite pet.”

He hadn't know what disgruntled looked like on a wolf before, but now he had the perfect picture. No wonder Midna had loved to tease him.

“She went into battle with this shadow spell. Wolf-companions.”

Wolfie's interest shifts into disguised wariness. There are hints that he might like to pull back a bit, but Warriors' hand remains firm on the back of the wolf's neck.

“Called her main one Rinku,” he adds, waggling his eyebrows. “Reminds you of something, huh?”

Wolfie blinks. Then blinks some more. He's almost completely frozen, like he has no clue what to make of that information. Or is trying to choose the right way to react. And when he does, Warriors bites down on a burst of laughter.

The puppy eyes. The good boy smile. It's worrying how they almost work.

Almost.

Warriors keeps a sly grin on his face and waits. He's in no hurry to return inside the palace.

It takes another change of beat in the music coming from the ballroom before Wolfie gives, and shadows swallow him.

“Since when?” Twilight says, sighing.

Warriors' smirk is immensely punchable, he's aware. He loves to live dangerously.

“Are you implying that I would deliberately play dumb so that one of my fellow Hero of Courage would act like a dog when he doesn't need to? That I knew from the very beginning and asked Wild to take pictures for posterity? For shame, Twilight.”

A vein twitched under Twilight's jaw. “No, I wasn't implying that. I was saying you're an asshole, Wars!”

Warriors fails to dodge the lunge, half-paralyzed by muffled chuckles. The momentum throws them on the grass, and there's a split second of disorientation before his back hits the ground, and a weight lands on his chest. A heavy weight. Goddesses be good, the farmer lifestyle paid, huh?

“Twilight, move your fat ass.”

The mullish expression on his brother's face would have made a raging moblin sweat. “No. We're still doing this. I have a great track record, and I'm not letting you narcissistic goatfiddler break it by being your usual self. Talk.”

His eyes widen in alarm. “Really? This is the setup? Me, suffocating, and you, thinking of a place to hide my body. What is this, a deathbed confession?”

“You could have had the amazing emotional support of everyone's favorite wolf. But noooo, you're too good for that, so spill. Better be fast, because I had double serving of Wild's chili. Gives me gaz like thunder.”

“You. Wouldn't. Dare.”

The silent glare he receives is all Time.

Warriors squirming renews. “Farmhand, I will skewer you on the Master Sword myself if you don't-”

“Why would you go off on your own like that? We were all in the ballroom. You could have gotten any of us.”

“Let's not reverse the roles here,” Warriors hisses, one eyebrow raised. “I'm not the one playing double-life around our group. You can't talk about trust when you constantly hide in plain sight. You want trust? You tell me why.”

The boyish, almost light air between them breaks. Guilt blooms on Twilight's face. He can't meet Warriors' gaze and doesn't even try.

“... It's Dark Magic.”

“I couldn't care less. I've fought amongst noble fighters with dark magic and against monsters with the opposite. Next.”

Twilight's ears droop slightly. It's dog-like, and amusingly fitting for a moment of hesitation. Every second that passes without a word hammer the fact that 'dark magic' is the surface excuse for Twilight's shifty dealings about their group. Warriors tries not to be angry. Twilight did just save his life with that very secret.

“I've had...” Lips mull the words for a few seconds. “Mixed reactions.”

Warriors feels himself frown. “Mixed how?”

“You know me, the country boy, raised in the small farmer village lost in the woods. Country bumpkins, the lot of us... You ever heard what they think of wolves?”

His breath hitches. Slow dread creeps on him. He hates the ease with which images come to him. He's never seen Twilight's hometown, never met any of his family, but he's suddenly overwhelmed by the idea of a mob of pitchforks and pickaxes held high, of dogs barking through the woods as a grey wolf scampers. Narrowly avoids a bear trap snapping its deadly maw on thin air instead of a limb. Overhears angry grumbling about making a pelt out of his skin.

They should be farmers, but he sees old faces instead. Soldiers. Commanders. Officers. Brothers-in-arms he's long trusted. Thought he could trust.

“W-what do they know about those majestic beasts?” he says, jokingly because he's afraid to let the mask slip an inch. (It'd fall a mile, shatter too hard for him to ever glue back the pieces.)

“My father threatened to skewer me,” comes the quiet admission, less than a whisper.

Warriors' heart squeezes. “Twilight.”

“Didn't know it was me though,” Twilight adds, failing at even a small smile. “To him, I was just this wild animal circling the village right after most of the children had been stolen. He... he only threatened me. Just words. Nothing like what you had to deal with.”

“The words are the worst part for me,” Warriors hears himself say. “I hear them in my nightmares, even if I forget what they tried to do. Couldn't tell you who came at me with a spear, with a sword, with a dagger. But I see their eyes in the mirror, the hate as they died.”

“The fear. The 'Get back, beast!' and the screams.”

“'It's your fault!'” Warriors repeat, the same tone that echoed in his head. “'You should have died instead!'”

Twilight's face twists, and there's a split second when Warriors thinks his heart will give out. Even the shadows of Twili magic can't compare to the darkness that covers the blue of his eyes. But Twilight turns his head to the side and spits in disgust.

It hits the traitor's cooling corpse.

“Bastards,” he says, venom lacing his tongue. “Should have made that last.”

He says, with blood all over his face , Warriors thinks dryly.

It's a sharp contrast, that violence on him. Twilight has always had that air of earnest, straightforward honesty. One look at him and strangers will put their trust in him without hesitation. He lacks the battleworn scars (at least where it's visible), is old enough to be taken seriously and his bumpkin accent breeds familiarity with most commoners they meet. Warriors himself has to deploy all his charms to get the same results, and he's still being glared at by a lot of the men.

They peg him a charmer, and not without reason.

“I don't like it either,” Warriors says, quiet.

“What?” Twilight replies, an eyebrow raised.

“The knight act, you know.” And before Twilight's mouth can drop – “At least, some of it. The game. The doublespeak. The mask. It all feels pointless sometimes.”

“I... really?” Twilight's baffled words hurt, just a little.

Warriors scoffs. “Yes, really. I'm not meant to play knaves and daggers. I'm a soldier. An officer. I'm meant to be out there, defending the kingdom I love. Inspiring the people to fight back against darkness, to stand up for their lives. To be at the front of an army, to lead as one amongst the great... it's incredible. It's what I was born to do, I know it in my bones. The act is necessary. But by the Goddesses do I wish I could live without it.”

He sees the way his meaning worms itself past Twilight's gaze, understanding dawning on him. “No matter where one goes, huh?” Sheepish ruffle of his own hair. “Is it something in the water?”

“Like they'd lower themselves to drinking water,” Warriors sneers, a smirk hidden underneath. “Wine only, my good sir. And only the finest year, from the finest yard. Vintage, my good peasant, it's all the vintage that shows breeding.”

“They do know that for everyone else, breeding is something you check for your horses and your dogs, right?”

“I... couldn't tell. I've stopped listening a while ago. I just nod and play my handsome part. It is the only use for a Hero once the King of Evil has been defeated, it looks like. I don't know if I even should call myself a knight anymore.”

“Wild was touched, y'know?” Twilight says, looking up to the moon. “When you called him an honorable knight,” he adds with a sigh. “He's always associated his life before the Calamity to knighthood, to that incredible soldier that had trained for a decade before facing his destiny. Someone whose shadow he chased for months, not realizing it's his own. You might have been the first to call his current self a knight.”

“He is!” Warriors near jumps to his feet. “Wild may be unorthodox, but he is a loyal, devoted man that served Hyrule to the best of his ability despite having lost everything but his life to the cause. Most generals in my army could not even measure up to his standard.”

“Should have seen the look in his eyes when I mentioned it.” There's a hint of sadness beyond the pride and joy of this memory.

He hates the curdling feeling that brings forth. “Remind me to knock a couple of heads together next time we visit his Hyrule, would you?”

Twilight's chuckle is fond, gentle. “Yeah, that's what I meant. I never thought to tell him in those words. To me, he was always good enough. But you saw that side of him too. You know what it's like to want it. I can't relate that well to this, but... well, anyone under your command has to look up to a guy like you.”

Hands ball into fists. Eyes drift to the corpse. “Not everyone does. Obviously.”

Twilight bumps shoulders with him. “I'm sorry, pretty boy. I'm sorry these assholes think they have any right to blame you. To resent you. You're an amazing leader. Much better than me. I... I honestly admire you and your skill.”

Warmth settles in his stomach. He can't... For a second, he needs to blink away tears.

“So he admits it.”

There's a wry, wolfish quality to Twilight's grin. “You speak a word of it, and you'll meet an unfortunate fate, Captain.”

“As if anyone but my Queen could make me fall in battle,” he laughs, pushing Twilight's shoulder, hard.

“Careful there.” His brother's grin sharpens, and the returning shove almost sends Warriors crashing into a bush. “You might touch my cursed stone, and then you'd be stuck as your true self. What would your queen think if she saw a plague-ridden rat try to command her armies?”

Laughter bubbles in his chest. “Be happy to send the rat to infect the goat-loving hillbillies before they spread out of their mudholes! Imagine the half-goat, half-hylians that would invade Hyrule!”

Twilight's gauntlets fall to the ground. Knuckles are cracked. “A'right. Someone needs an asswhooping.”

He could not stop smirking if the Goddesses ordered him to. “Bring it, dog-boy. I'll put a collar on you.”

Taunts, past this point, become superfluous. The breath they would waste could be better utilized trying not to die (lose) against this moblin (his brother) and his freakish strength (no, really, he pushes giant metal crates on ice, the goron-born idiot). The honor of Hyrule rests on his victory.

At some point, they roll over in the fountain.

This does not, in fact, stop their roughhousing.

***

“Should I ask why you both have black eyes and split lips when no one noticed any monster for miles?” Time wonders at his seconds-in-command. “While we were attending a ball?”

“No,” they growl with a ferocity to chill bones.

“Not fair!” Wind protests, to the nodding of most. “Why did they get to have all the fun?”

Ah, youth.

#Linked Universe #Linkeduniverse #LU Twilight #LU Warriors #LU Wolfie

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themarvellouswriter · 4 years

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MOB! SEBASTIAN x TALL! READER

PART II OF THE MASTERPIECE SERIES

Warnings: Nothing yet, Y/N is a bad-ass and she doesn’t take anyone’s nonsense. Slight swearing? Does referring to a stupid pair of buttocks count as swearing?

Word Count: 1.9k

Genres: Fluff, angst and a lil’ romance

Notes: The story has officially started! Now we’ll be seeing a lot more of Sebastian’s and the reader’s interactions.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Ugh,” you groaned as you opened your eyes. The sheets underneath your palms were smooth. Your vision swam as the room came into focus. A pastel coloured ceiling greeted you. You blinked several times trying to recall the events of the night before. A flash of panic went through you as you sat up with a start. “Veronica!” You gasped as you got to your feet. The room began to spin. You clutched the bed for support. Sinking down on your knees, you started taking deep breaths. Shakily, you stood up, using the bed for support. You looked around the room, assessing your surroundings for the first time. The room was fairly well furnished with a glass wall to your left and two doors to your right. “Unbelievable,” you muttered. “I let a pair of idiots kidnap me while saving the life of a baker. Why?” You tried the closest one. It gave way and swung outwards. “I am the maid of honor at a wedding! I refuse to stay kidnapped.”

Quietly, you made your way outside. You found yourself at the end of a long hallway. You looked around, there were three doors and a flight of stairs. Ignoring the doors, you went down to the ground floor. The entryway was deserted. Stifling down the pit in your stomach, you headed for the front door. You had just turned the handle when the door opened and you were greeted by a familiar face.

Your eyes met blue grey ones. “Sebastian?” His name rolled easily off your tongue. He grinned. But it wasn’t a soft like the one you’d seen in the pub yesterday. This one was showed thinly veiled irritation. “Mystery girl. Lovely to see you again. Now,” he stated coolly and gripped your elbow roughly. “Lets go upstairs for a nice chat, shall we?” “What? No! Let me go.” “See, if you hadn’t interrupted my boys in their business last night, you wouldn’t be here. Instead you would’ve been safe at home.” Your heart thudded loudly in your chest. “Wait, your boys? Your boys were beating up my neighbour in the middle of the night! What did you expect me to do? Watch and enjoy?” You tugged your arm out of his grip. Poking your finger in his chest, “Nobody beats up my friends and gets away with it.” “Beat up? I’m sorry love, we don’t ‘beat up’ people. We kill. Your neighbour, Veronica, knew what she was getting into. And since she outlived her usefulness.” Sebastian made a vague gesture with his hands. You felt the air get knocked out of you. “You killed her?” “Me? Why I never! My people did.” He took a step forward. “Why?” Your brow furrowed in confusion. “What did she do that was so bad that you couldn’t leave her alone?” He gave you the once over. You were at eye level with him, your arms crossed over your chest. You were still in your pyjamas as compared to Sebastian’s crisp, cobalt blue suit. ‘He prefers blue suits.’ You filed this little fact away.

He took a step forward and you instinctively moved in the opposite direction. Your back hit the railing of the stairs. “None of your business.” You stared at him, wide eyed. “I’m a witness, aren’t I? You’re gonna keep me here and then what?” “Aren’t you a smart one? Yes, you’re a witness. I can’t have you running around to the cops now can I? Telling them stories about who you saw beating up your neighbour. So, I’m going to keep you here, at least for a while.” “Till when? Till I outlive my usefulness?” You asked bitterly, not backing down. “Be a good girl and you’ll last longer,” he answered, patting your shoulder. You gave him a dirty look. “I’ll cooperate. On two conditions.” “Darling, I don’t think that you’re in a position to be making any demands right now.” “Please, if you wanted me dead, I would have been by now. You want me for some other reason and so yes, I do think I can make some demands right now.” You stood up to your full height and squared your shoulders. Sebastian watched you carefully. “If your demands are reasonable enough, then I’ll think about it.” You raised an eyebrow but went on, “Firstly, I need a lot of things from my place. The final submission for my thesis is coming up and I need to add finishing touches to the thing. Secondly, the rehearsal dinner for my best friend’s wedding is this Friday and the wedding the next day. So, I need some free, not – your – prisoner, time on both days. These two things are my immediate concerns, other than that I really don’t care what you do or where I stay. As long as my work gets done.” He stared at you. “Do you not get the concept of kidnapping?” “I do. I just don’t happen to care very much for it.” His gaze didn’t waver, you returned it with the same intensity. He let out a resigned sigh. “Fine. We’ll go to your place so you can get your things. But after breakfast. Come, you must be starving. I know you didn’t have much dinner last night.” He led you by the elbow, this time gently, to the kitchen.

You stared dumbfounded at his back, his muscles flexing underneath his suit. How can one person switch personalities so fast? He pulled out a chair at the kitchen island for you. You sat down slowly. Cupping your chin in your hands, you watched him as he moved with practiced ease. “For this -” He waved his spatula between you, “Companionship thing to work, I’m gonna need your name.” “Y/N Winchester.” “Huh.” “What?” “It suits you. Really well.” “Well… Thanks,” you finished lamely. “So, how do you like your pancakes?” “With maple syrup, please.” He grinned. “And ice – cream?” “If you have some.” “Of course! It’s my favourite.” You gave him a polite smile.

“Why are you -” “Why aren’t -” You both began at the same time. He laughed and you saw the semblance between the man who flirted with you last night and the man you was making you breakfast (after kidnapping you for being a witness to a murder, kind of witness to a kind of murder). “You first,” you said gracefully. “Why aren’t you screaming bloody murder at me right now? I mean, I just kidnapped you. Not to mention I admitted to murder out loud. How are you not freaking out?” He pushed a plate in front of you with a generous amount of syrup. “Well,” you began after taking a bite. “Well, you haven’t tried anything.” You paused. “Yet,” you added as an afterthought. “And I guess, I’m not that scared of you? I dunno. Maybe I get kidnapped every other day and this is no big deal. You never know.” You took another bite and almost moaned at the taste. “This is good stuff. You have a future in pancake making. Pancaking? Is that a thing?” Sebastian settled down with a plate of his own, opposite to you. “Funny you should mention that. Its one of my hidden talents.” “And do you have many of those? Hidden talents, I mean?” He just smiled enigmatically and continued eating. “Your turn, what were you gonna ask?” You looked at him. His lips were glossy with syrup and you imagined yourself kissing them. Quickly as the thought had come, you pushed it away. ‘Don’t be ridiculous Y/N. Do not develop Stockholm Syndrome for the pretty kidnapper. Absolutely not. Doing this is peak dumb-ass.’ “Why are you giving me breakfast? Aren’t I your prisoner? Aren’t you supposed to be dark and threatening and breaking my bones?” “Do you want me to threaten you and break your bones?” “Well, no. Of course not. It’s just that the idea of a fairly nice kidnapper feels a bit like an oxymoron.” “Just because you aren’t allowed out of the house without permission doesn’t mean I’m gonna treat you like some sort of animal. Besides, I don’t want anything to happen to that pretty face of yours.”

You nearly choked on your food at the sudden flirtation. “Why are you surprised? You’re beautiful and obviously smart. I’m surprised you’re not used to the constant flirting.” You swallowed. ‘There goes that plan for not having the hots for the pretty kidnapper.’ “Its usually me doing the flirting. Its quite rare for me to find myself as the object of someone’s affections. Most people just run away from the height.” He looked at you thoughtfully. “I can’t speak for most people but I find your height and confidence quite attractive.” You shrugged noncommittally. “I’m used to people being intimated by this.” You gestured at yourself with your free hand. ‘Your kidnapper basically said he has the hots for you. Play it cool Y/N, no letting anyone in your pyjamas. He’s just trying to distract you.’ “Well, I’m not intimated by someone who resembles a baby poodle as much as you do, love.” Your heart jumped at the sudden term of endearment. Flustered, you ducked your head and continued eating. ‘How pathetic is this? Getting all hot and bothered just because someone complimented you. You know not to trust your kidnappers. Cause if they were sane people, they would’ve asked you out on a date and not kidnapped you in the first place.’ The two of you finished the rest of your meal quietly.

Getting up from the island, you headed to wash your plate. “Here, let me. I’ll wash. You dry,” came Sebastian’s soft voice from behind you. He handed you the plates after washing and you dried them dutifully. “Now, to your place?” You raised an eyebrow. “You’re coming with me?” He gave you an incredulous look. “I’m not going to let you go alone if that’s what you mean.” “Aren’t you going to send your boys?” Exaggerating the last words by using air quotes. “I fear that you’re a greater threat to my men than they are to you.” You grinned impishly. “Is it just that you think I’m dangerous or that you want to spend more time with me?” He returned your smile with one of his own, “Why not both?” You laughed. “Good one, Mr. Kidnapper.” “Its Stan. Sebastian Stan.” His name rolled of his tongue, a light accent peeking through. ‘Adorable.’ “You’re weird, Sebastian. What kind of kidnapper are you?” “One of a kind.” You liked the way his name felt on your tongue, warm and familiar. “At this rate, I’ll be a not – kidnapped person by tomorrow.” “Yeah, I doubt it. I like you, just not enough to get you go. Remember why you’re here. And no funny business once we’re at your place, okay?” “Yes sir!” You gave him a mock salute as you followed him outside. On the way to his car, you spotted several armed men scattered throughout the compound. Making a mental note in your brain under ‘Ways to fail escape’, you sat inside his car wordlessly and then you were off.

#sebastian stan #seb stan x reader #sebastian stan fluff #sebastian x reader #sebastian stan x reader #masterpiece #themarvellouswriter #sebastian stan smut #sebastian stan x y/n #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #someone please protect this baby #sebastian is baby #masterpiece series #please pay attention to this fic

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something-tofightfor · 5 years

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Ink IV

Pairing: Logan Delos x Reader

Word Count: 6984

Rating: NSFW

Author’s Note: Fuck it, I’m gonna write the hell out of this thing. It’s going to be at least two more parts after this.

Summary: What happens when someone moves in on Logan in front of you? And what happens after you’ve made it back to land - and Logan’s place?

As always, feel free to ask to be added or removed to this tag list. No hard feelings.

General:

@the-blind-assassin-12 @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @obscurilicious @sweetybuzz25 @suchatinyinfinity @lexxierave @gollyderek @poindexted @ificouldhelpyouforget @elanor-of-imladris @thesandbeneathmytoes @luminex3 @geeksareunique @weallhaveadestiny @mfackenthal @thesumofmychoices @yannii04 @beautiful-thinking @drinix @agentlingerie @blah-blah-fuckit-shit @dreams-with-thoughts @wangmangagavroche @traeumerinwitzhelden @jigsawlover10 @malionnes

Logan Delos:

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He kept talking, but you watched Logan’s eyes tracking your movement as you made your way closer to where he sat, his right arm outstretched along the arm of the couch, the left propped up on the back. He was sitting almost in the same position you’d been sitting in while he was gone, but instead of crossing his leg over his knee, Logan’s stance was wide, taking up as much of the couch as possible. Though no one moved to let you through, Logan said your name, cutting off the woman that had been speaking before sitting straight up, his fingers curling around the end of the couch arm. Interesting.

“Brought you a drink, Logan.” You held it up, speaking loudly enough to be overheard through the conversation going on around you. “Here.” You leaned forward to hand it to him, watching as he frowned slightly. “I’d sit, but someone -” The brunette smirked at you and you rolled your eyes but didn’t otherwise engage with her. You could feel the mood around you changing, everyone waiting to see what you’d do - to see what Logan would do, faced with either having to tell someone to move so that you could sit back down, meaning that he’d let someone else take your place, or simply using the other woman’s presence to alert you to the fact that your time with him for the evening had come to an end. But I’m going home with him, even though they don’t know that… “Bartender said that we’ll be back at the dock in under an hour.” You raised your own drink to your lips, taking a long sip. “I -”

“You gonna sit?” Logan raised an eyebrow as he brought his legs together and leaned forward before he took the drink from your hand, his lips closing around the small straw and cheeks going hollow as he sucked. “Hmm?” Where, Logan? She’s not moving, and I… “Plenty of room right here.” You realized what he meant as he spoke and you inhaled sharply. He means on his lap. He wants me to… You didn’t give it a second thought before pushing through the remainder of the people and turning as you lowered yourself onto Logan again, this time while everyone watched. You knew that he could feel how quickly your heart was beating but without waiting for anyone to make a comment, Logan returned to the story he’d been telling, his legs opening again as you put your own between them, the bulk of your weight on one thigh as you wrapped an arm around his neck so that it wasn’t hanging uselessly between you.

Though you participated in the conversation as required, your mind was elsewhere, thinking about the way Logan was acting, the way he was presenting you to people as if you were a couple, the way he was using you as a prop. No, not a prop… an example. You finished your Coke, turning your head away from the conversation to see if there was a server to take the empty, and like clockwork, Dolores was next to you, reaching for the glass in your hands. You felt Logan stiffen beneath you, but he too held his empty drink out and the blonde Host took it from him and then disappeared quickly, both glasses held in one hand. At least they’re good for something.

The brunette - committed to her decision to sit next to Logan - kept engaging him in conversation, referring to the others that were gathered and to her blonde friend often as she spoke. Of course it had to be them. As the conversation continued, a few people wandered off, saying their goodbyes and heading down the stairs. There was no way for you to alert Logan that the woman was the one that had told you you were about to hit your expiration date, but the way that he was idly - but visibly - caressing your back hinted at the fact that he knew, and his next words confirmed it. “Hey, Nicole.” He spoke more loudly than he had been previously, clearing his throat. “Didn’t you tell me once that you had a couple of tattoos?” The brunette nodded, eyes darting to you before they returned to Logan. She was referring to herself? She’s the one he told? She shifted, her knee brushing Logan’s as she sat up, leaning toward him.

