#so many people have come face to face with his terrible sense of directions… i love to think of how those that had the time start to adjust

[ruporas]

how to guide your mossball (ID in alt)

[rynfiles]

dad next door !

✎ᝰ — your brand-new apartment has brought you peace, calm, and freedom. but no one mentioned of a father of a two

★ — satoru gojo x gn!reader

★ — word count: 1.6k

★ — genre + warnings: fluff + dad!gojo, gojo is in his early twenties (21-23), gojo is a nervous mess, megumi and his smart antics, tsumiki is y/n’s number one fan

The space is small, yet livable. Your new apartment brings you this sense of freedom and independence from your loving, yet overbearing, parents. As much as you love them dearly, the thought of continuing to live under their roof was going to drive you mad. Which led to your brand new apartment, not the best but you made do with your stay.

As you continue to unpack your things, you hear noises coming from the other side of your living room wall. You ignored them by putting on your headphones and playing music as time passed.

Yet some hours passed, only three, and the noise continued. You moved closer to the wall to decipher what was creating such a loud noise. The only thing you could make out was a loud TV, yelling from multiple people you assume, and children. Your heart grew soft and sympathy grew in your heart for the assumed noise of children, since you know how children can be, especially at young ages when their emotions run rampant.

Though, as much as children softened your heart, the noise was becoming unbearable and you wanted your first day in your apartment to be perfect. You planned to be nice, introduce yourself, and ask your neighbor to possibly lower the noise coming from their apartment.

You paused your music and took off your headphones. You grabbed your phone and headed out the door, only making a few steps to your left until you reached the next apartment door.

You knocked gently, as you waited you heard the noise more clearly. You realized it was an adult and a child going back and forth while the TV was playing a children’s show. You heard some of the argument and giggled to yourself at some of the insults that were sent.

You continued to wait yet the door hadn’t opened nor had there been any indication that someone was going to open. You knocked again, a bit louder this time, and someone, you assumed was the adult, yelled that they were coming. Not long after, the door was opened and you were met with a man who had a staggering height, but that didn’t bother you.

The man had hair as white as the winter snow, which was decorated with those ball scrunchies and small heart clips that should be found on a small girl, not a grown (potentially over twenty) man. He wore a fitted tank top that had a dad joke on it and black shorts to accompany the outfit. His face in particular was graced with lashes that were thick and lay beautifully above his blue eyes. Also, his youthful face is currently covered in stickers galore, many of dinosaurs and flowers.

He greeted you with a smile, it brought youth to his face and gave sincerity, and apologies for taking so long to answer.

You reassured him that he was okay and also introduced yourself. You explained to him how you were his neighbor but also reported to him the noise from his apartment was bothering you. You tried not to come off as rude, since it is your first day.

He apologizes almost too quickly, mild stutters as he speaks, “Sorry sorry, my two- I mean these two kids have been hauling my ass since seven am.”

“I assumed it was younger children that were in there. Though, could you do me a favor and turn down the TV as well? The whole apartment doesn’t need to hear what you guys are watching.”

The man turns in the direction of the TV and lightly smacks his forehead, “Ah, that must’ve been Tsumiki with her runway model shows. I don’t know why but she always excuses that she has terrible hearing and always has the TV-”

“What about Tsumiki?” A young boy with spiked hair appears behind the man. The boy wears an expression that debates whether to tussle with the tall man or mind his business. With his presence now here, he chose the first option. Yet the stickers and hair clips placed on his hair and face don’t make him serious enough to take.

“Kid-”

The boy scrunched his face, showing a sign of annoyance to the man in front of him. “My name is Megumi, Meh-gu-mi. Don’t try to be all “mister cool” cause you think our new neighbor is hot.”

The man’s jaw dropped and all you could giggle at the compliment that was given. You spot his cheeks beaming with a light shade of red but disregard it as the man clears his throat. “Megumi, do me a favor and stay out of adult spaces.”

The boy sucked his teeth, “You were literally a child not many years ago, in dog years if you count.” The boy mumbled the last part but it was loud enough for the older man to hear.

