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lunarlegend · 1 year

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CHARACTER SHEET INFORMATION:

Date Sheet Was Completed: 08/12/2023

Verse In Which The Character Is In: Final Fantasy XV

BASIC INFORMATION:

Name: Stella Maris

Meaning of Name/Story Behind It: Latin for 'Star of the Sea'

Gender: Female

Pronouns: She/her

Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual

Age: 14 during FFXV Brotherhood, 18 during the main story, 28 during Chapter 14

Birthday: February 23

Zodiac Sign: Pisces Sun/Aries Moon/Sagittarius Rising

Birthplace: Lestallum, Lucis

Currently Lives: in Lestallum or Insomnia, depending on the time in the story

Nationality: Lucian

Relationship Status: Taken

Language Spoken and Native Language: Japanese

FAMILY, FRIENDS, AND FOES:

Immediate Family: Salvia Maris (her mother)

Distant Family: Noctis Lucis Caelum (cousin), Regis Lucis Caelum (uncle)

In Contact with Parents?: Yes, until her mother was killed

Upbringing: Happy childhood, loving and supportive mom

Siblings: None

Children: A daughter named Lucina (born when Stella is 28)

Best Friend(s): Noctis Lucis Caelum, Prompto Argentum

Other Friends: Iris Amicitia

Pets: A cat named Pluvia, and several opossums

Enemy(s): Ardyn Lucis Caelum

Why Are They Their Enemy(s)?: Bad blood, he killed her mom and wants to kill her cousin (etc., etc.)

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE:

Species: Human

Facial Type: Youthful

Eye Color: Aquamarine

Hair Color: Burgundy

Hair Styles: Either in a messy ponytail/bun or tied back with a bow. Her hair sticks out in large jagged curls no matter how she styles it or how much gel she uses

Skin Tone: Peachy

Complexion: Fair

Makeup: She doesn't wear any

Body Type: Slim

Build: Petite

Height: 5'2"

Tattoos: None

Piercings: Three in each earlobe

Birthmarks and Scars: A scar across her nose and extending up her left cheek after her encounter with Ardyn; burn scars on her upper back from the same encounter

Distinguishing Features: A big forehead, eyes that curve downwards, and high eyebrows (she has a very innocent look)

HEALTH AND MENTAL:

Blood Type: B (based on Japanese blood type traits)

Health Level: High

Energy Level: Very high

Memory: Good but scattered

Physical Disabilities: Permanent residual pain/stiffness in her left shoulder from when it was dislocated in the aftermath of the event that caused her mom's death

Phobias: Fire

Mental Disorders: ADHD, PTSD

Smoker: No

Drinker: Occasionally

Drug Use: None

STYLE AND GROOMING:

Usual Style: Sporty

How They Style Their Clothes: Casually

Grooming: Takes good care of her skin and hair

Posture: She leans and slouches a lot

Habits and Mannerisms: The D: expression, standing too close to people, putting her hands on her hips when she's confused or trying to process information

Scent: Peppermint

MOOD:

What Mood Would You Catch Them In: Either angry, confused, or excited, and almost nothing in between

Attitude: Generally positive, but she can be a brat

Mood Stability: Like flipping a light switch

Expressiveness: She is expressive to the extreme; you can tell exactly how she's feeling just by looking at her face

How Are They When Happy: Ecstatic, will yell and jump around and make a lot of physical contact

How Are They When Sad: Will mope and shut herself away; she sees her sadness as a weakness

How Are They When Angry: Loud and destructive, but usually harmless (like a feral kitten)

ITEMS AND THINGS:

Wardrobe (Describe Their Closet): Lots of shorts, tank tops, and big baggy sweatshirts. Most of her clothes are black, navy blue, or gray

Equipment: Giant warhammer?

Accessories: A big black bow in her hair (when she's younger she wears a white bow with green stripes)

Funds: Technically endless, since she's related to royalty (she doesn't spend a lot of money though, and usually forgets she even has access to it)

Neighborhood: Either the laidback streets of Lestallum or the busy streets of Insomnia

Transportation: She travels on foot in Lestallum, and either by foot or on the subway in Insomnia (or Ignis drives her because Stella is a terrible driver)

Prized Possession: Her brooch that her mother gave her

SEX:

Lovers: Ignis Scientia, Gladiolus Amicitia

Marital Status: Married to Ignis at the age of 30

Sex Life: Very good

Their Type: People whose buttons she can easily push

Position (Dom/Sub): Sub

Virginity: Lost it to Ignis when she was 18

CAREER AND EDUCATION:

Occupation: Crownsguard member, Kingsglaive member, former barista

High School: The same public school that Noctis and Prompto attended in Insomnia

Work Ethic: Very high; she puts a lot of effort into her job and takes pride in what she does

Organizations/Affiliations: Kingdom of Lucis

IQ:

Grades: Barely passed her classes in school

Social Stereotypes: Known for her playful mischief and as a natural leader to the neighborhood kids during her childhood in Lestallum; known as a problem child with violent tendencies after coming to Insomnia (due to her trauma that resulted in the move)

Special Education (Held Back, Honor Role, etc.): Ignis tutored her through most of high school so she wouldn't flunk out

Intelligence: She is a dumbass

IDEOLOGIES:

Morals: Generally good; she is honest and hard-working and has a lot of compassion for most people

Motivation: Revenge at first; loyalty to her King in the end

Priorities: In the beginning: finding the person who killed her mom. By the end: keeping her friends safe from harm and protecting the people of Lucis from daemons

Crime Record: …So many. When she first came to Insomnia after her mom's death, Stella dealt with her grief in the form of anger and she was very violent--biting, throwing rocks, and even shoving someone down the stairs. She was never formally charged due to her ties to the Royal Family, but an ordinary kid would probably have been sent away. She also has a habit of inadvertently causing property damage when she's older

Etiquette: She is very polite in social situations, and especially when visiting other people's houses or spending time with other people's parents

Influences: Stella looked up to Nyx quite a bit and became determined to make it into the Kingsglaive one day so she could be like him (and it makes sense that his reckless heroism would appeal to her)

HOPES, DREAMS, AND FAILURES:

Main Goal: In the beginning: to avenge her mother. In the end: to support Noctis while he brings the Dawn

Minor Goals/Ambitions: To stand out amongst the Glaives as a top hunter, and to help reclaim Lucis so she can settle into a peaceful life with her loved ones

Dream Career: Kingsglaive (does that count as a career?)

Desires/Wants: To never lose anyone she cares about again, to make a difference in the world and fix what's been broken, to travel freely in the sunlight again

Shopping Wishlist: Whatever new hobby she picked up this week, and so much cereal

Accomplishments: Became a member of the Crownsguard against all odds, proved herself worthy enough to join the Kingsglaive, and survived the Ten Years of Darkness

Greatest Achievement: Helping to reclaim the Crown City and bring the Dawn without losing her cousin

Biggest Failure: (in her mind) Not being able to avenge her mother, not being able to protect Ignis, not being as physically strong as she wants to be

Secrets: She cries sometimes when she's alone

Regrets: So many things she wishes she'd told her mom

Worries: That the world will never return to normal

Best Dream (Non-Sleep): The Dawn has come, and everyone she loves is alive

Worst Nightmare (Non-Sleep): Losing the people closest to her, failing as a Glaive

Best Memories: Her childhood in Lestallum, the times her mother would bring her to the Crown City to visit Ignis and Noctis, the roadtrip she spent with her friends

Worst Memories: The day her mother died (she has PTSD from this)

STRENGTHS, WEAKNESSES, AND OTHERS:

Strengths: Kindness, tenacity, and the ability to survive

Mental Weakness: Her grief; she will not admit how much it affects her

Flaws: Impulsivity, anger, immaturity

Perception: The glass is half full, things can always get better

Conflicts: None so large that they would affect her friendships

Instincts: Fight, always

Lures: Stella will do anything for pancakes

Soft Spot: She will also do anything for Ignis

Cruel Streak: None, she can't stay angry for long

FANTASY ELEMENTS:

Powers: Water

Ability: Healing

Physical Weakness: Fire

FAVORITES:

Colors: All shades of blue

Animals: Opossums, cats, fish and other sea creatures

Mythological Creatures: Siren or Mermaid

Places: Anywhere her friends are

Flavors: Anything sweet (and lots of processed sugars)

Foods: Pancakes, cereal, breakfast items in general, and seafood dishes (especially crab and other shellfish)

Drinks: Soda, tea, and gas station slushies

Genre: Horror, action

Books: Her book of fairytales from when she was a kid

Games: Fighting games, racing games, anything competitive

Music: Pop, rock bands with female singers

Subjects: P.E.

LEAST FAVORITES:

Colors: Yellows, oranges, browns

Animals: N/A (she loves animals)

Mythological Creatures: N/A

Places: The Empire

Flavors: She dislikes bitter foods and drinks

Foods: Most vegetables (especially greens), tofu

Drinks: Coffee (she will drink it, but only if it's loaded with milk and sugar)

Genre: Dramas or non-fiction (they don't hold her attention)

Books: Textbooks

Games: Anything too text-heavy or that she can't play with her friends

Music: Slow songs or acoustics

Subjects: Everything besides P.E.

SOUND, VOICE, AND OTHERS:

Languages: Japanese

Voice: Young, a bit high-pitched, prone to yelling when she's excited

State of Mind: Carefree

Laughter: Loud and contagious

Tag Line: She's an idiot, your honor

Signature Quote: "Oh, whoa." D:

OVERALL IMPRESSIONS:

Overall Reputation: Dependable and sincere, but relentless when she fights

First Impressions: People tend to underestimate her or mistake her for a kid

Stranger Impressions: Cute but possibly dangerous

Friendly Impressions: Fun, reliable, and predictable

Enemy Impressions: Grating, annoying, gets in the way

Familiar Impressions: Loving, loyal, and trustworthy

ALIGNMENTS AND MISC.:

One Word: Chaos

(source for the questions can be found here. i left out any that didn't apply to her or that i wasn't comfortable answering for her.)

#source linked at the bottom #Stella Maris #my OC #FFXV OC

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much-obliged-timothy · 2 years

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Whumptober #13

Devil May Cry - #13 - Dislocation

Some angst between the (very) young twins!

Dante raised his toy sword at Vergil. “Prepare to die!”

Vergil looked at the book he’d been reading, now on the ground from Dante smacking it out of his hands. He glared at his twin and lifted his own toy sword.

“You’re so annoying,” he informed his brother.

Dante grinned, practically bouncing in excitement. “I know. You still better be prepared to die, Verg.”

“As if.” Vergil ran at Dante, ducking under Dante’s clumsy swing to drive the hilt of the sword into Dante’s stomach.

Dante made a choking noise and staggered back, wrapping his arms around his stomach. “Oof! No fair. Mom said you’re not supposed to do that.”

Vergil glanced casually around the room. “I don’t see her here.”

“Jerk!” Dante stuck his tongue out before running and smacking Vergil in the shin. Vergil stumbled and Dante hit him in the back, sending him falling to the floor.

Vergil glared up at him, pushing himself back to his feet. He tightened his hold on the sword. Their mom always complained that they played too rough, but she wasn’t here to stop Vergil from striking Dante in the chest, or to stop Dante from whacking Vergil in the hip.

They swung at each other wildly, each determined to win this battle. Vergil wanted to beat Dante so he could be left alone to finish reading. Dante wanted to beat Vergil so he could taunt him about it for the rest of the week, and win Vergil’s dessert at dinner that night.

It wasn’t long before they abandoned their swords and were wrestling with each other. Dante accidentally hit Vergil roughly in the face, bloodying his lip.

He jerked his hands away, opening his mouth to apologize and see if Vergil was okay. Before he got the chance, Vergil grabbed his arm and flung him at the wall.

Dante cried out in pain as he hit the wall and fell. He grasped at his arm, tears springing to his eyes as it hung limply at his side.

Vergil’s eyes widened. “Dante? Dante, stop playing.”

Dante’s lower lip wobbled as he fought back his tears. “It hurts. I can’t move it.”

“Stop it.” Vergil was already moving towards him. “Stop it, you’re fine. I didn’t throw you that hard.”

Dante touched his injured shoulder and the tears spilled over. “Vergil, it hurts! I can’t move it!”

Vergil tried to grab his arm, but Dante cried out and pushed him away, crying harder. Vergil cringed back, then grabbed Dante’s good shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he said, guilt spreading along his chest. He got up and ran for the door, pushing it open. “Mama! Mama!”

Eva came running at his urgent call. “Vergil? What happened? Are you okay? Oh, your lip.”

“Dante!” he said, pointing at him.

She’d been reaching for his face to inspect his lip, but her gaze slid past him and her eyes widened in alarm. She rushed to Dante, kneeling beside him and placing a gentle hand on his back.

“Dante? What happened?” she asked.

“He threw me,” Dante said, pressing his face to his mother’s shoulder as he cried. “I can’t move my arm, mom.”

“Let me-” She checked his arm, hushing him as he cried out when she tried to move it for him. “I think your shoulder is dislocated. Come on, Dante. Can you stand?” She was trying to help him up when she turned an angry gaze on Vergil. “Vergil! You could’ve seriously hurt him!”

Vergil shrank back, tears coming to his eyes now. He hated when she was mad at him.

“We were just playing, mama,” he whimpered. “He hit me in the mouth and I was just trying to get him off me. I swear I didn’t mean to do it.”

She was helping Dante out of the room, but stopped as she reached Vergil. She reached her hand out towards him and he flinched back, closing his eyes.

But her hands were as gentle on his cheek as they’d been on Dante’s back. She tilted his head to inspect his lip, then bent forward to kiss his head.

“I wish you two wouldn’t get so rough with each other,” she said, quiet and sad.

He hung his head in shame. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to hurt him.”

She brushed her hand through his hair before leading Dante out. Vergil sat down, hugging his knees to his chest and wincing as he ran his tongue along his injured lip.

If Dante had just left him alone, this never would’ve happened. Vergil wiped at his eyes, guilty for hurting his brother and ashamed for upsetting his mother.

#whumptober2022 #no.13 #dislocation #devil may cry #fic writing #Vergil Sparda #Dante Sparda #dmc vergil #dmc dante #dmc eva #jtdoeswhumptober

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rebrandedstoryline · 2 years

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Overlapped Timelines - 2

Next part of the weird au of an au that features @zenkaiankoku’s noodle bois.

When the woman woke, she woke with a start. Then with a groan. Her body ached all over. Mostly her chest and her right arm, which had suffered the most beneath the insane grip of the daytime attendant. To make matters a bit more of a hazard, she was in a high up area with no plausible means of safely getting down on her own. Not to mention the fact that when she awoke, she awoke to find the animatronic looming over her. If not for the fact that she was in a fair amount of pain, she might have tried to drag herself away from him.

“Hello---o friend~! Did you enjoy your nap~? Golly, you were out for a while. Have you been getting enough sleep at night? Oh! Should I go find some blankets?! We can have a sleep over!” Sun spoke, blurting out a whole series of questions in an excited manner. All the while moving closer. He leaned down, practically pressing his face against the woman as his hands tightly gripped the floor beside her. Though he was seemingly unaware of his own strength, he appeared to be putting a conscious effort into not manhandling her further.

That idea did not put the woman any more at ease. Knowing that she could be unexpectedly grabbed and smothered at any moment was rightly concerning. Slowly, so as to not somehow alarm the animatronic with an abrupt movement, she began to back herself out from under him. At first, he seemed oblivious to her actions. However, he was not so easily tricked into allowing her to get away. She only need to move a short distance, before whatever hesitation he had in grabbing her was gone.

One long, rope like arm snaked down to grasp her by the leg, at which point he nonchalantly yanked her back to him. There came a very quiet pop in response, followed by a twinge of pain. That had been her hip popping out of socket for a moment. Only a moment. The bone only came partway out, resulting in it immediately being sucked back into place. She was going to be very, very sore following today’s events. If she actually managed to survive. At this rate, she may actually get violently snuggled to death.

“Now, don’t wander off, friend~! You need to keep close. Stay where I can see you~ It’s no time to play hide and seek.” Sun excitedly uttered, now moving to stand. Ayala was then dragged a short distance from where she had been napping, over to a little area that had been set up for arts and crafts. Being dragged across the floor was unpleasant in its own right. Especially after nearly having her hip dislocated. “Its time to color~!” He added, lifting the woman up by her leg, before using his other hand to grab her by an arm. He then let go of her leg, sort of allowing gravity to flip her upright. At which point he just sort of dropped her back onto the floor. Her bum hit the hard surface with an audible thud. Once she was sat down, a messy stack of crumpled coloring books were pushed in her directly. Along with a relatively mangled box of crayons. “I don’t have a lot of colors left, but that’s okay! We can use our imaginations!” He added, happily ripping open one of the remaining coloring books to look for a page which hadn’t been scribbled on yet. For a moment, the woman was left staring at him in a state of confusion. She was weighing her options. With how casually this animatronic manhandled her, she realistically needed to find some way out of his possession as soon as possible. With her so high up and pretty seriously hurt, she also needed some means of him getting her down without her body winding up in a worse state.

