#one little drop of sunshine today. grabbed onto it with all of my limited might.

[satans-knitwear]

everything is flowers 🌼🌹

Treat me ~ Tip me ~ More of me

[may-you-always-be-satisfied]

Easy Come, Easy Go

A/N: Here is something that was surprisingly cathartic to write, despite the fact that I live alone. Anyway, if you live with people and sometimes just need a minute, this one is for you. Huge shout out to my platonic soulmate @mollymarymarie​ for betaing for me and also dealing with all this rap while trying to study for boards. bless you (Y/N/N = your nickname)

Warnings: a little angst, a little fluff, some light swearing

WC: 1.4k

The quarantine was starting to weigh heavy on you, on both of you. You'd effectively been locked in for 4 months now, with no end in sight. 

Sure, there's enough room in the house for you and Daveed to have your separate spaces, but even that was starting to feel too close. And you love each other, absolutely, but everyone needs breaks. 

"Jaz, I have no idea how you're not losing your mind there. Y'all's space is so much closer than ours. What's your secret?" You were keeping up with your friends via video chat just to see other people. You didn't trust the general public, so you limited contact as much as possible. 

"The secret is telling him to go the fuck away when I'm agitated instead of letting him stay and make it worse." She gave you a knowing look. "Anthony's great, but some days I just don't want company and he gives me that. And I give it to him, when asked." 

You just pouted at your screen. It couldn't be that easy, could it? 

You and Daveed got along really well, spectacularly well, but adding all this unadulterated alone time was starting to be too much. It might be time to ask for a day to yourself. Which wouldn't be difficult to accomplish, honestly, there were plenty of rooms you could lock yourself in and see no one. Your office was probably the best spot for it. 

But you were getting ahead of yourself, you had to work up the nerve to talk to him about it first. 

You and Jasmine kept talking and catching up. Her dogs were so precious and you loved getting updates on them from her and her Instagram. 

Then your phone started buzzing with texts from Daveed. 

D: We should do this tomorrow. What do you think?

He'd sent you a link to the cutest DIY date you'd ever seen. But it broke your heart to admit that you'd rather have a day alone. What the hell was wrong with you? 

Y/N/N: ummm… can we actually talk about tomorrow? like face to face 

D: yeah, babe, of course. Come see me when you're done. Tell Jaz I said hi. 

"I gotta go, Jaz. See you tomorrow?" You lifted your eyebrows towards her. 

"Yeah, yeah." She smiled softly at you. "See you then." 

You walked over to his office, which was literally one door over, and waited in the doorway. 

"Hey." 

Daveed turned around in his chair to look at you, his hair poofing out from under an Oakland hat. 

"Hey baby." He smiled up at you. "What's goin' on?" 

As soon as that smile started to reach his eyes, it disappeared as he took mental stock of you. Your arms were crossed, your lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed. 

"Don't tell me 'nothing'." He looked at you pointedly, something in his eyes softening even as he seemed to pin you to the spot. "I know something is off, Y/N. Tell me, please." 

You moved a hand up to worry with your lips, weighing what words to say to him. 

"I've been feeling really…" You trailed off, you didn't want to hurt him in any way. He wasn't overbearing and you didn't want to leave the house or anything. You just wanted some time to yourself, uninterrupted. 

Daveed nodded for you to continue, like he was hanging on your every word. 

"I just feel," another pause. Why was this so hard? He loved you. He'd do anything for you. Asking for this wouldn't make him hate you, right? 

You let out a sigh, your hand dropping from your mouth to hit against your thigh. "I'm just feeling caged in lately." You couldn't bring yourself to meet his eyes. 

"Is that all?" His voice almost sounded relieved. "We can go to that park you like. Social distancing, mask, the whole deal. Get some fresh air." 

You were still frowning at him. 

"That's not what you want, is it?" 

You shook your head at him, tears starting to form in your eyes. 

Daveed got up and walked towards you, his arms held out to you. You nodded to let him know it was okay and he wrapped you up, tucking your head under his chin. 

"You gotta talk to me, babe. Tell me what you want." He started rubbing your back, trying to soothe you. 

You wrapped your arms around him, your face buried in his shoulder. 

"I just need some time to myself, please." The words felt like they clawed their way out of your throat. 

Daveed pulled back from you just a little and hooked his finger under your chin to pull your eyes up to his. 

"Hey," he was looking at you carefully. "I can do that, too. Starting tomorrow morning, after breakfast, you come find me whenever you're ready for company, okay?" 

You gave him a small, sad smile. That had been the most difficult request you'd ever made of him. And he'd just given it to you, not even a trace of hesitation. 

Daveed held onto you a little longer, like he wanted to leech comfort into your soul the way he often shared body heat. Eventually you pulled away, a little teary eyed. But he gave you a beaming smile, happy to finally know what had been off with you and to have some sort of plan to help. 

The two of you made it through the rest of the day like normal. You ate dinner together and shared your evening talking and reading, just passing the time before bed. 

Even bedtime was normal. You fell asleep together easily, something seemed both relaxed yet anxious between you. 

---

The next morning you woke up to sunshine and a smile. 

"Hey baby. Ready for today?" 

"Yeah." You smiled up at him as he pulled you into a kiss; quick, sweet, and simple. 

You had so many plans for today, in the same way, you had none. All this time, to yourself. It was a little daunting and freeing, all at the same time. 

After breakfast, your day went slowly. You spent time reorganizing things in your office, clearing mental and emotional clutter. You got around to hobbies you hadn't touched in months. The day passed with more peace than you could have thought. 

You still felt a little guilty, keeping track of the hours without even texting Daveed. So far, it had been 9 hours, and you were starting to miss him. 

You honestly hadn't heard a single sound from him since parting ways at breakfast. Which was both amazing and concerning, considering how much you usually heard from him in a day. 

Around dinnertime, you finally thought about actually seeking him out for company on your own behalf instead of just worrying about him. You picked your way through shared spaces carefully, looking for him. There were no signs in either the living room or kitchen, but you did hear water running in your bathroom. 

You knocked on the door. 

"Come in." His voice was muffled, but the water had been turned off. 

The door opened to show Daveed standing in front of his sink in only a pair of sleep pants, his skin still slightly damp from his shower. He had his hair wrapped up to dry. 

You walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek on his shoulder. You'd missed him today, but in the best possible way. 

Daveed put his hands over yours and tilted his head back. "How are you doing?" 

"I'm good." You pressed a kiss to his shoulder. 

You let go of him to walk to the counter and take a seat facing him, deciding to watch him finish his routine. "How are you?" 

"I'm fine." He smiled at you. "Missed you today." 

"I missed you, too." You gave him a small smile. "But, uh… don't hate me for saying this, okay?" 

Daveed gave you a small nod, waiting for your admission. 

"I kinda enjoyed today. I feel like I got more done today, than I have in weeks." You hated how relieved you sounded. 

Daveed grabbed your hands and looked into your eyes. "Y/N, don't feel guilty for asking for time or space. Things are crazy right now and everyone needs a little extra care, okay?" 

You nodded at him. Today was peaceful and productive, but you did miss Daveed. 

"Alright," he gave you a magnificent smile. "Now, help me finish up here and we can go make dinner." 

A/N: let me know what you think! 

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Let’s Face the Music & Dance

Part One: There May be Trouble Ahead 

A/N: Alright. Here. We. Go. Got your dancin’ shoes? John is makin’ moves. (Quote in bold taken from Much Ado About Nothing) 

*read the intro here*

Warning: um... narrowly avoided vehicular manslaughter? 

Word Count: 3,492

The air rushed past his face chilling the skin of his cheeks beneath the leather trimmed goggles that he wore as he sped down the open country roads. His carefully slicked back hair had blown free only a few kilometers into the trip, loose strands trailing down and back over his ears. I can’t believe that… He tightened his grasp on the handles, pushing the limit on the speed as he pushed the thought from his mind. The truth was that he could believe, he did believe that his mother thought so little of him. She’d made it quite clear where she placed blame and where she placed expectations. And the former far outweighs the latter, so… He sniffed, his nose red from the cold air and from the way Veronica’s cold comments stung at his eyes. So this is how it has to be. 

He hadn’t planned to make the trip down to Oxford all in one go, nor had he planned to leave home that day. But I couldn’t stay, not after… Trees blurred into countryside, rolling hills and pastures full of sheep flying by as John left everything he knew behind him in hopes that he could make something new of himself; something successful and worthy of rehabilitating the Whittaker name. Worthy of showing everyone that they were wrong about me. He tucked away as much of the hurt that his mother’s words and decisions had caused him as he could, stuffing it into the emptiness that the dissolution of his marriage had left him feeling. It won’t do any good to dwell...to continue to...to wallow. 

After Larita and his father absconded from the estate in a flurry of shattered statuary and broken hearts, John hadn’t come down from his room for nearly a week. He’d quickly realized that while he did love her, and he was sure that she had loved him- at least while we were together in Monaco- the two were about as unlikely to last as ice cream on an August afternoon. There were too many differences, too many areas of their lives that were complete and utter mismatches. But still, the fact that he’d taken her hand and taken the leap only to end up on the ground alone was… lonely, I felt...I felt alone. He’d thought that being married, having a wife, being her husband, would mean that he’d never have to feel that way, and certainly not so soon after taking that leap did he expect to crash. It wasn’t that he missed Larita. It was that he felt as though he had failed himself by grabbing the wrong hand. 

But shortly after he’d realized that it wasn’t her absence that was causing the ache in his chest but the connotations of that absence, John started to come back to himself. His mother, it seemed, had already gotten past the pain of her own crash, likely before she’d even hit the ground, and he was hurt all over again by the fact that he was alone in feeling alone. The truth, as he’d learned, was that not only had Veronica made peace with the fact that her marriage hadn’t been what it once was for a very long time, she’d also made peace with selling even more of their property to a banker named Harold Roberts, and marrying Hilda off to his son Walter. It was an attempt to keep what little they had left, but it was an attempt that excluded John completely. While Marion seemed content to be overlooked, believing, as Veronica had always said, that marriage would never be the route that she went down, John on the other hand, felt as though the rug had been pulled from beneath him. 