“I do.” She cocked her head to the side, smiling at Logan. “Want more, too, I think that -” Logan’s palm pressing against the center of your back, he interrupted her.

“Thought you did.” He sniffed, using the hand that had previously held the drink to gesture to you. “She can probably recommend an artist for you, I’m not sure if you’ve seen the -” Nicole’s eyes were on you, the sneer on her face barely concealed, but you kept your expression even, too surprised at the direction Logan had taken the conversation in to respond. “... the ink that she’s got, but…”

“Oh, I’ve seen it.” Nicole looked between you and Logan, swallowing. “Seen it up close.” He sucked in a breath at the girl’s tone - the thinly veiled annoyance basically confirming that she’d been the one to give you trouble earlier. “You want me to get mo-”

“No.” Logan shifted beneath you again, free hand wrapping around your waist and holding you close. “I don’t give a shit what you do, Nicole,” Logan replied quietly, leaning in so that his chest was pressed against your back, his hand gripping the opposite shoulder. “But if you’re gonna get ‘em, you should get good one-”

“Logan.” You finally spoke, turning your head toward the man, lips only a few inches from his cheek. “Stop, it’s not…” Worth it? Gonna do anything? Going to matter? You let your lips land against his cheek, the bottom one catching the very top of his beard. This isn’t worth it. I don’t want to flaunt him. I don’t want... “Not what I want, Logan.” You whispered the words into his ear, sitting up and turning your attention back to the other woman. “Nicole.” You smiled at her, though it was difficult. “I’d be more than happy to recommend my artist to you, if -” The brunette rolled her eyes, standing and turning away from the couch with a shake of her head.

“I’m all set. C’mon Steph, let’s go back downstairs and get our shoes.” Without saying goodbye, the two moved away from you, Nicole shaking her head even harder as she disappeared down the stairs. Did I overstep? Logan stayed silent as you looked around you, trying to gauge whether or not the other guests had seen and heard what happened, but it seemed as if no one was paying attention, and you were grateful. When Logan still didn’t speak, you moved to get off of his lap and settle onto the cushions for the final few minutes of the trip, but he didn’t let you go. When you turned toward him to question it, you were met with his eyes - bright and wide - and his lips, seeking yours.

The kiss was brief but full of apology, Logan using his mouth and hands to tell you what he likely didn’t have the words to express, and it was you that pushed him away, taking a deep breath and then laughing quietly, your forehead pressed against his. “Wanna keep my job, Logan. I can’t just make out with you in front of…” He kissed you again, teeth closing around your lip before he pulled away with a nod. “You’re not mad?”

“Mad?” You slid off of his lap and next to him, eyes scanning the light-dotted coastline before they went back to him, Logan waiting until you were looking before he continued. “I’m the furthest thing from mad right now.” He grinned at you, looking younger than he had in the entire time you’d known him. I don’t understand, but… “And when we get into that car?” He winked at you again, leaning in so that he could speak directly into your ear. “I’m gonna -”

“Logan?” You heard her voice and then looked up, eyes landing on Juliet, who looked more put out than she had the last time you’d seen her. “Logan, I hate to…” She sighed, arms crossed. “There’s a problem with our car, and they can’t get another one to the dock for at least another hour, and William doesn’t want to…” She groaned, rubbing at her forehead. “Can we ride home with you? We’re on the way, and you can…” He didn’t even pause before he agreed, but you heard the disappointment in his voice, and it rivaled the way you felt. “Thank you, Lo, I wouldn’t ask normally, but I don’t want to wait, I just want to get home to Em as soon as possible and…” The woman’s voice faded as Logan stood, reaching back to grab your hand and pull you to your feet, defeat in his eyes. Oh, Logan. You followed Juliet down to the bottom level of the boat and joined the line of people waiting to pick up their shoes and gift bags, William joining you after a few minutes.

You and Logan were silent as you stood in the line, Logan’s body pressed up against yours from behind, Juliet and William ahead of you, talking quietly. You thanked the young man that handed you your shoes and bag, following the line of people as you disembarked and switching back into your sandals once you were on land. Logan took your hand again, linking his fingers with yours as you walked across the parking lot toward the valet waiting area, his grip growing tighter as you neared the car you’d exited hours earlier.

The driver was leaning against the door as you approached, greeting Logan by name, and as he explained what had happened, the man waved him off, assuring Logan that it was no problem. Pulling the door open, the driver gestured for you to get in and William immediately moved but was stopped by Logan. “We’ll sit in the back, William.” The blonde man froze, and though Logan’s tone wasn’t as hard as it had been the last time they’d spoken, you could tell he wasn’t happy. “You’re getting out first, it’s the logical choice.” He guided you into the car and you slid across the seat, welcoming the cool air and closing your eyes. Though it was barely 11 PM, you were tired, the alcohol and ocean air hitting you all at once, and you welcomed the feeling of Logan’s arms wrapping around you as he pulled you against his body, tucking his cheek against the side of your head as you took a deep breath. “Not how I wanted to end this night,” he murmured as you pulled out of the parking lot. “I had plans for us.” Logan took a deep breath.

“Now I get a nap, Delos.” You turned your head upward and kissed his chin, reaching up to scratch your fingers through the hair on his jaw as Juliet and William talked quietly in front of you. “You should take one too, the night’s nowhere near over.” Even in the dark, you saw his eyes flash, his lips twitching into a tiny smile. Gotcha, Logan.

---

Dropping off Juliet and William only added fifteen minutes to your drive, and you woke to Logan’s voice telling his sister goodnight, his arms still around you. You mumbled a goodbye as well, keeping your face pressed against Logan’s chest, but didn’t open your eyes. “Almost home.” He sighed, lips in your hair. “Almost in bed.”

“Your home, Logan.” You turned your body, feeling more of him against you, and cleared your throat. “Not m-”

“Semantics.” He kissed the top of your head, laughing quietly. “You know what I mean.” You did, but at the same time, you were hesitant to read much into it when Logan said things like that, because you didn’t want to get your hopes up. What you had was nice, but you were very well aware of the fact that it was likely only semi-permanent - which made displays like the boat ride and all of the things he’d said to you hurt just a little more. Still half dozing, you felt Logan’s breaths lengthening along with yours as the car continued to move - but you knew that he was still awake, and that he likely hadn’t fallen asleep with William in the car.

It was after midnight when you finally pulled into Logan’s driveway, him sliding out of the car first and then holding a hand out to you, pulling you from the vehicle and against his chest in the night air. He waved goodbye to the driver, an arm around your waist as you stood in the driveway, darkness enveloping you again. “We gonna stand here all night, Logan?” You pulled away from him and stretched, raising both hands above your head. “I know it’s nice and quiet, but…”

“How was tonight?” He looked worried, head cocked slightly to the side. “I know I said that no one would… and they did, but I hope you…” He shook his head. “Nicole’s a… I never even flirted with her, an’ she just assumed that…” He wrinkled his nose.

“Logan.” You stepped back next to him, lifting a hand to run your fingers through your hair. “I had fun.” You nodded. “A lot of fun. I’ve never been on a yacht before, it was… interesting to see all of those people outside of work.” You shrugged. “I’ll never be one of them, my job isn’t… but for the most part, everyone was nice, just like you said.” You’d gotten a few glances, sure, but you were used to that, and even Nicole’s comments had been relatively tame though pointed, but you were confident that publicly appearing at a Delos function with Logan hadn’t impacted your chances of keeping your position at the company. “There was this guy, though.” You raised an eyebrow, looking up at Logan. “Couldn’t keep his hands off of me, kept trying to kiss me in front of all of his colleagues -”

“Employees, not colleagues,” Logan mumbled, pulling you against his chest. “And who’s this guy? He sounds like he’s got good taste in women.” His lips moved against your throat, beard gently moving against the skin there. “Not as good as you taste, though.” You felt your knees grow weak at his words, and even though you knew he’d likely used them on others before you, you couldn’t help letting them impact you. Logan was magnetic - and when he was with someone, he was focused on them like he was with you - nothing else mattered. “I need to get you inside.” He groaned against your skin, kisses becoming sloppier as his hands slid up from your waist to your back and side, fingers digging into the skin beneath them. “Made you a promise, and I gotta keep it.”

You pulled yourself from his arms - one of the most difficult things you’d done all day - and began walking toward the house. “You do, Logan.” You glanced over your shoulder at him, biting down on your lower lip. “Gotta take advantage of the next couple days, since you won’t be able to …”

“I didn’t even think about that.” Logan’s eyes widened as he hurried after you, his fingernails slowly dragging up the center of your back. “I didn’t…” You knew that he hadn’t considered what your appointment meant, since Logan wasn’t used to having anyone regularly in his life or in his bed, but you were glad that you’d reminded him. “How long?” You were inside of his house, Logan locking the door behind him, and you heard his keys hit the table as he dropped them. Not even a second passed before you felt his other hand join the first, fingers spreading out so that his thumbs were rubbing against your spine.

“Couple weeks, Logan.” You leaned back into his touch, still standing in the entryway, tilting your head to the side. “Just until -”

“You can cancel.” He lowered his head, lips finding the skin of your shoulder and latching on, hands working the muscles of your back. “Still time, still -”

“Logan, I can’t, this is the only time that he’ll be back in town, and…” You paused, Logan turning his head inward, kissing his way toward your neck. “Logan.” You turned, your arms circling around his shoulders and his sliding down to your waist. Just because he can’t touch me doesn’t mean… “You’ll be fine, Logan,” you whispered before you kissed him, fingers combing through his hair. “You can always -”

“Whatever you’re gonna say is wrong.” Logan shook his head, forehead pressed to yours. “That’s not what this is. You know that.” He pulled back, swallowing. “I can touch you in plenty of other places, by the way.” He raised an eyebrow as he stood up straight, gaze flicking toward the stairs. “I’m very adaptable.” He swallowed, his eyes moving down your face and to your chest while his fingers tugged on the strings that he’d tied hours earlier, loosening them. “Now, are you gonna let me get you out of this dress, or are we going to stand here in this hallway all goddamn night?” Shrugging, you removed your arms from around his neck, undoing the buttons on his shirt that you could reach before you pulled the bottom hem out from his pants, opening up the final few.

“I donno, Logan, what are we going to do? It’s your house.” He laughed, wrinkling his nose as he leaned down to you, mouth going to yours again - this time with deliberation. You couldn’t stop the quiet moan from leaving your lips as he kissed you, teeth grazing against your lower lip for a moment before his tongue slid over it and into your mouth. Every time Logan kissed you was like the first time all over again - the way it made you feel was almost more intoxicating than any alcohol you’d ever consumed. It’s dangerous, you told yourself again as Logan pulled you up the stairs, the strings of your dress wrapped around his hands to keep you close. He’s with me now, but…

“You know what they asked me? When you were gettin’ drinks or when you were in the bathroom?” He leaned in again once you’d made it to his bedroom, winding more of the material around his hands. “They asked me what it was like to be with someone like you… like… like you were any fuckin’ different than any of them just because you’ve got…” He looked angry - and after a few seconds, you realized it was on your behalf, that he’d been angry at the others on the boat for what they’d assumed about you. You put your hands on his chest, waiting, but shook your head.

“Logan, I’m used to that, it’s fine, it…” You shook your head again, wanting to change the subject, to get the angry look out of his eyes. “I’m not the typical professional, Logan, I get it. You don’t have to -”

“You know what I told ‘em?” He sniffed, leaning in and tracing the shell of your ear with his tongue, voice low when he spoke. “I told ‘em it was none of their goddamn business.” You inhaled sharply at that, but his next words caused you to rock on your feet, fingers curling against his skin. “Told ‘em if I had anything to say about it, none of them would ever find out.” What does that mean? Logan, you can’t… I … he… Speechless, you whispered Logan’s name, lowering your head, heart pounding in your chest. “Meant it, too.” You looked up at that, searching his dark eyes for truth - but you knew that you’d find it. Logan never lied - not to you, not to anyone. So that means… “I’m not good at this.” He kissed you quickly, pulling your hips against his. “I can close a business deal in two minutes or less, but this? Tellin’ someone what I … that I wanna be with them? Never done it before.” Logan sighed, and you felt as he let go of the strings, raising his hands to your neck and untying the top of your dress. “Never told anyone else that, but I told you three times tonight.”

He finished with the straps, pulling them forward and allowing them to slip through his fingers. “Must’ve meant it, Logan.” It was your turn to speak quietly, your eyes on his face as he watched the movement of his hands, palms flattening against the front of your shoulders before they moved down, the material of your dress moving with them. “God, Logan, you…” You let out a breath, fingers itching to touch him. “Logan, wait.” You realized what he’d said with a jolt, and rather than simply letting him brush it off again, you reached up, stopping the movement of his hands with yours. “Stop. Look at me.”

He did, and you could see that his brow was furrowed, worry in his eyes. You’d never told him to stop before, and you could only imagine what he was thinking at your request for him to do so after him saying what he had. “Yeah?” You took a breath. Now or never. He’s… you need to…

“I want to be with you too, Logan.” You nodded. “I just didn’t want to ruin this, you know? I didn’t know you…” You licked your lower lip, tongue poking into your cheek. “Thought we were just having fun, and I didn’t want it to end by me being like everyone else.” You shook your head, looking down. “I don’t want anyone else, Logan.” You swallowed, bringing your head back up to level. “Just you.” He looked surprised, but you saw relief in his eyes, too.

“Even though you don’t know everything?” You nodded, reaching up with a hand to stroke the side of his face with your thumb. “Even though I’m fucked up, and have…” You continued nodding. “You’d have to deal with people like you did tonight all the time, men and women, an’... I’ll probably have been with…”

“Logan.” You cut him off, pressing a finger to his lips. “I don’t care.” He sucked a breath in, eyes going wide. “We’ll deal with it.” He laughed, lips parting behind your finger and you pulled your hand away, settling it on his shoulder. “Whatever you want.” He watched you silently, and you looked back at him, confused. Why is he trying to… it’s like he… “Logan.” You took a half step back, shaking your head and dropping your arms to your sides. “Do you want me to say no? Do you want …”

“I don’t know.” He swallowed, shaking his head. “It’s what I’d expect.” He winced, a hand moving to his hair, the other still against your chest. “Figured I’m good enough to fuck, but not…”

“Logan.” You sighed, closing your eyes. “Let me get this straight.” You opened your eyes again, hoping he could see that you meant what you were about to say. “You think that after all of this - after the weeks I spent turning you down, the way we started all of this, the trip to the Mesa, the last few months, introducing me to… you think that you’d tell me that you want to be with me, and I’d turn you down because I didn’t want to deal with the… the bullshit?” He nodded, regarding you carefully. “Jesus, Logan, I wouldn’t have slept with you in the first place if I wasn’t…” You shook your head, taking in a shuddering breath. “You’ve shown me what you’re really like, and that’s…” He stopped you by stepping closer, removing the hand from your chest and moving it to your jaw, the other one joining it.

“Everyone’s the same.” He curled his lip, shaking his head back and forth a few times. “They think they wanna be around me because they want all the good parts - the parties and the money and the publicity - but as soon as they see the hard parts - hear all the shit people say about me and what I do, if I ask ‘em to support me in any way, it’s too much.” He paused, his eyes searching yours. “It’s easier when you don’t give a shit about any of ‘em, but it’d still be nice to… to know, you know? To know that if I needed someone, I’d … even Juliet’s too fuckin’ wrapped up in William now, and Jim’s a lost cause. I’ve had no one since my mom died, and I was eight.”

You hadn’t known that fact about Logan - how old he’d been when his mother had died, or that he’d felt alone for nearly 25 years, even though he’d been constantly surrounded by people, by wealth and excess - by opportunity. “People are fucking horrible, Logan.” You nodded at him, feeling his fingers tightening slightly against your neck, both thumbs swiping against your cheeks. “But I’m not going anywhere, not unless you want me to. You want me on your side? I’m here.” His eyes widened. “I was afraid to tell you before, because I know… you’re not someone that’s looking for a relat-”

“I don’t know what I’m looking for.” He ducked his head, looking down. “This isn’t business, it’s my life, and it’s the one goddammn thing I’m not sure about, and -”

“You don’t have to be sure.” You leaned in, kissing him on the cheek. “That’s how these things work, Logan. No one’s sure, not at the beginning, not at the end, not even when you’re right in the middle of it. That’s what… that’s what makes them great.” He lifted his head and you pressed your lips against his - quickly - his hands still at your throat. “It could end tomorrow, it could end in a year, it could last forever… we don’t know.” You laughed quietly, reaching up to run your fingers through his hair. “It’s a risk, but it’s… worth it.” At least it would be to me. “Logan, you… you’re not used to people being honest with you, are you?”

“No.” It was just a single word, but it was telling. “I’m honest all the damn time, and I don’t…”

“Then I’ll be honest with you, Logan.” You took a deep breath. “Really honest.” Here goes nothing. “I said no to you in the beginning because I didn’t just wanna be someone you slept with and then moved on from. I figured that that’d be it - I’d turn you down a couple times, and you’d lose interest, but you didn’t.” He was watching you quietly, giving you a chance to speak. “I don’t need someone to swoop in. I don’t need someone with status to ‘take care of me’, or to show me off, and that’s what I thought you wanted. Something new and … disposable.” He whispered the word ‘no’ under his breath again, but you continued. “But we went out that night and went to dinner, and you were… God, you were charming, Delos. But I still didn’t want to just be a throwaway for you, so I sent you home.”

“Why are you tellin’ me this?” His voice soft, Logan interrupted you. “It doesn’t-”

“It does matter, though. Because I didn’t sleep that night. I couldn’t, because all I was thinking was ‘well, what if I missed my chance? What if that’s it?’ I went out with you and got to spend a few hours with you, and still turned you away at the end of the night. You could have gone anywhere, Logan. Been with anyone - and part of me thought that that’s what you did. You dropped me off and then went out and found someone else, and…” You hated admitting to him what you’d thought, because it wasn’t true anymore, but he needed to know. “And then you asked me out again, and I thought ‘well, maybe he wants to be friends, even if I won’t sleep with him,’ and that’s what happened. But … Logan, you know what you do to people. You know how…” You groaned quietly, thinking. “I couldn’t stop myself. And even after it happened the first time, that was true. How was I better than anyone else, taking what you gave me without thinking about what could happen? Just going along with it? What would happen to me when someone else caught your eye?” You pulled away, wanting to look him in the eye. “I looked up other people that you’d been linked to, Logan. None of them were like me. None. Not even the ones that weren’t socialites. And so what was I? An outlier? Something different? It scared me, a lot.”

“But -” You kissed him again, this time lingering, lips catching on his lower one.

“Let me finish.” You pulled away only slightly, wanting to be close to him as you said the last part and his hands loosened, dropping to your shoulders. “Every time you touch me, it’s like… I forget all of the reasons why I should be careful, why I shouldn’t let myself…” It was your turn to laugh. “... why I shouldn’t let myself care about you as much as I do. I know how it ends, Logan, or at least how it’s ended for everyone else before me, and I still… I still couldn’t stop myself, except when it came to one thing.” Here we go. “I was too scared to tell you that I feel something for you. For you. Something real, not just a physical thing, but… fuck.” This wasn’t supposed to happen, he was just going to take me to bed, not this.

“Do you know how many people that I’ve dated that I’ve introduced to Juliet?” You heard his voice catch. “None. Some of ‘em have met her, sure, but I’ve never taken them to her house, or had them over here when she was. I know you know her from work, but…” He leaned back in, lips hovering just a few centimeters above yours. “She had to like you, and not just as a Delos employee. Even though she’s still… she had to. It couldn’t just be me.” Your heart pounding, you waited. He introduced me to Juliet right after we… the first time, we… “Let’s go to bed.” He kissed you, air leaving his lips in a slow huff. “I need you.” You were nodding before he’d finished, the two of you making your way to the bed across the room. Logan’s hands worked to rid you of the dress you wore, leaving you standing in front of him in lace and nothing more. You watched as he pulled the shirt from his own shoulders and undid the button on his pants, the white material dropping to the ground before Logan stepped out of them, kicking them to the side. “We’re not done with this conversation, I promise you.” He was kissing you again, hands on your shoulders as his lips moved over your throat and up to your jaw. “But right now I just need to…” He bit down - body pressed against yours, and you sighed, whispering his name. “I need to show you.”

Logan guided you into the bed, easing you onto your stomach and climbing in behind you as you nestled against the blankets. You felt his weight settle against the backs of your thighs and then his hands were on you, starting near your waist and working their way up, Logan applying pressure to your skin as they moved. It was common for him to massage your back, his large hands strong and warm against you, and you knew that it was partially because he enjoyed touching you - and partially because he liked looking at you, his dark eyes drinking in the designs on your skin that he admired so much. Logan was thorough - using the heels and palms of his hands as well as his fingers, and by the time he’d reached your shoulders, using one hand to pull your hair out of the way before returning it to your skin, you knew that this wasn’t going to be a typical night with Logan. “That feels so good, Logan.” He laughed quietly, shifting his hands back down toward the center of your spine and dropping his lips against your skin, kissing his way across your shoulder blades. “You keep doing that, and you’re gonna put me right to sleep.”

Logan’s hands slid around and beneath your body, fingers curving around your breasts, and he sighed, teeth grazing your shoulder. “Nah.” He bit down, rolling his hips into yours with purpose. “You’re not goin’ to sleep yet.” He turned his head, speaking directly into your ear, the words sending a jolt through your entire body. “‘f that’s alright with you.”

---

Later, after you were exhausted - your chest rising and falling in uneven breaths - you laid with Logan’s lithe body stretched out next to yours on the bed. You had to hand it to him - he was a master at taking you right to the edge and then pulling you back, keeping you balanced on that line without letting you tumble over without him. It wasn’t that he denied you pleasure, instead it was that Logan hated feeling as though he hadn’t held up his end of things, despised the idea that you were even the slightest bit unsatisfied. That’s never been an issue. You smiled as you turned your head to look at the man, wetting your lower lip with your tongue before you swallowed, still tasting him and unable to keep the smile off your face.

After Logan’s declaration, he’d flattened his body atop yours, you turning your head so that you could kiss him, and then after a few seconds, he urged you to turn your body too, Logan rolling onto his side and you doing the same. He’d wrapped a leg around yours, pulling you closer into him, hands gripping your back as yours slid down toward his waist. It was different - the desire you felt coming off of him in waves, the urgency that was typically in his touch replaced with a slow deliberation that you didn’t have the ability to truly enjoy as each of your senses was overwhelmed by Logan one after the other.

He smelled like his cologne and the sea, the scents mingling together and intensifying as you buried your nose in his hair, Logan’s mouth on your chest. He felt warm and alive - real - in your arms, solid in a way that you’d never felt with him before. By the time he rolled onto his back, guiding you on top of him, your eyes were transfixed on his face, on the way that he watched you move, nails scratching down his chest as you rocked against him, two thin layers of material still between you. He said your name - the syllables catching in his throat as he moved his hands back up your body - the front this time, fingertips stroking over the thin skin of your stomach and then up higher, the long fingers of one hand closing gently around your throat, squeezing and causing your eyes to close, a quiet yelp of pleasure escaping your lips.

You pulled on the elastic of his waistband and Logan lifted his hips easily, even with you atop him, and as you exposed the skin beneath his waist, you moved off of him, his hand falling from your throat and landing on one of yours - still low on his abdomen, the other wrapped around him and stroking him smoothly, your rhythm easily found. Even as you knelt next to him, you couldn’t stop watching his eyes and the way they were heavy-lidded, pupils dilated as he watched you, fingers of your hands flexing together against his skin. As you lowered your mouth to take him between your lips, you kept watching him, closing your eyes only when he did and focusing entirely on what you were doing. Make it count.