She shifted rather uncomfortably, already feeling her hip beginning to throb in protest of her recent robot-manhandling. The throbbing pain emanating through her body admittedly dampened her ability to think coherently. The best idea that she could come up with was bluntly telling him that she needed to go home soon and needed to be able to see Moon before she left. Given that she couldn’t think of anything else, that would have to do it.

“Sunny, sweetness. I don’t have time to color today. I need to home soon, and I still need to speak with Moon.” Ayala uttered, snapping the daytime attendant out of his happy little daze. She audibly heard the crayon he had been coloring with get crushed in his grip. Oh. Oh that probably wasn’t a good sign. His smile had wavered. He seemed to be pouting a bit.

“But why---y?! Why talk to that meanie at all! He’s bad! You can just forget about him and color with me until its time to go home!” Sun responded, pouting rather obviously as he spoke. He unintentionally crumpled his coloring book into a ball in the midst of his protest. That response only made her nervous. There was a genuine fear that she might wind up being the next thing to be crumpled into a ball, given the recent string of events. Okay. She had to try and rein him in. She had to try and get him to give her a bit of control over the situation.

“Sun. I’d love to stay and color, but I still have work to do. I have to meet with Moon, and when I get home I have to get started on things for the books.” Ayala responded, only to be rewarded by an irritated noise from the animatronic. Alright. Try again. Rein him in. “Sunny, we’re friends, right?” She inquired, giving the animatronic a sort of pleading look as she offered a soft, sort of hesitant smile. The daytime attendant offered a violent nod in response to this.

“Yes! Yes! We’re best friends!” Sun replied, sounding both excited and worried. Like he was afraid that he was about to be told that she didn’t want to be friends with him.

“Well. Friends try to help each other. They make compromises with each other. I still have to get my work done. I’ll be gone for a few days. If you do me this little favor, and let me talk to Moon, then I’ll do you a favor when I come back. Anything you want.” Ayala offered, attempting to reason with the animatronic. In response to this, the daytime attendant grumpily crossed his arms and pouted. For a moment, it looked as if he wasn’t going to cooperate at all. Then he cast her a sort of pleading look of his own.

“Anything? You promise? You promise?” Sun responded, almost sounding desperate. The woman mentally kicked himself for unwittingly signing a verbal contract she might regret having to comply with.

“Anything you want.” Ayala replied. As much as she might regret these choices, she needed him to cooperate. Given she would be working in close proximity with him for a while, she just had to hope it would be a promise that she was physically able to keep.

“... Then you have to come back play games with me. All day! Until the Pizza Plex closes.” Sun responded. The woman mentally let out a sigh of relief in response to this. The poor guy must have been pretty lonely, all locked away in the daycare all the time.

“Of course~” Ayala replied, offering a more genuine smile. “I can even bring some new crayons and some coloring books, if you want. These ones seem a bit... Old.” She added. This wasn’t some coy tactic at manipulation. The coloring books were all very clearly old and had already been scribbled in and manhandled multiple times, from the look of them. It only seemed fair to try and bring along some extra supplies to make it easier for them to play. There were only so many ways to re-color a picture book with three different broken crayons.

“Really~?!” Sun blurted out, sounding genuinely excited by that suggestion. In fact, he seemed so excited that he was very clearly about to grab her again. Call it some quick thinking. Call it fight or flight mode switched on to the max after having already been manhandled a few times already. Ayala somehow, by means of a miracle, managed to out maneuver the robotic limbs of the animatronic as they reached to ensnare her again. It was if she’d reacted to a life and death situation.

Everything had suddenly slowed down for a moment, allowing her to sort of grab Sun’s arms well enough to sort of push herself towards his body and away from his arms. Something which seemed to not only catch her off guard, but catch him off guard. He offered a short but excited cackle in response.

“Golly! That was a good trick! Are you an acrobat~?!” Sun chimed, seemingly so distracted enough by what she had just done that he didn’t immediately try to grab at her again. Which was good. She most definitely couldn’t pull off that stunt a second time. The awkward part about this was that she was once again trapped under him, having only been prevented from sliding down further by bumping into his knees.

“Er... No, not really. I uh...” Ayala awkwardly stammered, genuinely baffled by what she had just pulled off. She hadn’t performed a stunt like that since trying to evade the black mass of goo and wires that Afton had become. And when she had done that, her body was in pretty good condition. Right now, her body was absolutely livid with her for having done what she just did. She awkwardly cleared her throat, trying to think of a way to change the subject while heavily distracted by the pain. “I-I just realize how close it is to being time for me to leave! Yeah. So we really need to bring Moon out so I can introduce myself.” She responded, sort of awkwardly going with what first came to mind. This, in turn, coaxed another groan out of the animatronic. He was still being grumpy. Still wanting to resist the fact that Moon needed to come out.

“Humph. Fine. But there are rules! Rules that you have to follow! No buts! Mr. Moony Meanie Pants is very dangerous and could hurt you! So you have to stand in the light outside the daycare. Don’t leave the light. I won’t be able to help you while the lights are out.” Sun responded bitterly, giving the woman some very, very stern instructions. She sighed in response. Alright, fair enough. Her Moon had technically been dangerous, so it made sense that this one was a bit of a threat. Probably more of a threat. If this Sun was so unintentionally rough, there was no telling what this Moon was capable of.

“Alright, Sunny. I promise.” Ayala responded, making a sort of ‘cross my heart’ motion as she did so. Not that it really seemed to satisfy the animatronic all that much.

#Zen #Zen's noodles #Noodle!Sun #Overlapped timelines #fanart

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independentzaun · 1 year

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send me a "۞" and I'll introduce you to one of my other muses : Still accepting.

//Cassandra Cain AKA Orphan//

The incident had started off simply enough. Some woman who thought herself stronger than she was surrounded by a group of friends trying to intimidate a street vendor into giving them half of his goods. The vendor had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time as the people accosting him had decided to take advantage of a rather quiet moment on the street believing no one would interfere. Normally they likely would have been correct, and would have gotten what they wanted however this particular evening there were two problems with that. One was a particular slender woman watching silently from the side so drenched in shadows that despite being technically on the sidewalk she had yet to be noticed. The second was the Eye of Zaun himself, Silco, approaching not that anyone had any idea how that might effect things but it was a potential complication all the same.

As the group of thugs started to get rougher, and louder the woman in the shadows spoke offering one word. “Stop.” One of the thugs actually flinched from being startled, and frowned. “The fuck are you? And this isn’t any of your business! Fuck off before we decide to make you pay a fee for taking up space on our streets.” Hearing the response the woman stepped forward.

In that moment moving utterly silently she almost seemed like a shadow given physical form as the neon lights nearby glinted off of her. A hood up cast her face in darkness while her entire body was hidden by a black outfit. Pants that allowed her a wide range of movement, a hoodie that covered her torso making her look unremarkable at best along with a hint of a long sleeved shirt under it as well as gloves covering her hand that seemed to have hardened knuckles, shoes not at all regular as they were flexible and allowed her feet to curl and grip slightly at things if need be while climbing. Something about her stance gave the impression to one that knew what to look for of a dancer, but one whose most familiar “dance” was one of violence.

“Not, your...business...either..stop.” It was the last warning she’d give, and for a moment she glanced past the group of four thugs towards Silco. Her head tilted ever so slightly as though watching him, and trying to decide something. With her attention seemingly taken off of the thugs it’d be easy to expect the first attack directed at her with the typical lack of hesitation, and quickness expected in Zaun to hit. That expectation would be proven false quite quickly.

Hooded gaze still on Silco for a second the woman leaned to one side, and than dipped down before slamming a fist into the thug’s stomach making a loud gasp escape from him. What happened next was either a beautiful display of skillful violence, or utterly terrifying depending on ones viewpoint and position. That fist turned into an elbow at the man’s ribs, and that turn of her body to power the elbow brought her other fist up which hammered down into the side of his knee snapping it. Immediately he collapsed with a scream, and she slid past him with a hand casually pushing aside another thug’s knife twisting as she did so immediately breaking his wrist while a knee slammed up into his groin. Her foot slapped down against the ground, and spinning she tossed him over her hip taking advantage of the movement to dislocate his shoulder. She still did not stop moving.

With only two opponents left and the display she’d already offered it wasn’t surprising when the woman who’d been in charge pulled out a single shot pistol, and fired. What was surprising was that the hooded woman showed no fear at all, and as though reading her opponents mind slipped out of the way just before the shot went off ensuring it missed. Saving the other woman for last she went for the third thug, and with one quick punch to his head knocked him out sending him helpless to the ground. Movements never slowing she turned, and hurt the other woman who’d pulled out the pistol. Kidney punch that would most certainly have her pissing blood, ribs fractured, jaw broken as well as an ankle the “leader” of the thugs was quickly on the ground whimpering and pleading for mercy.

That was when the movement finally stopped. The dance was done, and there was nothing left to offer. Nothing left to say, or communicate. Neither through movement nor violence. The surprising thing however as the hooded woman stepped away quite obviously considering her work done was that each opponent was still left breathing, and alive. A rarity in Zaun particularly as it’d quite clearly been done on purpose. Moving towards, and than past Silco there was one soft comment murmured from under her hood.

“Best, hits, hurt.”

Not all weapons killed, but they might still be sharpened to a razors edge.

Cassandra Cain, also known as Orphan, did not kill.

She also did not loose.

#munanswers #saviourofzaun #violence cw #I miss my Cassandra TBH

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troglobite · 1 year

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alskdjflkdsj silly petty nonsense abt disability

lol watched a video from a youtuber who loves rock climbing (yes, she's gay. obviously) and at the end she and the guy she was climbing with were like

"anyone can climb! seriously, you don't have to go whole hog or pro or anything, you don't have to be intimidated, just try. anyone can do it!"

meanwhile she's friends w ashley gavin who literally has EDS and has dropped buttloads of money on experimental treatments bc her hip pain is so bad

and they went climbing once and ashley hurt herself. lol (not seriously, she was fine, and she was allowed to call it quits/set her own limits.)

and i'm sitting here like "my fingertips are sore and aching because. i left the house for 10 hours yesterday. and i had to lay in bed/on the couch all day taking care of my body. and they're not as bad tonight but it still kinda hurts to type."

if i climbed, i'd dislocate a hip and a shoulder, if not both/all of them, and then i'd tear the tendons in my hands and fingers to fucking shreds

but yes, anyone can do it. sure. including people with paralysis. or y'know. no arms. lol /sarcasm in case that wasn't clear.

i'm being a little shitty like i get what she meant--if you wanna do it and CAN do it, go for it.

but even in casual, encouraging statements it's like--

uhhhh no, NOT everyone can do it.

not to mention HEIGHT is also a factor! like i'm average short, and i wouldn't be able to do it--for fuck's sake, i couldn't even learn to play the piano bc my hands are so small. little people aren't gonna be able to do jackshit w climbing, esp depending on the type of dwarfism and how it affects their joints, etc.

i'm being petty and pedantic and saying it here instead of typing a shitty little comment on her video to make myself Feel Something. lol

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tetsuwhore · 4 years

Text

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 (𝐊𝐮𝐫𝐨𝐨, 𝐎𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐮, 𝐆𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐤𝐢)

Description: general NSFW headcanons with Kuroo, Osamu and Goshiki

Pairings: Kuroo Tetsurou x Reader, Miya Osamu x Reader, Goshiki Tsutomu x Reader

Warning: explicit nsfw (duh), mentions corruption kink and degradation

he’d likely be into having friends with benefits arrangements - Kuroo enjoys the casual nature of the sex, and is very much capable of keeping his emotions in check so he doesn’t develop romantic feelings

though, he’d prefer it being with someone he’s actually good friends with rather than a mere acquaintance or a random hookup, simply because that’d make him feel more comfortable

this dude would probably text them to come over, do the Do™️, and then end up getting some takeout afterwards while they just chill and watch a movie or something lmao

Kuroo will frustrate you to no end - trailing his fingers just near the waistband of your panties, or planting kisses along your inner thighs while deliberately avoiding your core

he’s a tease - it’s just in his nature. he’ll keep up the dirty talk and deny you to the point where it’s maddening

if you want to cum, you’ll have to either a) beg hard enough until he’s satisfied, or b) pull his head to your core and grind your hips into his face. he loves when you toss out all inhibitions and shamelessly decide to take matters into your own hands

when he wants to really mess with you, he’ll start grinding into you while you’re in his lap during a makeout session. he’ll make you ride his thigh and simply chuckle, doing a fat load of nothing when you whine about how it’s not enough stimulation to get you to cum

definitely uses sex as a form of stress relief. not only is he the Nekoma volleyball team captain, he’s also in college prep classes - a whole lotta stress equates to a whole lotta sex

for instance, say you’re studying together for an exam and he’s getting restless after having sat at a desk for hours. he’ll lead you to the bed, fuck you senseless to the point where you’re teary-eyed, kiss your forehead after you’re both satisfied, and then get right tf back to his textbook lmao

since you both have such tight schedules, there will be a lot of quickies. storage closet quickie, study session quickie, late night before a game quickie.

still, he’ll feel bad because he knows it’s not as satisfying or intimate, so when he has more time to spare, he’ll focus completely on spoiling you

Kuroo is a very giving partner in general - he gets off on making you squirm and cry out for him. he’ll seize every opportunity given to go down on you. he doesn’t care if he dislocates his jaw while making you feel good, he’ll ignore the ache and keep going until you’re satisfied

he’s an observant one, and will read your body language to learn what you like or dislike. he wants nothing more than to be the partner you need him to be, so he’ll change his approach according to what you respond well to

he notices you squirming more when he’s manhandling and degrading you? he’ll call you a dirty slut and tighten his grip on your hips

he feels your nails dig just a little deeper into his back when he’s being nicer and gentler? he’ll whisper sweet praises about how you’re such a good girl for him

ok im gonna stop now ffsfsfsfs can you tell how hard i simp for him

Osamu and Atsumu are always being compared to each other, with Atsumu being labelled the ‘wilder one’ and Osamu, the opposite

people who aren’t very familiar with him often make the assumption that he’s squeaky clean, and therefore, pretty vanilla in bed… right?

wrong.