It was no use fighting with his mother once she made her calculating mind up, though, and so he chose to go on with his plan regardless of the other that was hatching. Phillip Hurst, in his own attempt to try to make something meaningful of his life, had decided to attend Oxford University, and John had decided to join him. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d study, or where it might take him, but he knew that it was a much better plan than waiting around to make another dangerous leap. He spent the rest of the trip from Nottinghamshire ruminating on what courses he might take, on what knowledge he might gain. Phillip had chosen to study Literature, which to John made sense, as his friend had always had a flair for the dramatics, but sitting still and reading for hours on end was not something that John could see for himself. Still, Phillip had been supportive of John’s choice to enroll in University, quoting Shakespeare in a telegram that John supposed was meant to be comforting. “Everyone can master grief but he that has it… so leave it behind and join me!” 

Four hours since leaving the home he wasn’t sure he’d ever get to call his again, John Whittaker arrived in Oxford, England. He pushed the goggles up onto his forehead to get a better view of the city and of the buildings that constituted the University. Feeling better, if only for the moment, he took a deep breath and allowed himself to feel hope for the first time since he watched his wife and father exit his life. This is… I’m really… 

But before he could fully enjoy the feeling or the moment, a young woman was shouting as she leapt out of the way of his bike. Taking his eyes off the road to appreciate his new situation had caused him to veer slightly off course, sending him careening towards the walkways. Oh! Quickly turning the handles, he narrowly avoided crashing into the woman, though he hadn’t avoided the bush right beside her, ending up halfway into the greenery before he could stop. Right. Well. I’m here. 

“Would you watch where you are going? You nearly knocked me over there with your carelessness! Who even…” You’d dropped your books when you’d had to jump from his path, your skirt twisting around and your top askew. 

What? I...Oh, I… “I’m sorry, I’m so…” He pulled the motorbike out of the bush and bent down to pick up one of your dropped texts, handing it back to you as a page fluttered out onto the ground. “Are you alri-” You snatched it back from him with one hand, the other pulling at your clothing to fix it back into place. 

“No, I am not alright! As I said, sir-” 

“It’s John, actually, John Whittaker, and I’m very-” 

“As I said, John, you nearly knocked me over with your,” you gestured at his motorbike with the book, “your ridiculous cycle here, and I-” 

“But you aren’t hurt, are you?” He asked as he stepped towards you, the sincerity in his eyes clearer than the embarrassment. He looked you over quickly scanning your elbows, your face, the small amount of skin that was visible beneath the hem of your skirt. She’s not bleeding, I don’t see any-

You blew out a breath in a huff and shook your head. “No, I’m not hurt, but you should… You need to be more cautious.” 

Nodding profusely, he agreed. “You’re right, I should be more careful, it was foolish of me not to pay more attention.” You seemed to be expecting him to disagree and were caught off guard by the lack of fight he put up, your sharp eyes softening the smallest amount. “Can I… do you need any help or… can I walk you to wherever it is you were going?” The soft look vanished as one eyebrow shot up, but before you could open your mouth to protest his forwardness, he continued. “I don’t mean to be forward, I only want to make sure that you’re truly not hurt. It seems the least that I can do after, well after,” he tilted his head towards the motorbike, a broken branch of leaves sticking in the spokes of the front wheel. “After I almost ran you down, Miss..?” 

You narrowed your eyes at him as you tried to decide what his intentions might be. I only want to make sure that I don’t leave my mark on your life like I do everywhere I go. Blowing out another breath through your nose as you fixed your sleeve, you told him your name, which he repeated in his mind immediately, not ignoring the fact that he liked the way it sounded. No, don’t start that now, that’s not why you’re here. “Um… no, I, er…” you nodded curtly. “I’m alright, John, and I need to be going now or I’ll be late to my study group. Just...just be more careful, and keep your tires on the road, will you?” With that, you turned and kept walking down the path you’d been on before he’d disrupted your day. 

“Excellent first impression on Oxford, Whittaker!” Phillip’s voice called from across the street, and John turned to see his friend ambling towards him with a laugh lifting his cheeks and lighting his face. “If you’re done running down students, why don’t you pull that heap of rubbish out of that bush and follow me, I’ll show you to the dormitories. 

..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  

A few days after moving into the dormitory hall, John decided to use the last remaining days before formal instruction began to familiarize himself with his new surroundings, striding out into the early autumn sunshine and strolling the paths. Not two minutes into his walk, he found you, walking the same path he’d run his vehicle up onto the day before. What are the odds? Wanting to ensure that you were still alright after what had happened, he crossed the road, waving one arm as he called your name. 

You turned, an unsure look on your face as your name hit your ear that vanished the second you saw him, replaced with a slightly exasperated expression. “Oh, it’s you, the motorbike man.” 

The motorbike man? He shook his head. Not important. “H-how are you? Are you still...are you alright?” He blinked as he looked you over, suddenly aware of the way that you were looking at him. Oh, she’s… 

“Yes, I’m alright.” You raised one hand towards the road. “No one has tried to run me down yet today, and since you’re here and your cycle is not, I presume that I’m safe. For now.” You nodded. “Now, If you’ll excuse me, I do have an appointment with my advisor and so-”

Oh! She’s a student? She- “So you… you study here then? You’re a student?” John’s eyes flicked from your face to the imposing structure that you were walking towards, its chimneys looming above the brick building. 

“Well aren’t you brilliant?” Your teasing answer came from the corner of your lips as you continued to walk along as though John wasn’t trying to have a conversation with you. 

Brilliant? That’s the last- “Brilliant? Oh, no, I think that-”  

“No?” Turning to face him, you brushed your hair back behind your ear, and John couldn’t help but notice the way that the skin at the corner of your eye scrunched as you looked over at him.  “You aren’t brilliant then?” 

Not if you ask- “Well, not if you ask-”   

Cutting him off, you adjusted the small stack of books that you were carrying. “I’m asking you, Jack, is it?” 

“It’s,” he gestured to himself. “It’s John, actually.” 

“Yes,” you winked at him. “That’s right. John. John Whittaker.” Yes, that’s me, she remem- “John Whittaker, the man who nearly knocked me off my feet with his motorbike just the other day.” You’d stopped walking, pausing at the corner to wait for a baker’s delivery truck to trundle slowly through the intersection. 

The smell of still warm, freshly baked loaves wafted through the air, reminding John that it had been nearly a full day since he’d eaten anything. His empty stomach rumbled loudly to confirm that, par for the course, nothing since he’d left home the previous day had gone as he had hoped it might. The echo of his mother’s words tumbled in his ear, but he shook his head to empty it, returning his attention to you. “That was...well it was…” The truck passed through the intersection, turning a corner, and you promptly began crossing the road. He stepped off of the curb, crossing just behind you. A cool breeze swept some leaves about your feet and ruffled the hem of your skirt, adding to the clipped click of your heels on the hard road. The image of you sprawled across the street, books strewn about and your elbows scraped flashed quickly through his mind, but he blinked it away. That’s not what happened, only what could have happened. A small frown pulled his lips downward as he thought about the trouble he’d almost caused with his carelessness. Catching up to you, he stepped onto the sidewalk at the same instant that you did, speaking your name with such earnest apology in his tone that you actually faced him with a hint of sympathy in your eyes. “I’m sorry. What happened yesterday was boorish of me and, well, well I only wanted to say that I’m glad that you weren’t hurt. And if there’s anything that-” 

“John.” You pressed your rouged lips together before letting them slide into a slight smile. It wasn’t a joyous expression, or one of surprised excitement, but it changed the light in your eyes, softened the hard outer shell that he suspected was necessary as a female student at Oxford. He wasn’t prepared, though, for the way that it felt to hear you speak his name and know that after it had left your lips, they curved into that small smile. A small breath escaped his lungs, and suddenly he felt much warmer than the autumn temperature should allow. “I was only teasing you. I know you didn’t mean to barrel through that crosswalk on that...thing of yours.” A short burst of air from your nose served as an amused little laugh and you shook your head, John watching as your lips curved upwards a little more. “You have nothing to apologize for.” You held up one finger, shifting your books in your arms. “Yet.” The smile turned smirkish as you turned and continued walking.

Instantly, the phantom guilt from what almost happened dissipated, and where he first felt uncertainty about where he stood with you, he was invigorated with new hope. For what? I’m not… I didn’t come all this way just to… It was even hard to think it, but he forced himself to, if for no other reason than that he deserved to give himself a fair chance at this endeavor, and not allow himself to fall quickly into something that would derail that chance. I didn’t come all this way just to replace Lari. Having passed, the thought that seemed difficult proved itself to be unnecessary as he realized that even though he’d not known you more than a collective twenty minutes, you were nothing like his ex-wife. “Well, I hope to continue that streak of having no need for apologies then.” 

“Is that so?” He nodded. “To what end?” 

“To what..? To what end? Well, to the end of…” Think, Whittaker, and fast. “Well perhaps to the end of studying together some time.” It sounded like a suggestion or a line and he knew it thought it truly wasn’t, but luckily your temporary suspension of teasing remained in place. 

“You want to study with me, John?” You raised an eyebrow as you began walking again. 

“Well, yes. I mean, that is to say, if you don’t-” 

“Do you even have any idea what courses I am here to study?” The smirk still hadn’t left your face and he was beginning to forget the way your tight frown looked in favor of this more relaxed demeanor. “Do you even have any idea of what courses you’re here to study?” 

“Well, of course I know what I’m here to study,” he answered quickly without actually answering. He confidently imagined you seated at a piano, and could almost hear the comments you would make on The Mona Lisa. Yes, Arts & Music, I’m almost certain. “And if I were to guess, I’d say that you are enrolled in the-”   

“Philosophy, actually,” you tossed your correction of his assumption over your shoulder, where it bounced with your curls and hit him smack in the face. His eyes grew even wider, mouth dropping open as yours scrunched to the side in a failed attempt to contain your burst of laughter. “Not at all what you were expecting, I presume.”  