You guessed that you only had a minute or two; when Logan was as keyed up as you knew he was that night, there was no way he’d let himself finish in your mouth, especially without even touching you first. So you concentrated on the way he tasted, on the way your hand slid against the skin you couldn’t take into your mouth, the way his fingers tangled in your hair, how low his voice was as he groaned out your name, what the coarse hair that decorated the skin at the base of him felt like as your nose and cheek brushed against it occasionally. Everything that happened was a reminder of the fact that you were in bed with Logan Delos - that he wanted to be there with you, that he trusted you enough to tell you the things that he had, to ask the things of you that he had.

When he tugged on your hair to pull your head backwards, lips leaving him soundlessly, you brought your eyes back to his, waiting. “You gotta stop that and let me… fuck.” He curled his lip, breathing hard. “Take those off and get on top of me.” He let go of you and you straightened up, removing your hand from him and reaching down, pulling on your own elastic waistband, carefully lifting one leg at a time to finally remove the last piece of clothing you wore. “Fuck.” He hissed the word out, eyes opening fully. “You’re incredible.”

You smiled at Logan, leaning over to reach into the drawer of his side table and pull out a condom, which you handed to him. He had the package open and the rubber rolled over his length before you could even speak, but when you did - as you climbed back onto him, one knee on either side of his hips, you shrugged your shoulders, tossing your hair. “If you say so. Bet you tell all the … ohhh… other…” You stopped speaking as he guided himself into you, one hand on your hip to hold you steady, a tiny nod of his head as you lowered your body to meet his, not bothering to give yourself any time to adjust. He moved his other hand to your opposite hip, urging you to begin moving as he rocked his hips against you. What was I saying?

You switched positions a few times, neither of you content to keep things simple, and by the time you both finished, you were on your back on the mattress beneath him, knees bent and hugging his sides as he thrust into you, your fingers twined together with his and held above your heads, pressed into the pillows beneath them. He rested his forehead against yours, hair slightly damp from sweat and groaned out your name as he came, his name leaving your lips in a sound that was barely louder than a whisper as a response since you were still coming down yourself, the feeling of Logan moving inside you prolonging your pleasure.

Once both of you caught your breath, he pulled out of you with a soft grunt, rolling onto his back as your legs relaxed, and while you heard noises as he rustled next to you, disposing of the condom into the trash can beneath the table, you saw none of it. Your eyes had closed when he pulled away from you, and the darkness gave you the focus you needed to calm your racing heart - though you weren’t sure you wanted to.

Finally, you opened your eyes and watched him, his pale chest rising and falling in the moonlight, but you didn’t know what to say to him - or if you should say anything at all. We’ve talked enough tonight, right? This doesn’t… “I envy you, you know that, right?” Logan turned his head toward yours, one side of his mouth raised in a half smile. “You get to be… you don’t have an image to uphold.” He rolled back toward you, using one hand to grip your hip, pulling you to mirror the motion. “D’you know how bad I want to just be me? Wear what I wanna wear, look how I wanna look, and not get shit for it from the board or from my PR guy, or…” Logan sighed. “But I gotta be Logan Delos all the time, you know? Gotta be what they want me to be, be the face of the company, be… better than I have been in the past.” He took a deep breath. “And I get it, but I’m sick of it, so that’s why Tuesday…” You nodded at Logan, trying to understand fully but not knowing exactly what to ask. “I can’t have everything I want,” Logan said, moving closer to you on the bed and pausing as you pushed his hair away from his forehead, eyes on his. “I know that, but it’s a start.” He took a deep breath. “You’re a start.” You couldn’t help your surprised inhale of breath or the separation of your lips, but Logan just grinned at you - the smirk growing into a full smile quickly. “Got a problem with that?”

Your heart was pounding as you watched him, but there was no hesitation in your answer. “Not at all, Logan.”

---

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halapenojalapeno · 5 years

Text

Skinny Love.

Kaidan was sitting in the café on the Citadel when an unpleasant thought wormed its’ way into his head. He realised that, despite it coming as quite the shock, he probably should have known. He drummed his fingers on the table with one hand while using the other to quietly sip his drink, grateful that he’d managed to avoid the lunchtime crowds. Where was Shepard? He was not generally an impatient man, but the longer she took the longer he would have to ruminate on the events that had past.

He had noticed within hours of being in her presence as they prepared for the Mars mission that Shepard’s behaviour towards him was markedly different. She was still as unfathomably kind to him as she’d always been, despite his harsh attitude towards her. She had the same warm demeanour towards him as she’d always had, as if he had left her crew for a few days rather than a few years. Yet, there was no questioning that something had changed. She no longer reached out to touch him, whether it was to brush against his arm, a gentle squeeze of his fingers, or to feel his arm round her shoulders. She had told him once in confidence that she did it because on Earth she’d never had anyone precious to her and she wanted to know he was close, in a conversation that felt like it was lifetimes ago.

The mission itself ended in disaster for Kaidan as he was gravely injured, but the coming weeks of recovery provided him with a moment of clarity. Why in all the galaxies had he been acting like such a colossal prat? His thoughts floated back to Horizon, where it all went wrong. “I loved you!” He spat it out to her in the past tense, as if he could ever get past his feelings for her. Shepard had implored, she pleaded with him to just try to see it from her side, but in the heat of the moment he’d decided that she wasn’t trustworthy. Instead he flipped it round to insinuate that Shepard was the one that was blind. “They can decide if they believe your story,” the thinly veiled insult hit its mark and Kaidan had to grit his teeth to stop himself from grimacing at the hurt on Shepard’s face. It was clear she knew what Kaidan had meant to say was ‘I don’t believe a word you have said.’ Still she tried again for him, one more time: “I could use someone like you on my crew Kaidan, it’d be just like old times,” She spoke tentatively, and he had understood she was asking for more than just another crew member. “No it won’t; I’ll never work for Cerberus.” He replied forcefully. “Goodbye Shepard.” He hadn’t meant for it to be the end, despite the fact he was the one that said goodbye. It was all a bit of a mess after that, Kaidan mused, sliding the lump of ice from his glass into his mouth. He thought about the shaky correspondence he sent to Shepard that was intended to rectify his mistake, to show he hadn’t meant to end it. It was too late, though, and a few months later a letter was delivered to his door written in her chunky, slightly slanted handwriting. Then another. Then another. By the fourth he’d all but worked out what it was that could possibly be so important it warranted the effort of handwritten letters. After all, he knew Shepard and she would want to soften the blow as much as possible and if it couldn’t be in person then the most personal method available to her would have to do even if she struggled with it – being able to read and write weren’t really a priority for her when she was growing up on Earth’s back streets. He didn’t read them for he was sure that the whoever had caught Shepard’s eye would be talked about in them and he couldn’t bear to look. So, he buried himself in his work in a pathetic attempt to hide from any mention of her name and, to be fair, it was paying off; he even got promoted to Major. Until the whole galaxy went to shit with the arrival of the frickin Reapers. So they were together again and yet not for the mission to Mars and then, stuck in a hospital bed, Kaidan couldn’t avoid the information he was so desperately hiding from. The nurses were gossiping about Shepard’s exploits on one of Palaven’s moons – shooting Husks and Marauders, saving the Primarch, basically kicking ass like always… and afterwards, sharing a passionate moment with Garrus Vakarian. This was the truth, Kaidan thought as he waved over the waiter to order another drink, that he he should’ve known. Garrus and Shepard were always close, and had Garrus not been a turian maybe Kaidan would’ve had to tell him to back off. As it was, “Shepard and Vakarian are the one true pairing of the Normandy” was the most popular joke during those precious moments of peace and laughter while trying to stop Saren, despite both their protests to the contrary. Still, the news stunned Kaidan; betrayed, not only being cheated on by his love but she had done so with his friend. Of course, that wasn’t exactly true – knowing Garrus he wouldn’t allow a relationship with someone if they were romantically entangled elsewhere – but it was an easier truth than that of the letters Kaidan refused to read. The news helped Kaidan finally plucked up the courage to ask Shepard about fixing their relationship, so he sent her an email to ask her to visit. Naturally she came as soon as she read it, but as she walked in wearing a look of concern while trying her hardest not to look haggard, her back straight and hands held behind her back in military style, Kaidan lost the nerve. Yes, this woman was the real Shepard, but times had changed and so had she. He looked at her, really looked at her for the first time in years and he could see the worry and the stress and the fraying nerves written all over it. He was not going to be the one to make an already gruelling situation worse. Not this time. Kaidan was going to trust Shepard, he was going to believe her, and he proved it in the situation with Udina on the Citadel. He was not going to have another Horizon. He supported Shepard like he should have done the first time around, and stood down when she asked him to. Perhaps there is still a chance, a little voice in his head had mused, but he crushed it, reminding himself that Garrus was stood by her side when Shepard confronted him, possibly ready to shoot Kaidan down to protect her. Once he’d joined the crew again he could see how happy Garrus made her, much as it pained him to admit it. When Kaidan was with Shepard she seemed to glow, but with Vakarian she positively sparkled. Kaidan watched dumbfounded as Shepard was pushed from one precarious situation to the next, like Rannoch and Thessia, and when it seemed like she was about to break Garrus would wrap an arm around her, pressing his head against Shepard’s and the tension would melt out of her. She’d peck him and gently whisper secret loving words to him and when she pulled away the deep-set lines of worry in her face would have eased. It was for that reason that Kaidan ignored the burning ache in his chest at the sight of them. He did have one very awkward conversation about the situation on Garrus’s insistence which resulted in him punching the Turian squarely in the mandibles, but after that he held on to no real resentment toward him. Losing Shepard was altogether of Kaidan’s own doing. Kaidan was snapped out of his thoughts by the sight of Shepard walking towards him. She was dressed in civvies, an N7 jumper and some sporty leggings, and had her blazing red hair tied into a messy ponytail. He shook his head as if doing so would dislodge the memories he was just reliving, regretting it instantly as his implant created dull spikes of pain in response. He grabbed a menu as she dumped herself into the nearest chair. “Hey, Kaidan. Went for a quick run first, you know, fire up the appetite,” She flashed him a cheeky grin and scooted her chair round to peek over his menu. “I’m surprised this place can still get supplies for a menu like this,” he murmured, pretending not to notice the proximity. “Maybe it’s better not to ask,” Shepard laughed heartily, a sound that was becoming scarce as the battles raged. Kaidan considered telling her that he had never stopped loving her, that he was still waiting for her, that Horizon was a horrible mistake… but what would be the point? All that would happen was that Shepard would stop enjoying herself, stop being able to laugh with him.

Once again, Kaidan lost the nerve.

#mass effect #mass effect 2 #shakarian #unrequited shenko #unrequited feelings #wrote this a while ago #still stings haha #poor Kaidan #femshep x garrus #Shepard x Garrus #paragon shepard #Shepard x Vakarian

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artificialqueens · 5 years

Text

summertime sadness (Branjie) - PinkGrapefruit

wordcount - 8845 (holymoly)

A/N - it’s a long un, please read the tags. set to ‘carmen’ by Lana Del Ray. Thanks to Qtip, my love, for prereading this when it was just a shell, Meggie for giving it a final look over and Frey for being the most patient and kindest beta i’ve ever had. That girl deserves everything in life for what she’s done. Anyway, enjoy!

Darling, darling, doesn’t have a problem

Lying to herself ‘cause her liquor’s top shelf

It’s alarming honestly how charming she can be

Fooling everyone, telling how she’s having fun

He watches her from afar, has known her long enough now to differentiate her lust from love, fake smile from real grin. She’s spent months telling everyone she doesn’t have a problem and maybe she doesn’t but who’s he to judge, they all have their vices. His just happen to be cats and menthol cigarettes (he switched from Marlborough’s when she left, they reminded him of her a little too much). Hers lay a little on the wilder side of life, long nights full of parties and drinking and who’s to say if she snorts a little something here and there, if it eases the pain, she could get away with anything. She parties every night on tour and he’d be lying if he said sometimes he didn’t stay awake to hear if she got to the hotel safely- it’s rarely before 5 am and when their call time is 9, neither of them function the next day. Sometimes he hears noises through the walls, smells the tequila through the crack under the connecting door they always seem to have. He wonders if it’s production’s idea of a joke. He assumes it is.

Through the months between airing and now, he cannot tell when they fell apart. He cannot decide if it was the distance or the pressure or the rumours or the show but it was something out of their control, that he is sure of. He refuses to believe that they could have stopped it, the weight of that sentiment too heavy on his fragile state of mind.

They’re in Madrid (their second of twelve cities) when it all gets too much - when all he hears is the damage he’s done - unwittingly and unwillingly. He’s taken to working out at 4 am, it allows him to stay awake to make sure she gets home but also to try and distract himself from the possibility that when she does, she will not be alone. He’s tall this time, all broad shoulders and messy hair. He looks like the kind of guy who would model underwear and then talk philosophy with you, blonde and muscley. He reminds Brooke of himself and it hurts. He’s seen the guys she picked up before, he always sees them through the glass walls of hotel gyms, as they walk in heavy footed and leave him heavy hearted. The joke about Vanessa’s type is less funny when he realises it’s him.

He watches them go into the elevator, hears the ding as it closes and loses it on the treadmill. He sets it to its highest speed and runs like his life depends on it. He doesn’t notice that the guy walks out 20 minutes later. Doesn’t notice as the clock ticks round to 6:30 and then suddenly Nina is there. She turns off the machine wordlessly as businessmen around them file in to start their days. His legs are numb and he is shaking in a cold sweat as she hoists him up and half drags him back to his room. He lays on the bed, surrounded by deafening silence as she gets a flannel and a drink from god-knows-where. She’s worried about him, more so than Vanjie at this point, because they all expected her to be like this - they all hoped he wouldn’t. She’s seen him this way before, when he lost Miss Continental - she carried him back from the gym after he’d missed their arrangements at a nearby bar. She’d put him to bed with a large bottle of Gatorade and a forehead kiss, watched him as he fell asleep and been there when he woke up, confused and disorientated. She took him to a therapist when they deemed it worth a shot and sat through long discussions about family and failure and his deep-seated anxieties about life. She’s seen him at his worst but this, this is a new can of worms.

After a few minutes, she pulls him into the shower, doesn’t care how much of him she sees, knows it’s the best way to sort him out a little better. Once he’s washed off the cold sweat and regret, he clambers back into bed. She holds him as he falls asleep, hopes he can’t hear Silky doing something very similar through the wall.

He wakes up at 2 pm and she’s gone. They don’t have a call time that day so he wanders out onto the balcony and looks down over Madrid. The architecture should be beautiful but it’s grand and larger than life and somehow finds a way to remind him of Vanessa. Taking a deep drag of his cigarette and letting the menthol fill his lungs, he longs for the days of Marlborough’s and the good kind of secrets. He wishes for picnic blankets under apple trees, sunbathing in orchards until his pale skin browned under the Florida sun. He wants to drink tequila with her in California bars, lets memories flood his senses until he is feeling everything that he has missed for months. He wants to talk to her. He cannot find the words.

She says you don’t want to be like me

Don’t wanna see all the things I’ve seen

I’m dying, I’m dying

She admits she might have a problem on a Thursday. “Admitting” may be a little strong of a word but she at least notes that something is wrong. They are in Belgium, she thinks, all of the cities have blended into one, she bought some powder of a guy who did not speak English and the weight of it is heavy in her jacket pocket. She can hear his voice as she lines it up on her bathroom tiles, can hear the cadence of his singing and thinks she’s going mad. Their rooms are adjoining but the door is locked, she can see shadows under it sometimes. She does not dare to knock.

She snorts it fast and easy, pays no mind to the pounding of her head and the way her fingers are twitching for a drink. It’s 2 am when she leaves the hotel, Brooke hasn’t moved in a while and she’s sure the rest of the girls won’t notice so she goes to a little gay bar on the outskirts of town. She drinks her bodyweight in vodka, a bit of tequila on the side and spends most of her time in the bathroom throwing up, snorting shaky lines and blowing any guy she can. She never kisses them, doesn’t want to erase the feeling of Brooke’s lips on her own. The bar shuts at 4 am and she’s still too buzzed to go back to the hotel so she wanders about the city with a tall blonde whose name she cannot remember - Brody or Cody or something surfer-y. She’s heard a lot of names like that back in Tampa, blown a few too.

She stumbles through the lobby at five in the morning, detached from whatever guy she was holding to help her make it through the night. The gym is the only thing lit up, glass walls a window into who she could be she swears she sees Brooke, lifting weights. Assumes she is mistaken.

Their call time is 10 am so she rolls into bed and sets an alarm for half past nine. When it comes back around she dusts the powder off the bathroom tiles and takes a shower to try and wash her of her sins. She puts on a copious amount of concealer and a bandana around her neck to hide whatever marks may have marred the skin, hopes no one will notice the way the bags under her eyes are full of deceit and thinly veiled problems. The rest of the girls are too tired to recognise her façade.

She leaves the dressing room in the venue to paint. She shares it with Silky but no matter how many times the girl has had to put her to bed, she will not let her see her barefaced. Too many secrets lie beneath the makeup, too raw to be exposed to the prying eyes of someone who cares. On the way to the bathroom, she bumps into Brooke. He is shirtless and fully painted, pale and pallid. His body looks like solid muscle but his posture is one of weakness and exhaustion. She wants to tell him, she knows how it feels to be so tired your bones won’t hold you up - so tired that you cannot rely on yourself for support but from your friends. Wants to remind him that she could be a friend, but she remembers that she cannot and instead, powers past to the bathroom.

She paints a little heavier and pads a little harsher and if people notice they don’t say anything. She is trying to make up for all of the parts self-destruction ate away. There’s not a lot of things a good mug can’t fix.

She says you don’t want to get this way

Famous, and dumb, and no age

My, I’m dying

He switches back to Marlborough’s in Helsinki. It’s their fourth city and they’re easier to find in Finland than menthols. He switches from the gym at 4 am to midnight yoga and Nina joins him occasionally, not to actually stretch, but to watch him. They go to bars and he kisses so many people but none of them taste like her, then again, he’d be hard-pressed to say what she tastes like nowadays. Probably regret and tequila. When Nina tells him to slow down, he does and when she tells him they should leave, he follows her blindly.

He’s a shell of who he used to be so he resorts to his most basic functions. He follows instructions when given, never argues, lets self-pity fill in for self-respect. Nina is his emotional support animal but also his handler, she guides him away from possible dangers, lets him make his own way through life whilst keeping a watchful eye and a helping hand on standby. He settles himself into a routine, something recommended by a therapist a long time ago. He acts as if he has a 9 am call every day and a show every night. He eats oatmeal for breakfast, salad for lunch and part of his own soul for dinner, filling in the gaps with protein shakes and coffee. Yvie calls him out one morning, she’s awake when he is even though she didn’t go to sleep until two. She savours her coffee like it’s her lifeforce and asks him why he looks so tired. He doesn’t respond, they both know the answer. They make small talk over their food, neither touch the elephant in the room, merely lets it wallow in the corner while they discuss lighter things like makeup and wigs. They discuss changes in their numbers as they perfect them each night on stage, want to arrange a remix of ‘Sorry Not Sorry’ and agree to make it happen on their next day off.

When she enters the breakfast room, they do not make eye contact. He doesn’t dare look up from his oatmeal and can hear Yvie’s soft chuckle at how much of an idiot he’s being. He can’t bring himself to care. She breezes right by them, nods at the other girl before going over to the breakfast bar and picking up her food. He doesn’t understand how she’s so functional at 7 am, doesn’t think she’d been up in time for breakfast all tour. It’s only when she looks up that he sees she’s really not. Her eyes are bloodshot and skin looks like it’s been scrubbed raw. She’s a mess, looks like she’s crumbling and her façade is all wet paper and crumbling brick. Her hair looks like it hasn’t been cut in months and it’s only now he realises that through all the staring he’s been doing, he hasn’t really looked at her, hasn’t taken in who she is in a long time.

It stings a little, in all the places he least expects it to, like salt in an open wound, one that should have scarred over months ago. He wonders when it got this bad, can’t pinpoint when it all started but vows to ask Nina during their daily catch up.

Nina tells him that he’s been in his own world but also lets him know that yes, it’s awful but no, she’s not alone. He learns that Silky and A'keria are always on damage control and he’s so angry that they don’t stop her but then he remembers that she’s like a force of nature. She’s a hurricane blowing down all of the storm defences they have. She’s a flood that no levee can stop. Vanessa exists in a microcosm of the universe where she is all-powerful, she yields to no one, especially not a Canadian who broke her heart.

The boys, the girls, they all like Carmen

She gives them butterflies, bats her cartoon eyes

It is the third week of the tour when she wakes up in someone else’s bed. They flew into Geneva last night and that’s all she remembers. Because life is a cruel joke she spent the three-hour flight sat next to Brooke. He was engrossed in ‘The Great Gatsby’ but that didn’t matter because she spent two hours smelling him and immediately felt like she needed to wash the scent off her body. He smelled like peach and lemongrass and lost dreams and it brought the taste of him back onto her lips. When she closes her eyes she can still see him, happy go lucky with peach juice rolling down his chin, voice light and airy. She can watch the months unfold like a tape, fast forward and rewind till it hits the exact moment that he first told her he loved her. The moment where the rest of her world fell away and there was only him. She can’t bring herself to wonder what happened, she is too scared of what she might discover.

She sits up in the bed, rubbing at her eyes with hands balled into fists. The guy, another tall blonde, is still asleep but the bright light streaming through the window tells her that it is both late and that she has a pounding headache. She slips out of the bed, looking around for her phone and any smidge of dignity she may have dropped when she came in. She only finds one of them. Her phone quite helpfully tells her that she’s missed call time, it does not tell her where she is though and her data isn’t working enough to get her a solid GPS. She finds what she hopes are her pants on the floor and hastily pulls them on, stealing a shirt from the guy and sneaking out of the door as fast as her legs will carry her. It’s the middle of July so it’s not freezing in Switzerland but she wouldn’t say she’s warm as she hovers on the pavement outside the flat. She still has no clue where she is and her phone battery is dwindling so she calls the one person she hopes will make sense of this situation. She calls Nina.

While Nina tracks her down, having told her to ‘under no circumstances move’, she tries to remember what happened. She assumes she drank a lot, judging by her pounding head and her nose hurting which tells her more than she wants it to. Her entire body aches for a warm bed and a nice cuddle and she wants to laugh at how soft she’s become but she remembers that she’s getting older and she can’t keep outrunning it. She’ll continue trying though.

Nina comes in a cab at 11:45, eyes full of pity and maybe a little bit of disdain for the man before her. She can read him like a book, doesn’t need to say anything because she knows that she already hates herself. They take the twenty-minute ride back in silence, the only words shared a brief ‘we were worried,’ and ‘I’m glad you’re okay’ from Nina’s part towards the end.

She arrives and is pardoned from the rehearsals that day, goes straight to bed with no plans of being seen until she is safely within the confines of Vanessa, no raw Jose left for the world to wag a finger at. At some point between the dinner she skips and the show she’s supposed to do, Nina finds her way into her room. She is not like Silky or A'keria, she doesn’t pry or tell her she’d been dumb, she just listens. Listens when Vanessa tells her she doesn’t want to talk about it but doesn’t argue when she starts spilling her guts, halfway through doing her eyebrows. She tells Nina everything, as one does. She explains everything she’s done in painstaking detail, ashamed of every second but doesn’t hide from her mistakes. It’s only when she’s finished that she looks up, she locks eyes with Nina through the mirror, unmoving since she began and wordlessly begs her to say something. anything. Nina gives a soft smile, she looks tired, having just taken on the weight of another friend’s secrets and Vanessa doesn’t envy her.