Osamu is into kink exploration, and is very much interested in discovering the various facets of sex

plus, he gets a little kick out of being so unsuspecting -everytime he’s in public and feels a mild sting from the scratches on his back, he smirks to himself, reveling in the feeling of having this dirty little secret

definitely one with a bit of a corruption kink. he finds it amusing how he’s perceived as a vanilla person, when in actuality, he’s the one who relishes the feeling of taking away someone else’s innocence

he gets such a hard-on for responsive partners, ones who can’t control themselves when they squirm around and whimper sharply at even the lightest touch. it’s a way for him to tell whether he’s doing a good job at pleasing his partner. plus, the little boost to his ego certainly doesn’t hurt

such a sucker for domesticity. there’s just something about watch you move around the house (the house you share with him), doing the laundry or cooking at the stove. it may seem odd, but it turns him on because it simply reiterates the fact that you’re all his

on several occasions, he’s found himself sneaking up behind you and gently wrapping his arms around your waist while you’re doing something. when you turn your head back slightly to smile at him, he’ll lightly press his lips against yours before trailing soft kisses along the back of your neck and shoulders

the moment never remains soft for long - soon, he’ll have his fingers in your panties, rubbing tight circles on your clit while you cling on to his arm for support. he’ll hold you in place all the way until you tense up and reach your orgasm

then this bitch innocently kisses your cheek and leaves like he didn’t just turn your legs into jelly lmao

during arguments, Osamu does have a tendency to get frustrated, and he sometimes gets up in your face, hissing at you over something he disagrees with. the tension in the room, paired with you two being pressed up so close to each other often leads to angry sex

he’ll push you up against a wall and pull you into a vicious kiss that escalates to him thrusting into you at a punishing pace. as the tension dissipates though, he’ll be less rough, going softer on you while whispering apologies and promising that he’d make it up to you

Goshiki probably gets a little blushy thinking about a lot of people, many of which tend to be strangers that he’s seen from afar and found attractive. he ends up having these little fantasies in his head sometimes - nothing too intense, and he probably wouldn’t even act on them

but while jerking off, his mind tends to… wander, and he begins fantasizing about these little crushes. he always feels bad afterwards, feeling like he was being disrespectful

lmao one time, he even felt compelled to go outright apologize to one of his senpais for having a ‘dream’ about her. she laughed when she deciphered what his stuttering words meant and brushed it off as something that happens to everyone

even if Goshiki’s dating someone by his third year, he may still be pretty nervous when it comes to sex. though, by the time you two actually start becoming sexually active, his drive to be ‘the best’ (yes, even at sex) is simply stronger than his nervousness

at first, you’ll likely suggest mutual masturbation so you can learn how the other likes being touched - he may not be 100% on-board at first, being impatient to jump right in and learn first-hand what you like, but he eventually realizes that it’s a good first step and agrees

he’ll need you to guide him yourself the first few times he touches you. gently grip his hair and guide his mouth where you want him, talk him through how you want him to finger you, give him verbal instructions if you want it “harder”, “slower” or “right there”, etc

as he learns, he’ll pick up on your non-verbal cues as well. he’ll start to observe your body language, or realize how your moans get louder when he does something that you like, and he’ll adapt his technique accordingly

he’s very eager to please in general, and will absolutely apply the saying “practice makes perfect” here, working hard at honing his technique to improve his skills. boy just wants to do his best to make you feel as good as possible

Goshiki always wants to be as close to your face as he can be because he loves hearing your pretty voice right up in his ear. as smug as it makes him, he still can’t help the blush on his face everytime he hears you cry out and whimper for him

for him.

you’ll actually make this boy short circuit if you moan his name while he’s touching you. he’ll tense up for a second, and then immediately go feral, working his tongue or fingers harder until you forget everything else but his name

he’s such a sucker for eating you out - he’s grown addicted to having your thighs wrapped around his head while he’s lapping his tongue at your clit and reveling in the gorgeous sounds of you sobbing his name

now everyone and their grandmother already headcanons this, but c’mon - praise kink. Goshiki fucking devours any praise you throw at him, be it about his physique or skill

it’s a way to boost his ego and bring out the more smug, dom side to him that makes him want to fuck you until you cry

#kuroo x reader #osamu x reader #goshiki x reader #kuroo smut #osamu smut #goshiki smut #kuroo tetsurou #miya osamu #goshiki tsutomu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu smut #kuroo tetsurou x reader #osamu miya x reader #goshiki tsutomu x reader

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keouil · 3 years

Text

how you forget to be human

“so is she like,” scott hesitates. “cap’s first lady or something?” rated t. 2k+. steve/nat. also on ao3 / twitter / cc

Scott hasn’t been with the team for a long time, but he thinks he at least has enough working knowledge of how everyone operates.

The Winter Soldier—Bucky to Steve, James to anyone who dared—quite frankly still scares the living shit out of him, and that’s Magneto on a good day. It didn’t take much to deduce he seemed wholly uncomfortable in his own skin, his jaw coiled perpetually tight and the rigid set of his shoulders always in alert. It was uneasy just being around him, his discomfort bleeding over others and charging the air around his space with its own brand of disquieting; but always, without fail, Steve cushioned whatever apprehension anyone aimed toward his bestfriend.

Most of it came from Sam, and almost always in good nature as if to ease the brainwashed supersoldier into some semblance of normality; and Scott would fear for Sam’s life every time he opened his mouth, were it not for the also very obvious fact the Falcon held his own and didn’t appreciate handouts and the three of them seemed to be getting along uniquely (if not a little oddly) well enough.

The witch was a small problem, however. Simply for the fact she was a witch and Scott is wary because history taught him they burned all of them down in Salem.

He sees her wiggling those voodoo fingers around sometimes, almost unconsciously, and feels the hairs on his arms rise with every flick of her wrist. The energy around her isn’t suffocating the same way Bucky’s is. It was more a subtle nervous tingling; like she herself was afraid of the gravity of her own powers she had yet to have complete reigns on. Scott is oddly humbled by the fact and even empathises with her a little.

Steve keeps an eye on her and doesn’t bother hiding it, but it’s the archer who gets past her when it really counts. Clint Barton, who, surprisingly is the one he’s on the most similar wavelength with out of all of them: family man and all.

Clint Barton whose also friends with Natasha Romanoff.

Hawkeye who has simultaneously the most complex and impossibly simple relationship with Black Widow.

“I swear to god if you ring me up next time you’re out of goddamn Fruit Loops,” Natasha warns, digging through one of the five grocery bags on the kitchen island. She fishes for a few more seconds, before popping a colourful cartoon box out from under the bag and tossing it to Barton. “I’m bringing you in for real.”

Clint scoffs, placing the carton on the top shelf. “How many times have I heard that before?”

“Apparently not enough,” Natasha glares at him from her peripheral, scooping out Nutella and a pack of store-bought pryanik to lay on the table. Russian biscuits. For Wanda. “If I’m still stopping by an abandoned boarding house in the slums of Siberia every other week. Y’all grown men can’t do grocery shopping by yourselves?”

Scott blinks from his spot by one of the stools.

Of all the things he expected to wake up to in hiding from 117 countries from possible charges of aiding and abetting a war criminal, Black Widow casually arranging and organising their weekly rationale was nowhere near the top of the list. She did this all the while supposedly fighting for the other team.

This one needs no introduction.

Scott knows who Black Widow is. Scott knows Captain America, after all.

You don’t grow up in the land of the free without knowing his legacy even in minute passing. The man has been plastered on nearly every surface of the continent since the dawn of America. Scott has seen the news footages, read the official accounts, willingly devoured every single documentary or biopic helmed in honour of their nation’s greatest hero: he knows, down to the bone, the star-spangled man with a plan.

A forgotten and revered and rebirthed war hero.

How he came to know of her, however, is an entirely different story: because come the news footages, zoom in close enough you’ll see the infamous shield covering a much smaller and daintier figure; go over the accounts with a fine-toothed comb, they speak of a levelled dynamic between a commanding officer and a shadow leader; and, lest history not forget, the documentaries: Peggy, because behind every great man is a woman, Natasha.

“Now why would we do that if we got you?” Sam. He comes up from behind the hallway to playfully grin at Natasha before enveloping her in a small hug. She returns it easily.

Scott braces himself for what’s to come, because they came in a pair, and so: “Nat,” Steven Grant Rogers, in the flesh himself, pokes his head in not a moment later with a barely indisputable frown on his face. “You came here again?”

Natasha clicks her tongue at him. “Someone had to make sure you boys were fed.”

“That’s not— We can—” Steve stutters as he strides in, and Scott has to very carefully school his features into nonchalance because Captain America does not stammer. He sighs deeply before settling next to her, nudging her with his hip. “Tony atleast know you're here?”

Natasha gives him a pointed look. “Who do you think paid for all this?”

Scott watches their silhouettes grow smaller and smaller by the distance.

Even from afar, he can make out Steve’s absolute hulk of a frame: back impossibly straight in a way that bespoke authenticity, years of rigid military training drilled into his bones; only he seemed to mellow, somehow and very slightly, the fine lines of his shoulders angled in the direction of her voice. And Natasha: brave and lithe, nearly a head shorter and so much more smaller, facing forward in full confidence and a leisurely stride in her steps.

Siberia has a biting night air that seeps deep into the bone. But it’s also comforting somehow; all of them knowing, in one way or another, what it was like to be iced out from society.

They were all huddled by the makeshift campfire Barton fashioned out of some wooden logs and a matchstick. Sam, in charge of roasting marshmallows, was gently coaxing Bucky into eating one and promising him it’s not poisoned. Wanda was handing out steaming cups of hot chocolate brewed from the pack Natasha brought in a few hours ago, a staple in her weekly grocery runs because apparently the kid witch liked sweets.

Scott gingerly takes a sip from his mug, some of the warmth seeping into liquid courage he was building up for weeks now. He takes a deep breath before plunging himself into the waves.

“I can’t be the only one worried that the enemy has infiltrated our territory, right?”

To their credit, neither of them kill him on sight.

Wanda pauses in levitating one of the wooden logs above the hearth, a single bark of kindling hovering uncertainly over the air. Bucky has an unreadable expression on his face when he regards him. A look passes between Sam and Clint, betraying nothing of their inner thoughts at his outburst.

The fire is nice and toasty, but the air is stifling now and Scott has never felt more the outsider than at that very moment.

Until Sam breaks into a hearty laugh. “Widow?” he shakes his head amusedly. “No, man, Steve and Nat are tight. They’re past stuff like that.”

Scott furrows his eyebrows in concern. “But isn’t she—”

“On Tony’s side?” Clint quips, poking at one of the planks. Wanda finally drops the floating bark, and Scott doesn’t miss the flash of something in her eyes when she glances at him from the other side of the fire. He thinks he saw a spark of red for a second. “Sure, I guess. Technically she’s Team Iron Man or whatever that means. But Natasha is also fiercely loyal, especially when it comes to Steve.”

“What does that mean?” Scott asks in genuine confusion.

Sam opens his mouth to elaborate, words already forming on his mouth; before he seems to come to a belated realisation, blinks, and manages a nonchalant shrug. "Damn if I know,” he admits, turning over a puffy mallow and watching the crackles of fire burn its edges. “But she’s good for him. That’s all I care about.”

“And he’s good for her,” Clint returns easily, not an ounce of hesitation in his voice. “Maybe sometimes it’s just that easy.”

They hear the crunching of footsteps on snow creeping up behind them, and Scott takes this as his cue to stash the conversation for another time.

He watches them stroll in together carefully.

Steve holds the gate open for her and places a small hand on her back as they advance in the small patch of woods by the backyard. Natasha settles next to Wanda, hands going up and down her arms to warm the younger girl despite being the one having only just gone out for a walk in the middle of Russian winter: because, and at this Scott is now confident, the jacket resting on her shoulders three times her size was keeping her warm enough.

The quinjet doesn’t start up right away.

Scott is slowly panicking, because the realisation that he was truly out of his depth at fighting in the next greatest civil war of the century notches above his pay grade only viscerally begins to take hold.

He has a family back home, pets to feed, a little life saving every now and then; but never this colossal of a scale, never with the stakes stacked up so high against them, that it really could only ever be toppled down by the likes of fucking Iron Man and Captain America.

But Steve is still confident.

It’s so bloody obvious he was always going to keep at it, gunned down the concrete walls of the airport and clawed his way out of it brick by brick if need be. He was really and truly the good man underneath it all, and at the back of his mind, Scott still finds himself awed at the fact.

But he doesn’t know how on earth the man came out of that airport not visibly rattled, not at all unlike how Scott was currently feeling; and, as he processes the rest of their wayward expressions, he knew he wasn’t alone in thinking so.

“Cap,” Sam wheezes by the floor, fighting to labor his breathing with a hand clutched on his dislocated shoulder. “I still got the jeep parked outside. It’s not too late. We can hike the rest of the way.”

“No,” Steve replies, an edge of conviction in his voice. There is not a single tremor in his stubborn hands gripping the wheel. “That’s gonna hold us back days. We just need to be up in the air for now. We need—”

“A woman to come to your rescue again?”

This time, it’s Scott who sighs in deep relief at her voice. This time, Scott doesn’t fight the churn in his stomach at the prospect of having someone who nearly nicked him lifeless not even hours ago this close a range with them again. This time, she is not Black Widow, but simply Natasha Romanoff; Steve Rogers’ friend.

This time, Scott thinks, he will let them be easy just like that.

There was no more a sign of tremble in his voice or hands the entire battle, but at the lilt of her voice, he just crumbles.

“Nat,” Steve breathes out when he turns to her, hands fisting at his sides in an attempt to regain control. Just like that, he unravels; so easily and without preamble in the face of her steeled strength. “I can’t get it to turn on— And I— We have to get Bucky—”

“Work through it, Steve,” she cooes in probably the most placating voice he’s heard of her, but she doesn’t move to touch him when she comes close. Her hands are going a mile a minute over the control panel, pushing buttons and lifting levers. Steve is hovering by her side like it's the only thing holding him together. “You know how to fly this thing, right?”

Steve is visibly taken aback and angles his body to face her. “You’re not coming with us?”

The question hangs in the air.

It charges the silence around them and quells any of their growing uncertainty, because, clear as it was of Steve’s well-founded and undeniable leadership skills: they also knew, intimately, she anchored him through it all.

Sam was putting pressure around Bucky’s human arm as he looked back and forth at them tensely. He could feel Wanda hitch her breath behind him.

Natasha’s fingers keep flying away at the keyboard, until they feel the telling signs of an engine rumbling underneath and the overhead lights spurting back to light. The whole jet roars to life in the next second, heating fans whizzing and technical sounds beeping. She shifts some gears around and locks in a destination with the GPS navigation.

When she turns to look at Steve, it is then Scott forces himself to pry his eyes away and not bear witness to this part of his already over documented life. In that single moment of uncertainty, the what does that mean is meant like this: an intimate baring of a soul, heart, trust: in a way no words could ever begin describing or should even attempt to put to paper.

It is friendship at the most intimate level, it is soulmates on the most soul-crushing departure, and it is the everything else that comes after.

“Not this time, Rogers,” he hears her say, and Scott doesn’t have to imagine the slight fracturing of his iron-clad footing in the world swaying ever so slightly, when he replies with: “Then I guess I’ll see you around, Romanoff.” .

“So is she like,” Scott hesitates. “Cap’s first lady or something?”

They’re some seventy feet off the air above the Pacific Ocean, the moisture from the ocean drifting up to the open barracks and making the air glisten around them. Bucky is fast asleep somewhere down the lower levels with Wanda keeping watch over him, upon the fervent insistence of Steve arguing he needed rest. It came as no surprise that he also self-assigned himself the first watch of the night.

Sam is sharpening his knives, the grating sound of sandpaper slicing over iron piercing through the silent hum and drum of the night.

“Please,” he scoffs, looking over at him. “If anything, Steve is her first lady.”

#romanogers #stevenat #fic #natasha romanoff #steve rogers #romanogers fi #stevenat fic #marvel fic

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bakushima-simp · 3 years

Text

random hcs pt. 2! feat. pikachu, shitty hair, & pinky

kaminari denki ~

⚡so i've heard that kami reads shakespeare? for funsies?

⚡ i'm never saying funsies again

⚡ anyway, this mans is obviously smart as hell

⚡ idk if this is canon or not, but this is fanon so it's fine - he always has A's in english

⚡ dude speaks the language fluently atp

⚡ he got the opportunity to travel to america during a hero study and was having casual conversations with everyone he passed by

⚡ his mentor turned around like 🤨 ... 😏😌

⚡ mr. grinch smile type beat

⚡ people are always surprised when they find him doing anything that relates to having a brain

⚡ speaking of brains... tiktok

⚡ denki totally has it

⚡ he's always hopping on the latest trends, learning all the dances

⚡ he's even created a few of his own

⚡ he's quite well known on the app, actually

⚡ he convinced sero to make a dance with him & it ended up being a trend

⚡ just denki & sero in the fyp for weeks

kirishima eijirou ~

✊🏽 this mans is wild

✊🏽 he literally stands and takes every hit thrown at him and continues to fight back afterward?? yeah you're not gonna tell me this dude ain'tt a little bit cuckoo for cocoa puffs

✊🏽 we all know how he looked up to mina in middle school

✊🏽 he definitely learned how to dance from her at some point

✊🏽 they both try to teach the squad some of the alien queen's choreo at some point

✊🏽 bakugou & sero are the only ones who really catch on

✊🏽 kami just does tiktok dances in the back, but he slays that shit dw 😌

✊🏽 but back to the manliest man

✊🏽 a bit of an ick for me at least but scabs

✊🏽 dude has scabs & deep scars from taking so many damn hits all the time

✊🏽 don't get me wrong tho, they make him look so badass

✊🏽 kiri thinks the scars contribute to his "manliness factor" or sum shii 🙄

✊🏽 his "arm day" isn't spent working out, but rather taking care of his arms & working with the support gear students to create more protective gear for the rest of his body that also won't hinder the use of his quirk

mina ashido ~

🛸 mina listens to this playlist expeditiously and has choreo to every song

🛸 no reason why, she just does

🛸 jirou let mina play her rnb playlist at a party once, and let's just say shit went down

🛸 it ended up with a boys vs. girls dance battle

🛸 kiri was holding it down for a hot minute

🛸 i'm talkin some matt steffanina, tim milgram type stuff

🛸 but then everyone else got tired and stepped back & mina and bakugou ended up battling by themselves 😭

🛸 baku was coming through when hot shower came on see: nicole kirkland

🛸 then woman by doja cat came on

🛸 mans was moving his hips so hard 😭 mina was killing it and katsuki was just about to dislocate something 💀💀

🛸 the whole thing is recorded on denki's phone and he holds it over kacchan's head every day

🛸 an-ty-ways, back to my girl

🛸 mina has skin problems bc of her quirk and does skin care with the girls whenever they're free

🛸 her extravagant skin care routine has saved the lives of class 1-A 🤧🤧 (boys included)

🛸 it's become a tradition of sorts for someone to join mina on her skin care day (which happens to be a part of her wash day)

🛸 usually deku is with her (bc wash days are their thing) and uraraka will tag along (bc she's in her simp stage lord help her)

🛸 so all of mina's followers are constantly questioning how someone can have such beautiful skin all the time

🛸 being the queen she is, ashido posts her skincare routine online and it gains a shit ton of attention

🛸 next thing she knows, she's getting phone calls from popular makeup brands and ends up being the youngest hero to have a consecutive makeup line AND deal with a clothing brand

#shameless self promo with my playlist in here lmaoo #✨ og works <3 #haha i told y'all i'd make more #this one is much longer than the last 💀#eijirou kirishima #denki kaminari #mina ashido #mha headcanons #bnha headcanons #mha #bnha #kaminari hcs #kirishima hcs #ashido hcs #nami writes! *.✧

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whalesfallmoved · 4 years

Text

soft descent

Wedding vows for the dead. Neither of you ever had a chance.

chargestep. rated m. twisted memories and revenge and nightmares of all kinds and ricardo ortega, starring as sidestep’s poorly repressed self-doubt, in a manner of speaking.

or, sidestep sees nothing clearly, and her head has never been a pleasant place to be.

warnings: implications of suicide, slight body horror, violence, injury. hurt, without comfort, because of course.

ao3 link.