John quickly shook his head, closing his gaping mouth and hurrying toward the sign post, grabbing onto it and swinging himself around so that he was next to you once more. “Not, not what I was expecting.” He pushed the loose strands of hair that had fallen in front of his face back over the crown of his head. “It's only that,” letting go of the sign post, he stuck both hands in his pockets and focused on keeping stride with you down the sidewalk. Since I can’t seem to keep stride with the conversation. 

You turned, raising one eyebrow and tilting your chin. “It’s only that?” Pausing long enough to make him sweat but not long enough to let him answer, you continued. “It’s only that women don’t-”  What? No, I… “It’s only that we should only be allowed to study certain-“ 

Once again, John scrambled ahead of you, his head shaking furiously from side to side. “No.” He gestured with his hands, crossing them in front of his body before sweeping them out to his sides, and while you had let out an exasperated breath, your eyes rolling as you did, he was glad to see the hint of a smile pulling at your lips again. That’s a relief. Come now, don’t mess it all up, John. “It’s only that Philosophy… well it sounds so,” Your smile turned slightly more amused as it climbed up into your cheeks as you started walking again. John followed closely at your heels. “Well It’s only that Philosophy sounds so dull.” He could tell that it was the wrong thing to say, yet nonetheless there the words hung in the crisp air.  

But before he could worry that he’d offended you yet again, you laughed, the sound light and clear. “Dull?” You asked, “tell me, sir,” it’s John, you know my name is J- “What is dull about learning how to think intelligently about the world in which we live?” 

I hadn’t thought of it that way. “I only meant-“ that you aren’t dull...you aren’t dull at all and-

“You only meant that-“ 

“I only meant,” John stepped around in front of you again, standing directly in your path. “That you don’t seem to be the type of person who likes to be told how to think.” 

You regarded him for a few seconds longer than you had yet to, and he could feel your eyes weighing his. “That is the first correct assumption that you’ve made about me so far, John Whittaker, and it is precisely why I choose to study the classics, the great thinkers.” John cocked his head to the side, brow wrinkling questioningly, not quite following your reasoning. “I want to know how others have looked at the world, so that I can look and form my own opinions. I want to…” You blew out a breath, shaking your head and finally breaking eye contact to stare at the buckle of your shoe as you scuffed the sole across the cobbled walkway. 

“You want to...what?” He dipped his chin to find your eyes again, bringing them back up with his own. 

“I,” But the rest of your sentence was drowned out by the tolling of enormous bells, announcing the hour. You gave a startled gasp, eyes widening. “I have to go, John or I’ll be late to meet with my advisor.” Chewing your lip, you hesitated before spinning away from him. “If you…” If I? You inhaled quickly and finished the rest with that breath. “If you’d really like to study together, meet me in the library tomorrow at two o’clock.” John felt his whole face lift as he nodded. “And John?” You started walking backwards, still looking at him but heading towards the building that he presumed your meeting was in. 

“Yes?” 

“Don’t be late.” With that, you shook your head and laughed quietly, turning and picking up your pace, steps widening and quickening almost into a run. He stood on the cobbled pathway, students and other pedestrians milling about that he hadn’t noticed before, and watched as you disappeared through the brick archway. I won’t be. 

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Please let me know if you would like to be added or removed from the taglist for this story, and as always, THANK YOU for reading! 

@something-tofightfor​ @its-my-little-dumpster-fire​ @malionnes​ @gollyderek​ @suchatinyinfinity​ @fific7​ @alraedesigns​ @pheedraws​ @valkblue​ @commanderlola​ @thesumofmychoices​

[trashscenariihxh]

Pariston x Fem!Reader

You’ve lost your phone.  It’s found by the worst person possible.  Another commission.  TW for degradation, dubcon, and Paristonian nonsense.

When you couldn’t find your phone one morning, you thought nothing of it.  You often misplaced it, often on silent, so you resigned yourself to a morning of painstakingly retracing your steps.  You knew that it was in the house; with some relief, you recalled using it to listen to music as you showered the night before.  To your annoyance, your phone was not where you’d left it. You wanted to ask Pariston if he’d seen it, but he’d already left for work, so you were stuck phoneless until you either stumbled upon it yourself, or until your boyfriend returned home and helped you find it.

As it turned out, you did not find your phone, and you were stuck music-less and message-less until Pariston arrived home.  He didn’t arrive until well past 9 pm, which, while not entirely unusual, irked you. It would have been nice if today of all days he’d arrived on time…

“Hello, Darling,” he greeted mellifluously, striding into the house looking no worse for wear despite the over 12 hour work day he’d just had.  

You smiled at him, his presence serving as a ray of sunshine to your annoyance-darkened day.  “Welcome back.”  You took his jacket and hung it up, just as he liked before giving him a peck on the lips.  “How was your day?”

“Fine, fine.” He waved dismissively before fixing you with one of his unblinking, smiling stares.  “And how was your day?”  He cast his gaze over the cluttered living room.  “…relaxing, I trust?”

“Not exactly.”  You sighed.  “Pariston, I’ve lost my phone.  Have you seen it?”

“Your phone?”  He rubbed his still-smooth chin. “No, I haven’t seen it recently.”

“Hmph.”  You frowned.  “I know it’s here somewhere… I just can’t find it.”

Pariston laughed, wrapping his arms around your waist and drawing you in for a kiss.  “Don’t worry about, that, Darling,” he murmured, kissing you softly.  “Why don’t you go and get ready for bed?”  

You kissed him again, melting into him, lost in the light floral scent of his cologne.  “Will you join me?”

“Of course.”  He drew back, smiling down at you.  “I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?”  You cocked your head.  “What is it?”

“I can’t tell you.” He laughed.  “I’ll show you before bed.  Now hurry,” he gently pushed you away from him.  “I’ll meet you up there soon.  Now get ready for bed.”

You nodded, knowing better than to protest, and headed upstairs to shower.

***  

You liked to take your time in the shower, but tonight you rushed through your nightly routine.  A surprise?  You enjoyed surprises, and yet, there was something off about Pariston tonight. Something unfamiliar.  Anticipation mingled with another feeling in the pit of your stomach.  What was it exactly?  Apprehension? Nervousness.  No.  Dread. Why you felt this way, you didn’t know, but a nagging voice in the back of your head told you that this might not be a surprise you wanted.

You turned off the water, stepped out of the shower, dried yourself off and slipped into a silky black bathrobe.  One of Pariston’s many gifts to you.  

“Sorry that took so long,” you called out.  “I was just…” You froze when you entered the bedroom. Pariston was sitting at the foot of the bed, his usual smile plastered to his face.  He held your phone in his hand.  “My phone,” you stuttered out, looking at him in disbelief.  “Where did you find it?”

“Oh, just laying around.” His lips quirked in what could have been mirth, except there was no humor in his sepia eyes.  “You really should be more careful, ____.”

You reached for the phone but he held it out of reach.  “Ah-ah!” He held up his hand.  “You really need to take better care of your possessions, Darling.  Especially something like this!  Who knows what… information someone might stumble upon.  Especially if a phone isn’t password protected.”

You swallowed at his words, a lump beginning to form in your gut.  What was he implying?  Would he… no, he wouldn’t.  He couldn’t.”

“You always seemed like such a sweet girl, you know?  So sweet and innocent.”  He cocked his head to the side and smiled at you, a soft giggle beginning to shake his voice.  “Imagine my surprise when I saw the filth you’ve been looking at.”

Your heart stopped, your blood turned to ice.  So he had looked.  “Pariston-“ your voice hitched desperately as you reached for the phone again.

Pariston moved quickly, far quicker than you’d ever seen him move.  He grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked your head back.  “Did I say you could take this?”  He shook the phone enticingly in front of your face?  “Hm?” When you didn’t answer, he jerked your head from side to side.  “No, I did not.”  He slipped it into his pocket before forcing you onto your knees.

“To think,” he lamented, his face contorted into a theatrical expression of despair as he fiddled with his belt, “I treated you like a princess.  A house, gifts, all the spending money you could ever want… and all you wanted was to be treated like a cheap whore this whole time.  Such a shame, Darling, an absolutely dreadful shame.” He managed to undo his belt and trousers with one hand, extricating his cock from its expensively-tailored confines. With surprising strength, he jerked your head forward.  “Suck it,” he crooned, grabbing his cock and holding it to your lips, “suck it like a good little whore.”

You suppressed the rising wave of disgust and opened your mouth.  Pariston had always been persuasive.  As you took his still-soft cock into your mouth, your stomach twisted. Where had the sweet man you’d always known gone?  Who was this monster who’d replaced him?

Pariston’s cock stiffened rapidly as you sucked him off, but his grip on your hair didn’t relent in the slightest.  “That’s it, that’s a good whore,” he praised, holding your head in place as he jerked his hips forward, “take all of my cock.”

You choked when his now fully-hard cock hit the back of your throat and tried to pull back, but found yourself being forced down even further.  “What’s the matter?” Pariston taunted, hips still snapping forward, ramming himself further down your throat, “I thought this is what you wanted?  Don’t tell me I’m mistaken.”

Tears began to gather at the corners of your eyes as shame and the limits of your gag reflex began to overcome you.  From above you, Pariston giggled.  

“I never knew you were so ugly when you cried, ____.”  His grip on your hair tightened and he held you in place, his cock down your throat, effectively choking you.

“Why are you crying? You wanted this.”

The remark stung, not because he was making unfounded accusations, but because he was right. Pariston now had his finger on the pulse of your desires; there was no hiding them from him.  His hips jerked forward a few times, and just as the rapidly forming tears began to fall down your face, he came down your throat with a soft grunt.

“Don’t you dare choke,” Pariston warned as you heaved, gag reflex rebelling.  “Swallow all of me like a good whore.”

You didn’t know how you managed it, but you swallowed every  for drop of his release.  Once Pariston was satisfied, he pulled you off of his cock.  You wheezed, gasping for air in choked sobs.  You relief lasted only a moment; Pariston gripped your chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilted your head back to look up at him.

He regarded you for a few moments, yet another smile spreading across his flawless face.  He gave your cheek a little slap with his free hand, then another, before backhanding you hard across the face.

You cried out, reeling from the force of the strike.  Pariston had never hit you before; you’d never asked him to, it being something that had always lain beyond the realm of things you could ask of him.