“You can do this,” comes the soft voice, it sounds like the offer of ice cream on a hot day, like understanding. For once, Vanessa believes her.

She laughs like God, her mind’s like a diamond

Buy her tonight, she’s still shining

Like lightning, light, like lightning

Carmen, Carmen, staying up 'til morning

It is the third week of the tour when he spends his morning in a panic. He saw her leave after they checked in and never heard her return. He’d stayed awake until 3 am, sat outside his door because, of course, this was the one hotel without the adjoining rooms.

They landed at 8 pm into Geneva airport after a three-hour flight from Helsinki. He ended up sat next to her, her cologne tickling his nose every time he inhaled. It was the one she’d worn the weekend they’d gone to Coney Island. They’d had time off that coincided with them both being in New York and she’d (in her childlike wonder) always wanted to go. He’d go anywhere if it made her happy. They’d gone on the carousel, bought copious amounts of candy floss and ended the night on the Ferris wheel. He’d always counted it as their first proper date - the first one where one of them wasn’t in drag and they both left the house. The cologne had been retired after that, she’d said something about it not feeling right to keep wearing it when not every day would be as good as that one. He had to blink back tears on the plane.

When he woke up the next morning, he immediately asked A’keria if she’d come back. He knew that she was the least likely to either laugh or ignore his question and she dutifully told him that no, she hadn’t come back and yes, they were worried.

By call time, he was close to ripping his hair out. His hands had stiffened in the fists they were balled into and his heart was beating out of his chest like in a cartoon. He was sure that there had to be the smoke coming out of his ears because he felt like his brain is on fire and there is no one there to put it out. His thoughts are like gasoline, igniting the flames that burn at his skull. They are a warning of what happens when you get too attached and he kicks himself for getting here.

Nina gets a call at twenty past ten, goes wide-eyed and slack awed for a second before composing herself. Brooke doesn’t know who it is but the hush of Nina’s voice and her sudden gentleness tells him is probably Vanessa and he’s just so relieved. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in, his lungs gasping for air as Nina puts down the phone and gives him a half smile. “He’s alright,” she says, impressively calm in contrast to Brooke’s own panic-stricken demeanour. She organises everything like a boss, tells the managers what happened in cliff notes and makes sure to reassure Brooke every couple of minutes, to let him know that it’s going to be okay.

When Vanessa walks back through the door of the hotel, Brooke almost loses it. He runs up the stairs, three at a time and barrels into his room. Sobbing, he reaches for his Marlborough’s, savouring the way they taste like her and hoping his tears don’t put it out. The fire in his brain has been dampened and he steps out onto the balcony to savour what little time he has left to himself.

He doesn’t sleep easy that night, but he does sleep - and that’s an improvement.

Only seventeen, but she walks the streets so mean

It’s alarming truly how disarming you can be

Eating soft ice cream, Coney Island queen

They’re in Copenhagen and it’s breakfast time. It’s the first time in a week that Brooke has seen her without makeup and god is it a sorry sight. She sits across from him on a long table, refuses to meet his gaze as she nibbles on an apple, a plate of toast untouched to her left. Their mugs of coffee are almost touching, the distance between them probably the smallest it’s been in weeks and yet he’s never felt so far away from her. It’s like he’s on another planet and she’s the Sun. He orbits around her, never getting close enough to get burned. He tells himself it’s not worth the pain, if he doesn’t get burned then he’s safe and he can’t help but hate himself for the thought.

He’s finished his oatmeal (had added some blueberries to change it up a little) and is sipping quietly on his coffee, book in hand when he senses her looking up. It’s like she’s watching him, waiting for him to make a move. She tentatively moves her hand towards her toast and he sees how frail her wrists look. he’s sure he could wrap his thumb and pinky around it, make a perfect circle and she’d still be able to move. She looks scared as she picks off crumbs, places them in her mouth experimentally, on the tip of her tongue as they will dissolve. It’s a little disarming, how small she looks. He wonders how long she’s been like this, hates that he did not notice.

From then on, he watches every meal they share. She only turns up to a few, eyes red and skin blotchy. Her nostrils look scabbed and her voice is less foghorn and more chain-smoker losing their voice. He hopes that it is just the painful fluorescent lighting of the hotel dining room but he swears she looks more pallid and sick every time he sees her. Yet no one seems to mention it. She moves like she is being instructed to, all interactions seem forced and void of feeling but no one seems to bat an eyelid except him. She drowns herself in baggy sweatshirts and loose shorts, the fabric hiding a multitude of sins and keeping what little is left of her warm. She is wasting away, flesh and bone dissolved by vodka and self-hatred.

They get a roast for dinner. It is a Wednesday and she is there and she picks at the meat as if it has offended her. She pushes it around her plate like a child, picking the smallest parts to eat and leaving the rest. She leaves halfway through the meal and no one says a word. Most don’t even look up from what they were doing, conversations do not stop. Brooke does though. He places his knife and fork down and nudges Nina. When they make eye contact, she sighs, reminds him that Vanessa cannot get help until she wants to be helped and reminds Brooke to eat his greens. He scowls because she is right.

She says you don’t want to be like me

Looking for fun, get me high for free

I’m dying, I’m dying

It’s three am in Amsterdam and she’s getting her stomach pumped. It’s horrible, she takes a second to wonder if it’s a fate worse than death but stops herself because, god, she was too close to that to joke about it. She’s getting her stomach pumped at three am in a foreign country and the worst part is that no one knows.

She pays in cash, blatantly ignores the doctor’s instructions to not do anything strenuous for a few hours and bids him a goodbye. Thanking god she’s out of drag (because she can’t imagine how that would have gone with full face), she starts the long walk home. She is tired, exhausted even and her throat burns like someone’s lit it on fire and is enjoying watching it flame. It feels like acid is dripping down into her lungs and to be honest, that’s not far off. Having a tube shoved down her throat was not how she wanted to spend her Saturday night, she is almost grateful she was alone. Except she’s not. She spent the remainder of her Euros on the hospital bill (having already paid copious amounts for cheap vodka and overpriced tequila shots) and having someone there would mean maybe she could get a ride home. Instead, she’s walking dazed in the middle of the night through Amsterdam.

It’s beautiful like the stars have all come out just for her. She stops for a second in places, just to marvel at the sky above her - drinking in the beauty like it is grey goose because she is painfully sober in more ways than one.

At one point she sits on the embankment by the canal. The pale moonlight shines on the rippling water, refracting onto the houses like a mosaic. Vanessa lays back, head on the dew of the grass; she remembers what life was like when it was simple. She pictures laying like this with Brooke, hands intertwined as if they would never let go. She wonders if he ever thinks about it too - hopes she’s not alone in her longing for easier times. It feels like a cop out when they have earned so much in their lives to wish to be back when they had little, but they had more time back then. She doesn’t have enough anymore.

Her mind wanders to when they were laying on the tarmac drive in the studio backlot. It was late enough that they could see the faint shimmer of the stars behind the California smog and she was so fucking happy. Her head on his chest, feeling the contours of muscle beneath her as he ran his fingers through her hair. They were a different kind of stressed, lighter and less cautious. Worried but less bothered.

She can taste the plastic tubing on the tip of her tongue, feels it like a phantom slide down her throat until she is choking, gasping for air. She coughs for a minute or two before standing again and she starts walking, hoping to get back home. Back to Brooke Lynn.

She says you don’t want to get this way

Street walking at night, and a star by day

It’s tiring, tiring

He barrels into her room at quarter past six on a Monday. They are in Prague and he spent all afternoon out sightseeing while she spent all afternoon soaking in a bath of self-loathing and lavender oil.

He can smell it on her skin the second he walks in and she looks up at him from her pile of blankets on the bed. “I think we should talk,” he says as he approaches the bed. His voice holds no enthusiasm but it is open and honest and he hopes that she knows that he is too. He doesn’t really offer much in the way of dispute, already sat on the end of the bed when she dares to raise an eyebrow. “Should we now,” she replies, although she sounds broken. Her voice is scratchy and weak like someone has scratched their way down her throat (he does not know how right this analysis is). It feels like spiders crawling on his skin, tiny legs prickling at his forearms as he watches someone so strong look so utterly lost.

Brooke refrains from hugging her, scared of what he will feel if his arms are too tight around her frame. “Okay,” she relents. She says it like someone who is already done with the conversation, like she has made her mind up and now just needs to convince him of her beliefs. “I know a place.”

She takes him to a small cafe he hadn’t seen on his explorations. He wonders briefly how she knows about it but knows well enough not to ask out of fear of the answer. He orders two black coffees and some Danish pastries, tries his best to use the language from his phrasebook (part of his routine is trying to speak in the language of the people he is surrounded by). If he is bad, the cashier doesn’t let on - hands him his change and receipt with words spoken in perfect English. It may be summer but she is dressed for snow storm season, something even more absurd because of the fact she is from Florida. Her hoodie is pulled over her hands and down past her shorts, combat boots laced halfway up her shins and a beanie slung awkwardly over her head. It’s a confusing look and it confuses him.

They sit in silence for a while. Neither of them really knows what to say and they’ve spent too long individually wishing for this to be able to enjoy it.

“So,” He starts, grimaces when he hears his own voice. It lacks his usual confidence, every last bit zapped down the drain. “So.” She retorts, carried by a smile that does not reach her eyes. “You wanted to talk,” She draws out the last syllable, drawls it like she’s a Rhode Island mom getting her nails done. He coughs, clears his throat and looks around, the atmosphere is warm and inviting and clearly hasn’t let the chill of their table spread into the rest of the room. “I don’t think I quite understand, you see. I don’t know… I don’t know when we fell apart.” His voice may be fragile but the volume is slowly rising with every word. “When did this become you and me - what the fuck happened.”

This was the wrong thing to do. Any glimpse of patience she had goes out of the window along with whatever he planned on saying next. “I don’t fucking know either,” she says, brash and angry. “Do you think I wanted to turn into… into this?” gesturing to herself she continues. “This wasn’t my fucking plan, Brock.” It is merciless and mocking and the way she says the last part doesn’t sound like his name. It sounds like a knife swiping through the air - cutting through him, like a Canada wind and it hurts like hell.

She looks smaller now than before, more drained but they’ve just started the conversation. “What happened?” he asks again, quieter this time. “Life,” She laughs bitterly, response twisting the knife further into his ribs.

“I miss you.” she says calmly, the eye of the hurricane circling them.

He misses her too, it burns holes through his heart every time he thinks of her and he’s not sure he can do it any longer. “Do you think… do you think there’s a chance, that we could try again?” He isn’t sure if he wants to hear her answer, knows it could be too much for him. He needn’t worry. “I think I’d like that,” he hears - a whisper in a bustling coffee shop like she didn’t want it to be heard.

Maybe when the walk back to the hotel they are closer. Maybe his fingers brush hers just a little bit. Neither minds.

Baby’s all dressed up, with nowhere to go

That’s the little story of the girl you know

She is in A'keria’s room before Brooke shuts his door, eyes widened in a state of panic the other man finds hilarious and concerning at the same time.

“Baby, chill,” comes the low timbre of her voice, loud in Vanessa’s head as she tries to come to terms with what just happened. She needs more time, the walls are closing in and she needs more time. Hands are warm on her wrists and there is a soft voice in her ear as she sinks back against the wall. She feels like she is sweating from just thinking and it is awful but she can’t stop thinking about it. About the way he looked and the way he moved and how he spoke like he still wanted her; like he cared. So between sniffles and shaky breaths she tells A'keria everything.

A’keria nods and smiles and makes the right noises at the right times, to try and ease the girl’s aching heart. She suggests asking for more time before suggesting she let him in and Vanessa has so many options but she feels trapped. “I - I just don’t understand,” she whimpers. “Why does he want me?” and A'keria’s heart, it breaks.

She sits down next to the short Latina, wipes a tear off her face and sighs. “'Cause you’re you, boo,” she replies, conviction pouring from every word. Vanessa smiles a little at that and hums. She can do this.

Relying on the kindness of strangers

Time and cherry marks while doing party favours

He tells Nina immediately. And by “immediately” he means straight after he spent hours in the shower trying to collect his thoughts from every scattered part of his brain. Once they seem coherent enough though, she is his first stop. He gushes to her, once he’s started he can’t stop and even though barely anything has happened, it feels like a hurricane. A tornado called Vanessa has come into his body and wreaked havoc, his ribs feel broken and his heart flutters like a moth and god why is he so happy with such a little result. It is elation, like getting a test back that you thought you’d failed only to get an A.

Nina listens with a wide grin and a sly look in her eye. She lets him radiate happiness, tells him he has grounds for hope and that this could be good. She tells him to let her talk though, to give her the time and space she needs to metamorphosise because she will come back a butterfly. He agrees because Nina West is nothing if not a voice of reason and a damn good friend and he loves her. And he loves Vanessa. And he realises that he is so screwed and he loves her, he loves her.

He tells Nina this on their second bottle of wine. He hasn’t had a drink in a little while, saw what it did to Vanessa and can’t let himself fall too - it hits him hard and fast like a freight train or a well-thrown dodgeball. Before he knows it he is wine drunk at ten pm on a Monday and spilling his guts to a man he loves like a brother and he is so happy. Brooke is so happy.

Put your red dress on, put your lipstick on

Sing your song, song, now, the camera’s on

And you’re alive again

They’re not sure how it happened but they share a dressing room in Glasgow.

Brooke walks towards his assigned door, bouncing a little on his heels. They’re in one of his favourite cities and he’s been on a cloud nine ever since he spoke to V. Through Nina’s encouragement he knows he should talk to her more, has figured out that there are things she should tell him before they try anything but even the hope for something more, anything, makes him jittery. It’s like adrenaline pumped straight into his veins, he feels alive and free - like on a rollercoaster when the bottom drops out and you are just so in the moment. That’s how he feels.

He doesn’t check the door before he walks in - had he read the sign he would have been less surprised when he opened it to see two vanities, one already occupied by a short Latino. She’s got her brows glued down and looks like she’s got concealer on too, workstation neat and orderly as she packs on the powder. He sits down at the empty mirror without a word, lays out his supplies in a much less systematic way and immediately sticks on his wig cap. He is running late already.

“It’s a little, sus-susp… odd, don’t ya think?” she mutters, drawing on contour like war paint. He smiles as he pushes his brows down with a metal comb, “Suspicious, maybe,” he replies - he’s not totally sure what she’s on about but he figures he’ll let her explain. “I mean I thought it was gon’ be Silky with me, then she went off with A'keria, and now we here,” she tells him, stumbling in places as she concentrates on blending. He begins to understand, grasps at the olive branch she is holding out and realises just what she is going on about. “You thinking foul play?” he smirks, eyes widening at the realisation. This is Nina’s doing through and through. “That litt-” he catches himself, words falling off his tongue almost faster than he can stop them.

Vanessa raises a half painted eyebrow and continues her paint, he goggles for a little bit before remembering that he does not have time to get caught up on her beauty - he should focus on his own.

He’s got a crease brush halfway into his eye when he next speaks, words feeling stiff in the warm air of the room. “Total honesty,” he says, louder than intended. It comes out more brash and accusatory than he wanted it to but in the end, the tone feels right. She sighs, taking the powder brush off her cheek and tilting her head. “I don’t like what you’re im-implying Brock,” her tone is warning and he recoils a little. “We both want this to work,” he reiterates, “So we need total honesty.” She scoffs. Vanessa looks at him like she’s been scolded, like he took away her toys or something along that line. “Okay, I’ll be honest. I hate that colour on you.”

When he laughs it is raucous and noisy and it feels like flying. His lungs want to give up but it is freedom and love in a noise and he can’t stop. She joins him and they giggle like madmen for a while, makeup left forgotten on the vanities in front of them. She composes herself first, lets the calm music in the background wash over her as she gets back into the zone. “Give me a little more time,” she asks, she’s not begging but when her voice breaks a little, she sounds pretty damn close.

He nods, smiles, and goes back to his art.

When she leaves the room, having finished ahead of him as he thought, she presses a warm kiss to his temple. It’s not a promise, but it’s pretty damn close.

Mon amour, je sais que tu m’aimes aussi

Tu as besoin de moi

Tu as besoin de moi dans ta vie

Tu ne peux plus vivre sans moi

Et je mourrais sans toi

Je tuerais pour toi

London is the first time in weeks they’ve had adjoining rooms. It takes three nights to realise that the door is not locked. On that particular evening, Brooke is calmly watching Netflix, refusing to de-drag quite yet out of laziness and a little bit of pride for his handiwork. He and Yvie debuted 'Sorry Not Sorry’ and the crowd loved it, he knew they would, the English crowds always went a little mad for that kind of thing. He recalls Vanessa’s face as she watched it, the little smirk she had as he did his handstand against the wall. In the break in the song, he winked at her, a challenge maybe - for what, he didn’t quite know. She’d looked gorgeous, in gold fringe with a grey-blonde wig that highlighted her everything. He’d always loved how she performed drunk but god, he’d forgotten how well she performed sober. With nothing but adrenaline rushing through her, she was like a rocket ship. She glowed brighter than the Sun, eclipsing all of them and no one could be annoyed because it was beautiful.

Back in the hotel, Vanessa leans against the door, she’s painfully sober - an unspoken promise to Brooke that she is going to try, just try to do this right. She wants to be drunk in love, high on his touch, his kiss, his everything. Leaning heavier onto the door, she feels it give out under her weight, and as her hand finds the handle, she pushes down.

He is laying on his bed in full drag, watching something about puppies and he looks up in surprise at her as she enters. She raises an eyebrow at him, almost teasingly. “What are you doing,” he asks, it’s hesitant as if he’s scared of the answer. He looks worried like he thinks she’s drinking again and she gives a soft smile in reassurance. “Couldn’t stop thinking 'bout you,” she responds, popping her lips and tilting her head to the side. Her smile grows until she thinks she probably looks a little manic but he’s smiling too and for a second it feels like old times. He gets up to greet her, there’s no rushing, he doesn’t see the point when they’ve got all night.

Vanessa José still kisses like there is fire coursing through her veins, the flames licking at his tongue like a warning sign. She kisses like he’s her oxygen, fueling the glow in her eyes with every moment. Brooke nibbles on her bottom lip for a while feeling the way her body moves beneath him when he bites down. He prides himself on how well he knows her, how he knows where to suck to get her moaning his name in a way that is just sinful. It’s just kissing but somehow it feels like more, it feels like they are intertwining, one needy mass of flesh and blood and lust and love. He is enamoured by it. Pushing a knee in between her legs, he moves from her lips to her neck, pulse point pounding beneath his teeth. It is flushed and warm and he sucks on it just hard enough that he feels her knees give out but knows that it will not leave a mark. She whines for him as he nibbles her ear, gives a harsh exhale as he kisses down her collarbone. Lips hungrily reaching past the collar of her shirt and fingers grazing under its hem. And then he stops.

He’s almost on his knees and he can see her eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, looking down to him, her fingers intertwined in his hair. He can’t remember the last time it felt this good to be wanted but he can’t seem to continue.

Brooke slowly stands back up, taking both of her hands in his as he brings her over to the bed. He lazily traces a finger over one of her cheeks as they sit in silence, both too scared of what this could become to say anything at all. Vanessa’s chest is heaving and flushed, her makeup everywhere and her neck red from Brooke’s lips. He’s sure he’s not much better off but he still can’t believe he has this effect on someone, especially not her.

“Did that help?” he asks, voice hoarse. He feels a little silly, playing along with her but she’s got him wrapped around her finger already and he can’t help it. She straddles him in one fluid motion, a knee on either side of his legs as they swing off the edge of the bed. Each hand comes to cup his face, not caring about the makeup still on it. She presses one chaste kiss to his lips, melting into him for a second. “Yes baby,” she whispers into them, pulling away and smirking to herself. With a grace he is certain he wouldn’t be able to manage in this state, she jumps off his lap and leaves the room.

Brooke falls back onto his bed, a hand coming to mirror where hers had been. He is fucked, royally screwed.

The boys, the girls, they all like Carmen

She gives them butterflies, bats her cartoon eyes

She laughs like god, her mind’s like a diamond

Buy her tonight, she’s still shining

They’re both awake for breakfast at 7am, Vanessa calling for Brooke on her way and when they get there, it’s empty. Brooke picks up two bowls of fruit and a plate of toasts, grabbing some juice and coffee on the way past as Vanessa rushes towards the comfy seats. It’s a little odd to him, seeing her not hungover, and he drinks it in, scared it’ll go away at any moment. She’s nigh on bouncing out of the seat by the time he reaches the chairs, body drowned in his white hoodie. He doesn’t know how she got it but it looks pretty damn cute so he doesn’t really care.

She devours the fruit in minutes and he just sips his coffee and watches. “Shut up,” she says with a mouthful of guava as he smirks. “It’s easier to eat when you don’t feel like you going to throw up.” He can’t argue with that, settles for eating his toast in comfortable silence. Every so often he’ll watch her gaze flick down to his chest, the t-shirt tight against his still shower damp skin. He raises an eyebrow and she shrugs back, holding onto her coffee like it’d disappear if she loosened her grip. It reminds him of the Vanessa he used to know, the one that sat at his kitchen counter with Apollo stretched across her lap. Coffee in hand and wit just quick enough to distract him and make him burn the pancakes he’s (unsuccessfully) trying to make. The nostalgia hits him like a train, pushes him back against his seat.

“So are we gon’ talk about last night then?” she questions, curling into her seat and bringing the coffee up to her mouth. Her nonchalance is killing him and she knows it. “Where do you want to start?” he asks, he doesn’t have anywhere to be and wants to know what he’s getting himself into. “I guess the beginning,” laughing a little - although it sounds bitter in his ears - she prepares herself. She tells him how she wants to get sober for him, how she needs him to know she’s trying. She lets him know how much she wants him imprinted on her skin, with words this time rather than soft kisses and tender moments stolen in hotel rooms. He does his best to stay quiet the entire time and when he can’t hold in his reactions she smiles at his unusual brashness. It’s a role reversal and a half, him the louder one and her all soft words and nervous glances. He maps her face with his eyes while she talks about the future, takes in the profile of her nose and the curve of her jaw. She’s managed to grow a slight stubble overnight and he likes it, wants to trail a finger over it and feel the tiny hairs.

He’s snapped back into reality by his own name, tumbling from her lips like ivy on a wall. “Brock, I- I just want this to work out.” His mother always told him not to make promises he can’t keep but in this moment he would promise her the world if it meant she would curl up into his side for a while.

He stands, pulls her up with him and into his arms until they are holding each other closer than it should be possible. Burying his face into her hair, he exhales the emotions he needs her to know he feels. “Me too baby,” he whispers, each syllable carrying the love he has kept locked away for months.

The hold each other until Nina bursts through the door. She looks at them with the stupid grin she had the first time Brooke walked into the werkroom. It’s full of relief and comforting happiness and it brings a smile to Vanessa’s own face. She pulls away and walks over to the other man, whispers a 'thank you’ into her ear and then waits expectantly at the door. It takes Brooke a second to clock onto what she’s asking, still a little dazed from all the events of this morning. It’s barely eight am and it feels like his world has spun off its axis.

They spend the rest of the day intertwined in each other. They watch an entire season of 'The Office’, Brooke having to stop and explain things more often than he would like to but he finds he doesn’t care, Vanessa is in his arms and that’s all he can think about.

Like lightning, light, like lightning

It’s the last day of the tour. The past two weeks have been the most joyous of his year so far and Brooke is unbelievably grateful.