——

“Oof, that’s going to leave a mark.”

You’re standing next to the window in the dark the sun blistering overhead and the glass shattered underfoot. He’s looking down. You’re looking at him. It’s always been like that. When you look down you’ll see— no. You’re not going to look down. You’re going to look at him.

“It didn’t feel great.”

He smiles and it’s broken, one hand on the windowsill, one hand on his gut where Catastrofiend’s goodbye kiss drips slowly, wetly, a splash of violence against the cobalt blue skinsuit, Ranger-proud. You want to say you should get that looked at but it wouldn’t do any good, he’s already gotten blood all over the carpet.

Soft laugh and when he licks his lips you can see a hint of red, waiting to get coughed up, waiting to get expelled, the body killing itself to save itself—you remember the way it stuck between your fingers, the delirium—beg, the monster-thing demanded, and he laughed then too.

You look down at your hands. The way they curl up, clinging to air.

Are you bleeding? You must be.

“Yeah, I know all about that.”

“No,” you shake your head and your spine pops, “you don’t.”

“What, are we comparing jumps now?”

“Are we?” wouldn’t that be something. He never talked about this before, why start now? Trying to get you to forgive him? You won’t.

“It was a longer drop.”

“And there were people there to help you.”

“Depends on your definition of help.” Head jerk to the side, beckoning you to look, look down, look at them, look at you. “Technically, they helped you too.”

Bite down, taste blood and bile. Have you started choking yet down there? You remember the way it sluiced up your throat, the way you could feel the crack and splinter of your ribcage. His brows furrow a little and maybe he feels bad. You hope so. You hope it’s twisting him up inside.

“Wish they’d helped me to the morgue.”

Exhale, ragged and wet and torn.

“Yeah, those contracts are a bitch, huh? Nothing like a blood debt.”

“What, you want me to feel bad for you?” You taunt, vision hazy bones aching— pulse in your ribs, they must have picked you up by now, isn’t that nice. He’s still looking down, waiting for something to happen. “Poor Ricardo. The US government branded on his ass till the day he dies. Join the fucking club.”

“Hey—” he hisses, flashing his eyes to you finally, “you could pretend to sympathize.”

“I’m so sorry you have posters and trading cards and get invited to award ceremonies and—”

“Oh, I knew I have trading cards, but how did you know I have trading cards,” a wink, sly, charming and wrong, like a bone splitting the skin. “Collecting them, aren’t you?”

“You wish.”

You want to throw up. His neck is bruised.

He sighs, knocks his fist against the window. You both flinch. “They’re gonna keep you going till you’ve got nothing left to give, you know.”

And this time it’s your turn to laugh, bitter and cruel and serrated. You want to twist the knife in his gut you want to rake your nails down his skin, it’s the least- it’s the least you can do, god you are so angry you shake, but you’ve always been good at staying still. Hold your breath, don’t scream, fuck that hurts, and now he’s looking at you full on. “I’m already out. No thanks to you.”

Maybe he sees the way your hands are starting to twitch. The smile softens and you want to kiss-bite-punch it bruise blue to match his stupid fucking suit.

“Are you?”

Are.

You?

I am.

Am I?

A snake in your throat curling up ready to snap bite. Your lips twist, scene hazy at the edges, and when you get your hands around his neck (oh those are the bruises, they look like your hands) you’ll both be sorry—“fuck off.”

Magic words.

Ortega shrugs, pushes the window open like it doesn’t matter, like it didn’t matter, like he can just do that; he always had to make it about himself, can’t even leave you your death, can’t even leave you your place at the window.

You want to shove him away from it.

You want to shove him through it.

“If you insist.”

Close your eyes.

One.

Two.

Three.

—

Dr. Mortum does not smile, not until Angel flashes her a wicked grin and a bag of cash and a promise of more where that came from if— if— if—

She flips through the schematics, eyes brightening—the loose design, the necessities, the ideas—oh, you are going to do such great things together.

“It can be done, I assure you.”

“Excellent. My employer wants nothing but the best.”

—

The sound of waves takes the edge off the thump of a corpse hitting the ground, but you aren’t ready for it—you aren’t ready for the scent of rotting meat, rancid and cloying under the Los Diablos sun.

You open your eyes and when you look down, a dead girl is mangled, half gone. You think— she almost looks like your target.

Huh.

“That’s a bad idea, you know.”

Voice soft prying you know it and you groan, twist, turn, the sand uneven and blood-splattered.

He’s got that loose hold, hip jutted on a rock arms crossed, too casual for the teething gore surrounding them. Suit torn and eaten at, blood drip-drip-dripping down his arm where the skin is all gone, you keep waiting for them to crawl through the sand and eat you both alive. Maybe you won’t save him this time.

“Which one?” You ask, and when you look down you’re in the old suit, fitted like an infected wound. You yank at the collar, touch your cheek, your face— you’d covered your face here, hadn’t you? Yes.

He smiles. Shakes his head.

He hadn’t let them touch you, even when you collapsed, even when they wanted to help.

Not that it matters. None of it matters anymore.

“So you do care about my opinion?”

“No,” you murmur, choking down a gag—dead meat, food for the nanovores, food for the flies, “but that’s never stopped you before.”

“True,” he winks, running through the motions; what you remember, what you want to forget. Oh god you want to forget. You want to peel back this body and dig into the marrow and pull, pull, pull until the memories unravel in streams of violent orange.

He pushes off the rock, kicks his long legs out and walks too easily for a man that almost got eaten alive five minutes ago. “Walk with me?” He asks the way you don’t ask, you order, and throws his wounded arm over your shoulder, locking you hip to hip, no way out.

You sink under the weight, slotted to his side like a mismatched puzzle piece. Nothing about you fits, disjointed, dislocated. You’ve been shaped wrong for a long time now. They didn’t put all the parts back right. A doll unstitched and gutted for parts, but they didn’t— did they recycle you? Just medical waste and scars.

“You take me to the nicest places,” you say because it’s the only thing you can say when the sky looks like God wrapped his big meaty fist around it so tightly till it swelled and pinkened.

Black clouds on the skyline. Here they come. Don’t they know how strong you are now? How many webs you can weave? You crack your knuckles and almost smile.

Then you see: Tía Elena crosses herself in the background. She shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe. Why haven’t they evacuated all the civilians?

“Well, you never let me take you anywhere else,” he huffs, ignoring his mother as they walk on by, and that’s not— that’s not right?

It— no. You don’t want to be here. You can’t do that to him, not even now.

—

Fuck that’s good you’re invincible. The reckoning day is coming and when it does you’ll watch out for this one, you’ll remember her, how it felt to sit in her skin and move under it, but she can’t stop you. None of them can stop you now.

You smile and it’s sharp and cruel and silver. You almost almost almost want him to show up but the victory wouldn’t be quite as sweet, and you don’t really want to take a lightning bolt to the chest. Even if it wouldn’t slow you down, it’d still fucking hurt.

But it doesn’t matter. When you drive your foot into the golden boy’s chest you can feel his ribs crack a little bit and that’s even better. You’ll be riding the high of that for weeks after this. He’s a kicked puppy and you want— you want to kick him again, but there’s no time for that, no time for anything.

You wonder if Steel recognizes the grin right before you drop her like a body bag.

—

Gasp—jump spin dodge—near miss, fuck—Ortega laughed at the start but he’s not laughing anymore, smoke on the air, electricity crackling over his skin.

Fire off at its head one two, one miss, one hit. Head jerks, twists.

The thing-beast groans— don’t look at me i’m not here don’t look— “yOu...” guttural ugly it sees you, it sees you.

Run run run don’t touch me— “Noa!” He shouts and you stop drop and roll just in time for a blade to swing down, headsman’s axe, grazing the suit but not quite touching. Space where your body was empty, and it howls rage-snap.

“Mother— fucker!”

This. This you remember.

You remember the way its mind shucked the skin off your bones, all slick-blood drip drip drip. Gory, wrong, wound over wire, dirty fingernails scraping on the myelin, eating eating down down down— you remember: if you let it in it’ll kill you, cut your throat on its twisty edge thoughts as quick as a knife in hand.

You remember the images in your head— its plans, its ideas, the ways it was going to ply and split him down the middle like a rotten fruit. You couldn’t look at him for weeks. Almost. He was almost.

Almost.

Blink and the scene changes, and backup’s arrived, and you’re holding onto him, your mind pressed up against ITS just enough to make you both disappear. You threw up again and again afterward, but you still couldn’t forget, oil-slick.

not here we’re not here don’tlookatus

Then: you covered the wound with your own hands.

Now: you tilt your head to the side, pet his hair. It still doesn’t hurt as bad as the final impact, hitting the ground, or what came next. Suck it up.

“I told you,” he slurs, eyes half-mast, must be hazy from the blood loss. The human body can only take so much, even with the cutting edge mods. “I know all about that.”

“You don’t know anything. You don’t know anything at all.”

Hand over wound, you push down and he groans. You might as well save him again. You still haven’t had that showdown, and you’re gunning for a win. A dozen to one then, but you’ve gotten better, faster, smarter, your body catching up with your thoughts, and he doesn’t think at all. Doesn’t even matter if he did, you wouldn’t be able to hear it.

“C’mon, Noa,” that’s not your name, that’s the name he gave you—your name is a mouthful, he’d grinned and you’d rolled your eyes and flushed, but now it sticks like a stove burn—numbers and names and Noa, Noa, no one else has ever gotten close enough to name you— fuck you. “Throw me a bone here.”

“No.”

“Fine.” he gasps, chokes, but the words still spill loose, “but you can’t hate me for what you didn’t tell me.” He says, sounding so fucking reasonable while he’s bleeding out on your lap, and now you definitely have to save him, now you definitely have to make sure he lives, just so you can level him for that alone. Just wait, a feeling builds up in your chest, his day is coming and it’s coming fast.

“Don’t tell me what I can’t hate you for.” You want to snarl, a fighting dog, a dog fit for the ring, but it comes out weak, threadbare, and you hate the way your hands shake, the way your throat hardens up and each word is estranged from your mouth.

“At least give me a chance to prove you wrong.”

“Why?” Is that your voice? Small and weak, a child learning to make a fist, thumb tucked in. But you were never a child. You were never small.

“You know me,” he punches out a laugh and it breaks like a sob, “I love a challenge.”

“This isn’t a challenge, Ricardo. There’s just nothing left.”

—

He.

“November?”

He is.

“I thought you were dead—”

Older. Different. That feels wrong, wrong. He should be the same he can’t have changed that much. Fuck that moustache is ridiculous. He looks so heavy with grief, or is that just you, reflected back? A labyrinth of static.

It’s all blurry and too much, not enough, but maybe— for a moment— for a moment everything shatters, fingers under a suture, and maybe— it’s just a flash of his eyes, real and in front of you and not blurred by a late night show or security footage fight you only watched to make sure he still leads with his left sucker punch with his right and maybe—

“Are you still a telepath?”

You say yes and feel like a fool and you tell him a dash of the truth and you feel like a wound and you can’t hate me for what you didn’t tell me.

Your hands are shaking. You make a fist.

He wants— he wants something.

A raw crack down your spine and you smile and it feels wrong. Maybe it looks wrong. He won’t stop watching you like you’ll disappear if he blinks more than once, if he looks away, and maybe you will. Maybe you’re just ash and graveyard dirt held together with sutures and wire.

You want to crawl through the floor to someplace small and dark and cold where no one will ever find you again.

You tell him just enough, just enough to keep on hating him.

It’ll be easier that way.

—

Rewind.

“That’s a bad idea, you know.” He cackles as you thrust out a punch—miss—and dodge his return, feet sliding on the mat. You can’t believe you let him talk you into this, a friendly spar on Ranger soil.

“Which one?” Thrust dodge lock your ankle around his own, slipping up letting you get close like that, rookie mistake— twist of your hip— throw! and the satisfying slap of skin on the mat, his skin, his body hitting the ground, but he holds hard and pulls you down with him (if you go i go) and you land— oof! breathless and grinning and on top, finally, finally.

Fingers lock and you shift, thighs on either side, pin him down, his emitters humming biting pinching but you got him, and you aren’t letting go. A shiver skip-dances down your spine, static-charged.

“I win,” you growl, a winner’s grin biting into your cheeks, free and loose (where’s your mask?)

He squeezes your hand, sends a low-grade jolt up your palms sharp, just to see what you’ll do, jellyfish stings, and you squeeze back harder, lean down till you can feel his breath hot on your lips. You never got this close before, he’s so solid beneath you.

Ricardo, grinning back, a halo of black curls fanned out, sticking to his brow all slick with sweat, “what is that, a dozen to one?”

“Shut up,” he can’t take this from you, not yet, “don’t be a sore loser.”

“Actually, I’m enjoying myself quite a bit right now. I should let you win more often.”

“Fuck you,” but it tears out a laugh far too sweet for your mouth. You feel segmented and gentle, like a scorpion smashed on a rock left out to rot in the sun. Maybe he’ll take you home, run his fingers through your matted hair and not mind the stingers or the venom. You weren’t made for a laughter light like this, and if there was ever a time you could be it’s long gone now, but you still want him to touch you, a want like a scar healed wrong.

“Buy me dinner first— ah!” You let go just to crack your palm against the top of his head, anything to wipe that smug edge off, and— “okay, fine, I’ll buy dinner,” but this time when your hand comes down he catches it, brings it to his lips, soft on your palm— oh god, oh god it hurts.

“And then what?” You dare, you gasp, you’ve never been that bold—couldn’t afford boldness, always a coward at heart and that’s how he always won, but for a moment you let your fingers curl along his cheekbone. His eyes slide closed, kissing still—dart of tongue, tracing the line of your palm. How long is my life? How many children will I have? What do the cracks in the skin say? Maybe his mouth can divine something human in the shape of your hand, even if the lines there aren’t really yours, just a thing they gave you to play pretend.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, still not giving you his gaze, a pained crush to his brow, “you did ask me to take you somewhere nice.”

“Did I?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“Liar. I never asked you to do anything.”

He smiles right on your skin, like a knife sliding under your gut—girl/deer, splayed out on the slaughterhouse floor of his kindness. The world hazes at the edges, curling up set aflame.

Somewhere nice. Too bad it can’t last.

Finally. Finally he looks at you. Sees you. How long has it been since someone hasn’t stared through?

“No, you didn’t. I wish you would have.”

—

Choking hard gasp and the phone screams or maybe you do. Your teeth throb.

The room is heavy dark save for the corners of curtained sunlight peeking through, the air scented thickly of cheap candles and candy wrappers. The sheets are sweat-slick and you can smell your own skin, the rawness of sleep on it. Musky. Unsterilized.

The fabric sticks and itches. Fingers under the hem, you toss the sweater aside, hear it thump damply against a wall.

Breathe. Hand to chest and yes, that’s your heart, rocking in your rib cage, slowing down. You breathe with in—ten—tion.

One.

Two.

Three.

Okay, you’re okay. You can do this. You can still do this.

—

“I don’t want to do this here.”