The two males continue to go back and forth until a small girl approaches next to the small boy. From the height alone she could be the eldest of the two children, and her face was also decorated with stickers. It was cute to see the tall male and the two children behind him covered in all kinds of stickers on their face and their hair styled in hair clips.

The girl comes over to see what all the commotion is. But instead, she turns to you and immediately starts complimenting you, she smiles with such fondness to your beauty. She starts to compliment your hair, even if it is simple for the busy day, your outfit, and how you look so perfect. She believes so deeply that you came out of a magazine and all you could do was thank her and smile back. The girl just seemed all admired about you, even if she only met you about two minutes ago.

She turns to the older male to ask, “Can they join us for dinner papa Gojo?”

The boy scoffs at the question, “Don’t give him any ideas, he might scare the new neighbor away.” The blushing from earlier returns and the older man, named Gojo (?), seems to be slightly offended at the boy's remark.

The girl ignores the boy and pleads with Gojo, you continue to watch the two children and the man banter with one another. The interaction seemed to look serious from an outsider’s perspective, but up close, it was adorable watching them interact. Even if the boy seemed very annoyed with the entire situation, the girl poked his cheeks and played with his hair to uplift his mood, while the man told the two children to turn down the TV and check on the food cooking.

Gojo brings his attention back to you and smiles nervously, he laughs nervously as well. He brings his hand to comb through the back of his hair, “Sorry about them, they’re not usually this noisy on a Friday afternoon. Especially Megumi, he’s usually playing with his figures with Tsumiki, never this intrusive.”

“Don’t worry, I have younger siblings and we bicker quite a lot, so I get it. But I will admit that you guys are an adorable little family.”

The man blushes quickly but tries to hide it quickly, “Ah, thank you.” He grows nervous and lets the air become this sense of nervousness. He will admit, he wouldn’t have thought to have a neighbor as stunning as you and comfortable around his children. Then again, his two children take too much of his time to even pay attention to the people in his environment.

He clears his throat, “Umm, you don’t have to join but Tsumiki, the little girl, is gonna keep asking about dinner and I’m already in trouble with her. If you don’t mind, you don’t have to, but you can join us for dinner if you’re not too busy.” The blushing on his cheeks stayed yet you notice his ears turning into a light hue of pink as well, nervousness is ruining this man.

You think for a little while, letting the man watch you think and his face shows more and more signs of nervousness. You answer with a nod and a small smile, “I don’t mind at all. It would be nice to learn some faces in this town.”

Gojo seems more than happy to hear your acceptance, “We’d love to welcome you, Tsumiki loves making new friends and Megumi could get a friend or two. Geez this kid.”

You gave a small laugh and thanked him, you turned to make your exit until Gojo stopped you. “Oh umm, by-by the way, I didn’t get to properly introduce myself. I’m Gojo, umm Satoru Gojo. I’m right next door, literally, if you need anything.”

“Oh thanks, it was nice talking to you Satoru, and your two kids I assume, Megumi and Tsumiki?” The way you said his first name had Gojo going from a blushing mess to a flustered, stuttering mess. He feels heat rising in his cheeks and ears, embarrassment adds in as thinks that he shouldn’t be this nervous around his new neighbor.

“Yeah, that’s their name.” He pauses and lets his nervousness settle between the two of you, “Umm, well it was great to meet you y/n, and uhh gotta get back to finishing dinner, two hungry children aren’t the prettiest sight to see.”

“I would love to be the judge of that tonight,” you turn to walk away from his doorway and wave him goodbye, “have a good day Satoru, see you tonight.”

Gojo waves back and closes the door once you step into your apartment. He roughly combs through his hair and sighs heavily, “I don’t know who’s gonna end me first, these damn kids or dinner with y/n.”

★ I got this fanfic idea from this fanart actually ! I thought gojo and the kids were so cute with their stickers and clips on their face and hair 🫶🏽

© 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟥 𝗋𝗒𝗇𝖿𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌. 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽

[alexa-fika]

Lost ways, found preferences (Smoker x gn!reader)

A/N: First romantic piece to be published! Not sure about it. I tried to make it appealing, but I think the kiss scene is not it; let me know what you guys think

Dividers by @saradika

He glares at the person before him as he sits in his office. His significant other sits in front of him, legs tucked below them and hands fidgeting in their lap. Taking a drag from his cigars to prepare for the aggravating questioning that was sure to follow.