After many nights of talking until they fell asleep (Vanessa’s new vice), they’ve agreed she’ll take a bit of time off when they get back to the States. She’s booked herself into a two-week rehab course that’ll teach her coping skills and after that Brooke wants to really take her to Canada. A week with no gigs and nothing they’re supposed to do but explore the places that made Brock Brooke.

Everyone’s noticed the change. They’re both brighter, happier people and whilst they’re not solely responsible, they’re certainly main factors in their newfound joy. They get ready together for the last show, talking for its full duration. Any lull in conversation is filled by Vanessa leaning over to give him a quick peck. Somewhere between eyebrows and eyeliner, they get lost in each other’s lips. They’re only pulled away by Nina knocking on the door, she’s smart enough not to come in but also knows the two well enough to figure out that the increased music volume isn’t just because they liked the song.

They both focus on their faces after that, only kissing once more when they’re both fully dressed. They didn’t necessarily match their lipstick just so they can kiss easily but it’s certainly effective in that area and Brooke plans on exploiting it for all it’s worth.

The show goes perfectly and so what if Brooke spends Vanessa’s number wolf whistling and hollering from the sidelines. Vanessa does the same for all of Brooke’s. At the last bow, Vanessa kisses Brooke on the cheek and the crowd goes wild, Brooke doesn’t let go of her hand until they get back to their dressing room where he pins her against the door. His mouth goes straight to her neck, she’s mewling under him before his lips touch her skin, flushing red like summer strawberries as he licks and sucks his way up her throat. He grabs her by the hips and hoists her up, using the wall to support her and she wraps her legs around his waist, drawing him close. As he pulls away for air, she latches herself onto his pulse point, making his knees weaken a little. She tugs at it, kneads it with her tongue until he’s pulling against his tuck.

He’s expecting her to move away as she usually does when they get this far, they’ve been making out like teenagers, hot and heavy under the covers but are still to consummate the new relationship. Even though he knows it’s coming, he’s still just a bit disappointed when she jumps down, swinging her hips as she walks towards the mirrors. He rolls his eyes, smiles to himself and follows suit, removing the layers of makeup and costuming until he can see himself again. Looking to his left, he can see her too and she’s beaming at him, a big contagious grin.

She’s not perfect, but neither is he. Maybe together they can be the kind of perfect they need.

Darling, darling, doesn’t have a problem

Lying to herself 'cause her liquor’s top shelf

#rpdr fanfiction #branjie #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #eventual happy ending #angst #fluff #hurt/comfort #song fic #pinkgrapefruit #canon compliant #tw weight loss #tw drug use #tw alcoholism #tw stomach pump #tw self destruction #concrit welcome #submission

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takaraphoenix · 5 years

Note

35,18,3,7 (on the original Charmed)

Thanks for playing! ^-^

3. rant. just do it

Okay, here goes nothing.

Americans annoy me with their high hourse TV plot writing these days. Like, yeah, just as any other sane person, I know that your guys’ government putting human beings into cages and separating children from their parents and basically Third Reiching it up in there is really terrifyingly bad - as a German, I might even get that a little bit more than some others.

But I’m... I’m really tired of them doing this “what is happening right now is Really Very Bad and we will whack you over the head with that in your fun escapism TV show”.

Because look. If I’d... If I’d want to engage with this terrifying shit going on, I’d be right now watching the news. Not Supergirl. Not Legends of Tomorrow.

I, like many others, watch TV as a means of escapism. Especially shows about idiot timetravelers and aliens who are unrecognizable when they put on glasses.

That a show like Orange is the New Black that is set and grounded in this reality and actually deals with prison conditions and has tackled these type of injustices from the get-go addresses it makes a whole lot of sense and fits the theme.

But every single show turning into “we shouldn’t treat other beings who are just like us but have slight differences and may come from a different place like they are below us!!!” is... it’s exhausting.

Not everybody watching this is American. It’s not like we can do anything to help. And, let’s be really really clear: A show that is so damn heavy on feminism and LGBT themes has long since lost any of the viewers whose hearts and minds these kind of plotlines are meant to change. No Straight White Male Republican Racist is still watching a show with half the cast being POC and LGBT and female. The only people you’re reaching are the people who absolutely know that what is happening is wrong and terrifying.

And what makes it more frustrating was that Supergirl in particular was always very out of this world; quite literally. They opted, after Trump was elected, to put a female president onto that Earth. A reasonable, wise woman who works for the rights of others. And that made this show all the more wonderful and all the more escapism from this reality because it was literally presented as a better alternate Earth to ours. That they had to get her impeached to replace her with a Straight White Male Racist so you can hammer the metaphor of aliens = immigrants in was... not necessary, not on that world.

And especially not with the exact same message running course on three different shows that share one universe - because yeah, the whole “metahumans are different than us and are being murdered” thing is the same tune, you just exchanged alien/magical creature with metahuman there.

I just... It’s too much. I get tight-chested every single time I have to face another horrible, inhumane, Hitleresque thing that Trump said or did. I don’t need you to whack me over the head with thinly veiled metaphors.

Especially since you’re not even doing it in a creative way. The bad guy is the Old White Man, while most of the aliens and magical creatures that are prominently features are played by actors of color, just in case anyone was still missing the metaphor. It’s... It’s not even clever writing.

And I don’t... I just... Honestly, I actually find it kind of offensive that writers think we need a metaphor where the immigrants are literal aliens. Like, humans do this shit to other humans. That you’re pretending that “oh no they are doing this to aliens while all humans hold together” is... even more unrealistic than the whole premise of Supergirl to begin with, to be quite frank.

It’d even be... fine. Durable. If it were one show only but to be whacked over the head with the exact same message on multiple shows running parallel is really tiresome actually.

I get it. I know what you’re saying. I agree. And so does the whole entire damn rest of the audience. Because if they didn’t get the whole point of Superman and Supergirl literally being refugees on Earth and them LITERALLY being created by Jewish men during WWII and if they weren’t racist enough to stop watching when two black men became superheroes and if they weren’t homophobic enough when one of the main characters came out as a lesbian and started very explicitely to have a relationship with another woman and if they weren’t transphobic enough to quit when you introduced a trans character to the main cast and if they weren’t misogynistic enough to just straight up quit this majorly female-led feminist show on season one, then honestly you’re barking up the wrong tree there.

7. opinion on… Charmed

THIS WAS MY FIRST BIG OBSESSION! *^*

Oh, I loved Charmed - literally all of my walls, including my ceiling, were plastered with posters of the show! I did the puppy-dog eyes at anyone who bought teen magazines back then, I got cut-out articles about it every time it was somewhere, I still have self-recorded VHS tapes with the entire show in my closet.

I even wrote my very first fanfiction for this show, back then ink on paper in a journal because we’re talking pre-Phoe-is-allowed-on-the-internet-age, I had my first next gen OC line-up for that show.

And it was, to date, the only ever where I actually also got invested in the actors. Particularly Alyssa Milano. And if I saw anything where Alyssa Milano or Julian McMahon were in, I watched it, not even caring what it was, because I loved them so much.

I mean, I’ve always loved witches, you know? But this show just hit everything for me. Back then I really related to Phoebe the most, because she was the youngest and thus most relatable for pre-teen me, she was kind of a screw-up who didn’t really know what she was doing. I always wanted big sisters like Piper and Prue.

Many of my favorite tropes were first introduced to me there. Seriously, this show is why I love a good “everybody lives together”. A team as a family, by blood and also beyond that.

Them killing off Prue killed me. I cried so hard so long back then.

And also this is like the only show ever where I got incredibly invested in the canon ships. Leo/Piper, Cole/Phoebe, Andy/Prue. All. The. Way. Obviously, canon broke my heart twice but that doesn’t mean I can’t live in eternal denial.

It’s also the first time I encountered a TV show overstaying its welcome, because that last season was absolutely unnecessary, start to finish. The season before that had the perfect finale - the sisters, getting to live a normal life, then that little wink by the door closing just like Prue’s powers used to close it, it put tears in my eyes and had me incredibly content. Then they had to add a blonde Mary-Sue to the mix and go on for another season and just nope.

And yes, you notice my focus on Prue. I love her. She still remains my second favorite after Phoebe and I will admit I never quite warmed up to Paige and would have preferred if the whole... actor fall out hadn’t happened and Prue could have continued on in the show. So, that’s my favorite part of it; back when Prue was alive and Cole was also still alive.

18. rant about your favorite musician

...At this point, I am thinking that maybe you should have asked each number in a separate ask because this thing is long.

But okay, I actually do have something to rant about there!

HOW DOES THE YOUTH TODAY NOT UNDERSTAND PUNK. URGH.

A few weeks back, my favorite musician was on TV. There was a music event, I think it was a benefit and also a peaceful protest, led by him, among others, and before it, he stepped up to the mic to say a few words and I was watching that with my grandparents and my brother and he just went “Urgh, that guy again. Why does he have to be everywhere? And why is he talking about this? It’s none of his business, he should just do music”.

Like.

No.

Campino is a punk. Die Toten Hosen is a punk rock band.

Protesting the government and what is wrong with society is literally what punk does. Punk is only secondarily a music genre. First and foremost, it is a means to be loud and vocal about politics. So to organize a peaceful protest and to speak up about the mistreatment of immigrants in our country is literally what punk should be.

The fact that there’s younger people who don’t know that is terrifying. The fact that younger people in Germany just know Campino as an old musician and not as a punk is also terrifying. Go listen to DTH and study up on punk, please.

35. what does home mean to you?

Ah, finally a short one! xD (Just kidding, I do love ranting!)

Home is where I feel at ease, where I can be myself, where I’m happy. These requirements can be fulfilled outside of my own four walls - it’s like, when I am in London, this incredible sense of home fills me too, surprisingly enough. Gods, I wanna go back to London...

Unusual Ask Game

#About Me #Random Rants #lots of ranting #Unusual Ask Game #send me asks #shadowruned

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silver-chasm · 5 years

Text

I feel like I’m always late for these things

I wanted to do something for Monsuno Week (holy cow that’s a thing!) So, I wrote this piece, for Day 7 (Free Space!)

Recently, I was introduced to Anne Lamott’s “Bird by bird” and the concept of an Emotional Acre. Basically, you are given an acre of land and you can do whatever you wish with it. Whatever is in your acre represents a part of you. This can be applied to characters

I wrote about Dr Klipse’s Emotional Acre, which sort of turned into a second person narrative. Hope you like it

The Emotional Acre of Dr Klipse appears abandoned. It is an unassuming block of land, overgrown with wild weeds. They hide the numerous holes that were dug, to test the composition of the earth for Monsuno essence. A towering barbed wire fence borders the acre, dotted with small cameras.

Not too far from the acre, when you kick a rock in a certain way, a secret hatch reveals itself. It’s like a submarine entrance: rounded, somewhat claustrophobic with a ladder on one side. It’s dark and takes you deep underground. It eventually widens to a metal-clad hallway, a winding one. With a flashlight, the pockets in the wall are illuminated, showing the long deactivated Klipse Drones.

The air is cool and stale. It’s been trapped down here for so long.

Trying to navigate the maze, you come across a faint glow from one of the rooms. The room in question possesses massive screens that cover the walls, coated with surveillance footage, a live feed of the cameras outside. But no one’s watching.

Wandering around some more, you start to notice another glow, one more unnaturally coloured. Turning a corner, you stop in your tracks. A glowing green liquid oozes from one of the rooms up ahead. There are footprints that lead away from the door. Humanoid. The room of origin has a machine that floods a contained area with the liquid. The container has shattered.

Venturing forwards, you notice some faint scratch marks on the walls.

Eventually you happen upon another room: a laboratory. The mess and dust catch the small light you carry. Glass vials with odd liquids, labelled tubes, discarded needles, bones, laboratory paraphernalia strewn across the metallic benches, the ones still standing, and on the floor. The chairs look like they were flung into the walls. There are even some dents in the benches.

To the back of the room, there is a large computer, built into the wall. Its monitor is an imposing size. With a press of a button, it whirs to life. The monitor casts its light onto the room. Digital schematics populate the screen, ones of experiments and their results. They show grotesque ape creatures and how they are created from people. They show schemes of gassing entire cities with some concoction, of breaking into museums to steal their fossils, even one of a floating weapon of mass destruction powered by Monsuno essence. And in their notes on their results, there’s thinly veiled anger towards Team Core Tech and Jeredy.

There seems to be a lot of plans revolving around the ape monsters, the Monsuno Sapiens. An obsessive amount. With words of worship accompanying the images. An ascension of humanity, in the Doctor’s eyes. All but an elusive dream, in a desolate and abandoned warren. One that you’re happy to escape.

#monsuno #monsunoweek19 #fanfic

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rigginsstreet · 5 years

Note

Everyone always talks about if Neil caught Billy and Steve but what if Steve’s dad caught them? They’re never home so they’re taking some big romantic bath together in the master bathroom and they’re not even doing anything but Steve’s dad hears music and giggling when he comes in and he thinks Steve has a girl in there and he’s barging in to tell Steve how irresponsible and uncouth he is but NOPE it’s Billy, Steve, rose petals and his expensive ass champagne...

i know this is supposed to be serious but this whole set up just reads comedy to me lmao like all i can picture is steves dad storming in and steve, with a glass of champagne raised to his lips, being like “could you close the door? im trying to have a romantic bath with my boyfriend” 😂

but realistically

ive never imagined steves dad as the physically abusive type. so whereas neil would probably drag billy out by the hair if he caught him doing this shit... i think steves dad would go really quiet and still and tell steve to get out in this really harsh, stern tone. and its basically ignoring billy but they both know steves dad telling him to leave without actually saying it. and then once steve is dressed hes gotta meet his dad in the study and steves dad would go through a whole ass homophobic lecture where its like... thinly veiled homophobia. cuz i feel like steves parents dont like to talk about anything having to do with being gay, they wont explicitly say anything, but like it also doesnt take a genius to read between the lines, ya know what i mean?

i could also maybe see steves dad actually slapping him (which is rare) because hes telling steve not to see billy anymore and steves making a big fuss about it because obviously hes not gonna stop seeing billy.

also, just a lil add on, but like... the fact that billys poor and dresses Like That™ is not doing him any favors in steves dads eyes lbr so like even if he wasnt homophobic hes still classist as all hell

#briana answers things #Anonymous

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staronastaff · 6 years

Text

This Fire Between Us

The earth mutters beneath her feet. This land is an angry one.

The trader had wrapped magic-dampening bandages around her eyes. It must’ve cost the conniving little snake a fortune to get his paws on those, Uraraka fumed. Now she can’t sense the drums of the earth or the voices of the sky. All she can hear is the clanking of her chains and the raspy exhalations of the slave trader.

The ground shifts into an incline. Uraraka can feel a small breeze to her left. A sharp grating of metal rings out in the silence.

“Halt. Who approaches the Chief of Fire and Claw?” The voice is sharp, female, and deeply disapproving. “How dare you bring your filthy practice here! How many times do I have to tell you?! We don’t deal with slave traders!”

“Pink one, this is not a slave.” The trader’s voice drips with honey. “I bring before you a powerful asset to your forces. Now. May I speak with your esteemed Chief?”

The female voice growls, the sound deeply feral and furious. She must’ve acquiesced, for there is a low rumble and shaking of the ground that makes Uraraka stumble with surprise.

She hears the trader breathe in sharply. “So that is how they shift.” His voice is barely audible, but laced with glee. “Come, witch.”

“I am not a witch.” Uraraka snaps back stubbornly, but she falls silent when he viciously yanks on the chains, hissing, “Must I cut another stripe into your pretty back?”

She follows the tug of the chain into a wider space. The air flows freely here, yet, as sweat begins to quickly bead on her neck, Uraraka feels the presence of larger, powerful beings.

They stop. The trader falls to his knees, bringing her down with him in a more undignified manner.

A young voice, hoarse with smoke, speaks. It is a male voice, an angry one that shakes the chamber with its force.

“What in the nine freezing hells is this?”

“Great Chieftain of Fire and Claw.” The trader is already groveling, Uraraka observes with disgust. “I have traversed many dangerous lengths to bring you a fine addition to your draconic armies. You are looking upon Heaven’s Witch, the famous sorceress who can walk the skies and tame the stars!”

Incredulous silence. A snort from another large beast in the chamber.

“This… is the famed witch?” The chief laughs. “All I see is a blindfolded girl in chains.” His voice turns cold. “Do you know, stranger, that I hate chains?”

“Sir...!” The trader’s voice cuts off with a sudden shriek, and Uraraka yelps as her feet are taken out from underneath her from the chain drawing suddenly taut. The heat in the room begins to rise.

The chief speaks again, a smirk in his voice. “Kirishima, blast that thing into oblivion.”

There is a soft whistling, and suddenly Uraraka gasps as she feels searing heat rocket past her, singeing her hair and brushing her cheeks as it whips past her and finds its mark with a wet, sickening sound.

The slave trader screams, a terrified thin wailing that chokes abruptly off as his end of the chain drops with a ringing clank onto the ground. The sound of disintegration settles quietly in the air.

Uraraka climbs unsteadily to her feet, gasping at the suddenness of the attack and the acrid smell of charred meat. Her hands paw at her blindfold until she manages to loosen them. The bandages flutter around her neck and fall to the floor.

Her disoriented eyes adjust. Magic begins to seep back into her system; it soothes her dizziness, rooting her firmly into the earth’s embrace. The voice of the sky croons to her, a siren’s lullaby, and the drums of the earth pound with her heart in tandem.

Uraraka gasps for breath, like a swimmer breaching the surface, a bewildered but triumphant laugh. She clenches her fists, and the sky voice screams. The chains around her arms shatter like glass. Her body screams in relief.

A raspy laugh fills the chamber. Uraraka turns and nearly has a second heart attack.

There is not one dragon in the chamber. There are three. Three monstrous creatures of legend lay in a circle, their huge leathery wings arched like a canopy. Cruel, curved claws clatter against the ground, drumming a foreboding staccato rhythm. Their feline eyes narrow as they take in the small girl gaping up at them.

And all three of them lie in a circle around a single young man sprawled on his throne of broken rock, flashes of light bouncing off his necklace of teeth and sky-blue jewels. A fur cloak is draped over his taut muscles, and roughened fingers tap idly on a huge, curved blade.

The Dragon Chieftain continues to laugh, his eyes burning with a cold, red flame.

“So.” His amusement fades, and nothing but predatory interest remains on his face. “The Witch makes her debut.”

O.O

To her dismay, the chief doesn’t let her out of his realm.

“You are a foreigner. A foreign magic user at that.” He walks briskly down the dim hall lit by sputtering, oily torches. “I don’t like witches like you traipsing around my territory.”

“I told you,” Uraraka strains to keep up with his ruthless pace, “I’m not a witch!”

His snort of amused contempt echoes. “I saw you break metal chains with just a clench of your fist in my great hall. I know a witch when I see one. I may live in a closed land, but I know that you magic users like to do nothing but meddle.”

“I’m….NOT….” The sky voice speaks to her suddenly, a faint war cry, and she gives it ferocious voice. “…A WITCH!”

The torches all flicker out in tandem. He grinds to a halt, his eyes blinking in the sudden darkness. His hand had automatically reached for the broad blade on his back.

“Now…” The chief turns, his eyes flickering dangerously in the faint moonlight coming in through the crevices, “It’s shit like this that makes me doubt your words, Witch of the Heavens.”

“I’m just a traveling mage separated from my party.” Uraraka snaps. The magic in the air has picked up to a high-pitched frenzy of droning, and it’s making her head ache. “I don’t know what the trader was talking about when he called me that. He made it all up. Mages use magic for good, and witches use it to destroy.”

The chief gestures at the darkness around them. “If you can snuff out fire with just a word and break metal chains with just your fist, I think you live up to your nickname.”

She looks at him in exasperation. After a beat of silence, he shrugs and raises his hands. The torches all re-ignite with a sudden explosion that shoot out from his hands. Uraraka flinches as some stray sparks singe her bare feet.

The chief brushes off his crackling palms. “Half-dragon,” he says calmly at her gawking expression. “Mother’s side.”

He moves forward to pat out a small fire blooming on her shoulder with all the careless grace of his kind. His eyes search her face carefully. “Well, if you’re not a witch, then we might as well come up with a better name for you.”

Uraraka blinks in confusion, having to tilt her head up to make up for the difference in height. “Eh?”

The chief sweeps off the remainder of soot on her shoulder with an air of finality. “I’ll call you Angel. That’s basically the same as the Witch of the Heavens, isn’t it?”

He cackles as he brushes past her, leaving her standing bewildered in the hallway. “Then what should I call you?” She hollers at his disappearing back.

The chief keeps on walking, but turns his head briefly to shout. “Call me Bakugou!”

O.O

She gets a cave for a room.

The yawning entrance is decorated with uncomfortably sharp stalactites, and the air smelled of brine. Clutching her crumpled hat and the shattered remnants of her staff, Uraraka casts a look of dismay around her surroundings.

“You’ll have a lovely view.” A young woman with rose-colored skin stands behind her, a reassuring smile stretching her pretty features. She holds out a bundle of blankets and some tools to her. “The entrance leads right out onto a crevice though, so be careful!”

Uraraka nods, eying the bare stone floor and the open entrance of the cave. “Won’t it get cold at night?”

The pink girl laughs, tossing her head back. “Cold! In the land of the dragons?” Her mirth dies down, and she folds her hands behind her back. “You’ll never feel frost here, Angel.”

“My name is Uraraka.” The “Angel” replies quickly, with embarrassment.

“Okay!” The girl sticks out her hand. It looks like a perfectly normal, human hand, albeit tinged pink. “My name’s Mina.”

Uraraka shakes her hand. It’s a very hot hand, stinging her palm with its heat like acid. “Ow. So….you are a dragon?”

Mina’s lips scrunch up into a thoughtful grimace. “Technically? I mean, yes! This is like my human form, so I can be able to communicate with people like you.” She leans back against the wall, entwining her arms behind her head as she stares at the ceiling. “There’s only two purebreds of us left though, so don’t expect to talk to random dragons in the land and expects them to shift for you.”

“Two?” Uraraka queries. Her curiosity, the very trait that has both frustrated and pleased her many mentors, is brimming again.

Mina nods. “The one who burnt your captor. That’s Kirishima.”

“Oh.” Uraraka pauses. “So…all the other dragons are just that? Dragons?”

The pink girl slides to a sitting position on the floor, a faint hint of amusement at the mage’s queries showing on her face. “Well, Sero and Kaminari are Halflings, but they’re pretty powerful so they can change at will. It’s pretty hard to maintain and control. You’ll see for yourself in time.”

“So…” Uraraka cautiously ventures, “Why won’t Bakugou change?”

Mina is quiet for a while. When the mage looks at her, she can see something intense burning in the dark sclera of the pink girl. “Bakugou is our leader. Halfling he may be, but our leader nonetheless.”

“But-” Uraraka begins to say, but Mina cuts her off. “I’ll let you settle in, Angel Uraraka!” She stands, a hurried motion that thinly veils the emotion that overtook her. “Let me know if you need anything!”

As the girl runs out the entrance, leaping off the cliff with a rather melodramatic display, Uraraka watches with awe as a sudden rumbling fills the air. A rose-colored dragon bursts into the air, roaring with energy as she flaps away from Uraraka’s cave.

Uraraka rubs the back of her neck. “Are all the dragon people here this showy?”

O.O

She’s deep in sleep when another bout of heavy rumbling shakes her awake. Uraraka frowns as she rubs her sore eyes, uncurling from her position on the floor. The giant full moon grins down at her, and she holds her breath as the rumbling fades.

A beat of dead silence passes.

“Knock knock, Angel.”