“Get on the bed,” he ordered, rubbing his knuckles, “now.  Hands and knees. Take off the robe.”

You obeyed, despite logic screaming at you not to.  Pariston was being cruel, mocking; and yet you couldn’t say no to him.  Despite the shame and humiliation, your entire body buzzed with the desire, the need to be dominated.  It coursed through your body, lighting up your nerve endings with a certain itch; you needed more of whatever Pariston was planning to give you, no matter the cost.

The blonde stood behind you, his large hands caressing the curve of your ass and squeezing the fat of your thighs.  You whimpered when you felt his finger running along your slit.

“So wet,” he observed, his voice teetering on the edge of a chuckle.  “I never would have guessed what a filthy slut you were.  Good thing I know now.”  He pressed two fingers into you, drawing out a moan.  “I’d fuck you, but you see, who knows where you’ve been?” he continued conversationally, pumping his fingers in and out, crooking them to press against your g-spot.  “I’m feeling generous, though, and may let you cum, if you’re good.”

“P-Pariston-“ you moaned out weakly, legs beginning to shake.  A loud smack echoed throughout the room when Pariston brought his hand down hard onto your ass; your moan morphed into a keen of agonized pleasure.

“I didn’t say you could talk.” He continued to finger you; you could feel his unyielding eyes boring into your back.  “But, as you’re so insistent on opening your slut mouth, why don’t you address me properly.”

Properly?  What did he mean by properly?

“Pariston?”

He smacked you again, this time much harder than the last. “Don’t be stupid.  Do it properly.”

“Mr. Hill?”

Another smack, this one so hard you cried out.  “No.  I want you to call me by the name the whores in those stories you read use.”

Oh. Oh.  Your cheeks burned with humiliation as the realization of what he wanted finally dawned on you.

“Daddy?”

“Daddy what?”

“Daddy please!”

“Please what?”

You swallowed the last remnants of pride.  “Please let me cum, Daddy.”

Pariston hummed in satisfaction.  “See? Now that wasn’t so hard now was it?” He began to finger you quicker, reaching around with his other hand to stroke your clitoris.  When you didn’t respond, he asked again.  “Was it?”

“N-no Daddy,” you answered, biting your lip as your orgasm approached.

“Good girl.”

That did it.  That tiny modicum of praise sent you reeling over the edge; your walls spasmed around Pariston’s fingers, coating them with wetness.

“Filthy.”  Pariston withdrew his fingers and wiped them on a tissue he grabbed from the bedside table.  “Absolutely disgusting.”

You collapsed on the bed, too exhausted from your orgasm to really care.  The shame of what had just happened was slowly setting in, but so was exhaustion.

“Go take a bath.” Pariston’s voice cut through the fog of your post-orgasmic bliss.

“But I just—”

“Go.  Take a bath.”  Pariston’s voice was quiet and flat.  Deadly serious.  “You’re going to need to get nice and clean before I allow you to sleep next to me, you know?”  He stroked your hair softly.  “I can’t just let a slut like you sleep in this bed with me now, can I?”  The gentleness of his voice contrasted sharply with the harshness of his words.

Nodding, you sat up, tears threatening to spill again, and hurried to the bathroom.  As soon as the door closed, you gave in to the urge and allowed the sobs to overwhelm you, not caring if Pariston could hear.  For all you knew, he liked hearing you cry.

[19mrs-barnes17]

As Long As I Can Get -  Chapter Two: Fairfield

Summary: Y/N Fairfield has spent the last 10 years pushing past all the hurt and putting all her focus into her career. A familiar face back in town threatens the peace she found. [prompt: Small Town Lovers AU]

Part: 2/5

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader (AU)

Warnings: at a hospital, mentions of death and abandonment

Word count: 3,198

A/N: It’s been a wild week but here it is, chapter two! Enjoy! Special thanks to @wxntersoldiers​ for beta reading.

~

“Y/N? You think you could pick up my shift tonight? Missy is running a fever and I can’t get ahold of my mother to come take care of her.” Holding the phone away from her face Y/N sighed heavily as she rolled out of bed.

“Of course Dawn, just call in for me and tell them I’m on my way would ya? Thanks, it’s no biggie. I’m happy to help, let me know how Missy is doing later.” Hanging up the phone she’s up and changing in a flash, quickly moving across her apartment and back. 

Within 6 minutes she’s in her scrubs and locking her apartment door, rushing down the stairs and out the front in another 3. She slides into the driver's seat, buckles in, and on the road to the highway in record time. 

This was becoming a routine every week, someone would have an emergency and she’d be asked to pick up the slack. Her regular shifts at the ER in town kept her busy through the day, but her Thursday or Friday nights were often filled up by favors and desperate calls. She had a limit though, each person could only ask her one favor a month and she would cover one emergency. But when the emergencies came she could tell when they were real or just another masked favor. So by now the only emergency usually came from a mother whose kid was hurt or sick. 

Pulling into the employee parking lot, she exited her car and speed walked into the building, making her way to the sign in at the station. She prayed this would be a tame night and that Dawn didn’t have any difficult new patients because she was far too tired to argue about something that she was more of an expert on. 

Covering for Dawn was usually not too bad, most of her patients typically being older and gentle folk who treated her like a loving grandkid. Always gave her some nickname, rarely ever calling her nurse or even her name. All of which was fine by her.

Being a nurse hadn’t always come easy for her, remembering all the medications, the proper doses, the schedules, and how to do every aspect of her job was a lot to take in. But the moments in which she connected with a patient were the reason she got into the specific role in the medical field. Well that and her father.

Most of her family had joined the field, all three of her brothers had either become paramedics or a physical therapist. Her mother was the chief physician at the ER in Brightbarrow and her father was a private care nurse typically working with elderly or terminal members of the town. On a few occasions he had brought her along to see his patients, acting as a distraction for those who were living with severe pain. Through these visits in her childhood she began to realize how she enjoyed helping people who were hurting, and giving them a sense of peace for a little while.

One college degree later and she was back in town applying to work in the ER, her scheduled shifts hardly ever including weekends unless someone needed a cover and she was the only one who could spare the time. Her work there was routine, but here at this hospital outside town? She had found some gentle souls that brightened her day.

“Oh my, is that you Sunshine?” Claudia was sitting up in the hospital bed, remote in her hand to flip through the limited channels. “What a lovely surprise.”

“How are we tonight? Take our medicine okay today?” Claudia smirks and nods, the crinkles in the corners of her eyes forming as a flicker of mischief shines in her eyes. “Mhhmm.”

“I have somethin’ for ya sunshine. Made it yesterday when they let me do some crafts.” Claudia reaches to the table rolled off to the side of her bed and picks up a bracelet with rainbow thread. Y/N walks over to the woman and allows her to gently tie off the multicolored bracelet around her wrist. “There, perfect size.”

“Thank you Claudia, that’s awfully kind of you.” A smile is shared between the two before Y/N motions for her to hand over the remote. “Now how about we shut this off and I read you a little something so you can doze off, sound good?”

“Only if it's that one you told me about, the one with the little guys.” Y/N chuckled at the description but nodded in agreement nonetheless as she powered down the television and left to get her novel. 

“Alright get comfy now.” She waited for Claudia to adjust her bed and helped her with the pillows before cracking open the small book and beginning the tale. “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.”

“Ah that’s what they were, that’s right. Hobbits.”

At the end of her shift Y/N was exhausted and ready for bed, doing her best to keep wide awake on her drive back by playing her dad’s favorite rock station. Thankfully it did the trick and she made it into town without issue, turning down the volume and switching stations as she made her way through the town like she’d done a million times before.

Turning onto her street she was perplexed to notice a man walking the sidewalks this late in the night, his movements slow and steady. The closer she got to him the sooner she realized she knew exactly who the man was and she had some theories about what was keeping him up so late. Pulling to the side of the road she exited her car, slamming the door shut behind her before glancing up to meet the gaze of a man she hadn’t seen in ages.

Bucky Barnes stood across the street staring at her like he’d seen a ghost, his features painted with something along the lines of guilt or sorrow. The man was frozen in place by her, his eyes watching as she raised a sleepy hand to wave at her old friend. To her surprise he waved back and yet he didn’t move a muscle as she turned away from him to head to bed. 

The next morning she woke late, the Saturday sun shining through the cracks of her blinds stirring her from her sleep. Her stomach grumbled, craving some of Winifred Barnes’ cooking ASAP. Instead of driving she opted to walk over there, let the sun and the exercise wake her a little more.

Winnie’s Diner was the town staple, the place that every person went at least a few times a week. It was the kind of business that had become the heart of the town, the comfort and hospitality center. If you wanted to get a feel for the town you didn’t have to look any further than this diner, it was where Y/N had gotten her first job. She had one of her first dates in a corner booth and had been stood up in another. This building was a hub of memories, good and bad.

“Hey Y/N! Have a seat. I'll be right with you girl.” Becca was zooming around the place in a graceful hurry, placing plates and clearing tables as she went. “What can I get ya?”

“A coffee, a biscuit, some bacon, and an update. Please.” She watched as her best friend shook her head with a reluctant nod before dropping off the order. 

Once the coffee was poured she told her brother she was taking her 15 and slid into the other half of the booth. Y/N sat patiently, prepping her coffee as she waited for Becca to collect her thoughts.

“He’s back for good, got a job working for Thomas Geldin constructing those new homes over by your parent’s house.” Sipping her coffee Y/N did her best not to allow her emotions to betray her. 

“What changed?” 

“Not sure. He seems different, like his load is heavier. Almost like he was when Daddy died, just emotionally cut off and distant. But he is making an effort to get closer and he comes in here every day for his lunch break. Which is in a few minutes now.” Y/N coughed, nearly choking on her coffee as her eyes went wide. 

“Sneak.”

“Hey don’t look at me, you two just are fated to dine at the same time.” Becca smirks before rushing off to grab something to eat before her break ends. 

She hadn’t actually spoken a word to Bucky since he came back to town, and yet he suddenly lived across the street and worked by her old home. Now he would be here within minutes and she would once more feel compelled to initiate conversation, but she wouldn’t let herself. If he wanted to talk he would approach her, not the other way around. 