He holds out a plate of food, tilts his head to the side, the corners of his mouth twitching up. Pushes the plate into your hands, and you take it—just hold out something to someone and nine times out of ten they’ll take it without thinking, asking only after they’ve agreed to carry the burden.

Silly you, you never had a choice.

His apartment is soft and safe around the edges, and your heart gets sticky in your chest. You think maybe those are your books on his shelf, the ones you lost after—

“What’s wrong with here?” He shrugs, brushing past toward the table, beckoning you to follow with a grin and a nudge.

“I like it here.” You answer honestly, for once, and he beams, a light bright enough to burn.

“I know.”

“So why are you ruining it?”

“Ruining it?” Hurt. Smile gone.

“Take me somewhere else. Anywhere else.” Somewhere cruel and sharp as a scalpel to the throat. Psychopather or Overlord or the dilapidated construction ruin you jumped out of at the second story and broke your wrist because you made a deal— you agreed to a dare— race you to the bottom down the stairs— if you lose you have to answer my questions— and god, you didn’t want to answer anything, anything at all, and he’d screamed your name, cursed you out, told you don’t be an idiot what if you broke your neck and flinched when you snapped I was just following your lead.

“I can’t,” he shakes his head and you have to sit down, set the plate on the table before you drop it, wouldn’t want to break the fine china. Did his mother give him this? You think so; he’d taken such care, stacking each plate freshly hand washed before putting them away.

“Liar.”

“Not this time,” a loaded smile, a loaded gun, his fork twirls around on his plate. Shadow of a wrist and a vague gesture to the seams of the scenery. “This is all you. Your shape. What you made. I’m just along for the ride.”

“Then I’m not staying.”

Shrug again. Why won’t he do anything else? A looped tape, a slight glitch. Something’s wrong.

You’re wrong, maybe.

“Not even for dinner?”

You stand up. Pace. There are plans— things to be done— finishing touches— you can’t stay here. You can’t.

“What do you want, Noa?” He asks, so softly, so gently, it would be kinder if he killed you there, but you know he won’t; it’ll take a lot more than bad table manners to push him to that, but maybe you can do it. Maybe you can get him a little ruthless, even more desperate. You’ve seen it before, in flashes, coiling green under his skin. Won’t it be funny if he breaks before you do? No blood on your hands, not yet. What a record. Fitting, almost.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Why?”

“Hard to work on an empty stomach,” he shrugs again, fuck, stop doing that. Bare feet silent on the carpet and you find yourself back at the table, back in the chair, sitting across from him and there’s nowhere to go—

Blink.

Sterile antiseptic white walls and doctors— in your apartment— your neighbor? Yes, that’s your neighbor he accused you of staring once, the fuck are you lookin’ at? And you weren’t staring, at least not like that, but it took a soft nudge of don’t look at me for him to go all the same. Strange. You didn’t think a doctor would live here. It’s a bad side of town, but it’s good for sidestepping.

You think: I am going to wake up now.

Wait. No. You say this out loud. It comes through with the wet ache of drowning.

No. Wait. Your words roll back down your throat—you didn’t say it. You didn’t say anything at all. You never have.

All the words roll in but they’re not yours you’re fit to burst.

It must be nice being able to speak.

Not here.

Maybe that’s what it is to be human.

Get real, you think because you stick your fingers in a few skulls and cut your teeth on some gray matter while someone thinks about love you know what being human is?

I could. I could know.

They gave you a tongue and mouth and lips but you can’t kiss and you can’t make words, you can only patch together the syntax, call it real, call it human—but when you speak it’s always going to be with someone else’s voice, strangled out.

The walls are whiter now and the lights slice your skin like a hot knife through butter. It isn’t a cliff but a door you’ve already walked through and the ocean inside the warehouse inside the apartment is now a table with handcuffs. His table. Her table. You jerk your wrists and the metal clanks hard and fuck no not here not here please take me back i’m sorry i want to go back—

(he’s coming to get you)

(he wouldn’t leave you here)

(no time for the dramatics ricardo just get the door let’s blow this popsicle stand)

She smiles at you from across that metal table (wait) and tells you that you are never going to die (stop) because to die you have to be alive (i am i am i?) and you should know better by now we are going to do such great things together (please)

aren’t we,

aren’t we.

aren’t i?

wake up now- i want to— please.

—

You’re alone in the dark, the armor fits perfectly, and that’s all that matters.

(when you become a casualty revoked from the grave get ready a revenant coming back to eat them alive oh oh oh just you wait)

You think you’ll keep the name.

(sidestep and charge reunited again you can see the headlines now and fuck you can’t wait to see the look on his face you were always a pair maybe he’ll stop you wouldn’t that be something)

You don’t sleep.

—

He doesn’t stop you.

—

“Noa?”

“Yes?”

“You are... fine, right?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’d tell me if something was wrong?”

“Of course I would.”

—

Your dreams are filmy, cracked wombs of (not not not) memories and gummy tissue. Press on it too hard and it moves back just the same but with a muscle deep ache. At least you know it’s a dream this time, and when you go up the stairs and find him there, you don’t hiss or spit or curse. You’ve done enough of that. He’ll carry the scars to prove it.

He’s looking out the window. He’s looking at you.

No, he’s looking at you. You flinch and you don’t know why.

“Really? Even here?”

“What?”

“Take the mask off at least. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen your pretty face.”

You reach up and your fingers find hard armor, not supple skinsuit. When you look back his face is different, older, not the poster-ready Marshal but aged, aching, and you ache with it, bone-deep.

You’re so tired. You wonder if he is too.

The helmet comes off. Drops with a thump.

You go to the window. After all, there’s nowhere else left, and he asked so nicely.

“What do we do now?” You ask, so softly. Still can’t look outside. Still don’t want to see what he sees. Better to watch him watch you. Now that you’re on the other side of things, you prefer it when you’re the one doing the bleeding—what a thing.

“I don’t know,” a laugh a sob or something in between, he crosses his arms and turns away, turns toward you. “Did you ever figure out what you want?”

“Yeah.”

You blink and he’s himself again, younger, more angular, a grin fit for the big screen on his handsome, handsome face. It’s easier to talk to him like this, the way you remember, the way it should be. Time didn’t move while you were gone, and you’re the only one still snapped in half.

A pause. Are you smiling now? It must be a sad little thing though, because his eyes soften up and a frown mars his forehead.

“I want to watch you grow old.”

“What, so you can keep on teasing me? That never stopped you before.”

“Shut up, I’m not done yet.” you whisper, stepping forward, stepping up to the cliff’s edge.

“I want to watch you grow old,” reaching for his hand, and he lets you have them both, cradled so carefully—and your gloves are black and armored and insulated, but not the most protected part of your body. Could he kill you with a surge? Maybe. “And I want to watch you die in a bed. Your bed.”

“A little morbid,” he murmurs but you’ve got to keep going, you’ve got to get it out, because once it’s out you’ll never have to look at it again. “But I guess that tracks.”

Turn over his hands, you thumb at his emitters. Hint of a spark, and you laugh and now it’s sob, now it’s a wound. You won’t look at him. “I want to watch the arthritis take your hands and I want to take you away from this fucking city and we’ll both be so bored out of our minds, we’ll start inventing problems just to fix them.”

“Careful, Noa,” hands turn over, running up your armored wrists, grasping at your forearms. “That almost sounds like a happy ending.”

Wedding vows for the dead. Neither of you ever had a chance. You don’t have one now.

“And we can’t have that.”

You look up. The sun’s on his face now, turning his eyes a shade of deep whiskey, and that’s how you want to remember him; alive under the sun, smile lines just forming, his nose a bit crooked from getting punched one too many times. You’ll be on the ground in a moment.

“No,” he agrees, grasping at your elbows now, pulling you close, and you cling to his in turn. “We can’t.” Flash and grin, and there he is, just like you remember. Challenging, challenger. No chance, and neither of you know when to quit. “Want to up the stakes a bit?”

“Always.”

You let go first. Of course. You turn to the window. You open it.

“Whoever falls fastest wins.”

“And what do I get when I win?” When, not if.

“A quick and painless death.”

“Fuck,” you breathe. “That’s a hell of a thing. How do I know you won’t cheat?”

“You don’t,” he winks, steps back, head tilt toward the window. Mirrored. You’ve got one hand on the windowsill and one hand curled around your gut, where he sunk that barb between the plates before you cracked his skull on the ground before all of Los Diablos. “You never do. Isn’t that part of the fun?”

You take your place at the window, you set your shoulders, look down. What’s he been looking at all this time?

Long way down, and you wait to see her; you, in soft skinsuit, teal and black and bloody and broken, but she isn’t there.

Just an ambulance, an end repeating itself.

“Person who falls the fastest, huh?”

“And hits the ground hardest.”

You climb up, clench your jaw.

It always ends like this.

“You’re on.”

#chargestep #fhr #mywriting #okay-- I have not slept. and that is indeed a problem. and this should probably get more than a cursory glance-over. alas.#there's running themes in here somewhere- I swear- but until then I'm going to sleep #ricardo strictly through noa's twisted memories and flawed perceptions and rage up until she finds him again - because yeah #(is it ortega? good question. she doesn't know either. but your (not) lover-slash-rival haunting your memories and dreams.. mhm.)

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d3-iseefire · 3 years

Text

Little Swan Lost Chapter 39

Thorin hadn’t realized it was possible for a human to turn as scarlet red as the girl did when he opened the door. She then did her best to look anywhere but him but her eyes, almost on their own, darted toward his chest every few seconds. Every time they did, he swore she discovered a new intensity of red.

At least he didn’t have to worry about whether his young wife found him physically attractive.

The thought passed idly through his mind, only to be pushed out by another taking its place. He had personally seen her being escorted back into the palace on their wedding night, and her cousin had all but accused her of infidelity. The media reports and rumors, many traced directly back to Shire, also painted her as…promiscuous to say the least.

Thorin had half expected similar rumors to crop up in Erebor, especially after discovering she’d found a way to sneak out of the palace.

Those rumors had never come, however, and now, watching her reaction to him, he questioned if she’d ever seen a man without his shirt on much less done anything else with one. Instead of behaving like the tart the media painted her as, she was behaving far more like a…

“I’m sorry,” Bilba suddenly blurted, derailing his train of thought. She waved a hand vaguely toward where the worst of the bruising from the ocean fiasco had stained his torso a mottled yellow and black. “That must hurt.”

It did, but there was no reason to rub it in her face. “It’s fine,” Thorin said instead. “What about you?”

“Oh.” Her hand lifted slightly toward her side. “I’m all right. Thank you for asking.”

They lapsed into an awkward silence, until Thorin finally cleared his throat. “Did you want something?”

Bilba jumped. “Did you hear what happened today?” Her voice was so quiet he could barely hear her. She started wringing her hands aggressively, leaving the skin reddened.

Without thinking, Thorin put a hand over hers, stopping them mid-motion. She froze, and her eyes went wide.

“Sorry.” He pulled his hand back.

“No, it’s fine,” she said quickly, waving her hands in front of her. “It’s-- ”

She trailed off again and Thorin suppressed a sigh. They’d be here all night at this rate. “You were saying?” he asked, struggling to keep the frustration from his voice. “I was in meetings all day, so I haven’t heard much of anything.”

Meetings that had left him drained and fighting a headache, which was why he’d grabbed some pain medication and gone straight to bed afterward, only to be woken up less than an hour later by her knocking on his door.

Her shoulders slumped a half inch or so as if relieved to find him ignorant. Probably not a good sign.

“I just thought I should tell you. Before –”

“I hear it from someone else?” Thorin filled in. Definitely a bad sign then. He sighed and resigned himself to still more frustration before he’d be allowed to sleep again. “All right.” He gestured toward the couch. “Shall we?”

She nodded, and then paused, eyes darting toward his chest. Thorin raised an eyebrow in question. “Would you prefer it if I put on a shirt first?”

Another nod and Thorin pushed off the doorframe to retrieve a black t-shirt from his closet. It was one he used as an undershirt so it was on the tighter side, but it would have to do. He didn’t really have any casual clothes and he wasn’t about to get dressed back in his uniform for…whatever this was.

He returned to the door. “Better?”

She muttered something that sounded like “marginally” and headed for the couch with him close on her heels.

He sat on one end, and she immediately headed to the exact opposite side. In a seamless, graceful move she sat and pulled her legs up so they somehow fit perfectly beside her on the small cushion. Thorin would have dislocated a hip if he tried to copy that position, but she looked entirely comfortable. His own flexibility was limited to throwing an arm along the back of the couch and crossing a leg to allow him to face her easier.

“You’re a dancer, right?” he asked, only to mentally kick himself. Of course she was a dancer, he’d literally witnessed her doing it.

“I danced for a company back in Shire.” A look of genuine happiness crossed her face, and Thorin realized it was the first time he’d ever seen it. “I was hoping I could maybe dance for the one here in Erebor too.”

Thorin tried, and failed, to find a diplomatic response. He suspected the girl didn’t understand being crown princess wasn’t just a title, but a full-time job. Nori had reported Bilba had lived a relatively civilian life in Shire, but Thorin had thought she’d at least have some idea of what being a princess entailed.

It was becoming increasingly clear that she did not. She’d never inquired about her duties and responsibilities, and while a schedule had been mentioned to her, Thorin doubted she understood just what it meant. The fact she wanted to work at a bakery, and attend college, and was now expressing interest in dancing proved that much.

The look on her face was fading, and he knew he’d waited to long to answer.

“We’ll see,” he said finally, lamely trying to salvage what little he could. “You can bring it up to Balin.”

Perhaps they could work something out where she did certain things part time or only part of the year. There was also the possibility of patronages where they could potentially incorporate what she wanted into her actual duties. It’d depend on what duties she ended up having, and the possible conflicts between those responsibilities and the things she wanted to do.

She gave him a weak, false smile and focused on where her hands were clasped in her lap. “I suppose.” She shifted in her seat and took a deep breath. “All right, I guess I should stop stalling and just tell you.”

The sense of dread reared up again and settled across Thorin’s shoulders. If she’d gone to the trouble of getting him up and was fidgeting this badly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it. “All right.”

She started talking, eyes focused on her hands and voice low as she recounted the events of the day. By the end of it all, Thorin had shut his eyes and was pinching the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to ward off the worsening headache behind his temples.

Bilba lapsed into silence.

“First off,” he said eventually, opening his eyes and straightening to face Bilba. “I apologize on behalf of my father. He’s an idiot and had no right to do that to you.”

Or at least he had no right to do it the way he had. Thorin doubted the Thain of Shire cared whether or not the girl could produce an heir, not with the crown having four already, but he wouldn’t put it past the man sending someone infertile out of simple spite. So Thorin could at least understand having the question.

Having the question after barely a month, however, was ridiculous and forcing the girl into an exam was asinine. He could imagine what his sister had said to their father, and he fully intended to add his own part in the morning.

He’d also need to speak to Kyra. She didn’t deserve whatever his father had said on top of everything else she was dealing with. The media had been split on her since the wedding, with some giving her sympathy and the rest mocking her mercilessly. He’d heard some of what was being said and it was brutal. Kyra hadn’t commented on it, but he had no doubt she was aware of it.

“It’s all right.” She bit her lower lip. “I tried to tell Dis I didn’t need--”

“Dis is a force of nature,” Thorin said, waving off her explanation. “Trying to control her just encourages her.”

A ghost of a smile graced Bilba’s face. Her shoulders slumped with relief, and she leaned a little harder into the back of the couch.

“I appreciate you telling me,” Thorin added, and he meant it. It suggested at least some level of trust, even if she didn’t fully realize it. Even if she’d believed his reaction might be negative, she’d still gone to the length of waking him up to have a private conversation with him.

She was more comfortable with him than she thought, and if that was the case...

An idea that had been percolating at the back of his mind for awhile pushed to the front, and Thorin acted on it before he could talk himself out of it.

“I wonder,” he started slowly, his own nerves suddenly on edge. “Since we’re already on the topic, if I could ask you something.”

She raised an eyebrow in question, and he froze as uncertainty settled in. This probably wasn’t the best time but, then again, when was a good time to bring up physical intimacy? He’d idly hoped she’d approach him, especially based on the reports from Shire, but that hadn’t happened. Was it because she’d been finding an outlet somewhere else, or was it that the reports were wrong all together?

There was also the fact that he hadn’t even spoken to her until just recently and, again, how did one broach such a topic, particularly to a stranger? Oh, by the way, I know we barely know one another, but I’m not a huge fan of celibacy so I was wondering…”

Yeah, that would go over well, wouldn’t it?

But now she’d brought it up, in a roundabout way, so wouldn’t this be the perfect time to…

“You didn’t consummate the marriage, did you?”