“Where were you? “

“I got lost?”

“I specifically told you to find my office, and you got lost?”

“W-well, your instructions were vague!”

“I literally told you to take this route and walk straight; it’s a straight line, not to mention you have come many times before. How the hell did you get lost?”

They laugh nervously as their boyfriend calls them out on the holes in their story.

“I have a bad sense of direction…”

His eyes narrow

“It’s not that hard to get from one place to another, especially with my extremely clear instructions and your previous experiences on visiting; the point is, why weren’t you where I told you? Where the hell were you anyway? “

“…”

“Don’t give me the silent treatment; where the hell were you? “

They look away, fidgeting.

“Nowhere…”

He takes a deep puff from his cigars.

“Did you meet someone? “

They wince

“No.” They squeak out

“Reader.” He growls in a warning tone

They shake their head.

“Din’t met anyone!” They say in a high pitch tone as they stand

“Oh, look at the time! Man, time flies when you are with people you love! Well, I won’t hold you any longer, Smoky!” They say quickly, heading for the door

He glares at them and mutters under his breath.

“So this is how you’re going to play this?”

They squeal as they feel the familiar smoke envelop them as their boyfriend quickly appears behind them, tightly holding them.

They pout, looking up.

“That’s not fair; you know I don’t have a devil fruit.”

He smirks as he gives them a slight peck on the lips.

“I know that’s what makes it so easy; now, who did you meet?”

They bit their cheeks, trying to think of their options.

“you can’t hide it from me; you’re a terrible liar.

Who did you meet?” he grunts out.

“I went to see my brother,” they mutter.

“Your brother?” he raises an eyebrow.

“And why exactly would you go see your brother without asking me first?”

They raise an eyebrow at him.

“You mean why I didn’t ask you, a marine if I could visit my brother, a pirate? You know I can’t just choose between you, the love of my life, and Luffy, my brother who has been with me all my life.”

He exhales the smoke from his cigar in what appears to be a sigh.

“I know; I’m not asking you to; you were gone for a long time.”

“Awe, was Smoky worried?” They tease

They grunt

“The damn Strawhat’s has got you saying that stupid nickname.”

They laugh

“Awe it’s an endearing nickname, fits you perfectly; you’re a softy underneath all the smoke and that grumpy face.”

“You’re insufferable, do you know that?” he groans.

“Yet here we are; I must not be so insufferable, seeing as you are dating me.”

He simply narrows his eyes at them.

“Don’t flatter yourself; I’m just barely tolerating you.”

“H-Hey! Don’t be mean!”

“Being mean is the only way I can deal with your obnoxious attitude.”

They roll their eyes, quickly snatching their cigars and taking a drag themselves, only to drop them immediately, sputtering.

“Good Lord Smoky, those are awful; how in God’s name can you stand using those all the time?!”

He laughs

“Sorry, Darling, I guess you just don’t have what it takes.”

They simply shove him, scoffing as he merely chuckles at the action, not moving from the embrace.

He quickly turns them around so that they face each other, his lips enveloping theirs in a swift movement.

They break the kids momentarily, and they say breathlessly.

“I think I changed my mind.”

“Changed your mind about what exactly?” he asks, leaning in to kiss their neck

“They aren’t so awful; I quite like the flavor, actually,” they say as they quickly pull him in for another one, the smoke from his cigars giving them a tingling feeling on the back of their throat, too addicting to let go.

“Oh, you do, do you?”

His hands start to slide down the length of their back.

“Good to know.”