He arrived the same time her food did, his eyes scanning the room to presumably locate his sister but freezing on Y/N who sat before her. A mixture of emotions flashed across his features rapidly before settling on a guilt ridden expression. Bucky approached the booth, his sister pausing to greet him and casting a wink over her shoulder before speeding away. Standing before the booth he shifted his weight nervously as he seemed at a loss for what to say. His eyes are no longer able to maintain contact and he casts them to the empty seat.

Don’t invite him. Don’t invite him. It took all her strength to refrain from being polite, her eyes never leaving him as her gaze intensified.

“Mind if I join you?” Her heart dropped, she was expecting a simple hello or quick apology and not a full on meal with the guy. She nodded her head, refusing to take the bait just yet as he slid into the booth.

“Here’s your usual James.” Becca slid a plate with a steak and cheese melt and fries onto the table before rushing off again. She was pushing him, Y/N knew that his mother and the older townspeople were the only ones who used his actual name. To everyone else he was Bucky. 

“I’m sorry about not keeping in touch, there’s been a lot that I had to work through the past 10 years.” God she could hardly believe it had been that long since he left, an entire decade had passed by without him. “Can we start again?”

Once more she had to use all her might to restrain herself from instantly agreeing and forgiving what he had done. She didn’t understand why he cut her off so quickly and completely, their friendship wilting through high school and fading in the decade following. But she knew why he had become so emotionally reserved, after watching his father wither away slowly and gradually lose the ability to even function Bucky had begun to close himself off from everyone. He smiled less, got into more trouble with other kids, and barely made it enough to enlist. 

Sure she had missed him dearly and knew he had suffered greatly, probably even worse after his service, but she couldn’t risk getting too quickly attached again. Not when she knew how much his leaving her behind tore her apart. 

“I’ll have to think about it.” She could see her words striking a nerve within him, his appetite diminishing. “But I’d like to.”

His eyes snap up to meet hers, relief flooding them as he gazes at her fondly. Y/N wanted desperately to forget it all but she knew that proceeding with caution was the best course of action. She would let him have the opportunity to rectify his past mistakes, but it was up to him to take it.

“City noise or quiet town?” He knit his brow and gave her a perplexed look before taking a bite of a fry. “Pick one.”

“I’m not sure I have a preference anymore.”

“But you had one.”

“City noise.” She shook her head with a small smile, curiosity overtaking her careful approach. “Drowned everything out.”

“Patty’s coffee or city coffee?”

“Patty will forever have the world’s best coffee. No one in New York believed me, kept saying European coffee was where it was at.” 

“I’m going to move on before I get so offended I bring her coffee to New York.” Bucky laughed lightly, eyes crinkling shut as he shook his head at her. The sound warmed her heart and she could already tell this was going to be hard not to fall into. 

His break eventually comes close to an end and he has to rush back to work but leaves a napkin with his phone number behind. She shook her head at the gesture, he knew full well that she and Becca were very close friends and she could have gotten his number from his sister. One point to him for ensuring she had it. 

Becca was off at 3 so Y/N spent her time walking around the book shop, glancing at summaries and running her fingers over the spines. Her mind was far too crowded to pick anything out, focused on how she was going to make it through this renewal of friendship after so much pain. This place usually put her at ease, the sight of the full shelves and atmosphere calming her active mind. But today her mind had won and so she wandered around town until she had nowhere else to go but home. 

A knock sounded on her door an hour or two later and an exhausted Becca made her way inside to fall onto the couch and groan dramatically.

“I take it we’re getting pizza from Toni’s tonight?” This catches the attention of her best friend who suddenly perks right up.

“And wine.” Y/N opens her fridge door and pulls out a bottle, holding it up for Becca to see and receives a nod of approval.

“Pull up netflix and I’ll order the pizza.”

Several glasses of wine and pieces of pizza later the two are sitting on the floor going through a shoebox full of old memories. Memories of their friendship. 

“Oh remember this?” Becca holds up two ticket stubs, one to their high school dance and the other to see a Panic! concert. 

“We showed up in full formal wear, not thinking to pack another outfit to change into.” Y/N dug in the box and produced a photo of the two from that night, Panic! at the Disco tour shirts over their dresses. “I can’t believe we didn’t get caught until your mom saw the shirt in your laundry.”

“Almost the perfect crime. Kind of dumb of us to pay the money for the ticket when we never even went to the dance though.” The two fell into a fit of giggles and struggled to compose themselves. “We were not the best planners apparently.”

“Are you kidding? The College Bar Crawl fiasco?” 

“Oh Jesus, yeah we really should have thought through where we were going to end up staying the night. Next time we do something, we need a fully thought out plan.” 

“Agreed. It’s too dangerous for us to do any less. We might end up in Europe and somehow married.” Becca falls flat on her back as laughter bubbles through her, her head turning and spotting another box under the bed.

“What is this?” She slides the box out and removes the lid before Y/N can stop her, her fingers gingerly sifting through the contents as a smile tugs at her lips. “Oh, you’re a sentimental sap.”

“Gee thanks.” 

Inside were pictures of her, Bucky, and Steve throughout the few years they were all together. She instantly gravitated toward them when she moved to town at 8, sick of being the new girl and ready to settle into a place. They stuck up for her when she was mocked by some older kids, Bucky and Steve became her dearest friends in only a few years. 

There were more photos of her and Steve together, seeing as he was the only one out of the two boys to keep her in his life. Pictures of them at his prom, no girl seemed to see past his physical change and so he invited her. She remembered how her parents felt about that night, so proud of who they thought she was choosing to be with. A boy who was going to college, who had aspirations but remained loyal to his town. One with a kind heart and a gentle soul. She knew what they expected from the night, but they never understood that she and Steve were simply good friends and nothing more.

The photos of her and Bucky begin to dwindle around when she was 13, the year after his father died. Slowly Bucky grew apart from her and Steve, more the former than the latter. Something after her birthday party that year changed everything and she began to lose him piece by piece until he finally enlisted and left altogether. 

She held a photo of the two of them between her fingers, eyes tearing up at the sight of their smiles. It was the day of her party, when she could still make him smile and forget about his troubles even if just for a moment. Bucky had both arms around her torso, his head resting on her shoulder and a bright smile on his face. Her cheek was against his face, hands and arms resting on his forearms with a dopey big smile stretched across her face. 

“I swear I could kill that boy for what he did. I get losing touch while overseas, but cutting you out of his life while still in the same small town? That’s just cruel.” Becca sighed and took the photo from Y/N’s hands, placing everything back in the boxes before sliding both back under. “And to think I used to believe he liked you.”

“That would have made things worse.” 

“C’mon let’s forget about that punk and eat some chocolate.” Y/N leaned into Becca as she was held by her, sighing deeply. “You’ll always have me, and Steve. That boy would rather dive face first out of an airplane than ditch a friend.” 

“Ain’t that the truth.”

After Becca left Y/N spent some time cleaning up after their roller-coaster of a night. Her body was tired but her mind was far too active to rest. Thoughts of what she lost sticking in her brain as she watched out the window as Bucky exited his townhouse and began to walk aimlessly in the night. She almost wanted to join him, not speaking just walking.

Instead she readied herself for bed, lying under the covers and staring out the window at the stars. Her mind traveled to something Bucky once told her about his dad and how if he found the North Star then he would never be alone, because someone else was always looking too. 

And she knew exactly who that was.

~

Tags: @asphalt-cocktail​ @qtmeryr​ @broken-hearted-barnes​ @cantnkrusshedevil​ @gstran18​

[hey-hamlet]

BNHA AU Ideas : Happy Famlies

Also on AO3!

TL;DR: This AU is exactly what is sounds like. Everyone gets a happy family. 

Feat. Dadmight, and his sons Izuku and Tenko, Big Bro Dabi with his little bro, Shinson and his Dadzawa.

allmight n inko end up dating and tenko n izu are brothers

dabi and tenko are third year ua herocourse students when izu and the others join

tenko is a soft sunshine boy cause izu rubbed off on him a lot

dabi wants to be an underground hero so he'll never be like his father

todoroki takes the entrance exam so inasa and hitoshi are recommendation students

izuku kills the exam because he starts ua being able to use full cowl 5%, breaking allmights record with a whopping 130 points

because consider dabi, shouto, izu, tenko and hitoshi all singing karaoke together, dabi has a tambourine and tenko is violently shaking maracas

izuku and inko dont know toshi is allmight, but tenko and toshi are terrible liars

the first time toshi meets izuku its just tenko presenting him saying "you gotta give it to him dad"

izu is only 5 n still broken up about having no quirk, toshi says he might just be a late bloomer while tenko nods

toshi sneaks izuku his quirk when he turns 7, izuku wakes up n accidentally punches a hole in the ceiling, he n katsuki make up cause izuku has a bomb ass quirk even if it does break his bones

he and inko just think he was a late bloomer cause his quirk was so strong. tenko and toshi highfive

seven year old izuku walking back into his house like mom i broke both my arms again :(((

katsuki actually helps him work out the flick thing

"it breaks my arms!" "then use less you dumb fuck!" "oh yeah actually thank you"

they’re so used to shouting criticisms while sparring that they still do it after they enter ua

when they spar at the sports festival mic can’t get a word of commentary in bc it’s just a constant slew of

“kACCHAN I TOLD U TO STOP LEADING WITH UR RIGHT”