Kyra’s words, almost the first thing she’d said to him after he’d called her on the wedding night.

A sick feeling settled in his gut.

What was he thinking? How could he do that to Kyra? She’d be devastated if he did…that…and she found out.

“Of course not.”

That’s what he’d said to her. Of course not, and he’d meant it even though, in the back of his mind he’d been thinking of the duty of one day needing to produce a male heir.

Duty.

Just a duty.

An obligation.

Intimacy for a purpose, not because he simply…wanted it.

And yet, here he was, about to ask about exactly that.

Mahal, what did that say about him? Was he really that fickle? Was it so important to him that he’d betray the woman who’d been by his side since childhood?

But you betrayed her already, didn’t you? A voice inside his head whispered. You broke your engagement, and married another, didn’t you?

He’d thought he was doing the right thing. He still thought so, most of the time. He’d made his choice and it had been the right one, hadn’t it? He’d been taught since childhood that duty to the crown came above all else. It had been a matter of honor.

And, besides, if he’d refused…if he’d abdicated the throne in favor of marrying Kyra…would that have really been better? Frerin, who had neither the temperament nor the desire to rule, would have been named heir. The nobility would have torn him apart.

Dis would have been there.

Even so, Thorin knew his father would have disowned him and fired Kyra from her position as ambassador. He would have been left penniless, and at the mercy of living off Kyra’s finances.

Excuses.

It was highly possibly they’d have had to leave Erebor, and for what?

For what indeed?

Krya would never be happy living a simple life, and Thorin would be useless for it. He was a crown prince. He didn’t know how to be anything else.

He’d had an uncle once who left everything behind to marry a woman his family had not approved of. He’d ended up rotting away at the villa of some benevolent relative or another, unable to find work due to his notoriety and lack of skill set. There was little call in the workforce for an ex-noble that had fallen out of favor with those in power.

Over time, his uncle had begun to resent his new wife and that resentment had grown into a cancer that had utterly poisoned their relationship.

If Thorin had gone down that same road, would he have faced the same end?

He feared the answer was yes. Yes and, in that, the choice, in the end, had been that there was no choice.

His father questioned why he didn’t abdicate.

The answer was he couldn’t. The answer was there were no good options, no good roads or paths to take that would lead him to an end he desired.

There was only the least painful route.

The route that did the least damage.

The route that protected Kyra from the worst possible pain, even if she didn’t see it.

If it was the right choice, then why work so hard to undo it?

Why are you questioning it?

Why not just ask?

Kyra’s face when he’d told her the engagement was broken filled his mind and a surge of nausea roiled in his gut. He pushed to his feet, guilt making his very bones ache. “Never mind,” he said, voice sharper than he’d intended. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

He almost ran into his room and shut the door, the last sight he had of Bilba’s eyes, wide and startled where she still sat on the couch.

He pressed his hands on the door, leaned his head against it, and let out a quiet groan.

She probably thought he was insane.

He thought he was insane, sometimes.

He pushed off the door and paced to his balcony. He threw open the doors and was immediately hit by the bitter cold air coming off the ocean. The loud roar of the sea washed over him, and he heard the distant sound of a ship’s horn.

Thorin walked out onto the balcony, stone cold beneath his feet, and leaned forward to rest his hand on the stone railing. The skies were overcast, as they often were in Erebor, so there was little to see but he could imagine it well enough.

Light caught his attention and he turned to see it shining merrily from Bilba’s windows.

Those windows were supposed to belong to Kyra. The entire room in fact. She’d designed it, even slept in it when she wasn’t in his room. They’d been all but living together right up until the very end when he’d pulled it all down around her without warning.

What kind of man did that?

He tightened his hands on the railing until he felt the edge of the stone cutting into his palms, and then shoved off it angrily.

He stalked back into his room, dropped onto his back on his bed and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Mahal, what was he doing?

This was done with. He’d made his decision. Why was he questioning it now? He needed to stop. Stop questioning, stop having Ori look for ways out, stop…

Kyra’s heartbroken sobs rang through his mind, and suddenly bile was forcing its way up his throat. Thorin lunged from the bed, and barely made it to the bathroom before he lost what little he’d been able to eat that day.

When he was done, he leaned forward to rest his head against the cold porcelain of the toilet lid, chest heaving as he caught his breath.

Some crown prince he was.

Some fiancé, or husband for that matter.

He and Kyra should have just eloped, years ago when they’d have the chance. He could have given Kyra the large wedding she wanted later, after his father had a chance to calm down. Bilba would have ended up married to Frerin, who was closer in age to her and had far less baggage to cart around.

It would have been better for all of them.

He pushed himself shakily to his feet and went to rinse his mouth at the sink. A glance in the mirror showed him looking haggard, dark circles under his eyes from the day full of meetings, and his hair unkempt.

“Get ahold of yourself,” he ordered under his breath to his reflection. “You’re the crown prince for Mahal’s sake.”

His reflection offered nothing but judgement in return. Thorin splashed water on his face, grabbed a towel to dry off and went to try and get some sleep.

It would be a long time coming and, when it did, his dreams were haunted by the sound of a woman crying and a voice shouting one single question for which he had no answer.

Why?

***

Bilba didn’t know how long she sat on the couch before finally getting up to retire to her room. At her door, she paused and looked over her shoulder toward Thorin’s room. She could hear him in there, pacing about, clearly unsettled.

“Since we’re already on the topic, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you about.”

Which topic? They’d talked about money before, and he’d never brought anything up so that left the topic of…heirs? He’d wanted to talk about heirs?

No, she thought as sudden heat flooded her face. Not heirs.

Sex.

He’d wanted to talk about sex.

Wanted to but, instead, had freaked out as far as she could tell and ran off to his room?

Bilba walked into her own room slowly and shut the door behind her. Her room, but Kyra had designed it. How close must they have been to the wedding for Kyra to have designed her room in the marital suite?

He must have been sleeping with her.

Bilba paused mid-step as the thought crossed her mind. She knew that already, logically. They’d been together for years, all but married. She knew it, but this was the first time she’d recognized it.

It must have been a drastic change, for both of them. Their entire lives upended in an instant.

A heavy feeling settled over her, and Bilba wrapped her arms around herself. She’d been congratulating herself on not being bitter but had simultaneously been judging Thorin and Kyra for every time they so much as looked at one another.

If anything, they should be the ones who were bitter. Especially Kyra. Every day she saw the man she loved but couldn’t touch him.

Bilba sank down onto the end of her bed and tried to imagine if she had been Kyra, having to watch Bofur with someone else.

It would have hurt, and she hadn’t even been with him that long. Not as long as Kyra and Thorin had been.

She sighed and studied her hands. She wasn’t so good a person that she fully sympathized with either of them, but she supposed it wouldn’t kill her to try a little harder to be understanding, would it?

A soft scratching came from her balcony doors, and she got up to go open them a slit. Immediately the beach cat strolled in, damp and irritable but with tail and head held high.

“Did you get caught by the tide coming in?” Bilba asked. She scooped the small creature up and went to grab a towel to dry the small animal off with. Once that was done, she changed, turned off the lights and climbed into bed. The cat burrowed under the covers and curled against her stomach, purring softly.

Bilba absently stroked its head, while staring blankly into the darkness.

Had Thorin really wanted to talk about…that? She suppressed a shiver. If he had, it’d probably come up again, or maybe not. Maybe it wasn’t even what she’d thought. Maybe he’d been wanting to ask her if he could continue to have sex with Kyra.

Bilba scowled. Sympathy or not, she didn’t think she’d be okay with that. But she also didn’t think she’d be okay with him wanting to be intimate with her, either.

That wasn’t particularly fair though, was it? If it was something he wanted enough to try talking to her about, then shouldn’t she at least hear him out? Should she bring it up, or wait and see if he mentioned it again sometime down the road?

She’d prefer the latter. Maybe he’d just forget about it all together and never bring it up again?

She sighed. It had been so much easier with Bofur. They’d had a foundation, a relationship that made it easy to just talk when they needed to talk. They’d talked about intimacy. He’d understood her hesitancy, if not the reasons for it, and had assured her he was fine with it.

It had honestly never occurred to her that Thorin might not be.

She sighed and pulled the covers up to her chin. The thought of him possibly wanting…intimacy…made her nervous but didn’t particularly scare her. Mainly because she was confident that, if he’d planned to bully her or pressure her, she’d have known that by now. So she could say no.

She hoped she could say no.

She hadn’t actually said it to him yet, had she?

Some men were so kind, until they heard the word no.

Bilba shook her head. She was reading too much into it, working herself up over something that probably wasn’t even what she thought. He’d probably wanted to talk about something innocuous and, even if it had been that, there was no reason to believe he’d turn into a monster if…when, she rejected him.

“Please don’t a monster,” she whispered out loud.

The kitty grumbled against her stomach, and Bilba settled against the pillow, hoping sleep would find her sooner or later.

Maybe she could try talking to him? Not about that per se but just…about…stuff? She’d talked to Bofur all the time, and she missed it.

Maybe.

She’d think about it.

Maybe she’d just solve the problem by ignoring it all together and hoping it went away.

It had never worked before but there was always a first time.

Right?

Follow on AO3: Follow on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1743620/chapters/3723188

#Writing #My Writing #fanfiction #fanfic #LOTR #Hobbit #Tolkien #Female Bilbo Baggins #AU #Modern AU #Angst #Arranged Marriage #bagginshield #romance #Slow Burn

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thetranquilteal · 4 years

Photo

The Vintage Calendar [AO3] by @thetranquilteal

With the ending of her contract with the UK Armed Forces, all Claire Beauchamp wants for Christmas is to enjoy a quiet holiday in Scotland with her long-term boyfriend Frank Randall. While visiting with close friends, however, Claire is gifted with a vintage advent calendar that sets her life on a path she never expected... one that leads to Northern Badgers star, James Fraser.

Modern Day AU loosely based on the Netflix Christmas movie ‘The Holiday Calendar’. New chapter posted every day!

Day 1: Candy Cane

Claire wrapped her dressing gown around her a little tighter as she shuffled across the living space to the kitchenette, early morning light guiding the way. She placed the kettle on the stove and set about preparing tea, her cold hands fumbling with the canister.

“Still cold, love?” Frank came up behind her and rubbed his hands up and down her arms gently, trying to generate some heat.

“Yes,” she admitted with a light laugh as she wrapped her dressing gown around her a little tighter still. Mrs Baird’s Bed and Breakfast was quaint and in an ideal location, in the very centre of Inverness, but it was not as warm and cosy as she would have liked. “I just can’t seem to shake it.”

“Here,” he took the spoon out of her hand and guided her out of the way, “let me finish the tea. You go and sit by the fire.”

“Thank you,” she kissed him on the cheek and made her way around the couch towards the purple armchair that had caught her eye the moment they entered their accommodation. She paused, though, when the vintage calendar caught her eye.

“Frank?” Claire called.

“Hmm?”

“Did you open this?”

“Open what, darling?”

“The calendar that Mrs. Graham gave us.”

“No, I haven’t had the chance to have a closer look yet. Is there there something for today, then?”

“Yes,” Claire’s brow furrowed as she reached out and picked up the little figurine sitting in the already open doorway. “It’s a little candy cane.”

The sun had long since set by the time Claire wandered the streets of downtown Inverness looking for somewhere to stop for a warm drink. Sparkling lights and Christmas decorations adorned each side and muffled festive tunes could be heard from many of the doorways she passed. She couldn’t bring herself to walk through any of them however, the lights seemingly too bright and vibe feeling too thick, and instead kept walking, taking turns here and there looking for somewhere a little more quiet to spend her evening without Frank.

It had been a productive day, first studying various heavy tomes with the Reverend at the Manse and then a few hours spent at the local library looking over what Claire considered to be mounds of papers brought to them by the librarian, a large eyed woman with thick glasses, all too happy to deliver more than they could possibly read to their table along with what seemed to be a never ending cup of candy canes. It was there Frank had discovered a new lead, a handwritten note suggesting some rituals performed during yuletide centuries ago had a deeper and more intricate history than previously believed. Seeing the light spark in his eyes, Claire had encouraged him to continue his research and told him not to worry about their plan to spend the evening together - they had a whole month in town and one evening spent apart wouldn’t ruin anything after all.

The streets got darker and Claire subsequently got calmer, slowing her walk to a much more casual stroll, a warm looking restaurant now set in her sights. Suddenly a door opened to her left and a group of people flowed out, merriment evident in their faces if not their voices, each carrying boxes of what looked to be homemade Christmas decorations. She instinctively moved to the side to get out of the way, just barely dodging a stray oversized candy cane to the head and waited patiently in the entrance of an alleyway for them to pass.

“Druid!”

Claire jumped and turned to find an older man standing in an unassuming doorway staring at her. He was dressed in a shirt and kilt that had certainly seen better days and she looked around quickly to make sure that he was, in fact, looking at her before responding. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Druid!" The man repeated, waving for her to come in. "Ach, come on lass! I cannae stand here waiting for ye all night. Come in before ye attract attention!”

“I don’t-”

Obviously frustrated by her hesitation, the man grabbed her hand and pulled her inside, his touch surprisingly gentle for a man so seemingly agitated.

She stumbled slightly but regained her balance in time to watch the man leave her just as quickly as he had found her to join a group of men huddled on one side of the establishment. She pushed her indignation aside for a moment to look around and - found a very ordinary tavern. It made sense that she hadn’t noticed this place herself, she thought. It was free from glitz, glamour and - perhaps most significantly - any holiday glitter. Overall, it was rather dark and grungy with lanterns and fireplaces providing a warmth she hadn’t experienced all day.

Determined to remain calm after such an undignified entrance, she squared her shoulders and walked up to the bar, raising a hand to attract the attention of the barkeep.

“Local cider, please.”

The man nodded and Claire settled herself on a stool and, feeling less conspicuous, took her time studying her surroundings more closely. Individuals and small groups were scattered here and there, their collective chatter on par with the music playing through speakers overhead.

She accepted her drink and handed over the required amount of cash. She took a sip and smiled at the taste. 'Life was too short to not enjoy the drink in your hand' as her old Commanding Officer used to say. Half way through her drink the group of men huddled by one of the open fireplaces caught her attention again when a pained grunt travelled across the room.

Just ignore it, Beauchamp. Enjoy your drink, Beauchamp, she thought to herself and for a moment she managed to do just that. Until she couldn’t stand it any longer. "Dammit, Beauchamp."

Claire got up, drink still in hand, and made her way over, their discussion becoming clearer with every step.

“Well, what if I-”

“-I dinnae need yer help!”

“Ye cannae-”

“-one phone call-”

“For the love of-”

There, amongst five or so men, each talking over the top of one another, was a young red haired man sitting on a chair cradling his arm. So busy arguing amongst themselves, they barely noticed her presence.

“It’s fine-”

“-force the joint back, myself.”

“Don’t you dare!” Without thinking, Claire pushed through to stand in front of the injured man. “Stand aside at once!”

“What??”

“Stand aside, she says!”

“Here,” she turned to the loud and overly short bearded man closest to her and handed him her glass. “Hold this.”

“Hold this, she says!”

Claire tuned out the discussion around them and focused on the task at hand.

“Now, what’s happened?”

“Ugh,” the patient grunted as he shifted in his seat, “landed on the ice wrong. Cannae lift my arm without it hurtin’.”

“How long ago?”

“An hour mayhap.”

Claire nodded in understanding and reached out a hand. “May I?”

The man looked at her for a long moment before taking a swig from a glass on the table and visibility gritting his teeth in anticipation. He nodded his consent.

“Do you have a history of instability in this shoulder?” She asked as she palpated the area gently.

“I’ve dislocated it once before,” he admitted with a grimace.

“Or twice,” a gruff and somewhat familiar voice added in, the man responsible for... introducing her to this pub, she suspected.

“Or twice,” her patient reluctantly admitted. “But no’ in a long while.”

“Hmmm… you really ought to see a doctor. Are there any clinics open this time of night?” When he didn’t answer she turned to look at the other men who in turn were equally nonvocal and completely unhelpful. “No? Well, it looks to me like you’ve suffered from shoulder subluxation - a partial dislocation, that is - and it’s fixed itself already. So long as you keep your arm immobile and make sure to rest, I don’t see why you can’t wait to see your doctor tomorrow.” Decision made, Claire stood up and turned to the others. “Fetch me a long piece of cloth or a belt. And some ice from the bar.”

"Fetch me, she says!”

“Ach, shut up ye drunk eejit and do as the lady says,” a tall, bald headed man with a thick grey beard Claire hadn’t noticed before came forward, his authority evident in how quickly the so-called ‘drunk eejit’ complied.