I wanted to. mix up my content a little, but idk; maybe if people ask for them, I'll try again, but I think for now, child! reader is my thing

[drdemonprince]

Hi Devon,

this might not be a question you can answer, or maybe it is! idk. this is about covid & alike

for context on myself, i’m a white gendrfucky trans guy who’s also autistic & an immigrant (so some cultural context is probably lacking)

as we know, we’re in a 2nd highest surge & the pandemic never stopped and it increasingly dangerous and disabling to so many

i wear my kn95 everywhere i go now, and while i tried last semester, it was a lot easier to abandon masking because of

1. others’ around me negligence

2. some classrooms being IMPOSSIBLY hot and close to unbearable with a respirator on

3. attending crowded events where people needed to hear me

i’ve reevaluated and am rebuilding my practices now, but what i’m finding really difficult is to get people i have in my life to wear a mask again

i feel so lost. i share the informational posts, i talk to my people, i offer masks- what else is there to do?? i know the exhaustion i feel is absolutely incomparable to what disabled and immunocompromised people feel, especially when they’ve done the work for years!

i just don’t understand how i’m supposed to keep moving through life. i mean ofc i’ll keep doing what i’m already doing but it’s so incredibly isolating to be the only person masked in a meeting of 20,30,50 people.

i don’t know how to make people care. i don’t know how to have conversations with my friends in a way that will let our relationship evolve with this new understanding of care. i don’t know how to not polarize people into defensiveness when i talk about the powers wreaking atrocities in falasteen being the same ones shortening an isolation period to 1 day.

i don’t know how to be eloquent enough to be listened to and firm enough where people take what i say seriously. i don’t know how to not start screaming WEAR A MASK anytime it’s a crowded (or even not crowded) meeting indoors with no air filtration.

idk how people don’t realize the “cold” they’ve had for 3 weeks is either covid or direct aftermath of it. idk how they stand for seemingly the right things and then come to work sick & unmasked.

i don’t know how to engage with most people in a meaningful way & find connections because the delusion, the “it won’t happen to me”, the “i don’t care if i catch it and die”, the “this is just the way it is” seems to be a wall made of unbreakable cement and i don’t know what will melt it.

i feel insane for having compassion towards the world and seeing how it can be better. i feel insane for being angry people don’t mask & downplay this issue. i feel insane for even trying to talk sense into people.

i’ve recently been called a lying phony by an account that talks about masking bc a lot of my recent pictures show my face without a mask. i archived the posts since, apologized and reflected. but a lot of pictures i take are in my own room so i am unmasked. idk

i feel like the gap between me and most people i know is growing wider by the minute and with every reading i do about interdependent revolutionary practices, etc.

i know that when one understands something, it is their responsibility to make an impact on their bubble of the world and transform it with their knowledge. but i doubt i’m the only one doing the reading and knowing what’s going on, i just seem to be the only one masking.

i don’t know. i’m sorry it’s such a long ask & i’m sure you have your own stuff you’re dealing with. i just don’t know who else to ask that might understand. i’m sure there are people around me who might but so many are in survival mode and i currently don’t know anyone with the capacity to hold space for this.

i guess it’s bold to assume you do.

anyway, i hope your day goes alright today<3

You are placing wayyy too much responsibility upon yourself as one compassionate and informed individual here, and expecting far too much perfection of yourself in ways that do not help you and do not help the cause. You've done a lot to unpack the terrible individualism that has led to anti-mask sentiment being so rampant, but you are in a way still applying that logic to yourself and your situation by imagining that if you, one humble person with limited power were able to be adequately persuasive, you'd somehow change the actions of thousands. That is not how behavior change works.

Persuasion almost never happens logically or instantly, almost never through one person's remarks. Behavior is shaped by a vast array of economic, sociological, emotional, and ideological factors.

It's also not helpful in my opinion to worry about the opinion of someone who would shame you for not wearing a mask at home alone in your bedroom, either. Obsessing over the optics of our actions and wanting all people to morally approve of us at all times is yet another consequence of individualism and Puritanism. as you well know as someone who masks in a crowd of maskless people, sometimes we gotta do what we know is right and disregard others' opinions.

What you can do, in my opinion, is this: keep masking. Your behavior reminds people of the need for masks and models socially responsible behavior. Bring spare masks with you. Offer them to your family and friends and the people standing near you in public. If they refuse, and you have a good relationship with the person where they have shown they respect you and listen to you, then you can tell them why masking around you is important to you. You cannot change the opinion of someone who has never shown you any respect so don't expect that to ever work.