“SHIITY DEKU IF U LAND LIKE THAT UR GONNA BREAK UR LEGS”

dabi n tenko the third years can hear them in their own stadium. tenko is cheering softly, dabi has a heart attack when he sees the walls of ice

izu has a massive handshapped scar on his wrist from when tenko saved him by pulling him out of the way of a car

he doesnt mind it but it makes tenko sad so he wears a lil cuff over it

tenko snuck in to watch the entrance exam he n toshinori are cheering quietly, the other teachers just sigh

izuku broke allmights record for points scored in the entrance exam but hes still scared he failed

tenko wants to s c r e a m

USJ ANGST TIME

starts as normal students enter, villains arrive kurogiri has an ear piece and is talking with afo directly, some of the 8 prefects goons are there too

hitoshi used his quirk on kurogiri to find out who they are, but is targeted after that and the villains know not to respond

the students are scattered, its izu/tsuyu and hitoshi. they do the whirlpool thing w/o the sitcking, hitoshi instructs them to tread water and not to move

hitoshi is nearing quirk overuse, tsuyu is shaken, izu is pretty much ok

aizawa is fighting the villains as normal, the nomu arrives

hitoshi tries to mind control the nomu, kurogiri attempts to direct one of the nomus punches to hitoshi, aizawa cancels the portal, severing one of the nomus arms. its grows back, aizawa is beaten

izuku charges forward, fighting the nomu with a higher percentage of full cowl than he can safely use but they are evenly matched

todoroki shows up, cant help because the two are moving so fast he cant aim his quirk and not hit mido

he and hitoshi keep kurogiri busy

before allmight arrives, dabi and tenko do, after seeing tenya running towards the school

izuku can barely move, over using his quirk to the point that he has countless micro fractures and the nomu has landed a few punches, and he took others to protect aizawa

tenko yells at dabi to grab izuku, kurogiri mentions that his master killed tenkos family and hes pissed

he cant stand up to the nomu but shouto makes an opening and he and dabi try to damage it as best they can, shouto has to hold izuku down to stop him from joining the fight again

allmight arrives, quickly dispatches the nomu, turns on Kurogiri

so tenko, allmight and a shaky izu are all facing down kurogiri while afo is trying to convince him to keep fighting

reinforcements arrive and kuro nopes out

as soon as the portal closes, izuku collapses and tenko n allmight rush over, shouto is grabbing onto dabi and hitoshi is trying to get aizawa to respond

hitoshi, crying, has to ask dabi to pick up his dad because his arms are shaking to bad hes scared he might drop him

tenko has no gloves anymore and he cant touch izuku and hes just lost, shouto wraps an arm around him and hitoshi n they cry as dabi takes aizawa and allmight takes izuku to recovery girl

aizawa n izu in the same hospital, hitoshi tells him what izuku did n aizawa fucking, breaks out of bed like a jackass to call him a problem child then fucking limps back

less depressingly, happy families dabi and tenko do "get help" from Thor Ragnarok

"gET heLP hEs BUrnINg UP"

aizawa : "kids that movie is like 240 years old"

izuku : "so... you know it then?"

aizawa: "fuck"

nighteye and gran torino are izuku and tenko's terrible uncles

he stars school at 5%, internships is 10%, camp gets him up to 15% so hes around 25% at the eri rescue

ochako being a terrible influence on kirishima

“uraraka i like katsuki. what do”

“push it down”

“what”

“pUSH UR FEELINGS Down”

also happy families shouto actually interns w nighteye n izu because dabi said he was an ass so no death thanks

one person asks izuku what his quirk is

he pauses

"aaaaaaaaaa"

"hm"

"my mum has minor levitation and my dad is quirkless"

izuku pauses again.

"wait"

"wait im not toshis biologically"

"waiT Who WAs My FirST Dad?"

shouto thinks inko has an affair w allmight then married his secretary but izuku met toshinori through tenko so he just lays down on the floor and screams

shouto’s brain is going to explode one day

consider tenko and izuku looking soft and pure but you turn around and suddenly you dont have a wallet and your food is gone

happy family izuku and kastuki were eachothers first kiss but in a dumb ass way

izuku was like "i need to ruin my frist kiss so the next one will be better"

"wow me too, you seem like the worlds worst option!"

"cool!"

they both almost gagged afterwards

tenko walked in on them violently scrubbing their lips

“wow katsuki who was ur first kiss”

bakugou stares off fondly into the distance

“deku :))”

"it was fucking terrible" wistful sigh

izuku, blushing happily: “id never do it again”

izuku: "yeah i scrubbed my face until it bleed so none of my skin would be tainted"

first week of 1a, someone asking izuku if he and katsuki are/were dating so izuku asks ochako to launch him into the sun

no matter how many people they date everyone always insists that katsuki and izuku are dating each other

izuku is actually dating shouto but no one believes him for some reason

dabi and hitoshi find it so funny

please consider dabi being the frontrunner of these rumours, like these random first years will come up to izuku while he’s eating lunch with shouto and they’ll be in t e a r s

“wHY ARE YOU CHEATING ON BAKUGOU SENPAI?”

izuku starts crying

shouto, totally deadpan: "i thought our love was real, izu-chan"

izuku wheezes

they have a katsudeku fan club and shouto’s the mascot

dabi is in it. hes a full hero at this point but nezu gave him a pass so he could attend

they have weekly meetings

it’s dabi, shouto, kirishima and like twenty first year girls from every class

shouto, in a deadpan voice: “good morning girls today i saw katsuki and izuku sharing bread. discuss”

kirishima is one of the most popular fanartists

tenko loves the meme but looking at his brother and bakugo “dating” makes him deeply upset so he breaks in to decay all the art on the walls once a week

he crowds shouto in tears one day

“how are you okay with your boyfriend and your classmate being the subjects of such horrid art”

shouto, deadpan: “it’s just a prank bro”

izuku falls asleep in the common room and toshi carries him back to his room and has to call tenko to unlock the door for him. tenko was in his own dorm on the other side of school.

he sprinted

iida the good boy finishes his essays the week before and hands them in a day early

izuku, the hot mess, procrastinates by training until he cant feel his arms and doing any other subject work than the stuff due, stays up till 4am to finish his essay and doesnt go back to sleep cause its time for his morning run

they get the same grades

no one knows izuku is a hot mess

Dabi is like izuku but he doesnt study hes just depressed

Tenko finishes his the day before but he gets izuku to read it over

shouto does his essays in class

aizawa wants to be mad but he remembers him mic n tensei distracting the teachers for as long as they can to violently finish their essays

“katsuki why didn’t you finish your essay”

“i was making oreos from scratch sensei”

"fair, give me some and you can hand in it wednesday"

he bribes every single teacher into giving him extensions and no one can refuse him bc his extra spicy curry is to die for. he maybe sometimes he helps deku get an extension too but if he does that’s no one else’s business but his

izuku acts so soft w the others "oh isnt kacchans food so good? "

but he climbs into through katsukis window

"bitch whats the recipe"

izuku banging on katsuki s window at five in the morning: “kacchan give me ur fucking curry recipe you promised it to me three years ago”

bakugos hands shake as he tries to call aizawa

“i see u calling sensei kacchan, put the phone down and no one gets hurt”

he has one of katsukis limited editing all might figurines in his hand

“give me the recipe and all might lives katsuki. it doesn’t have to end this way”

shouji, stressed and sleep deprived walks into bakugou’s room just to see izuku menacingly trying to force his way in while bakugou is crying

[thejustinmarshall]

Three Days On The Arctic Haute Route

  [NOTE: 2020 is the tenth year of my blog at Semi-Rad.com, and since I started it, I’ve been fortunate to get to do some pretty wonderful adventures. Throughout this year, I’ll be writing about 12 favorite adventures I’ve had since I started writing about the outdoors, one per month. This is the first in the series.]

[all photos by Tommy Penick]

On Deck C of the MS Nordenstjernen, anchored almost 200 miles north of the Arctic Circle, passengers clomp around in ski boots, stuff backpacks, and fuss with life jackets as snow falls through the fog into the dark water of the Stønnesbotn fjord outside. Everyone is excited, because everyone is skiing today, the first day of our three days of skiing on the Arctic Haute Route—except the one guy who drank too much in the lounge last night and missed his group’s departure to shore. He has frantically asked around to join another group, but our guide, Bjørn, has politely explained to him that we’re at capacity, with five skiers to one guide.

Another reason I suspect he says no: Bjørn is motivated to ski today, a lot. His plan for us today is to hop on the tender boats that will motor us over to shore in five minutes, take the bus 15 minutes across one of the narrow fingers of this island, Senja, to the shore just below Breidtinden (3,284 feet, the highest peak on the island), and then traverse back across the island, summiting another peak (Tuva, 2,168 feet) before skiing down to shore again. All in all, about 8 miles of skiing, and just under 3,900 feet of climbing.

There are 60 of us, including eight guides, on the MS Nordenstjernen—a 290-foot ship with four passenger decks, that served more than 50 years on Norway’s Hurtigruten coastal cruise line before it was retired in 2012. The boat is described as “nostalgic and venerable” in promotional literature, and feels more like a real ship than a fancy cruise ship, something out of a Wes Anderson movie. In the old Hurtigruten brochure, under the heading, “FITNESS ROOM, SAUNA, POOL, JACUZZI,” it says, “There are no such facilities on board MS Nordstjernen.” (For 2020, Arctic Haute Route trips will be on a newer boat, the MS Quest, built in 1992.)

The Arctic Haute Route, dreamed up by Nina Kristine Madsen Geelmuyden and her husband Fredrik Geelmuyden, owners of the Norwegian Adventure Company, works like this: Skiers board the boat in Tromsø, Norway, the afternoon of Day 1. We cruise south, anchoring in a fjord for the evening, and sleep on the ship. On Day 2, we get dropped on shore, ski all day, and return to the ship in mid- to late afternoon. We cruise south again to another fjord, spend the night on the ship, and ski new terrain on Day 3, returning to the ship and heading south again to anchor in one last fjord. The final day of skiing, on Day 4, ends at a bus that takes us to the airport at Svolvær, where we all catch flights home. The boat turns around to head north with a new group of skiers the next day. There are eight Arctic Haute Route trips per season (March 19-April 21), four southbound and four northbound, and a charter bus carrying everyone’s skis parallels the boat’s course the entire time.

The bus dropped us off for our first ski day, fat snowflakes dropping on us as we skinned up through thin trees, the peaks around us shrouded in low clouds. Our group of skiers: myself, photographer Tommy Penick, and three lively Norwegian guys from Oslo in their 50s: Ragnar, Frode, and Rune. Our guide, Bjørn Kruse, owns and operates the Romsdal Ski Lodge with his wife, and works as a guide on the Arctic Haute Route as a break over the winter.