Uraraka nearly jumps out of her skin as a looming silhouette abruptly blankets the entrance of the cave. The ruby red dragon Kirishima had planted his chin onto the outer lip of the cave, with Bakugou stepping off his snout with bravado.

She throws up her hands in exasperation as he approaches her. “Are all you dragons this dramatic?”

Bakugou snarls. “I ain’t got time for your games, Angel.” He throws something tattered at her feet. It’s crusted with what could only be blood. “Found this at my western border.”

Uraraka eyes the scrap with confusion, then cold seeped into her veins. It’s hard to tell, but she could recognize that dark green anywhere. “Deku!”

“The ground was all trampled down.” Bakugou paces like a restless animal, his boots scraping the ground harshly. “Dead bodies everywhere.”

“B-bodies?!” Her voice cracked painfully.

He spits. “Demons. Hellspawn. There were a fuck ton of them and my scouts found nothing but their corpses rotting on my territory.” The chief leans in, his face contorted with rage. “What are they doing so close to my land?!”

Uraraka’s heart is thumping loudly. “Was there anything else besides the bodies? Any signs of the people who fought the demons?”

Bakugou turns on his heel and resumes his pacing. “There were burn marks and ice covering half of the scent line. Something had obviously been unleashed, but we had never seen or heard of magic this powerful. I thought you might know something about it.”

Uraraka shakes her head. Something is off. “It’s probably my friends looking for me. I was traveling with them for some time before I…before we got separated.”

“Before you got yourself captured as a slave, you mean.” Bakugou glares at her. “If they were your friends, they don’t seem very competent.”

She seethes, a hint of magic flaring out from her fingers. “Don’t call them that!” Uraraka pauses, then forces herself to breathe more calmly. “It was my fault that I was captured.”

Bakugou snorts. “Your magic seems powerful. Why didn’t you use it to attack him then?”

Uraraka sighs, sinking into a sitting position on the floor. Kirishima is blowing great huffs of steam into the cave as he watches them, and so she chooses to look into his warm golden gaze rather than Bakugou’s angrier one.

“I thought I heard my parents.”

Kirishima blinks owlishly, and something warm presses against her side. Bakugou has settled down to sit next to her, and like Mina, he’s practically radiating heat. At her expression, he scowls. “Well? Go on.”

She reels in another breath. Steadying it. “I hadn’t seen them for a long time. Rationally, I knew that it couldn’t be them, because our village is way in the north, but they sounded like they were in pain. Screaming and crying my name. So I ran.”

Bakugou watches her, his ruby red gaze unfaltering. Kirishima rumbles, long and low, and it sounds like reassurance.

“He had friends. They grabbed me by the arms as he broke my staff across his knee. They thought that by breaking it, I wouldn’t be able to fight anymore.”

She looks into the sky, peering from behind Kirishima’s great spine plates. “I think I lost control. I don’t really remember. When I came to, there were four bodies on the ground and he himself was dazed by my attacks. He got mad then, and pulled the magic-nulling blindfold on me when I was standing in shock.”

Bakugou speaks. His voice has settled from his usual angry roar to a quiet thunder similar to Kirishima. “The staff is to your powers like a cup is to water?”

Uraraka blinks at his perceptions. “Yes! It’s a container but not the source of power itself. I kind of need a staff before I want to perform magic that actually does what I want it do.”

Bakugou frowns. “You broke your chains though.”

“Aahh…” Uraraka rubs the back of her head sheepishly. “I think my magic was still under control because I had just gotten rid of the bandages. Just an educated guess.”

Bakugou lets out a heavy and a slightly annoyed gust of wind. “Well, damn.”

Uraraka blinks as he stands, the clinking of his necklaces breaking through the heavy breathing of the dragon. “I’m sorry?”

“You need wood for your staff right?” He beckons with his hand, and Kirishima rumbles to life, shifting his head a little out of the cave.

“Wha?” Uraraka’s hands begin to flail. “Wait! It’s the middle of the night! And it can’t be just any wood, it has to be rowan, and it’s quite a distance to walk-”

Bakugou straddles the dragon’s neck. Something manic and excited is beginning to color his features. “Who said anything about walking?”

O.O

Kirishima is far bigger than Mina in his dragon form, and his wings are no exceptions. They beat the air with heavy thumps, and as Uraraka clings to Bakugou’s back, she can’t help but think of the drums of the earth. It’s odd to be so far off the ground and still be reminded of something so very below her.

Bakugou is roaring into the wind, whooping and punching the air. “Fuck yeah! Fly higher Kirishima!”

“HIGHER?” Uraraka shrieks, grabbing for more hold as Bakugou keeps moving out of her grasp. “We’re going to fall!”

Bakugou laughs, a wicked and free sound. “We’ll never fall, Angel.” He glances back at her. “You’re the Witch of the Heavens, and in the land of the dragons. The sky is our element!”

He turns back to shout. “Higher, Kirishima!”

Kirishima roars and wriggles his shoulders. His wings push against the air, and they break through the silvery cloud cover, and Uraraka gasps in delight.

The moon looms above them, its bright face glowing like a diamond against the velvety black sky. The stars smatter across the velvet, and they’re not just silver; they’re gold and emerald and turquoise and Uraraka weeps at the sight.

Bakugou glances over his shoulder and nearly tips off of Kirishima when he sees tears dripping from her eyes. “What in the hells are you crying about?!”

“I-It’s just….” Uraraka’s breath shudders and she sobs, staring helplessly at all the stars above them in awe, “So beautiful….”

Bakugou scoffs, a soft tch audible even in the sheering air, but he stares up at the heavens with a renewed reverence as Kirishima steadies his flight to peacefully float above the cloud cover.

“We have a goddess where I come from.” Uraraka finally speaks up, her voice coming back a little stronger. “The goddess of the night. She tends the sky like it’s her garden, and the stars are her flowers and the moon is a lake from where she draws her water from.”

Bakugou is silent for a while, and Uraraka can feel his breathing hitch underneath her fingertips. He finally speaks up, his voice unexpectedly thoughtful.

“In my land, we have no gods, but warriors. The black sky is their battlefield, and the stars are their broken swords and claws. The moon is the war gong which will one day bring about the last battle and also the end of the world.”

“Your interpretation is so violent.” Uraraka smiles, patting his cloaked shoulders. “It suits your people.”

“Well, your version is sappy as hell.” Bakugou retorts. “Can’t even begin to imagine yours.”

Uraraka laughs, and he soon joins in, and Kirishima gives a draconic chortling that vibrates beneath his passengers like a pleasant massage.

They return to the cave with a long branch of rowan clutched in Kirishima’s talons, and despite Uraraka’s misgivings, he sets it down at her cave entrance with upmost delicacy.

She waves goodbye as chief and mount swoop away into the night, and promptly hauls the branch inside the cave. Matters like this can’t wait until morning, after all.

O.O

Her staff is half finished when her old knife snaps in half.

Uraraka glares at the broken tool in her hands, and sets it aside with a resigned sigh. She needs to find a new one.

She ventures to the edge of the cave. Outside, the sun is just beginning to sink into the jagged horizon of the dragon lands. The cries of the beasts soaring overhead in their evening flights reach her ear, and Uraraka decides to search for their chief.

As she makes her way carefully up the narrow footpaths, she can’t help but breathe in sharply with awe. In the evening light, the mountain looks like it’s painted with gold. Dragons of all shapes and colors flit about its face, mingling and calling in the throaty tenor only such beasts have. The two biggest ones, Kirishima and Mina, are wheeling above the rest, warbling and roaring to each other in a playful bout of competition.

Above them all, their chieftain perches on a precarious ledge, his eyes burning as he watches his packs play. His cloak is folded neatly besides him, his many swords and daggers piled in a heap on top.

He looks calm. His sandy hair is bristling in the wind, and without his usual scowl, the fiery chieftain looks…handsome. Almost majestic. Uraraka shakes off these strange adjectives and climbs the rest of the footpath towards him.

Bakugou glances over at her, a terse expression coming over his features almost at once, erasing whatever fantasy her imagination had conjured. “What do you want, Angel?”

“Uraraka.” She replies automatically, but with much less bite than the first time. Uraraka gestures vaguely at his pile of weaponry. “May I borrow a knife? I need one to finish my staff and my old one broke.”

Bakugou grumbles, muttering something about shitty human blacksmiths, and rummages around his assortment of weaponry. He selects a straight but insanely pointy blade that looks like it’s been made from a massive tooth and tosses it to her.

She catches it a bit awkwardly. He sneers at her, although not unkindly. “Don’t know your way around these?”

The sneer falls off his face when she abruptly spins the tooth knife about her hand, turning it with the finesse of the experienced. Uraraka casts him a smug look. “I know a few moves.” She informs him breezily.

A smirk tilts up his lips, and he stands, rolling his shoulders as they pop and crack. “I see. Care to spar?” He snatches up a wickedly serrated dagger from the metal pile, flipping it in his hand invitingly. “Let’s see what sort of stuff you’re made of.”

Uraraka blinks. “Right here? Now?” She looks down at the rough and uneven surface they were standing on, and jerks her head back up, her eyes wide. “We’re on a mountain!”

“Battles can happen anywhere, Angel.” He’s already moving into position, his feet sliding with unexpected grace on the rocky ground. His teeth are bared in a wide grin. “You gotta be prepared!”

Bakugou charges at her. Uraraka’s barely able to bring her own knife up in time as he swings it with ferocious speed towards her abdomen, her feet scrambling backward as she raced to match his speed. She swivels her body to move lithely underneath his swing, and as she disappears out of his line of sight, Uraraka feels Bakugou’s movements tighten.

A mischievous thought enters her mind. She quietly imbues her arms with a hint of magic, strengthening her movements.

When Bakugou cranes his head to search for her, Uraraka elbows him in the gut. Hard.

“What the FU-”

She accidentally punts him straight off the mountain.

“OH MY GODS!” Uraraka’s hands fly to her mouth in horror as Bakugou tumbles off the sheer drop, his howl of surprised rage trailing after him like a meteor’s tail.

And without thinking, she breaks into a run and leaps after him.

O.O

The ground is hurtling towards them as if in slow motion. Below her, Bakugou is spread eagled against the air, his palms popping and crackling as his explosions begin to slow his descent.

But at this rate, if he lands, he’ll break every bone in his body.

Uraraka tries not to shut her eyes against the sheering wind against her face. Her mind races as she sends up an inward cry of terror heavenward.

Then the spell comes to mind.

No, it’s madness. She only did it a handful of times and every single use had her emptying her insides onto the floor of the classroom as her peers laugh. No. She can’t do it.

They’re still falling and soon Bakugou’s going to smashed to pieces on the forest canopy and it’s going to be her fault because she can’t do it can’t do it can’t do it-

“URARAKA!”

Her head snaps up. His explosions had propelled him to her height and Bakugou is looking both furious and a tad frantic. “You’re the Witch of the Heavens, aren’t you?!” He screams, his arms shaking with pain as explosions wrack his palms. “Do something!”

Uraraka lets out a shriek of frustration, something hot scorching her insides as magic races through her veins. “I’m…not…a WITCH!”

She reaches out and grab Bakugou’s shoulders, so tight that her fingernails sink into his flesh. His startled “Oi!” cuts off as her entire being radiates with power, with sheer energy that pours out of her like water out of spilled vessel.

The rosy aura wraps and builds around them like airy silks made of light. The gust rushing past them becomes a brisk wind, then a breeze, then nothing at all.

They float.

Uraraka peeks open one eye and gasps in excitement. They’re hovering just a few lengths above the tree line, suspended as if from invisible strings. The magic pouring from her is dizzying and heady and absolutely exhilarating.

She looks up into Bakugou’s wide eyes. The young man is staring at her, his mouth open as his hands clutch at her shoulders. He must’ve grabbed onto her unconsciously in the heat of the moment. Their noses brush each other, and she can feel his heated gasps on her chin.

For a moment, time freezes. The last of the sun’s dying rays throw their features in sharp relief. The dragons fly towards them are sending up trumpeting roars. His hands curl around the curves of her shoulders as her hands drift to cup his jaw. Their expressions mirror each other.

The moment breaks when Kirishima swoops below them as her concentration breaks, trilling affectionately as both of them plop onto his back in a tangle of limbs. Mina circles above them, her deep chortling sounding suspiciously like delighted laughter.

“Fuck off, Raccoon Eyes.” Bakugou grates out hoarsely, twisting his body to seat himself properly behind Kirishima’s horns. He pats the ruby scales roughly. “Take us home, you big idiot.”

As Kirishima beats his wings obligingly, Uraraka hesitantly snakes her arms around Bakugou’s middle as they tip upwards. She feels him tense against her chest, mumbling something inaudible.

“What was that?”

“I said don’t fucking do that again, you absolute maniac.” His voice is sharp, and he’s still shaking, but he moves his hand to cover her smaller one resting on his abdomen and holds it tight.

It’s a silent thank you that he couldn’t say aloud, and as Uraraka squeezes back, she can feel his trembling still and recede. He relaxes against her chest and she exhaustedly leans her cheek on his neck.

They fly upwards and the mountain is blanketed with darkness as the sun finally dips below the horizon.

O.O

Kirishima lands on an unfamiliar ledge, a much wider one at the base of the mountain that’s lit by torches. Uraraka peers behind Bakugou’s shock of hair and sees wall hangings, swords, and a stone bed draped with crimson coverings. His chamber.

Bakugou dismounts Kirishima, putting out a hand to pat his snout in thanks. He suddenly lets out a hiss of pain and clutches at his hands. “Gods…”

Urarakra, slipping off after him, gasps at the sight of his hands. They’re torn and bloody, as if something had erupted from the inside. “Your palms!”

“It’s nothing.” Bakugou speaks through gritted teeth, eying his hands with distaste. “This usually happens if I overuse my powers. This’ll heal up in a few days.” He turns away.

“Let me help.” Uraraka blurts out. Bakugou pauses mid-stride and glances incredulously at her.

“It’s my fault you had to overextend yourself.” Uraraka walks forward and takes his wrists in her hand, taking care not to touch his ruined palms. “I can do a few healing spells that could speed up the process!”

Bakugou glares down at her, but the fire dies in his eyes as he winces again. “If you insist then.”

He pulls her towards the bed. Uraraka perches on the edge as Bakugou holds his arms up for her to patch up. He’s glaring at the blood dripping on the ground, forming little red puddles that shine in the torchlight.

Uraraka’s hands glow and the skin, very slowly, begins to knit itself together. It would take some time for the hands to heal completely.

They’re quiet but for the crackling of the torches and the beat of Kirishima’s wings as he takes off again. Bakugou is staring off at some point in the distance as Uraraka focuses on his hands, her brown hair floating in the wake of her magic.

Finally, Bakugou speaks up. “My hands.” He says gruffly. “They’re the only part of me that’s even dragon at all.”

Uraraka looks up questioningly. Bakugou continues, haltingly. “I can’t even shift. Even other Halflings could do it. I know this idiot called Kaminari who is half human noble and half dragon and he can shift. I only have these explosions.”

His voice takes on a bitter note. “I only became a chief because my hag of a mother bit the dust before we could pick another leader. It should’ve gone to one of the other purebreds, but here I am,” He laughs, but it’s not a happy one, “bleeding out as a human heals my wounds.”

“Don’t say that.” Uraraka rebukes him quietly as her magic flares briefly in response to her emotions. “The other dragons respect you as their leader. They fly towards you when you’re in trouble, and they protect you from intruders like the slave traders. I can tell that much, and I’ve only been here for a short while.”

He looks up at her, a twisted smile on his face as his eyes flash. “They call me the Great Chieftain of Fire and Claw.” Bakugou’s voice is broken and full of mirth. “A threefold lie.”

“That’s not true at all.” Uraraka snaps. She holds up his palms, still pulsing with magic as the bleeding begins to slow. “Your fire is in your attitude, your energy and your orders. Your swords and daggers are your claws, cutting anyone who dares oppose you.

“And most importantly,” She puts a hand, boldly, on his chest, right over his heart, underneath his mass of necklaces. “Your whole person is a chief. Your heart for your lands, your concern for your people, and,” her voice lowers, “your care for a foreign mage who you could’ve turned away when she was taken to your door as a slave.”

Bakugou stares at her, his expression the most vulnerable Uraraka had ever seen him. Slowly, he pulls his hand out of hers and reaches up to shove her bangs out of her determined brown eyes.

Uraraka’s breath catches as he tucks a tendril of her hair behind her ear. He holds her cheek as she melts into his touch. His hand is warm, calloused, and unexpectedly gentle.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. “I was right in naming you.” Bakugou’s eyes are burning. “You really are an angel.”

And as the rest of his palms smooth out completely, healing even by the magic in her bright pink cheeks, Uraraka doesn’t even realize that she’s crying.

O.O

The days pass, and Uraraka is almost done with her staff.

She whittles slowly, as if that would prevent the inevitable. With a vessel to properly channel her magic in a way that doesn’t affect everything around her, Uraraka could easily leave the land of the dragons. Bakugou can’t catch her if she can fly like a shooting star. She can look for Deku and Sir Iida and Prince Todoroki and join their party again on their adventure to destroy demons.

So why does she feel so reluctant to actually finish the damn thing?

Uraraka gazes down at the long polished staff laying in her lap. All she has to do is to properly implant a gem before her time in the dragon realms is over. But where would she find something like that around here? Her hands smooth over the wood as she tries to breathe in calmly.

A sudden scraping noise breaks her from her reverie. Uraraka stands quickly, her eyes widening with surprise as a long hooked talon gouges into her pebbled floor.

It’s Kirishima, his huge eyes blinking rapidly as he frantically tries to claw his way inside. His features, normally turned up like he’s smiling, are tense with fear as he warbles to her urgently.

“Whoa, there!” Uraraka laughs, stretching out her hand. “What’s wrong, let me-”

The mountain explodes.

Bakugou

Kaminari had nearly been too late.

Bakugou was sparring with Kirishima in his human form, the sounds of metal striking on metal echoing in the hollow chamber of the throne room.

It was a familiar dance, a dance where Bakugou knew all the steps to. The song of Kirishima’s daggers and Bakugou’s curved blade clashing was their only accompaniment, and the growl of the earth dragon was their tempo.

So why was there a counter melody fluttering at the edge of his consciousness, something sweet and airy and wide-eyed?

The harder Bakugou pushed himself into the rhythm of the battle, the more insistent the counter melody grew. If only he could get her sugary scent out of his head, the memory of her unexpectedly calloused fingertips brushing against his wrists, and most of all, her damn round eyes gazing at him like two full moons….

Kirishima had just got his second dagger knocked away and had to pull out his hidden knife to counter Bakugou’s suddenly savage blows when a harrowing roar filled the air. A human Mina and Sero burst into the room, their eyes wide, and then an electric yellow dragon staggered in after them.

“Kaminari!” Kirishima exclaimed with horror.

The Halfling looked awful. His wings had been cut and slashed, and as the dragon coughed, small and still-sizzling drops of blood landed on the floor of the room. But he continued to crawl forward, desperation lacing his draconic features.

Bakugou rushed forward with Kirishima hot on his heels, and hurriedly knelt by Kaminari’s panting snout. “Kaminari.” He growled with urgency. “I know it’s going to hurt, but I need you to shift to talk to me. Can you do that?”

The creature’s eyes flashed with fear, and a low rumble of pain filled the chamber. Sero let out a sound of dismay as he lifted his hand from the dragon’s flank to find it smeared in red.

“Kaminari!” Bakugou snapped. The dragon shuddered, and finally squeezed his eyes shut in determination. Flesh and scales contorted and shrank with a loud creaking and rumbling, and the beastly roar of agony dwindled into the screams of a boy in immense pain.

Kaminari clutched the ground as steam rose off his body, his golden eyes stretched wide with excruciation. “De…demons…” He gasped out, coughing again as blood stained his lip. “A whole…swarm of them…coming here.”

“Which border?” Bakugou growled.

“West….I saw from…my castle…” Kaminari let out a low groan of pain before catching his breath again. “Chief, they’re looking for her.”

“What?!” His chieftain grabbed his collar and pulled him up to his feet. “What in hells for?!”

Kirishima froze. “Those weren’t slave traders she killed.” His voice, usually so full of cheer, is suddenly drenched with horror. “Chief!”

Bakugou is already running out the hall. “Find her, Kirishima!” His cry of command shakes the hall with its desperation as he snatches two more swords off the wall. “FIND HER!”

Uraraka

The roars of battle wake her.

Uraraka groans as consciousness slams into her, making her head throb and her chest ache. The soil beneath her mage garb is crumples like ash underneath her hands, and she suddenly feels like the world is on fire.

Well, it is. The trees above her are ablaze with blue flames, and Uraraka gasps as she feels a thick tail wrapped protectively around her middle. “Kirishima!”

The dragon is snarling and snapping viciously at some unseen foe, looking absolutely terrifying and bloodthirsty in the firelight. His fangs glisten with black blood and jets of fire stream from his mouth.

Uraraka tries to wriggle free, but the tail holds her down firmly, pressing her deeper into the undergrowth. It’s an unspoken command. Don’t move! I’ll take care of this!

She suddenly stiffens as she hears a familiar voice taunting Kirishima, edged with some echoic undertone that is not at all earthly. “Fighting so hard for just a little witchling. I wonder if you would bleed for the pathetic bitch like you do for that whelp of a chief you grovel to.”

When Kirishima roars again, there’s no trace of the cheerful companion of the dragon chief left. It’s the animalistic thunder of the beast who is absolutely incensed. Uraraka covers her ears as the furious battle cry shakes the trees and reverberates around the forest.

“Oooh, I touched a nerve.”

There’s a sudden screech of pain, and Uraraka cries out in horror as Kirishima collapses in pain, his tail going limp around her waist. The slave trader stands before them, a twisted smile on his face as he yanks a huge harpoon from the dragon’s chest.

“Hello, little witch.” The slave trader’s eyes fill with black, and Uraraka claps a hand to her mouth as his features stretch and morph sickeningly before her eyes into the twisted form of the demon. “It’s been a while.”

Uraraka stands, her fists clenched. “You’re going to pay for that.”

“Oh, I think you will.” The demon cackles, its leathery wings fluttering in mirth. “Did you remember your little friends?” It gestures with dramatic bravado towards the edge of the forest, and Uraraka’s heart drops into her stomach.

The mountain is half gone. Demons are swirling around its crumpling ruins like flies over a corpse, swarming over the screeching dragons who are left, and in the middle of it all…

Explosions, lighting up the inside the hurricane like a lone lantern in the night. Uraraka screams Bakugou’s name. Kirishima groans with agony.

“You made a big mistake when you burnt me, red one.” The demon twirls its weapons menacingly as it approaches Uraraka. “You let me achieve transparency to report to my superiors. Did you know how LONG we were looking for the fabled mountain of the dragons and its infamous Halfling chief?”

“You…” Uraraka chokes out, her voice twisted with anger.

“Yes.” The once-trader slinks towards her, its eyes blacker than night and sharp teeth slick with saliva. “I saw through your eyes, ‘Angel’. This land is doomed, and your precious chieftain and his crawling people will be carrion by nightfall.”

She snaps.

Kirishima’s eyes widen as the girl before him ignites, transforming into some bizarre creature of the otherworld. Her mage garb flaps wildly in the force of her anger, her booted feet lifting of the ground as her rage-filled scream filled the air.

“DON’T…CALL….ME…THAT!”

The red dragon only has enough time to shield his wounds with his wings before the forest explodes.

Bakugou

His hands are bleeding again.

Bakugou has long lost his swords a long time ago, having shoved one into the open maw of a particularly large demon and another had been wrenched from his grip by the claws of a sinister looking demon with huge fangs.