Even if you do have a good relationship with someone, persuasion is a long, hard process. Do not expect yourself to change their mind. If you can get some people to mask at least around you, that is a victory. Perfection is an unrealistic goal here to expect of yourself, and for public health in general. Any improvement you can inspire is a victory. Even if it's just making one or two friends mask more often when they are with you. That still lessens risk. That still sends a visible signal to everyone around you. You have no idea of the impact you truly have on other people in the long term. It is both more modest and far larger and longer-reaching than you as an individual will ever know.

Please be easy on yourself. You are just a person. An average person with very limited power. So is everyone else for the most part. When you stop burdening yourself with the unrealistic responsibility of changing thousands of people's behavior, you will feel less resentful toward others as well. When we resent other people it always means we are doing too much.

And when you feel less overwhelmed and overburdened, you will be more effective in the conversations you do have with people about COVID too. People do not respond well to (what they perceive to be) guilt or intensity or someone presuming to know better than them. What people do respond to well is to be asked genuine questions, listened to, validated in their feelings, given help where they are facing barriers to action, and being treated with compassionate gentleness.

But to do that you have to work on believing that people who are flawed in their response to COVID have reasons for doing so that make sense to them, and that they aren't all foolish and lacking in compassion. As my friend @kim-from-kansas says, people do not do things that do not make sense. If a person's actions do not make sense to you, it is because you are missing a piece of their context. The sad fact is people have many reasons to think that masking doesn't work or is hopeless. People have been very heavily propagandized and trauma also makes many people value life less.

Convincing people to take COVID more seriously is a tall, tall order, but if you wish to do so, you will need to be more than correct. You will have to put real work into not making people feel judged, and you will have to make peace with not always (or even usually) succeeding. It sucks but that's how it is. Best of luck!!

[mads-nixon]

See the Good

Eugene Sledge x Medic!Reader

Masterlist

A/N: Merry Christmas @iceman-kazansky!! I literally squealed when I saw I got you as my giftee! I loved your prompts, and I hope you like what I did with them!! I'm going to post one gift per day so that they'll be a little spaced out! hbo owns the rights, and this is about the fictional portrayal of k company on the show. nothing but love and respect for veterans on this blog!

Prompt: “You always see the good in people. Even me.”

Word Count: 5.7k

Summary: When Gene can only see himself as the terrible things he's done in the war, (y/n) is right there to remind him who he really is.

Warnings: descriptions of dead bodies (non-graphic)

OKINAWA, JAPAN: MAY, 1945:

The ground beneath their boots trembled, and the deafening whistles of mortars filled the air as (y/n) and the rest of K Company ran for cover. They sunk into the muddy sludge below them, turning each step into a battle against the sucking earth. Gripping her corpsman pack with white knuckles, (y/n) followed Gene, not daring to stop in the barrage.

“They have us targeted!” Burgie yelled, hurdling over a giant boulder in his path. “Get to cover!”

Just as (y/n) ran past the remnants of a demolished shed, a sudden blast threw her violently to the ground, sending a cascade of mud in all directions. Her ears rang with disorientation as she blinked slowly, struggling to regain her senses. The ringing faded into a muffled whine and a face appeared in (y/n)‘s vision. Although the figure’s face was blurred, she knew it was Eugene. His mouth moved rapidly, but she couldn’t understand a word he said. Realizing this, he quickly grasped the front of her uniform and hoisted her to her feet, throwing an arm around her waist to keep her upright as they bolted for cover.

Reaching the rocks, (y/n)‘s hearing slowly faded back, and the sounds of booming artillery reached her ears.

Sledge pulled on her arm, helping her over the rugged terrain. “Come on. We’re almost there!”

Finally reaching the safety of cover, the company continued farther into the rocks to escape the barrage. Snafu was in front of them and on the verge of a panicked breakdown.

“This is bullshit!” he cried, plopping down on a rock. “If I ever find the FO that called that arty, I’ll shoot him!”

Gene maintained his hold on (y/n) as he led them toward a big rock, his frustration evident. “They’ll just do it again,” he huffed, gritting his teeth. “All because some asshole officer read a map wrong and nobody gives a shit about us!”