We climbed above a fjord, Mefjorden, that opens into the Norwegian Sea about 10 miles northwest from us. Occasionally the clouds opened up to reveal peaks all around our path, on the mountainous northern coast of Senja, a 612-square-mile island connected to the mainland by a single bridge. I should have started cold but didn’t, and too many layers had me sweating as we climbed. Before the trip, I had skied exactly one day so far that season, spending most of my time running and training for a couple mountain ultramarathons. I was not exactly expecting to make great turns. When we ripped our skins off after about 40 minutes of climbing for a little 300-foot run down a gully, my fears were confirmed: my quads were burning after three turns in powder. But it was still so good.

We skinned up two shorter, mellow climbs, before dropping down into a valley for our final climb, 1700 feet into sunny blue skies to the summit of a peak called Tuva. From the top, we looked down to see our tiny ship parked in the fjord. I skied down last, not so confident in my wobbly legs, and also not wanting the rest of the group to observe my sloppy survival skiing through the trees to the road. Bjørn, it was clear, would find the best possible skiable snow, partly for us as his clients, but also because he just loves to ski. We arrived at the bus at 3:30 p.m., and after a short ride and a quick tender boat ride, I plopped down to drink coffee and watch the mountains go past a lounge window as the boat cruised out of the fjord and on to our next stop.

Mention Norway to someone and one of the first things you will probably hear them say is the word “expensive.” Compared to traveling to a lot of places, like Mexico or Thailand, it is. The Arctic Haute Route, for three and a half days on the ship, costs 19,900 Norwegian Kroner per person, or about $2,230 in U.S. dollars. Which is objectively not cheap—but includes all food, transportation, and lodging during the trip, plus three days of backcountry ski guiding. It is certainly one of the most expensive trips I’ve done, but in full disclosure, my trip was paid for by the Norwegian government’s tourism body, in hopes that I would write about it. I don’t do many press trips, and I don’t seek them out, but when this email landed in my inbox, it sounded like a trip I shouldn’t pass up. The question for me to answer was: If I had to pay for it out of my own pocket, would I? Now that I know what it’s like, yes. I can’t pretend to be 100 percent objective about it, but I can say this: if it sucked, I just wouldn’t write about it. And it didn’t suck.

There are only a few places in the world where you can go on a “ski cruise”—Norway, Alaska, Antarctica, and Svalbard (which is of course, part of Norway), and the Arctic Haute Route is one of the more affordable of those destinations. And much more “ski” than “cruise,” or at least my idea of cruises, which is something like David Foster Wallace’s “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again.” A bright-white ship 20+ times the size of the MS Nordensjternen plowing through bright blue Caribbean ocean water in all-day sunshine, fancy dinners, activities on the ship, and 10 times as many passengers on board, most of whom make way more money than I do and who don’t necessarily want to spend six hours and 3,000 calories a day skiing uphill and downhill. That sort of thing.

The similarities between a luxury cruise line and the Arctic Haute Route were probably limited to the fact that they both utilize boats. Although I’m sure some of the folks on our trip had some money, if you lived in Norway, something like the Arctic Haute Route is pretty affordable, not much more expensive than a four-day trip to ski Breckenridge or Vail if you live in Chicago. The food on the MS Nordenstjernen was fancy (the menu was developed by Gunnar Hvarnes, Norway’s 2009 Chef of the Year)—but no one wore fancy clothes to dinner. I can’t speak for other passengers, but Tommy and I didn’t shower our entire time on the boat, and no one seemed to notice. It was just enough of a cruise to feel like we had nothing to worry about besides eating, sleeping, and skiing, but not so chichi that it ruined the feel of an adventure.

Tommy and I went up to the bridge to visit the captain on the afternoon of Day 2, and found the Polish first mate instead, looking over his 180-degree view of the ship’s course and navigating us straight down the middle of the almost mile-wide fjord, snowy mountains poking out of the water on the horizon. His tools, brightly colored charts on multiple computer monitors and electric panels, were laid among and on top of a few of the ship’s remaining old instruments. He explained that the old stuff was no longer in use—just decorative now. Tommy took photos around the bridge, and then pointed at one lever, suggesting that a human hand on it might make for a better photo with the old Norwegian markings: Halv, Sakte, Ganske Sakte, Klar, Stopp, Vel. I grabbed it and moved it just a half-inch, and the first mate very gently noted to us, “We still use that one.” I jumped back and apologized, even though he seemed unconcerned.

I asked, “What is it for?”

“Speed.” We all laughed.

Once we stepped onto the boat on the first day in Tromsø, we never stepped foot onto land except to ski—every morning we had a buffet breakfast (and packed a lunch from the buffet breakfast, to eat while skiing), and dinner again, on the boat. Some days we saw several other groups from our ship, some days we hardly saw anyone. We got up at 6:15 a.m., hopped in the tender boats between 8:00 and 8:40 a.m., and were clicking into our skis by 9 a.m. or earlier every day, skinning up, dropping in off the top of a peak, and skiing until 3 p.m. every day.

Depending on how you measure it, Norway has either the second-largest or seventh-largest length of coastline of all the countries in the world. Either way, its coastline is at least 36,000 miles long, and is comprised of tens of thousands of islands and more than 1,000 fjords. The majority of the land in the country is rugged, non-arable, and mountainous. To be on a ship cruising through the fjords, on a day with decent visibility, is a large part of the fun of a trip like this.

As the MS Nordenstjernen motored past the southern coast of Hinnoøya in the late afternoon of Day 2, I sat on the port side of the empty restaurant sipping coffee and writing in a pocket notebook as the daylight started to fade over the coastline. I looked out the window over the black water, to the shore, waves of snowy mountains rising out of the fjord. One triangular rock face stood out, its sheer north face dropping almost straight down for hundreds of meters. I recognized it from photos: Stetind, Norway’s national mountain. I had obsessively scoured the Internet for information about climbing it a few years ago, then decided I couldn’t justify a special trip for one route. I figured I’d never see it in person, let alone from a ship 15 miles away, in the winter. Through the glass, I took the best iphone photo I could, then admitted defeat and decided to just enjoyed the moment instead of faffing around trying to capture it. William Cecil Slingsby, an English climber considered the father of Norwegian mountaineering, famously called it “the ugliest mountain I ever saw.” I guess I would disagree, along with all the people who voted it Norway’s national mountain in 2002.

Our final ski day was supposed to be a short one, since everyone on the boat was flying home later in the afternoon. I felt less than great, tired from the previous two long ski days and still unable to shake a bit of a cold I’d had when I left the U.S.. I looked out the window as I ate breakfast, watching rain mixed with snow fall on the water next to the ship, halfway wishing someone would just say I should take the day off. Tommy was tired too, but around the boat, no one seemed to be making moves to not go skiing.

We hopped on the last tender boat off the ship at 8:40 a.m., saying goodbye to the MS Njordenstern, and clicked into our skis again to skin up the south slopes of Sautinden, a 1,955-foot peak. The wind grew increasingly hostile as we gained the open slopes of the upper half of the peak’s west face, and in 40 mph gusts, we bailed to a saddle on the east ridge, and then across the north face, where the sun came out and the wind quieted. After a few laps up and down the north side, Bjørn took us back up to the saddle, where Frode decided he’d had a good day, and joined another group to head back down to a waiting bus. We skinned up the east face of Sautinden, still pretty windy but tolerable, on snow with a half-inch-thick crust on top that made it difficult to climb, even with ski crampons on. Directly south of us, the sun poked under the afternoon clouds and bounced off the waters of the Austnesfjorden, pointing almost straight south for eight miles. I tried to take an iphone video, noticing immediately that the wind was vibrating my phone, and put it away.

A few minutes of insecure skinning later, we stood on the wind-packed summit of Sautinden, our last peak of the trip, and looked down on the water below. Bjørn led us off the summit to where he thought there would be good skiing, a sunny bowl on the east face of the peak—which probably meant a sizable walk at the bottom to the bus, parked on the edge of the fjord on the other side of the mountain. After about 150 feet of crusty garbage down the steep face, it turned to powder, and I linked eight or 10 of my best turns of the entire trip, finally getting my shit together and actually skiing at the end of the last day. We kept going down, paying for our great snow and turns with an exit through tight, short trees, over a barely-covered boulderfield, stepping over a 2 ½-foot tall fence into someone’s backyard, where a mellow golden retriever greeted us and got a healthy ration of ski-gloved pets as we popped off our skis for the 20-minute walk back to the awaiting bus, and then the real world.

—Brendan

The post Three Days On The Arctic Haute Route appeared first on semi-rad.com.

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[olivereliott]

Three Days On The Arctic Haute Route

  [NOTE: 2020 is the tenth year of my blog at Semi-Rad.com, and since I started it, I’ve been fortunate to get to do some pretty wonderful adventures. Throughout this year, I’ll be writing about 12 favorite adventures I’ve had since I started writing about the outdoors, one per month. This is the first in the series.]

[all photos by Tommy Penick]

On Deck C of the MS Nordenstjernen, anchored almost 200 miles north of the Arctic Circle, passengers clomp around in ski boots, stuff backpacks, and fuss with life jackets as snow falls through the fog into the dark water of the Stønnesbotn fjord outside. Everyone is excited, because everyone is skiing today, the first day of our three days of skiing on the Arctic Haute Route—except the one guy who drank too much in the lounge last night and missed his group’s departure to shore. He has frantically asked around to join another group, but our guide, Bjørn, has politely explained to him that we’re at capacity, with five skiers to one guide.

Another reason I suspect he says no: Bjørn is motivated to ski today, a lot. His plan for us today is to hop on the tender boats that will motor us over to shore in five minutes, take the bus 15 minutes across one of the narrow fingers of this island, Senja, to the shore just below Breidtinden (3,284 feet, the highest peak on the island), and then traverse back across the island, summiting another peak (Tuva, 2,168 feet) before skiing down to shore again. All in all, about 8 miles of skiing, and just under 3,900 feet of climbing.

There are 60 of us, including eight guides, on the MS Nordenstjernen—a 290-foot ship with four passenger decks, that served more than 50 years on Norway’s Hurtigruten coastal cruise line before it was retired in 2012. The boat is described as “nostalgic and venerable” in promotional literature, and feels more like a real ship than a fancy cruise ship, something out of a Wes Anderson movie. In the old Hurtigruten brochure, under the heading, “FITNESS ROOM, SAUNA, POOL, JACUZZI,” it says, “There are no such facilities on board MS Nordstjernen.” (For 2020, Arctic Haute Route trips will be on a newer boat, the MS Quest, built in 1992.)