And now he has nothing but a knife between his teeth and explosions that tear his hands apart every time he uses it.

Bakugou’s fury burns hotter every time he hears the dying wail of one of his people, something warm and wet trickling down his face that isn’t blood. He spits out the knife and, ignoring the protests of his ruined palms, stabs it into the eye of some grotesque demon imp.

“Boss!” It’s Sero’s lanky form tripping over to him in his human form, his black eyes wide at the sight of his chieftain’s hands. “I’ve got some wrappings for you!”

“Does now look like the fucking time, Elbows?!” Bakugou thunders back, ducking underneath the swing of a demon ogre. “Have you found her yet?!”

“Not yet, chief, but at least let me wrap your hands.” Sero leaps nimbly over the clutching hands of another demon and grabs his shoulder. “Hey Mina!” He hollers skywards, “Give us some cover!”

A flurry of pink draconic limbs descend from the heavens, and Mina rolls onto the battlefield, her shrieking roar causing many demons to squeal and cower. As she begins mauling the hell spawn, Sero kneels and begins rapidly taping up his gasping chieftain’s bloody palms.

“I don’t…have time for this.” Bakugou growls, but the desperation in his voice is as transparent as fuck. “Kirishima…where the hells is he?”

“I don’t know, boss.” Sero looks nervous but his hands are steady as he hurriedly binds Bakugou’s left hand, then his right. “But at least take some of my weapons. I’m planning to shift to help Mina out.”

When Bakugou utters a protest, the pained screams of Kaminari still ringing in the back of his skull, the other Halfling looks up at him determinedly. “You gotta find the Angel, don’t you?” His wide smile is crooked and warm. “Let me help you!”

Bakugou sighs, a small defeated smile on his face. “You’re all hopeless.”

“Yeah, we are.” Sero grins. He leans back and is about to pull out his swords when something shakes the ground, causing the combatants on both sides to still.

It’s not a demonic shaking, nor is it a draconic rumbling. Something purple lights up the sky, some bizarre spiral of power shooting up from the fiery trees in the west as an inhuman but familiar shriek fills the air.

Bakugou’s eyes widen and he shoots to his feet, nearly knocking over Sero in his haste. “Uraraka!”

“Gods, that’s insane.” Sero breathes as he takes in the pillar of violet that surrounds a familiar silhouette, spread eagled in power and rage. He sucks in a breath, rolling his shoulders. “Okay, here we go…”

Mina leaps into the air to snap a flying demon right out of the sky as Sero shifts, a wince twisting his features as he fully transforms, his lanky limbs filling out as Bakugou swings onto his shoulders, patting the quivering scales below him. “Take me to her, Elbows.”

Uraraka

In this world, she is a deity.

The earth turns at her command, and the skies wheel overhead at her word. The puny demon below her blubbering in fear will be nothing under her grasp, and she will exterminate all who stand in her path.

“No, please, oh hells, please-”

The demon chokes as she turns her finger, and slowly it is crushed from the outside in, its limbs contorting and folding inwards as she watches with quiet anger and delight. Black blood spurts, then streams from its body as it finally, finally dies, its twitching slowing as it breathes its last.

But it is not enough. She turns her head from side to side, looking. There! A red dragon, intruding on her holy ground, staring at her like she’s a freak. Demons are flocking to his side like moths to a flame.

She must eradicate all threats. Her magic hums as she raises her hands.

Bakugou

He sees her as Sero flies closer. She’s suspended above the world in a pillar of purple flame. Even at this distance, he can see that her eyes are not the kind brown orbs he remembers; they’re white, empty, and devoid of all emotion but destruction.

“Uraraka!” Bakugou shouts, his call hoarse but commanding. “Uraraka, get a hold of your fuckin’ self!”

Her hands, glowing like the night she healed his hands but a thousand times brighter, press together. A hovering cloud above them that he thought was but a shadow slams into the ground, disintegrating into the bodies of hundreds of dead demons.

Kirishima is limping away, his jaws wide as he howls a warning. Uraraka twists her hand, and the dragon yelps as some invisible force slams him into the ground.

She doesn’t look anything like an angel. She looks just like a Witch of the Heavens.

“URARAKA!”

The girl turns to look at him, and he shudders at the emptiness in her eyes. There’s black and red blood spattered all over her pink mage dress, and it soaks her garb as she faces him with something ablaze in her eyes. “Kill them all.”

“What?!”

“I’ll kill them all.” It’s Uraraka’s voice, but amplified as if she’s speaking in an echoic cave. “Make them suffer, make them all perish in the flame of magic.”

“You’re a mage, aren’t you?!” He shouts back, his fists clenching around Sero’s pointy horns. “You use magic for good, goddammit! That’s what you told me the first time we met!”

Something flickers in her eyes, but her face remains impassive. “The words of a fool.”

“Alright, that’s fucking it.” Bakugou throws up his hands in frustration, and climbs to his feet on Sero’s neck. The dragon lets out a trill of confusion and alarm as Bakugou braces himself, letting his stained bandages fall from his hands.

With a pop and a crackle, he launches himself forward, blasting off of Sero’s head and straight into the pillar of purple.

The magic immediately tears at him, chillingly cold and insistent. It burns, and he can hear some sort of drumming his head, steady and throbbing and painful.

“Uraraka!” Bakugou catches her by the shoulders, his bloody hands slick on her shoulders, and in the force of her magic, he’s floating too. “Uraraka, look at me, dammit!”

Her gaze trains on him, and her eyes narrow. She shakes her head.

“Angel!” Bakugou shakes her, biting back a cry of pain as the magic begins to drill into him, crumpling his insides and clutching at his brain. “Look at my damn hands!”

He holds up a bloody palm, nearly shoving it in her face, and the girl’s eyes slowly focus on the rivulets of blood and torn mess of skin that is his palms. Her face twists, briefly, in an expression that he recognizes as distress.

“You made me do this.” His voice is urgent and low, his hissing whisper cutting through the roaring of her magic. “My explosions. Who’s going to heal this?”

Something changes, the magic around them fading from a screeching torrent to a brisk breeze. He presses on, clutching her shoulders again. “Who’s going to rail at me like none of my subjects ever had the nerve to do? Who’s going to use her magic to help others, huh? Who’s going to make my heart feels like it’s bursting?”

The magic around them fades, purple sinking into a shade of pink. Her head shakes, desperate and angry. “But…I’ve…!”

“You’ve done enough, Angel.” His voice drops, and soon he’s pulling her to his chest, bloody hands and all. “Let go.”

She speaks again, soft and terrified. “But we’ll fall.”

Bakugou laughs, rough and soft at the same time. “Don’t you remember? You’re the Angel in the land of the dragons.” He purrs into her ear. “The sky is our element.”

Uraraka gasps, her eyes flooding with life again, and the magic snuffs away as if blown by the wind.

They drop, gently, falling as if in slow motion. Uraraka goes limp in his arms, her head lolling on his shoulder as she comes to herself, gasping for breath as she clutches at his chest.

They touch down on the still-smoldering earth, and promptly collapse in a tangle of limbs. As Uraraka gulps down breath, he cradles her in his arms, patting her in awkward but what he hopes are soothing strokes up and down her bare back.

Wait. Bare?

Uraraka suddenly lets out a mortified “eep!” as Bakugou belatedly realizes that her entire mage dress is in tatters, probably shredded from the magic emanating from the girl’s body earlier. Something roars in his ears as he determinedly looks away from creamy curves and pink skin and hurriedly shucks his great furry cloak, draping it roughly over her shivering form.

“There.” Bakugou mutters as he pulls away, feeling his cheeks flush as he takes in the sight of her all bundled up in his, his, clothing. “Don’t get it dirty, now.”

Uraraka laughs, a little high pitched, as her pale fingertips pull the edges in closer around her body. “I’ll try not to mess up the burn marks.” She quips lightly.

“Gods.” He breathes, gazing at her, all soot and sweat and bloody palm marks as she smiles wearily back. “You were amazing.”

She shakes her head, tears nearly spilling out of her eyes. “I messed up. I lost control and hurt Kirishima. I couldn’t even tell friend from foe!” Her voice breaks, and his heart twists at the sound. “I even hurt you.”

“Angel, you didn’t hurt me.” He informs her softly, tugging on her pliant cheek. “You did the exact opposite.”

Uraraka looks up at him, all doe-eyes and questions, and he can’t stand it anymore.

He grabs the collar of the cloak and yanks, and she spills into his arms, her sentence cutting off with a gasp as he presses his lips to her still half open mouth.

It’s dry and rough because her lips are chapped from the heat and his are probably too, but it doesn’t matter since she is so, so warm and melting in his arms and his ruined hands are gathering her closer and her soft hands are gripping his shoulders as he rolls his tongue against hers and she’s actually fucking growling into him and it’s driving him crazy-

Uraraka arches into him and he sees stars.

“Guess you really are a witch, huh,” He mumbles into her mouth, and Uraraka pauses, her eyes lidded and dreamy. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.” He pushes her back against the ground and for a moment, the world ceases to be.

O.O

Epilogue

Midoriya sighed, throwing down the vellum map with frustration. It had been nearly three months since Uraraka went missing, and they were almost out of their minds with worry.

They had been close to tracking once, when Prince Todoroki had followed a trail that led into the realm of the dragons, something that made them all very concerned.

But even that trail had led to disaster. Midoriya still had the scars to show for it.

“Sir, if you look at that map any harder it’s going to catch on fire.” Tsuyu remarked, setting down some mugs of rich, frothy liquid. “At least drink something. No one goes thirsty at my inn.”

“Ah-thank you.” The villager-turned-traveler took a mug and stared morosely into its golden contents. “I just don’t understand. She could be anywhere, and here we are, sitting idly around!”

“There’s nothing we can do at the moment, Midoriya.” Sir Iida glared glumly at the map, at all the lead scribbles they had all drawn as they had formulated a plan. “It’s probably best that we just lay low and try to make a better plan for now.”

“I agree.” Prince Todoroki said quietly. “It won’t do us any good if we never get any rest. Let’s just trust that Uraraka is taking care of herself for now.”

Midoriya was just about to reluctantly agree when the whole inn suddenly shook violently. Many of the inhabitants began to shout and grab for their things as the door began to splinter and crack.

A talon the size of a horse pierced through the green wood, and Tsuyu let out a startled “Ribbit!” as she sprang backwards.

“DRAGON!” Someone screamed, and the three men narrowed their eyes and grabbed their swords in tandem. Tables were upturned as another knight with a huge black ponytail threw them up, diving behind as the windows began to snap and break. There was a rumbling outside, and Midoriya gripped his sword, breathing quickly as his feet braced for action.

The door trembled, and finally collapsed as the inn slowly stopped shaking. Midoriya froze as an eerie stillness settled over the inn. Several people poked their heads up with trembling caution as dust and plaster sprinkled on their heads, powdering their heads with white.

Standing in the ruined entrance way was a pink-skinned girl, wincing apologetically as she took in the state of the ruined inn. “I’m deeply sorry for that.” She announced, sauntering inside. “I bring you all a message from the queen of dragons.”

And as a familiar figure followed, draped in red and rose, Midoriya felt his mouth fall open.

“Uraraka?!”

fin

#kacchako #dailykrumbs

132 notes · View notes

englass · 6 years

Text

The Way Things Were

Warnings: N/A

Pairings: F!Deputy x John (implied/one-sided)

With the few amount of times you've been there it was only a matter of time before you stumbled across the Seed's personal dock. So far you've found it to be a surprisingly nice spot to fish and with the view to accompany it it's no wonder the Seed's chose this location to set up shop.

Although from what you've heard you almost wouldn't be surprised if they acquired the property through some form of nefarious means.

Still, you're not here to judge. You're simply here taking a break from the hell storm that is Eden's Gate versus The Resistance. You seriously need one at this point.

You huff as you reel in your empty line, quick to throw it back out into calm waters. Your radio, normally alive with calls for help and assistance, is silent save for the quiet country songs playing in the background.

You may not agree with what Eden's Gate are doing or stand for, but you can't deny just how catchy and memorable their songs are. It's no wonder people join them if that's their method of propaganda.

Staring blankly at the water, watching it calmly ebb and flow by, you find yourself just enjoying the stillness of it all. Other than the quiet hum of the radio only nature's sounds surround you.

The whimsical songs of the birds, joined by a gentle breeze have somehow managed to put your twitchy form to a temporary rest. Even the water from the river, gently lapping at the sole of your boot and the floats of your seaplane, has managed to cool your stress and troubles.

The same can't quite be said for your mind however.

You briefly glance at the radio as one song ends and another quickly takes its place, humming along as you absentmindedly tap your foot against the waters surface. It's probably this unconscious movement that's scaring the fish away, but you don't think of it.

You're not thinking much of anything at the moment. At least you're trying not too. If you think too much about what you're doing you'll no doubt start feeling guilty that you've basically taken a day off to fish of all things.

It's funny how things change, you muse. You never would of dreamed of going fishing back home. It never interested you, always seeming so boring and time consuming. Also fishing was illegal at your local river, so you wouldn't have been able too anyway. At least that's the excuse you'll use if anyone asks. And no one will.

You sigh at that. No, no one really asks you anything about yourself. It's always 'Deputy this, and Deputy that'. The only ones that know even a good amount about you are your colleagues and Nick and Kim Rye, and the latter only know so much because you needed a place to safely store your humble seaplane.

Which isn't to say that you don't like talking to the Rye's or anything. You're just a reserved person is all. Always have been. Some may even say antisocial, but you'd argue otherwise.

Although thinking about it there is one other person who knows a bit more about you than your colleagues and the Rye's do, but you think it's safe to say that that relationship is rather... complicated at the moment.

John Seed; ex-lawyer, plane enthusiast, and 'The Baptist of Eden's Gate'. You know that things have changed between the two of you, but there's also a small part of you that knows that nothing has. It's still the same ol' John that you got to know, - charming, funny, temperamental at times, and still looking for things to say 'yes' to apparently - only now you're not left to wonder if the rumours about him were true.

Everyone you spoke to about the Seed’s all near enough said the same thing: that they weren't to be trusted. That they were suspicious and up to no good. Even your new colleagues at the time had said something similar, warning you away from them.

You didn't understand the animosity everyone held toward them, and even now you're not sure you do. It just seemed so bizarre to you, how everyone and their dog were on some sort of witch hunt against the Seed's.

Ultimately because of this you became a bit of a joke amongst your colleagues, your nationality's ingrained need to support the underdog rearing it's head with gentle protests and 'excuses', as your colleagues called them.

You disagreed.

You weren't making excuses for them, simply being unbiased. You'd never met them at that point to be anything but, and even when you did meet them you didn't see anything that screamed 'shady' to you. Intimidating, maybe, but never shady or suspicious.

Then again, maybe that whole 'underdog' mentality of yours was causing you to turn a blind eye...

You knew they were devote. It was hard not to miss in places, like Joseph's talk of God and John's occasional talk of confessions. Yes, they were hard not to miss; just like the jagged scars of numerous sins and tattoos of religious symbolism decorating their bodies.

You really should of been more observant, really should of questioned things more. Hindsight truly is an amazing thing.

Still, observant or not, that failed arrest still happened - would have happened. And although you don't believe in God, or fate or any of that malarkey, even you knew you weren't getting out of there unscathed. You just wish it had gone differently. You just wish you'd made a stand instead of caving into authority.

You'd encountered John a few times after that fateful night. The most memorable ones being his near drowning of you and his attempt at gaining a confession from you. Both of which went surprisingly in your favour - in other words you didn't die -, but at the same time they left you feeling even more conflicted and broken than on that night you handcuffed Joesph, something you had apologised for after that mockery of a baptism.

You still don't know if he's accepted your apology on handcuffing him and inadvertently starting this 'collapse' of his, but judging by the way he brought your forehead to his, muttering a close-to-silent, ‘It's okay, my child’, during your last encounter you assume he has.

However, as your mother used to say, 'assumptions are the mother of all fuck ups', so you're not about to take that as if you're off the hook just yet. You are still being hunted after all.

John on the other hand has been much harder to even utter an apology to, unlike his brother, mainly because he just won't shut up long enough for you to get a word in edgeways. You can't help but smile knowing that some things haven't changed.

You understand that he must be feeling hurt and betrayed - you don't blame him if he is - but you'd at least like to go over what happened that night and explain yourself. You're not sure if it will do any good, but you just need to talk to him about it. The guilt is slowly killing you; and for fucks sake you want your friend back. Screw the resistance, you'll just go rogue and become one of those neutral party's you see in films and television shows.

At least that's what you want, and you want a lot of things.

You honestly don't know what you're going to do about John. You are so tired, being pulled back and forth both physically and mentally by all of this. You just want to go home. Put this all behind you like a bad dream. Or at least go back to before that stupid arrest. Fuck, you should've just walked away.

You've stopped quietly humming by this point and are just staring hollowly down into the river. You put the fishing rod you've loosely been holding into your lap as best you can as your right hand cups it's self across your eyes, elbow resting on your bent knee. You sniffle.

All you want is a day off. A day to be free. To just do nothing and everything all at once. You want to sit down on the sofa and giggle at the corniness of an old film with a cup of tea. You want to take Boomer out for a walk and play fetch and tug-of-war with him. You want to clean and relax with your little seaplane like the sky isn't the limit.

You want John to knock on your front door with that easy smile of his, eyes twinkling so bright and free. You want to gush about his plane collection over drinks and friendly banter. You want to go flying with him again, racing after and against each other like kids in a playground, till the late hours of the day. You want to sit under a starry sky, talking about everything and nothing all at once, as you simply enjoy each other's company.

You want to ignore the sharp squeeze of your heart at every memory of him.

Maybe that's why you've practically handed yourself to him, fishing on his private dock as you are. At this point though you don't care if it gets you captured or even killed. Truthfully you just want this all to end. Whether that be by a ceasefire, your death, or even this 'collapse' that Joseph speaks of.

Call yourself greedy, brandish it proudly across your flesh and soul for all to see, but you just want to go back to the way things were. That's all you want. It's all you want.

And as the familiar voice of an old friend calls out to you, a dangerously playful lilt skimming his thinly veiled anger, you can't help but vainly hope that there may be a chance. That maybe, this time, you can find the courage to put things right. That maybe this time you'll find the courage to shed your pride like a snake and say 'yes'.

Lifting your head you drink John in like a cold glass of water on a scorching day, savouring the refreshing kiss of the moment and gripping that hope tightly as you smile softly at him across the dock.

Maybe this time you'll confess your sins to him. Confess how greedy you are for wanting to relive the past as your present.

Confess how your pride has held you back from seeing and acting sooner.

Maybe this time you'll confess your sloth to him and, with it, finally admit just how much you love him.

#far cry 5 #fc5 #far cry deputy #far cry john #john seed #writing #fanfic

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myndopeus · 7 years

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y'all did it

well, we reached the goal, so i am slightly mortified to present:

YA ES HORA IS GAY: AN ESSAY

(under a readmore because its literally 1.5k and i’m not an asshole. but i might be posting from mobile so if it doesn’t work i apologize)

there’s no context to this, i literally was just so mind-blown and shook that i ended up actually analyzing the whole video for plot subtext. this is probably more literary than y’all are expecting, but apparently you wanted it. citation is of @bisexualpowerranger.

At this point, I’m sure we are all aware of the Ya Es Hora video, whether it be through watching it yourself or listening to your wlw friends nutting over it. The video is practically overflowing with gay subtext, to the point where only the most oblivious cishet would be able to say that it’s just “Gals being Pals”. But even though the gay aura is clearly visible from space, it is also presented with some conflicting implications of hetero nonsense. Thankfully, this is just to throw the straights off, and serves to enhance the gay factor if you look close enough. On the surface, the plot might be easily interpreted as a classic story of a man cheating on two women, who then unite and become close with each other, dumping the fuckboy in unison. It’s a classic plot in both hetero- and homo- literature, but this video adds an intensely Sapphic spin on the trope, proving once again that Our Lord and Savior Becky G truly is one of the Gays. Rather than having the focus on some irrelevant man who is called out on being a blight and parasite to society, this retelling focuses on the bond of two women, and the attraction between them, with the presence of whats-his-face merely acting as a catalyst for them to act on their feelings for one another. How Iconic.

Given that Becky G technically just features on this track, we can safely say that Ana Mena can be considered the “protagonist” of our story. This is reinforced by how she has the widest variety of settings, from poolside view to weird glass room to living room to strange countertop shot. We are given the most insight to her life, so to speak. Her interactions with the other two “characters”, aka De La Ghetto and Becky G, are heavily skewed to aid the point of this interpretation. She only ever communicates with “DeLa” over text, while she shares like, half the damn video with Becky. This is our first clue that the connection between the two women is more important, but this could also be brushed under the bed as friendship. Fortunately, they gave the gays everything we could want, in the form of symbolism. The shots of Ana Mena and Becky G feature them in two rooms that are only separated by a glass wall as thin and transparent as this metaphor is. The décor of the two rooms tells us all we need to know about these two. Ana Mena’s side of the room is covered in posters and artwork on the walls, with lamps and fluorescent lighting giving it a nice purple and pink shading, which is like trying to smother someone with the bisexual flag, but anyways. This implies a more lived-in state, kind of like a teenager’s bedroom or something. Teenagers are notorious for beginning to explore outside of their comfort zones and beginning to branch out past the world that they are accustomed to. Key word being ‘explore’, as we turn to Becky G’s side of the room, which is legit just a fucking indoor jungle. While Ana Mena’s room represents a more controlled area, this jungle represents something exciting and undiscovered. A word used in the lyrics that seems appropriate is “adventure”. This connection indicates that the “adventure” referenced in the sexually charged lyrics is a woman. What we can surmise from this is that Ana Mena is a young woman beginning to question her sexuality because of the absolute snack that is Becky G, a known Bicon. If we were to get literary about this shit, jungles are commonly used to symbolize the heart (Shay R[edacted], 2018). Contrast this with the artificial lighting of the other side of the room, and you get the classic head vs. heart dilemma. I don’t know about you guys, but so far I am loving this.

But wait! There’s more! If you, like me, are an adept user of Google Translate, all it takes is a few simple clicks to get a relatively inaccurate translation of what they’re actually saying. As far as I could make out, the lyrics carry a theme of two people who are clearly very interested and attracted to each other, but for whatever reason have not been able to meet in person. Thus, most of their communication and flirting is carried out through text, pictures, and voice messages. Although he does communicate with both girls individually through text, De La Ghetto is only ever shown in solo shots. In contrast, Becky G and Ana Mena are separated by that glass wall, which is clearly a better representation of the tension that comes from flirting over text, but not being able to actually see or be near the other person. The lyrics are referencing the pull that the two women feel towards each other. De La Ghetto is irrelevant. He’s so irrelevant that I didn’t even bother to look up the translation for his rap. Because who cares. The lyrics talk about sending photos and voice messages, which both Ana Mena and Becky G are seen doing. What’s interesting about those parts of the video is that the other person is never shown responding to the picture/message. In other shots, the color of the respondent’s text message shows that they are messaging De La Ghetto, but it is left suspiciously ambiguous with the pictures and voice messages. Thus, it is not out of reason to suspect, or even conclude, that those pictures and messages weren’t being sent to De La Ghetto, but were being exchanged between the two women. This makes even more sense when you note how the shots of them sending voice messages are consecutive. Therefore, what we have so far is two women carrying an online flirtation with each other, while simultaneously juggling a man in the offhand.