Requests quickly in hand, she turned back to her waiting patient and went about efficiently setting his arm in a sling, the young man following her movements closely.

“Taking a guess you’ve done this before?”

“I’m a nurse,” Claire shared as she pulled the knot tight.

“Aye, you work at the hospital? I havenae seen ye there before.”

“No, not that kind of nurse,” Claire chuckled at Jamie’s confused look and handed him the ice pack before clarifying. “An Army Nurse. But now I have to say I'm curious. Do you frequent the hospital often, Mr…?”

“Fraser," he paused as if waiting for something. A particular reaction from her perhaps? "But you can call me Jamie.”

“Claire,” she reciprocated with a smile. “Under normal circumstances I would offer to shake your hand but considering your current predicament I must advise against it and instead remind you to keep the ice on your shoulder for no longer than 15 to 20 minutes at a time. Do you have a physical therapist?”

“Aye, he does,” the bald headed man came forward once again, a hand on Jamie’s good shoulder. “And I’ll make sure he sees them on the morrow.”

“Wonderful,” Claire nodded with pleasure and turned back to Jamie, hands planted firmly on her hips. “Now, I believe you owe me a drink.”

A/N: Candy canes. Candy canes everywhere! From here we diverge from canon-adjacent and take a path that is much more Hallmark. // Are you looking forward to seeing what figurine will be waiting for Claire tomorrow?

#the vintage calendar #outlander #fan fiction #christmas #modern day au #day 1 #jamie x claire #rated: hallmark

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gumnut-logic · 4 years

Text

The Tattoo (Part one)

Okay, this one is purely @vegetacide ‘s fault. She suggested a plotline. I volunteered to write it.

And because it involves both of us, it is Virgil!whump :D Though admittedly the Virgil!whump is only a plot device to lead to the main part of the story, but somehow I managed to write 1880 words of it anyway.

Warnings: Language warning for the first line. Virg was under some strain at that moment. Non-graphic whump.

Many thanks to @vegetacide @scribbles97 and @i-am-chidorixblossom for readthroughs and various cheerleading :D ::hugs you lots::

I hope you enjoy it.

-o-o-o-

“Fuck!”

Virgil closed his eyes and tried not to puke.

Even without sight, he could sense the hangar spinning around him. He had to swallow repeatedly as his left arm and shoulder, tangled above him, screamed.

His head spun in the opposite direction to the hangar and he had to swallow again.

But he had to open his eyes.

Had to.

So, he did.

The rock walls spun slowly past him. So familiar, just not from this angle.

Ow.

Shit.

The air was cool over the heat in his skin. He looked down. It was a mistake and he had to force his stomach under control again as the concrete floor and his toolkit, so far below, danced in and out of focus.

It was his safety line that had saved him from joining his tools.

He let out a painfilled breath.

It was a bat. A damned bat that must have found Two’s tail plane a convenient place to roost overnight, but had objected to Virgil’s intrusion. It had flown at him in a panic. He hadn’t expected it, had reacted badly, took a misstep, and over he went.

The world still lazily rotated past.

Carefully, he looked up at his arm, almost afraid to see what he would find. He could guess by the amount of pain he was in, but confirmation was going to suck.

Backlit by the overhead light shaft and the red of Two’s rear thrusters, the safety line was looped around his wrist, cutting the circulation off to his hand. Every joint in the limb all the way down to his shoulder was screaming.

Because it wasn’t the carbine at his waist that had taken his sudden wrenching halt mid-air, it was his arm.

He let out a groan. There was no doubt that he had likely dislocated his shoulder again. The pain was far too familiar for it to be anything else.

He let another moment pass before gathering himself. He couldn’t stay here. The thought of his brothers finding him like this was embarrassing. Gordon was never going to let it go.

So bats weren’t one of his favourite animals. Sure, they could be considered cute, in a snarly kind of way, but Virgil had never liked their smell or their ability to scare the living crap out of him.

Just like this.

Gordon was going to laugh his ass off.

Falling off his own Thunderbird because of a stupid bat.

The world continued its lazy spin.

He forced himself to focus. He could retract the safety line. This would pull him back up to Two and he should be able to clamber onto her fuselage and make it back to her overhead hatch.

But first he had to untangle his arm.

This was going to hurt.

He wasn’t wearing his uniform, something he was regretting right now. If he had, the tough material would have protected his arm much better than the flannel caught in his maintenance harness. His uniform had extra padding for a reason.

So, preferring his more comfortable casual clothes had earned him this. Not only was it a stupid accident, but at least a partly preventable one.

He swore through his teeth.

All his own damned fault.

Scott would have his hide, and Dad… shit , Dad.

His life may not be worth living.

He eyed the line above his caught arm. His wrist was wrapped in a simple loop. All he had to do was take some of his weight off the line so the loop could be widened and his hand could slip through.

His throbbing hand, attached to his dislocated arm that was pure agony to move.

He bit his lip.

He’d had worse.

He could do this.

He could.

He drew in a deep breath.

It hissed between his teeth.

Focus.

He grabbed the line he could reach with his right hand, and using every abdominal muscle he had, he flipped his body upside down, tangling his feet in the rope to take his weight.

The spinning rock walls echoed back his cry.

He hung there, boots looped in the line and willed everything to stop screaming. He ran his brothers’ locations through his head like a mantra of reassurance that they hadn’t heard him.

Scott was with Dad in his office. Alan was with John on Five. Gordon…Gordon was probably in the pool…though he did have that video conference this afternoon. Maybe he was in his office preparing?

Who was he kidding?

Kayo was in England with Penelope.

Brains was in his lab.

Grandma…

Grandma was gardening. Gardening.

His breath was harsh in his ears.

Get his wrist out of the loop, get back aboard his ‘bird…and work out what the hell he was going to do from there.

The loop came off deceptively easily and he was able to use his right arm to gently fold his left against his chest and secure it with his shirt.

The paramedic in him that wasn’t strangled by pain eyed the wrist under his controller with trepidation. He’d done a proper job of it. There wouldn’t be any piano for a few weeks.

If he had been wearing his uniform, his reinforced glove would have taken most of the punishment.

He groaned as he fumbled with his shirt buttons, trying to keep his limp arm still as gravity toyed with it.

The moment he had it secured, he lowered himself slowly and flipped back the right way up, letting the carbine do the job it was designed for and take his weight.

A shaky sigh and he hit the retrieval button.

The safety line retracted and drew him up to his ‘bird, her cool, green fuselage calming against his forehead.

God.

It took some struggle and not a little bit of pain to clamber back onto Two. Once he made it, he took a minute or ten and just lay there panting and squeezing the moisture from his eyes.

This wasn’t his first shoulder dislocation. Working as he did, there had been several prior incidents. It was one of the reasons he carried the exosuit with him wherever he went. It protected him.

Just like his uniform.

God, he was a moron.

He deserved to get his ass kicked.

But first he needed to assess the damage and work out whether he could get away with it or have to serve himself up for the lecture of the century, likely in triplicate.

He pushed himself up off her green hull and got his feet under him. The world managed to stay steady and his arm settled into the Bonaparte temporary sling. He tugged the safety line along its rail the length of his ‘bird and clambered up over the body of her cockpit until he reached the overhead hatch. It was with some relief he slid his feet onto the elevated platform and was able to finally disengage the blessed safety line.

He staggered a little as he was lowered into familiar surroundings, but he stabilised himself, made it to one of the overhead lockers and dragged out a handheld scanner.

A flicker of yellow light and he found out exactly what he had done to himself.

Definitely dislocated, that wasn’t really news, but his wrist and elbow…

His elbow was strained, but intact. His wrist, however, was already swelling echoing both the extensive bruising and the fracture.

Damn.

All for a stupid accident.

He stared at the wall and focussed on his breathing. He wouldn’t be able to hide this.

His working shoulder dropped and his injured one tried to do the same.

Ow.

There wasn’t enough profanity in his vocabulary.

And there was no choice. He was going to have to face the music.

Scott was with Dad.

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Maybe he could wait. Wait until Scott was alone, corner his brother and beg him to keep the specifics of how he had injured himself confidential. Keep it from the younger two at least and maybe even Dad.

Virgil knew how stupid he had been, he didn’t need to be reminded for the rest of his life.

The world shifted a little and he realised he was lightheaded. He really shouldn’t be on his feet.

He would go back to his rooms, message Scott to contact him when he was finished with Dad, and lie down.

As if to emphasize this last, the world wobbled again.

Rooms.

Message Scott.

Painkiller.

Bed.

He stepped back onto the hatch and lowered it. Steadying himself he made his way to the elevator. It wasn’t until he was hidden by its silver doors that he realised he would have to remove his arm from its makeshift sling otherwise one glance by any family member and he was doomed.

Gritting his teeth, he released the limb and lowered it with a groan until it hung. The level of pain doubled. Every movement was accompanied by white flashes and a stomach clenching nausea, but he only had a short corridor between the elevator and his rooms.

He could do this.

He could do it.

The elevator car slid to a smooth halt and chimed his floor.

Virgil stepped out and almost collided with Gordon running down the corridor.

A sucked in breath as he narrowly avoided his brother.

Gordon halted and smiled happily at him. “Oh, hey, Virg.” The smile turned into a frown. “I thought you were down in the hangars polishing your ‘bird?”

Virgil struggled to keep a calm façade as the world wobbled around him.

“Gordon…”

“What?” His younger brother frowned even more staring at Virgil. “You okay? You’re looking peaked.” Gordon had somehow managed to stand exactly where Virgil wanted to go.

“What do you want, Gordon?”

His brother was still staring at him, brown eyes suspicious as all hell. “Have you had your coffee this morning?”

Virgil opened his mouth, but another voice interrupted before he could say a word.

“Gordon Cooper Tracy!” Grandma’s voice echoed down the hall. “If you think I’m cleaning up that mess you left in the kitchen, you are dreaming, young man!” And his purple-dressed, eagle-eyed, medically qualified grandmother strode onto the scene.

Well, hell. Today was just not his day.

“Grandma, I was just getting my shoes.”

“Really?” The cocked hip and arms crossed across her chest screamed disbelief.

“Really. My new ones were rubbing.” Gordon held up a foot.

When did Gordon buy bright pink shoes?

“You can clean up your mess in bare feet. You left syrup all over the counter.” Grandma glanced at Virgil only to suddenly narrow her gaze. “Good morning, Virgil.”

“Hey, Grandma.” He tried not to faint.

It was his grandmother’s turn to frown at him. “Are you feeling okay, dear?” She took a step closer and Virgil forced himself to straighten.

He swallowed. Could he lie to his grandmother’s face?

“He’s good, Grandma. Just hasn’t had his coffee refill yet, have you, Virg?”

Virgil would have appreciated Gordon’s brotherly deflection gesture, after all, they needed a united defence against Grandma’s traditional cures for anything and everything, but unfortunately, Gordon followed his words up with a whack to Virgil’s arm.

His dislocated arm.

And everything whited out.

-o-o-o-

End Part One

Part Two

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Virgil Tracy #Gordon Tracy #grandma tracy #Sally Tracy

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ashestoashesjc · 4 years

Text

A Necromancer & His Zombie Boyfriend On A Couple's Retreat

Short Story 1/2/(3)/4/5/6/7/8/9/10

"RrRRrrrr... grrr? <Hey, uh, babe... seen my arm anywhere?>" rang Sett's voice throughout their cigar box of a house as he rummaged through closets, opened cabinets, overturned couch cushions.

Shutting and latching the front door behind him, Ulrick began flipping through the stack of envelopes clutched in his right hand. "Huh? Oh…”

“Okay, so… don’t get mad,” Ulrick began, as meekly and guilt-tinged as one can make a shout. “But... there was this huge, I mean HUGE silverfish…”

“GRrrr! Rrrrr. <Dude! Not cool,>” could be heard as Sett stomped his way to the foyer.

“I know! I’m sorry! I’m weak!” moaned Ulrick.

Sett sighed as he entered the cove and laid his single remaining hand on Ulrick’s left shoulder, the other sleeve draped flaccidly at his side. “Grrrr. <Well, yeah.>” he said. Ulrick snickered.

“You know, having your boyfriend kill a bug for you is exceedingly normal,” Ulrick said, separating the bills from the letters that weren’t bills. There were very few that weren’t bills. “Almost conventional.”

“Rrr. <True,>” Sett replied. “Rggrrrr. <Probably while the arm’s still attached, though.>”

“A mere quibble.”

“Rrrrgrrr? <So, where is it now?>” Sett asked.

“Ugh. Still getting cozy with the silverfish, I’d imagine,” Ulrick admitted, guilt creeping back into his voice. He covered his eyes with his free hand and shuddered. “In… the shower.”

Sett sucked air through his teeth in a compassion-filled cringe.

“Yeah,” Ulrick sighed, resigned to his trauma.

“Grrrr. <Don’t worry,>” said Sett. “Rraarr. <I got it.>”

Ulrick slid his hand down his face with a grateful groan. “God, I love you.” Sett pulled him forward by his collar and pecked his forehead.

Continuing to sort through the mail, Ulrick came to a red envelope and, seeing it addressed to Sett, handed it over. “Looks important.”

Confusion clouded Sett’s eyes for the first few, slow moments spent undoing the envelope’s seal flap, until suddenly, a surge of realization like lightning drove him to violently tear the crimson paper away.

As he scanned the contents of the letter contained within, words failing to do his emotional state justice, Sett began to fist pump wildly, God help anyone in the flight path of his singular elbow. Ulrick looked on in entranced bewilderment.

“Was there itching powder in that envelope?” asked Ulrick.

Sett shoved the creased letter in Ulrick’s face, his manic energy not yet dissipated. Ulrick took it and held it out at arm’s length until his eyes brought the words into focus.

“A couple’s retreat?” he wondered aloud, lowering the paper enough to peer over the top at Sett.

“Grrgrrrr. <An all-expenses paid couple’s retreat.> Rrrrrr. <At a swanky resort.> GrrrrRr. <Complete with water skis.>”

“This is from a contest?” he asked, rotating and inspecting the sheet. “When did we enter a contest?”

“Rrggrrrr? <You know those entry slips we’re getting in the post all the time?>”

“The ones I’m always throwing away? I’m familiar.”

“RrrRrrrrr ggrrrr. <Well, your aim could use some work, because some of them wind up in the mailbox,>” said Sett, with a shrug.

The sound that next filled the room, colored with exasperated mirth, was one Sett was used to Ulrick making, though one that never stopped bringing a flush of heat to the place where his heart used to be.

He grabbed Ulrick by the hips and the two began to sway back and forth. “Rrrrrr. <Just imagine it,>” he purred dreamily. “GrrrRRrrrr rrrrRrrr grrr...arrrr? <Massages, rock-climbing, a luau. And… did I mention waterskiing?>”

Swaying still, Ulrick looked up with his head cocked. "I've... never heard you mention waterskiing before."

"GrrRrrrrrr. <I enjoy a lot of things I don't talk about.> Rgrrrrgrrr. <Like country music, or bad chick lit,>" Sett said before twirling and dipping Ulrick in a blur. "Rraarrrr. <I'm a multi-layered zombie.>"

Breaking clumsily away from the songless dance and squeezing the bridge of his nose, Ulrick set down the remainder of the mail on the side table by the entrance and looked his boyfriend over. “It’s totally free?”

“Grrarrr. <It’s totally free,>” confirmed Sett.

Ulrick raised an eyebrow. “No catch?”

“Rrr… <Well…>”

“And streeetch! That’s right! Streeetch!”

At the front of Meadow Grove Resort’s famed yoga studio balanced - one foot planted on the ground, the other hooked deftly behind her neck - Chrysanthemum Smith, a remarkably limber 60-year-old instructor, urging her out-of-shape contest winning students to achieve the same feats of flexibility.

All around Ulrick and Sett, a pretzel factory’s soon-to-be-discarded collection of heinous, gnarly undesirables had been given life in the form of sweaty middle Americans.

That pretzels went through a less agonizing process being baked at 500 degrees was a fact Ulrick was both confident in and envious of. His legs were angled in a way he was sure he’d feel for weeks to come.

Sett, on the other hand, had apparently been a contortionist in a past life, the way he bent himself into poses, well, a pretzel would gawk at, holding each position stoically before moving gracefully on to the next. It also helped that he couldn’t feel what would leave most tendons shredded rags.

Ulrick gave up the pursuit of dislocating his pelvis and instead went to poke Sett in the cheek. Through his mask, Sett made a chomping motion at the finger, though remained otherwise totally still. "Okay, but this kind of bites, right?" Ulrick signed.

"A little. And not in the fun way," Sett signed back.