The Arctic Haute Route, dreamed up by Nina Kristine Madsen Geelmuyden and her husband Fredrik Geelmuyden, owners of the Norwegian Adventure Company, works like this: Skiers board the boat in Tromsø, Norway, the afternoon of Day 1. We cruise south, anchoring in a fjord for the evening, and sleep on the ship. On Day 2, we get dropped on shore, ski all day, and return to the ship in mid- to late afternoon. We cruise south again to another fjord, spend the night on the ship, and ski new terrain on Day 3, returning to the ship and heading south again to anchor in one last fjord. The final day of skiing, on Day 4, ends at a bus that takes us to the airport at Svolvær, where we all catch flights home. The boat turns around to head north with a new group of skiers the next day. There are eight Arctic Haute Route trips per season (March 19-April 21), four southbound and four northbound, and a charter bus carrying everyone’s skis parallels the boat’s course the entire time.

The bus dropped us off for our first ski day, fat snowflakes dropping on us as we skinned up through thin trees, the peaks around us shrouded in low clouds. Our group of skiers: myself, photographer Tommy Penick, and three lively Norwegian guys from Oslo in their 50s: Ragnar, Frode, and Rune. Our guide, Bjørn Kruse, owns and operates the Romsdal Ski Lodge with his wife, and works as a guide on the Arctic Haute Route as a break over the winter.

We climbed above a fjord, Mefjorden, that opens into the Norwegian Sea about 10 miles northwest from us. Occasionally the clouds opened up to reveal peaks all around our path, on the mountainous northern coast of Senja, a 612-square-mile island connected to the mainland by a single bridge. I should have started cold but didn’t, and too many layers had me sweating as we climbed. Before the trip, I had skied exactly one day so far that season, spending most of my time running and training for a couple mountain ultramarathons. I was not exactly expecting to make great turns. When we ripped our skins off after about 40 minutes of climbing for a little 300-foot run down a gully, my fears were confirmed: my quads were burning after three turns in powder. But it was still so good.

We skinned up two shorter, mellow climbs, before dropping down into a valley for our final climb, 1700 feet into sunny blue skies to the summit of a peak called Tuva. From the top, we looked down to see our tiny ship parked in the fjord. I skied down last, not so confident in my wobbly legs, and also not wanting the rest of the group to observe my sloppy survival skiing through the trees to the road. Bjørn, it was clear, would find the best possible skiable snow, partly for us as his clients, but also because he just loves to ski. We arrived at the bus at 3:30 p.m., and after a short ride and a quick tender boat ride, I plopped down to drink coffee and watch the mountains go past a lounge window as the boat cruised out of the fjord and on to our next stop.

Mention Norway to someone and one of the first things you will probably hear them say is the word “expensive.” Compared to traveling to a lot of places, like Mexico or Thailand, it is. The Arctic Haute Route, for three and a half days on the ship, costs 19,900 Norwegian Kroner per person, or about $2,230 in U.S. dollars. Which is objectively not cheap—but includes all food, transportation, and lodging during the trip, plus three days of backcountry ski guiding. It is certainly one of the most expensive trips I’ve done, but in full disclosure, my trip was paid for by the Norwegian government’s tourism body, in hopes that I would write about it. I don’t do many press trips, and I don’t seek them out, but when this email landed in my inbox, it sounded like a trip I shouldn’t pass up. The question for me to answer was: If I had to pay for it out of my own pocket, would I? Now that I know what it’s like, yes. I can’t pretend to be 100 percent objective about it, but I can say this: if it sucked, I just wouldn’t write about it. And it didn’t suck.

There are only a few places in the world where you can go on a “ski cruise”—Norway, Alaska, Antarctica, and Svalbard (which is of course, part of Norway), and the Arctic Haute Route is one of the more affordable of those destinations. And much more “ski” than “cruise,” or at least my idea of cruises, which is something like David Foster Wallace’s “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again.” A bright-white ship 20+ times the size of the MS Nordensjternen plowing through bright blue Caribbean ocean water in all-day sunshine, fancy dinners, activities on the ship, and 10 times as many passengers on board, most of whom make way more money than I do and who don’t necessarily want to spend six hours and 3,000 calories a day skiing uphill and downhill. That sort of thing.

The similarities between a luxury cruise line and the Arctic Haute Route were probably limited to the fact that they both utilize boats. Although I’m sure some of the folks on our trip had some money, if you lived in Norway, something like the Arctic Haute Route is pretty affordable, not much more expensive than a four-day trip to ski Breckenridge or Vail if you live in Chicago. The food on the MS Nordenstjernen was fancy (the menu was developed by Gunnar Hvarnes, Norway’s 2009 Chef of the Year)—but no one wore fancy clothes to dinner. I can’t speak for other passengers, but Tommy and I didn’t shower our entire time on the boat, and no one seemed to notice. It was just enough of a cruise to feel like we had nothing to worry about besides eating, sleeping, and skiing, but not so chichi that it ruined the feel of an adventure.

Tommy and I went up to the bridge to visit the captain on the afternoon of Day 2, and found the Polish first mate instead, looking over his 180-degree view of the ship’s course and navigating us straight down the middle of the almost mile-wide fjord, snowy mountains poking out of the water on the horizon. His tools, brightly colored charts on multiple computer monitors and electric panels, were laid among and on top of a few of the ship’s remaining old instruments. He explained that the old stuff was no longer in use—just decorative now. Tommy took photos around the bridge, and then pointed at one lever, suggesting that a human hand on it might make for a better photo with the old Norwegian markings: Halv, Sakte, Ganske Sakte, Klar, Stopp, Vel. I grabbed it and moved it just a half-inch, and the first mate very gently noted to us, “We still use that one.” I jumped back and apologized, even though he seemed unconcerned.

I asked, “What is it for?”

“Speed.” We all laughed.

Once we stepped onto the boat on the first day in Tromsø, we never stepped foot onto land except to ski—every morning we had a buffet breakfast (and packed a lunch from the buffet breakfast, to eat while skiing), and dinner again, on the boat. Some days we saw several other groups from our ship, some days we hardly saw anyone. We got up at 6:15 a.m., hopped in the tender boats between 8:00 and 8:40 a.m., and were clicking into our skis by 9 a.m. or earlier every day, skinning up, dropping in off the top of a peak, and skiing until 3 p.m. every day.

Depending on how you measure it, Norway has either the second-largest or seventh-largest length of coastline of all the countries in the world. Either way, its coastline is at least 36,000 miles long, and is comprised of tens of thousands of islands and more than 1,000 fjords. The majority of the land in the country is rugged, non-arable, and mountainous. To be on a ship cruising through the fjords, on a day with decent visibility, is a large part of the fun of a trip like this.

As the MS Nordenstjernen motored past the southern coast of Hinnoøya in the late afternoon of Day 2, I sat on the port side of the empty restaurant sipping coffee and writing in a pocket notebook as the daylight started to fade over the coastline. I looked out the window over the black water, to the shore, waves of snowy mountains rising out of the fjord. One triangular rock face stood out, its sheer north face dropping almost straight down for hundreds of meters. I recognized it from photos: Stetind, Norway’s national mountain. I had obsessively scoured the Internet for information about climbing it a few years ago, then decided I couldn’t justify a special trip for one route. I figured I’d never see it in person, let alone from a ship 15 miles away, in the winter. Through the glass, I took the best iphone photo I could, then admitted defeat and decided to just enjoyed the moment instead of faffing around trying to capture it. William Cecil Slingsby, an English climber considered the father of Norwegian mountaineering, famously called it “the ugliest mountain I ever saw.” I guess I would disagree, along with all the people who voted it Norway’s national mountain in 2002.

Our final ski day was supposed to be a short one, since everyone on the boat was flying home later in the afternoon. I felt less than great, tired from the previous two long ski days and still unable to shake a bit of a cold I’d had when I left the U.S.. I looked out the window as I ate breakfast, watching rain mixed with snow fall on the water next to the ship, halfway wishing someone would just say I should take the day off. Tommy was tired too, but around the boat, no one seemed to be making moves to not go skiing.

We hopped on the last tender boat off the ship at 8:40 a.m., saying goodbye to the MS Njordenstern, and clicked into our skis again to skin up the south slopes of Sautinden, a 1,955-foot peak. The wind grew increasingly hostile as we gained the open slopes of the upper half of the peak’s west face, and in 40 mph gusts, we bailed to a saddle on the east ridge, and then across the north face, where the sun came out and the wind quieted. After a few laps up and down the north side, Bjørn took us back up to the saddle, where Frode decided he’d had a good day, and joined another group to head back down to a waiting bus. We skinned up the east face of Sautinden, still pretty windy but tolerable, on snow with a half-inch-thick crust on top that made it difficult to climb, even with ski crampons on. Directly south of us, the sun poked under the afternoon clouds and bounced off the waters of the Austnesfjorden, pointing almost straight south for eight miles. I tried to take an iphone video, noticing immediately that the wind was vibrating my phone, and put it away.

A few minutes of insecure skinning later, we stood on the wind-packed summit of Sautinden, our last peak of the trip, and looked down on the water below. Bjørn led us off the summit to where he thought there would be good skiing, a sunny bowl on the east face of the peak—which probably meant a sizable walk at the bottom to the bus, parked on the edge of the fjord on the other side of the mountain. After about 150 feet of crusty garbage down the steep face, it turned to powder, and I linked eight or 10 of my best turns of the entire trip, finally getting my shit together and actually skiing at the end of the last day. We kept going down, paying for our great snow and turns with an exit through tight, short trees, over a barely-covered boulderfield, stepping over a 2 ½-foot tall fence into someone’s backyard, where a mellow golden retriever greeted us and got a healthy ration of ski-gloved pets as we popped off our skis for the 20-minute walk back to the awaiting bus, and then the real world.

—Brendan

The post Three Days On The Arctic Haute Route appeared first on semi-rad.com.