And now we get to the part everyone’s been waiting for, where they ditch the man and get together. De La Ghetto sends Ana Mena a text message saying that he can’t meet her at 7 like they planned, not giving a reason. She is clearly upset by this, and we later find out that he is ditching her to meet up with Becky G. What’s super gay about this detail is that when Becky G gets the message from him, she isn’t even looking at her phone. She’s gazing off into the distance like Sappho herself just descended from heaven and roundhouse kicked her in the head. So we definitely know at this point that Becky is so over whats-his-face, and that she’s got it bad for Ana Mena, but Ana Mena is still concerned with men for some reason, so she hasn’t reciprocated yet. Becky is probably waiting for Ana Mena to make the first move. A possible interpretation in line with common tropes is that Becky is already comfortable with her sexuality and attraction, while Ana Mena is struggling with the new feelings of being attracted to women. One way this is shown is in the pictures they send (see above paragraph for further reference); Becky is the first one to send a picture, god bless, and when Ana Mena later sends one, it is in almost the exact same pose. In a very wholesome turn of events, Becky waits for Ana Mena to make the first move confirming their relationship, which she does in a very dramatic and thinly-veiled metaphor for sex by shattering the glass wall, leading to a shot of Becky G that gives off such strong bottom vibes that I was shocked and had to pause the video for a few moments. They spend the rest of the video dancing suggestively with each other while De La Ghetto looks down at his phone and is as shook as we all feel.

The concluding paragraph of an essay is essentially a tl;dr, so here’s a summary of the Hidden Meaning of the Ya Es Hora video: a young woman, Ana Mena, finds herself caught between the physical relationship she has with a man, and the exciting but unknown venture of an online flirtationship with a woman that is clearly progressing rather quickly. The other woman, Becky G, is not pressuring her or pushing boundaries, while the man is pretty much blowing her off. Coming to her senses, Ana Mena realizes that women are amazing, and she goes off and basically has sex with Becky G, and they lived happily ever after. One entertaining tidbit of detail that was not strong enough to support the overarching interpretation, but is still funny, is that in the tail end of the video there is a Parental Advisory sign in Becky’s side of the room. Indeed, she is such a bad influence, turning all the women gay and scattering glass all over the damn place. Also her jawline is sharp enough to kill a man. The moral of this story is that I’m pretty sure Becky G is literally on the verge of coming out, and if you haven’t seen this gay-ass music video then what are you doing with your life. Go watch it, and make sure to bring a glass of water, because the thirst is real.

References

R[edacted], S. (2018) Jungles are usually used to represent the heart. Discord DMs.

#ya es hora #becky g #i'm getting a degree in psych and philosophy #which is why this sounds so pretentious #good work y'all #i don't even know what to tag this as #can i technically get intellectual rights to this? it's #an original academic work #i forget how to cite youtube videos in APA but whatever #i'm a fucking nerd. exposed.

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bishiglomper · 3 years

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Bro was having anxiety issues so I went and visited him. He put on.. Azure Lane? He plays a warship game and found out about this anime through it. I guess they had a crossover sort of thing and had characters visit. Anyway azure lane.

War ships embodied by boobily women.

I watched one episode. Bro told me main plot points- explained some of the ships we met. Their basis in real life. Says there's not a male to be found in this anime.

The way this thing is animated. It's thinly veiled porn. Panty shots, loli girls everywhere, unsuspecting porny expressions. This anime is made for men, by men. It's even got sub par dramatic dialogue. I saw all kinds of wifey tropes in there. There was one scene, where if you aren't already looking skeptically at it through porn-colored glasses, you'd (possibly) miss the part where a poor loli got 'smashed' by a missile. Phallic looking water explosion too. 👀

It's ridiculous and hilarious. Like its a dramatic anime but jee-zuhs. It's porn for 14 year olds.

I didnt get a sense that Bro knows how porny it is. I'm probably sensitive because i do not like things like that. Also seriously, boobily girl warships, you'd expect it to be fanservice, wouldnt you?

This is the perfect anime for bro though. He loves ships. It is one of his special interests. (This saved me sunday! He got uncle focused on Ships instead of "Read the bible read the news!" Thank you for your service. 😁)

Ships, explosions and loli girls abound, it's an autistic guy's dream. 😆

They did have plot, it seems solid enough though basic af. He told me about a protag and antag's damage, respectfully. Similar situation, warped motivations. Basic plot but at least there is one. He mentioned character development and you can see a couple dynamics. 👌

So that is my review after one episode. Please don't make me watch it again. 🙏

#🤣

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whopooh · 7 years

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Miss Fisher Unleashed – walls breaking down in the October trope challenge

Hey Jack, mind your leaning – you're breaking the fourth wall!

The October trope might have made one or two of the writers a little nervous. “Breaking the fourth wall” is a real challenge, and results in stories that are highly self-aware of their status as stories and constructions, and also often happily explore the lines between fantasy and reality. That sure does put some demands on the writer. Perhaps also on the reader, in order to get suck into a highly self-aware fictional world like that.

I am very fond of this kind of stories – they are often both amusing and food for thought. They make some kind of short-circuit between narrative levels in a story that usually are separated. There are different ways of doing this. The most elaborate one, where the story and our reality are either affecting each other or even becoming the same thing, can be a real jolt to the readers’ sensibilities, in a pleasurable way. The character may for example become aware that s/he is being written, or that things change in her/his surroundings because of words, or odd things may start to happen in the writer’s real world. Other possibilities keep more clearly within the story world, for example by allowing a story within the story to comment on it or interact with it. As we will see in this overview, many different techniques have been used this month. There is potential for both horror, sadness and existential crisis in this type of writing, but it’s very reasonable that the main strand is humour (here is the full collection).

Breaking the fourth wall has of course happened before in this fandom. One clever example is @221aubrina’s creation “The Library”, where specimens of Jack that have been damaged in fanfic are returned and fixed by the staff – a very fun comment on a tendency to put Jack through a lot in the stories. Another is QuailiTea’s crossover with the universe of Thursday Next, “The Next Adventure”, which to its very nature is super metafictive, commenting on the characters both as persons and as figures in a text at the same time. A third is @jackphryne4eva‘s “Cafe Blend”, the story of a reader sitting in a café reading Miss Fisher fic while perhaps meeting Jack.

For this overview, I will start with fics that don’t break the wall so radically, but keep the break logically inside the fictional universe, and then move on to fics that are more typically meta fictive and aware of being literary constructions, to stories where the writers/readers’ world somehow gets blended with the character’s world.

Hold on, is this story about me? And is that Jack... naked?

First, stories that keep the fictional world intact. I’ll start with @omgimsarahtoo, “Art Imitates Life”, where Phryne is hired to search for a young woman, Ophelia Ogilvy. Ophelia turns out to be obsessed with the famous lady detective and her inspector, and has collected newspaper pictures of them and also writes stories about them. Basically, she’s a writer of Real Person Fanfiction in 1920s Melbourne, and her fanart has striking similarities to tumblr posts. This is incredibly fun and gives us this wonderful feeling of how, even if the technology has changed, human nature has not. Of course, Phryne is surprised by this, but she is also the kind of woman to not lash out against it but to more cautiously advice the young girl; Ophelia is of course very embarrassed that Phryne found out. There are many wonderful comments that are possible to extend to the fic writers, like when Phryne has read through the scrapbook and Jack arrives:

“Jack’s voice always sent a shiver down Phryne’s spine, but right now, it affected her even more. She’d spent the afternoon reading through Ophelia Ogilvy’s scrapbook, and she was feeling rather… stimulated.”

Ophelia has, for example, written about Phryne’s and Jack’s first meeting, even if she has embellished it with emotions they perhaps didn’t really have. “All I felt for you that first day was annoyance,” as Jack mutters. To top it all up, Phryne even seduces Jack with tales from the scrapbook.

“Is it different from what we usually do?” Jack’s hands unfastened the button at her hip and then slid inside the back of her pajama trousers’ waistband, pushing them down her thighs. Phryne kicked her feet carefully to help him remove them, then promptly wound her legs around his again.

“Not as imaginative as we tend to be,” she said on a gasp as he pushed up her pajama top and covered her breast with his mouth.

And Phryne, realizing Ophelia Ogilvy finds Jack attractive, thinks -- rather cheekily directed to all the fans -- that “It was just too bad that Ophelia would never know just how weak her imaginings were compared to the real thing.”

In @whopooh, “The Lady in the Magazine”, the writer within the world is instead Dot, who is writing thinly veiled fanfiction about Phryne and Jack for a woman’s magazine. Phryne finds this out through one of their most enthusiastic readers, Aunt P, and subtly calls her out on it. Dot becomes more and more nervous, until she confesses she’s behind the stories. Dot is really “one of us”:

It had become her favourite thing to imagine what would finally make them break down and just kiss each other. Passionately and at length. She had imagined hundreds of scenarios, the one more fanciful than the other, and she loved them all. Dot might be innocent, but she had seen things and read things, and she had an excellent imagination to make up for the rest.

In @longlineoftvdetectives’s “Collingwood Noir” there is similarly an in-world writer, but here the relationship between the writer and the people he portrays is more hostile. Interestingly enough, this is also the only time the writer in all of the stories is a man. This is young Paddy, from “Blood and Money”, who has grown up, lived through the second world war and started writing stories that, Phryne notices on a reading event, seems to be about her. There will be a second chapter, so maybe not all will be what it seems, if I am understanding longline’s comments correctly – it will be very interesting to see where it goes.

EDIT: Okay, so a fic I forgot the first time around (because I didn’t think properly about the fic-in-fic making it part of this challenge too) is @scruggzi‘s & @whopooh‘s joint fic “Direct From the Source”, where Dot decides she needs to practice her teaching abilities, and manages to set up this with Phryne, Jack and Hugh. They all get as assignment to do “automatic writing” to a prompt, without thinking it throught too much. There is much banter and flirting around this, and it seems Phryne manages to cheat so the prompt is to her liking. The prompt consists of our October bonus prompt, the lines about the South Pole and skin to skin contact, and the three pupils start writing. We as readers are then given the opportunity to read their stories and see their reactions to each other -- and there is something to say here about writing as baring your soul. The stories within the story are all commenting on their characters and relationships. Phryne blatantly flirts in her story, and makes the thinly veiled Jack suggest the skin to skin contact; blushes arise around her (“That’s very good Miss, very… um… descriptive,” Dot says). Jack more or less capitulates to her in his rather cowboy inspired story, and makes the thinly veiled Phryne be the one to suggest the skin to skin contact. Hugh bumbles on and manages to make Dot very happy. Phryne keeps on flirting through the stories:

Phryne took up the sheet of paper on which she had written her story, folded it carefully and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “You know, I don’t think my story was quite finished. Perhaps you could provide me with a few suggestions as to how it should continue?” (...) “I’m sure I could come up with one or two ideas, Miss Fisher.”

All in all, the exercise is a great success, but Dot decides that teaching might not really be something for her after all.

@zannadubs23, “Uplifting Experience” has a very clever literal “almost breaking” of the fourth wall – or as the tag says, “Not breaking the fourth wall, just slamming hard into it “. Here, Phryne and Jack, who are rather angry at each other, get stuck in an elevator during a case. After a while the anger and tension turn into love-making. Here is literal touching of all four walls as the tryst is rather passionate, as well as upstanding, and when the elevator starts to work again there is also an extra urgency added. In the end, as a little wink, is also a proper very small break of the fourth wall. The fic has been vague about what the fight was about, and in the end Jack asks "Why were we fighting again?": ‘"Literary device," she responded to his query. / "Ah, I see." he claimed, but didn't.

A last story that doesn’t make the wall-breaking explicit is @scruggzi, “DRU-14/10/17-KS-1”. This is part of the writer’s series where Phryne and Jack meet Doctor Who, and they go to a foreign planet to meet a friend of the Doctor, an artificial life form that administrates everything, and that Phryne manages to flirt with in spite of him being a robot. This is a lovely and only thinly veiled homage to the Kickstarter for the Miss Fisher movie, and a celebration of the people that work hard but aren’t always paid tribute to: the administrators. It also includes the bonus trope challenge in a lovely way. The wall-breaking is thus never explicit, but heavily implied through the similarities between the story and real life, and the administrators name that can be read as Drew and the date for the end of the Kickstarter.

The homage ends with a cheer:

“To the Administrators. Without whom none of us would exist at all.” And the four of them raised their glasses in celebration of a difficult job done spectacularly well.

Is this moment gif worthy yet, Miss Fisher?

So, over to the fics that are very clearly aware of their status as fiction, and of being in a separate realm to reality.

First, @scruggzi, “Doing It On Purpose”, is a wonderfully tongue-in-cheek story where the characters are intensely aware of the fact that they are acting, and that they have an audience, and also what the audience wants. It’s extremely funny, make them be half in their world, and half seeing it as if from an outside perspective.

Jack thinks that it’s important he doesn’t smile, so a moment becomes more “gif worthy”, in one scene they check if they've been captioned yet, and there is absolutely golden commentary like: “She made sure to clip the k in a way which made bisexual women’s knees weak. She did enjoy the attention, and a little queering of characters never hurt anyone.” When he thinks about it, Jack is “fairly sure that he must do most of his job without her presence, but there was an important plot point coming up and she would never forgive him if he left her out”.

It turns out the characters are well aware of the fanfic and also rather likes to read the explicit ones. This is Jack’s take on them, complete with a perfectly placed “probably”: “They were a personal favourite, although he wasn’t sure he wanted Phryne to know just how many of them he’d read. He had, after all, been single and probably celibate for an ambiguous but undoubtedly lengthy period – and really, who could blame him?”

Also in @geenee27, “Rant”, the characters are aware of the fandom – they even get the news from the joint MFMM re-watches in the form of newspaper articles.

“But Jack, doesn't it bother you. They're casting aspersions on our work.” “I find them rather interesting, to tell you the truth. A little criticism never hurt anyone. And it keeps us on our toes.” “Well, I'd like to see your reaction to this one. It's @firesign23 again.” “Oh I like hers, there are quite articulate. I wish @foxspirit1928 would index them for future reference.”

Phryne then reads about new rants that have been made, particularly about the snog in “Murder in Montparnasse”, and teases Jack relentlessly about it, and his open-mindedness gets rather put to the test.

@earanie, “There’s a pink elephant in the cool pantry”, combines the two October challenges, placing Phryne and Jack – who haven’t managed to sort out their relationship – in a cool pantry so they finally need to talk to each other. Or rather, it’s Dot who does this. She has a very meta knowledgeable conversation with Hugh with a great punchline:

“I must say, I’m terribly glad we got this ‘extra scene’ between those two. Can you imagine going through the whole movie before they finally realised they indeed are in love with each other!”

“Oh God, Dot, you’re giving me terrible flashbacks of the last three seasons.”

@leafingthroughbooksandtea, “What the Hell Did I Drink?”, is another very fun take on this, set in “Death Defying Feats”. When Jack is hit on the head after having made his liberal man-speech, instead of waking up inside the story world he wakes up on the filmset. Everyone just assumes he is the actor, Nathan Page, but in reality he is a very confused Jack – who immediately realises that Essie Davis is not Phryne, but who is she?: “Despite the heavy makeup, she was as beautiful as his Miss Fisher, and dressed as Phryne would be, in a lovely green frock.”

Even though she doesn’t understand exactly what has happened, Essie takes care of him, and she has the most wonderful line when Jack calls her “Miss Fisher”: “I didn’t know you were so Method.” In the end, he comes back to the story world – that transition means he is at least as confused here, and that matches the episode’s Jack waking up in Phryne’s bed perfectly.

@rithebard, “Privateers” has a special take on the trope, as it creates a direct communication between the characters and the readers. In the first chapter, there is a set-up and then Mac turns to the reader:

Mac shook her head smiling then picked up her tea. She looked up and said, "So what do you think? Yes, you. I know you have many opinions. So I'll tell you what, what comes next will come from you. I will let Phryne and Jack know and we will follow your lead. You always wanted to write one of these didn't you?" She raised her tea cup and saluted. She is waiting for your response.

Here the wall break is for asking about reader suggestions – so far it has resulted in Phryne finding three kittens in her shower, which made her turn to the reader and say, “Really? Kittens?” There is only two chapters so far, so where this will go in the future, we’ll have to wait and see.

Are you talking to me, Disembodied Voice of a Writer?

Finally, we have the fics where the writer actually communicates directly with the characters – whether they meet in person (and the levels clash completely together) or the one is communicating directly into the other’s world.

It’s probably not a surprise that QuailiTea would do a very self-aware fic, considering she did the full Thursday Next-fic and is thus very well versed in everything metafictional. In “Having a Chat”, the writer starts to talk with Jack – like a disembodied voice in italics, not as a present person – and she’s changing his world by her words. It’s a wonderful story where the writer asks Jack if he’d be alright with one of those tropes we favour, in this case putting him in a closet with Miss Fisher. He is very reluctant. The way he talks back to the writer and at the same time understands what is happening and not is a complete delight, and then when Hugh is added in even more.

Would you mind terribly if she’s in the story as well?

Do I have a choice?

I’ll certainly take your opinions into account. I’d be a terrible writer otherwise. Nothing worse to my mind than watching two perfectly lovely characters contorted into ridiculous shapes just so somebody’s favorites can wind up kissing ad etc.

Kissing? What, you planning on following Miss Fisher around until she flirts me into kissing her? That might take a while.

Jack has his dry humour in droves, deadpanning things like “Readership, apparently", and questioning if the writer might actually be Miss Fisher: “So, incredibly powerful, ability to throw my entire life into chaos, and you really have no plan. Are you sure you’re not Miss Fisher?”

And in the end, Jack has taken a lesson from his encounter with the writer who has told him how the readers love him unbuttoned, and it is great fun: “Jack nodded, his mind slowly returning to work. But as he took the file folder from his constable, he spared a small smile towards the wall where the voice had been coming from, and loosened his tie just a hair.”

Miss Templeton in her “Playing Miss T”, gives us a scene where the writer and Phryne sit talking and having drinks. The writer is making her rather tipsy and they celebrate both tv-series, books, Kerry Greenwood and the Kickstarter in a short and sweet dialogue. @zannadubs23, “Out of Their Depths”, is tone-wise the opposite – this is a horror story, where Phryne is in a story of total domesticity and passivity, being pregnant with Jack and not being allowed to do practically anything. This state seems like what has become of her, but soon there are signs that something is very wrong, that this is a fake reality and she’s really held hostage. From a reality of...

“Why don’t you get some rest, darling?”

“Of course. You’re right. I am very tired,” Phryne’s brow bunched in concern for a moment, then she turned to Jack, “join me? Just for a little while?”

“I think it’s best given the excitement of today, that we not be too amorous yet,” Jack said carefully, but full of concern.

...Phryne instead wakes up in a cellar, being bound to a chair next to an unconscious Jack, needing to figure out what has happened. I don’t want to spoil the plot, but there are some sinister things going on and several fun plot twists. Phryne needs to get Jack to somehow understand that this is the real world and not be lulled into believing the domestic bliss – and to escape the repressive care of a new person in her life, her ever-present mother-in-law.

In @whopooh, “Stranger Than Fiction”, it is not the writer who seeks out Phryne, but the other way around. This fic is actually a direct result of me structuring this trope overview – I realized that no one had yet done that for this trope, starting in the writer’s world. In this story, a writer is sitting at home, starting a sad story where Jack is killed, when Phryne suddenly appears next to her on the sofa asking her not to do it. After Phryne has helped to re-write the story, the writer takes the opportunity to ask her about things, like her feeling of only having Jack as a lover in the fic and about her sexual preferences. Phryne reveals she now and then influences stories about herself to get happier endings.

When she talks about sex, she becomes a bit self-conscious:

The two women looked at each other, feeling a little embarrassed. “It does sound more peculiar when you say it out loud. And about yourself,” Phryne said.

“I agree,” Mia said. “I’m sure I have written those exact words, and more than once.”

“Apologies,” I said, realising I was forcing them to say things aloud while I could just sit quietly and write them.

“Don’t worry,” Phryne said and flashed a quick smile my way. “I’m sure it’s a great benefit for us all to say these things aloud. Especially when it comes to women’s sexuality.” She tried the words on. “Wetness. Glistening cunt. She was hot and wet from desiring him. Et cetera.”

There is quite some talking over the narrative levels, both with Jack on the page of the fic and the writer who is writing about the encounter between Phryne and her fic writer.

A second fic that takes the writer’s situation as departure is 912luvjaxlean, “Reading Henry James” (this is her first fic in this fandom – welcome!). This is a fun story that captures many things: the fan’s “slight” obsession with Phryne and Jack, the characters’ reluctance to be spied upon, plus making a crack at traditional literature, in this case Henry James, for being rather highflown. The writer’s sister suggests she should read James, whereupon Phryne comments:

“Jack, you don't really enjoy reading Henry James, do you?” “Well, I admit his writing style suggests that he may have been paid by the word.” “Or, was it by prepositional phrase?” Miss Fisher asked wittily. “I believe it was by the comma,” added Jack with a light laugh. Really? I asked. “We weren't speaking to you, Miss Voyeur. We’re canoodling,” said Miss Fisher as she loosened Jack's tie.

The writer jokes extensively with everyone, and above all herself and her ability to postpone things: “I was now ready to read. But first I went online to post clever comments on fan sites, discover new fic, and search for pretty pics of Jack.”

Yes, we’ve all been there. Let’s just say that reading doesn’t completely go to plan.

Fic in pics.

@ollyjayonline and @solitarycyclistadventures, “Now We’re Talking”, is the first fic in a trope challenge with zero in wordcount! This is all in pictures, kind of like comics, very beautiful. It also has several levels of commentary – if I understand it correctly it’s two viewer, who also become writers here. They are talking to each other and “to the tv screen”, but also Jack is talking to them – first saying he doesn’t think Phryne and he would work as a couple, and then, after some turning points, he instead takes over and does it “his way”, which is more romantic. The struggle between writers and Jack is delightful.

In the last image, of Jack standing at the airfield watching Phryne fly away, one of the viewers says “What do we do now?” and Jack answers “Nothing. It’s the perfect ending”. That is a very interesting double view of the ending, calling into question if this is actually possible to solve. It is then followed by a protest and a “To be continued”, with an image of the coming movie – so it’s posing the question but not giving any answers. The format of this fic, and the slight uncertainty for me whom the speech bubbles belong to, kind of enhances the effect, I think.

As the final story of the trope challenge, to sum it all up, I had to put @firesign23, “Baby It’s Cold Outside”. This is like the ultimate fourth wall breaking and commenting on the Kickstarter teasers – this fic really does it all. The headlines are from all the different things the Kickstarter promised as rewards, for example, as one of them was the promise of an extra storyboard, the fic includes a storyboard. It is a very fun one too where Aunt P in an enormous bow manages to tease Bert. All six short parts of the fic also include the snippet that formed the bonus challenge, put in many of the characters mouth in different parts.

When Phryne and Jack use the dialogue a second time, it continues:

"Do you ever feel, Miss Fisher, like we have been here before?" She shrugged. "I'm quite certain I'd remember that, Jack. Alas, I am forever unfulfilled."

In the last snippet, the whole family is back together and there is wonderful teasing of their dofferent personalities – Dot telling off Hugh, Jane stating one thing and then disappearing – and “When no answer was forthcoming they quickly forgot her again”. Finally, it’s time for “hot cocoa and rejoicing, because the author gave up on plot several sections ago.” I would never have guessed that it was possible to have so many references and jokes in one short fic.

That’s all for this month. The October fic challenge seemed so hard in the beginning of the month, but it still resulted in a large amount of fics -- lovely, varied, and very self-aware. The November challenge has been pronounced, to quite some delight of the fans. It’s “An (Un)expected Marriage”, and I am looking forward to the coming month!

#reading miss fisher #mfmm fanfic tidbits #mfmm year of tropes

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