On a pair of blue, rubber mats to their left were two women - one in a biker's jacket and tattered, patched jeans, short red hair tied into a haphazard ponytail; the other a dark woman donning a shaved head, flower-patterned maxi dress, and combat boots - the former of whom suddenly grabbed Ulrick's attention with a nod.

"You're telling me," she signed.

And in an instant, they were no longer alone in the hazy, secluded sphere that made their reality.

So taken aback was he that he blurted aloud, "You sign?"

The yoga instructor shushed him from her place at the head of the wide room, leading him to duck down sheepishly. With the forced inclusion of an overly casual air, he said more than asked, "You sign."

"Oh, yeah," the woman chuckled gruffly. "Mom's Deaf."

Taking a sudden interest in the conversation, Sett's head swiveled to the leather jacket-clad woman. "Shit yeah!" he signed with fervor, eliciting a harsh snort from the woman. The instructor's head whipped around to glare her way, but went ignored.

Sett's hands jumbled for a moment before he continued. "I mean, I'm sure that must have been very difficult for your family and--"

She gave a dismissive wave of the hand. "Nah, don't worry about it. She's capital 'D' Deaf. A congenital thing. Whole family's been signing forever."

Her wife - Jen, they later learned - chimed in with, "Di does it at home, too. She's taught me half the lyrics to Boys for Pele."

"Wow!" Ulrick said with teeth-clenching enthusiasm. "That's so great! Isn't that so great, Sett?"

The mask did nothing to conceal Sett's raised, beaming features. "That's so great!" he signed.

"I'm sorry!" bellowed the lithe yogi, shattering all delusions of serenity. "Am I boring you?"

Several overlapping voices came to the general consensus of "Christ, yes."

One of the husbands, portly and somewhat resembling the famously affable capybara, asked, somewhat less affably, why they were being stretched into taffy when they should be outside taking one-on-one lessons with the beach volleyball instructor. He was joined by a few surly “yeah!”s.

They were met with an unimpressed crossing of the arms. Though it should be noted Smith’s foot was still being held comfortably behind her head.

"I would suggest, in the future, that you more closely scrutinize contest entries," Yogi Smith advised in as calm a manner as it seemed she could now manage, though with an unmistakable edge to her voice. "In order to partake in our facility’s more... physically involved activities, you’ll first need to align and cleanse your mental, emotional, and spiritual energies.”

This provoked a studio-wide groan, with the exclusion of Jen, who seemed just eager enough to cancel out the cloud of grim impatience encircling her.

“Unless, of course,” Smith said, shifting poses to something favoring the letter ‘G’, “you’d prefer to construct your own schedules. In which case, a full price admission to Meadow Grove Resort remains available.”

She sleekly extended her right leg, pointing its foot pin-straight toward the sliding studio doors. “Don’t, as the masters of yore were wont to say, let the door hit ya.”

When no one moved and the room went quiet enough to hear an acupuncture needle drop, Smith resumed a standing position and bowed three times to each division of the studio. “Namaste. Namaste. Namaste.”

Chrysanthemum Smith had in no way undersold how ‘aligned and cleansed’ couple’s therapy and its airings of dirty laundry and subsequent ferocious dissolutions of decades of marriage; couple’s pottery, the same thing but with clay vases; and couple’s finger-painting, a bonding exercise in shared humiliation, would make their minds, emotions, and souls through sheer gut-rending hilarity.

Ulrick almost didn’t want to stop watching people who, hours ago, seemed all confidence and bravado, now being brought to tears by an instructor’s criticism of their macaroni art lacking ‘depth.’

But their confinement was over and they were free to roam the grounds as they saw fit and Sett, without even feigning to look for a map of the resort, made a beeline for the largest body of water (and the largest gathering of humans) he could sniff. Ulrick was still surprised at times by how agile Sett could be on his feet when on the hunt for blood - or recreational watersports - and struggled to keep up.

Their long-awaited waterskiing adventure began almost as soon as they arrived at the lakeside, the instructor needing a volunteer at that instant to man the skis while he lectured another guest on the controls of the boat. At nearly a head taller than anyone else present, Sett didn’t need much more than a raised hand to stand out.

Things were going great; Sett mounted on skis as long as he was tall, the boat revving greedily for take off. At Sett’s thumbs up, the runabout hammered off in a thunderous roar. And then, all at once, things were going wrong.

The envisioned majesty of skimming the motionless calm of the crystal river was halted abruptly with a leaden Sett stumbling mid-lake in his skis, trying and failing to correct himself, going feet-over-head, and sinking like an anchor to the agitated silt of the riverbed below.

Ulrick, though he jumped with concern at the first hint of a misstep, expected a brief swim back, perhaps slowed a bit - but not much - by Sett's stoney limbs. He’d been the star diver of his local swimming hole as a teen and still maintained some of the underwater dexterity, though nowadays tended to lurk the floors of bodies of water like a carnivorous bottom-feeder; eating habits included.

But then a few minutes passed, and nothing. A lifeguard and two of the more experienced swimmers among the guests plunged into the river and searched for fifteen minutes, cracking the surface now and again for a gulp of air, all to no avail. The water was too cloudy with sediment to see past a certain depth, and the orange-purples of dusk were beginning to settle in. They'd need to return in the morning with a diving team.

It'd now been forty-five minutes, and three of the resort’s other guests were consoling Ulrick, one herself on the verge of waterworks. They'd just witnessed a man - someone's significant other - torn tragically from life's teat, and in front of the man he loved, no less.

Ulrick, for his part, was positively miffed.

"When I get my hands on him..." Ulrick started, before one of the grievers tossed him a teary-eyed questioning look. "Er, that is... would that I could only put my hands on him... again..." he corrected.

Just as Ulrick had begun mentally reviewing the basics of the Arts of Throttling, a movement, barely noticeable, shook the surface of the lake. Then bubbles, then the full break of the water as a head rose into view. Then the screams of onlookers as, in the fading light, a ghastly lake monster began its murderous approach. Then screams of a different kind as people began to make the connection proper. Then there was weeping, fainting, more than one declaration of faith renewed. It was a miracle!

Later, after insistences for medical attention were politely but firmly refused and the religious stragglers begging for just a smell of Sett’s waterlogged clothes were shooed away, Ulrick asked why he waited so long to resurface, to which Sett said, "GrrrrRRrr. <Well, at first I was just sort of embarrassed.> RrrrrrrGrrrRrrr? <Then I thought, "How often do these people see miracles?>"

"Oh, sure," groaned Ulrick. "A man comes out of a lake after half an hour and it's a miracle. A man comes out of a grave after a few months and it's "Grab the torches and pitchforks, everyone!""

"Rrrr. <Babe.>"

Ulrick gave a pouty grumble. "I'm just saying. One's a little more miraculous, is all."

Sett pulled Ulrick's head into his chest and stroked his hair. "GrrrRrrrRrrr. <Shh, I know, dude, I know.>" His heavy, soaked clothes and lack of body heat didn't chill Ulrick as much as they should have, and though a fine coating of sand covering him from head to toe gritted against Ulrick's cheek, it only made Ulrick rub his face in rebelliously.

"Okay," Ulrick said, resting his fists on Sett's chest and gazing up into his eyes. "What's the next activity? I think we’re... due-au for a luau?" The moment the words left his lips, his face collapsed into disgusted regret.

“Rgrrr... <Actually…>” Sett said, wrenching off his mask and shaking the excess water from his hair, teasing a blush out of Ulrick. “GgrrrRrrrr? <Doesn’t watching the stars by the lake sound pretty relaxing?>”

Ulrick grinned and took a seat on the shoreline, running his hands through the tufts of ryegrass stretching out in waves around him. He tapped a spot to his right and Sett, half-cocked smile in tow, came lumbering over to take it.

Hours flurried past, changing nothing about the image of the intimately silent pair but the number of stark white pinpricks in the sky they beheld.

They threatened to sit silently basking in each other forever.

And then Sett said, “GRrrrrgrrr, rrgrrr, graargrr. <So, Diane and Jen gave me their number, and they want to plan an outing.>”

Unease shot through Ulrick’s veins, but he held his tongue in search of the correct words. “O-oh?”

“Grrr? Rrgrrrrr. <Isn’t that cool? People want to spend time with us,>” said Sett, ensorcelled with the twinkle of every new star. “Rrrrr. <With me.>”

“That might be…” began Ulrick, before noticing the glimmer in Sett’s eyes and faint lift at the corners of his mouth as he stared up towards a great unknown. He sighed. “It’s going to be great.”

Sett rested his hand on Ulrick’s, their fingers interlocking. He smiled, and the two gazed into an ever-darkening firmament, speckled with a thousand stars and a thousand futures.

#A Necromancer & His Zombie Boyfriend #short stories #supernatural #mlm #wlw #queer #series #A Necromance #original #fiction

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spaceskam · 4 years

Text

The Road You Didn’t Take (5/7)

day 5 of @michaelguerinweek : “Just trust me.”

ao3

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |

warning: shitty childhood talk

They checked out of the motel room around three and Alex got into the passenger seat instead of the back.

“So, we’ll probably get to Mississippi sometime around 10 or 11, but we could stop for dinner before that?” Michael suggested. Alex nodded.

“Sounds good to me,” he said, grabbing the aux cord like he owned the place and plugging in his phone. Michael said nothing as he backed out of the parking space.

Smooth, lo-fi music started to play through the speakers as he made his way towards the interstate. Alex hummed along to it and Michael didn’t bother him, listening to him. He wasn’t outright singing, but it still sounded nice. He wondered how many times he’d heard Alex’s music and just didn’t know it was him.

“What happens if you want to go back to music?” Michael asked even though he knew it was probably pushier than he meant it. Alex took a deep breath.

“Music is my favorite thing in the world, but I don’t want to make it where it controls and ruins my life. I’m not sacrificing my love for it just so I can be famous, you know?” Alex said, “When we were small and no one knew my face, but I still did well enough to pay my rent, it was best. Maybe in a few years I’ll go back to making solo music under a different name, but right now... Right now I’m not interested in doing it for more than myself.”

“Fair enough,” Michael answered, “Maybe we’ll go to some local karaoke bar and bang out some country tunes together.”

“You sing?” Alex asked, a smile on his face.

“I mean, of course, but I didn’t say I do it well,” he said. Alex laughed. It was a nice sound.

“We’ll definitely have to go sometime.”

They fell silent again as Alex played song after song that he felt like listening to. Michael made a mental note to ask him about some of the bands later.

"So, tell me something embarassing that you've done," Alex said as they crossed into Louisiana. Michael laughed.

"Uh, I don't know?" Michael said, but he saw an opportunity to get a feel for his chances with Alex and took it, "I didn't go on my first date until I was 23. That's embarassing, I guess."

"No, it's not, I was 24," Alex said. Michael scoffed.

"I don't believe that."

"Why not?"

"Have you seen you?" Michael pointed out, "I find it hard to believe people aren't flirting with you every day of your life."

"It took me a long time to come to terms with my sexuality," Alex admitted. Michael nearly jumped for joy, but he managed to keep it under control.

"I feel that," Michael said, "Didn't date my first guy until last year."

Alex smiled, "How'd that go?"

"Well, I'm single now, aren't I?" Michael joked.

"Yeah, you got a point," Alex said.

They talked more, telling stories of bad dates and hook-ups gone wrong. Michael told a story of getting a nose bleed while going down on someone, Alex told a story of dislocating his knee and needing his one night stand to pop it back into place. By the time Michael begrudgingly told a story of going on a date with someone and then two days later finding her making out with his sister on the couch, Alex was laughing so hard he snorted and Michael was pretty sure he was already in love.

They ended up getting off a Baton Rouge exit to find a place to eat, settling on a Chili's since that felt like a safe option. They sat for longer than they should've, eating and talking and joking. It wasn't a date, but, if it was, it was the best first date Michael had ever been on.

"No, stop, I'm paying," Michael said as Alex tried to take the ticket.

"No, you paid for gas and you're going to have to pay for gas to drive back to get your shit after you kill that interview," Alex said, twisting away so Michael couldn't reach the ticket.

"You paid for the motel," Michael argued, standing up and reaching across the table. Alex let out a downright adorable giggle as he held it away from him, swatting at his arm.

"And I'm paying for tonight's too, get over it," he said.

",No, that's not fair."

"Michael," Alex said, grabbing his hand and looking at him with intoxicating eyes, "I'm paying. Just trust me, okay?"

Michael glared and slowly sat down. Alex just laughed as he put his card down and gave it to the waitress as she walked past.

"You can pay the tip," Alex suggested. Michael rolled his eyes. "Oh, stop pouting."

"Make me," Michael shot back. Alex smiled at him, his cheeks turning a shad of red as he shook his head.

"Maybe later," he said. That shut Michael up.

They got back in the car and the air seemed to change. They were full and a little tired and Alex started playing something nice and slow. Alex hummed along again, adding to the soothing air. It was crazy that this man was the same as the one from yesterday, even crazier that it was the same as the boy from high school.

"What's in your ring?" Alex asked softly. Michael glanced down and then held his hand out closer to Alex. He grabbed his hand, his thumb tracing over the ring.

"I was in foster care as a kid and that's the only thing I have left from my mom. I hid it every time they took all my shit away so I wouldn't lose it," Michael admitted.

"Oh," Alex breathed, "It's pretty."

"Thank you."

Alex kept his hand, playing with his fingers and his ring mindlessly. Michael smiled to himself when he realized he'd only asked to get ahold of his hand. He didn't try to take it back.

"Do you know why your parents gave you up?" Alex asked, "If you don't mind me asking."

"Uh, I looked into it when I got older. My dad died before I was born and I think my mom just didn't have a good support system. She kept me for a few days, but she gave me up hoping I'd have a better life. Didn't really work that way, but it's the thought that counts," Michael said, shrugging, "She died before I could find her though, so."

"I'm sorry," Alex told him. Michael shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm good."

"If it helps, my parents sucked too. My mom left when I was young and my dad was an abusive piece of shit," Alex said. Michael frowned.

"I'm sorry," he said, twisting his hand a little to squeeze Alex's. Alex pressed his thumb into his palm and slowly traced up his middle finger.

"I got away, so I'm fine. Therapy helps," Alex admitted. Michael hummed.

"I want to eventually."

"It's worth it."

They sat in silence for awhile, Alex playing with his fingers as they drove. Soon, they were crossing over into Mississippi and Michael started looking for motels to stay for the night.

"I can't wait to take a shower," Alex said, "It's been a couple days."

"Yeah, I can't tell," Michael teased.

"Hey!" Alex laughed.

They eventually found a place with a vacancy and they went up to the desk. A younger guy was manning it, his chin in his palm and clearly bored out of his mind.

"Do you guys have an open room with two beds?" Alex asked. The front desk guy nodded, eyeing Alex a little oddly as he stood up straight.

"Yeah," he said slowly. When Alex gave him his name and his card, though, his eyes widened. "You're–"

"Don't say anything, please? Trying to keep it under wraps if that's okay," Alex said, smiling kindly. The kid nodded.

"Yeah, man, sure," he said, "I love your music."

"Thank you," Alex said. A few minutes later, they grabbed the key and started walking towards the room. "They're gonna know I'm in Mississippi by the morning."

"Well, good thing we'll be on a farm an hour away tomorrow," Michael said. Alex grinned.

"We?"

"Yeah, dude, you can't leave me yet," Michael insisted. Alex smiled and.unlocked the motel room door.

"Okay."

Alex called taking a shower first and Michael let him. After the shower turned on, Michael took the opportunity to call Isobel. She picked up on the second ring.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Mississippi," he answered, "And I'm gonna say something but don't freak out."

"That's not comforting, Michael."

"No, it's not like that," he said, lowering his voice, "I'm sharing a motel room with Alex Manes. Remember? From high school?"

She was quiet for a few seconds,. "How the fuck did that happen?"

"I don't know," he said, "But I think he might be into me."

"Then why are you calling me instead of trying to hook up with your childhood crush?" Isobel scoffed.

"He's in the shower."

"Are you gonna try when he gets out?"

"No," Michael said, "I mean, that's too fast and I don't wanna make him feel pressured or uncomfortable."

"And if he makes the first move?"

"Then I will die "

"Alright," she laughed. The shower soon shut off and Michael felt giddy all over again.

"I gotta go."

"Be safe, I love you," she said.

"Love you too."

The call ended and Michael went to plug his phone into the wall to pretend he was doing something as the bathroom door opened. He casually looked over to see Alex standing there, damp and surrounded in a cloud of steam as he had a towel wrapped around his hips.

And Michael was fucked.

#Mgweek20 #guerinweek20 #malex #malex fic #Michael Guerin #Alex manes #rnm fic #my fic

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