After he sat (y/n) on the boulder beside Snafu, Eugene took a deep breath and sank beside her. He turned to the dazed woman beside him, her once white corpsman armband a brown and muddy mess. “You alright?” he asked her, knowing even he himself wasn’t alright after what happened before the shelling.

The woman and her baby…

(Y/n) nodded slowly, her eyes rising from the ground to meet his. ”Yeah. Just got my bell rung. I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?” Sledge persisted.

“Yes, Gene. I’m okay,” she murmured wearily, rubbing her eyes. “Really.”

Removing her helmet, she threaded her fingers through her (y/h/c) hair, wincing at the dried mud that pulled at the roots. Over their time on the dreadful island, they all discovered that the jungle was just as much an enemy as the Japs.

Snafu stared wide-eyed at the ground below him, hands on his head as his chest heaved. His expression was the same one that each marine wore as they grappled with the massacre they’d just witnessed.

What country uses its own civilians as shields for a surprise attack?

As a corpsman, (y/n) had seen more death than the average marine, and after the fierce fighting on the islands of Peleliu and Pavuvu, she was struggling to remain afloat in the vast ocean of numbness that threatened to drown her. The only thing keeping her above water were her boys, the men of K Company: Sledge, Snafu, Burgin, and De L’eau, although Jay had been transferred to intelligence. They’d lost so many good men, and it made her even more thankful for the guys who had always been there for her.

“Corpsman up front!”

The call snapped (y/n) from her thoughts, and she quickly rose, momentarily losing her balance until a strong hand grasped her upper arm, holding her steady. She felt the warmth of his hand through her thin ODs as he held her in place, accompanied by a blush creeping up her neck.

“(Y/n)-” Gene started.

Shrugging him off gently, she turned toward the call. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Be careful,” he whispered after her, watching her form disappear into a sea of olive-green uniforms. With another deep breath, Sledge sat back down, trying to calm his still-racing heart. She had been right behind him…until she wasn’t. Panic had gripped him when he saw her motionless figure in the mud as the artillery rained down around them. When she opened her eyes, he felt a weight lift off his chest.

Rain drenched the marines through the night as they held their position looking up to the ridge. Around 2000HRS the next day, (y/n) trudged back to her squad, eyelids heavy with exhaustion. Dried blood clung to her cracked hands, refusing to wash away, no matter how many times she’d scrubbed them raw. The casualties were unending like the rain that constantly poured on them. Luckily, the downpour had come to a stop in the early morning.

She’d been at the BAS since the previous afternoon treating and evacuating wounded marines from the already bloody battle. Continued artillery and fire throughout the day brought a steady stream of bleeding men through the tent’s entrance. One of these men had been Bill Leyden. He wasn’t in good shape, and when (y/n) saw the damage on her friend’s body, the air rushed from her lungs. After pushing away the panic, she quickly helped other corpsmen stabilize him, before sending him off to a hospital ship. As she watched him go, her heart sank at the realization the company had lost another man…another friend.

“Hey Doc,” Snafu called out gently as she approached.

She looked up from her feet at the man with a tired smile. “Hey, Snaf,” she whispered. “You seen Gene?”

Motioning over his shoulder, Snafu replied, “He’s right over there. But, Bill…“

“Yeah,” she sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We got him stabilized. He should make a full recovery. Lost a few fingers, though.”

In a trance-like state, Snafu nodded, his gaze fixed ahead. It was something they all did. A way to escape the horrors they lived through. With a gentle squeeze of his shoulder, (y/n) moved to find Sledge, but the Cajun’s voice stopped her.

“Eugene. He got a letter…his dog died.”

She turned to face him with raised brows. “Deacon?”

“I guess,” the man nodded. “I think he’s bothered more than he’s letting on. You know how Eugene is.”

“Yeah. I’ll talk to him.”

She found him staring into space ahead of him as he sat up against one of the island’s many rocks. Before she approached, (y/n) simply watched the man before her. She could see his growing stubble and the mud that splattered his cheeks, but what worried her was the blank expression on his face. She longed to see the lopsided smile that used to hang from his lips. (Y/n) didn’t know how long it had been since she’d seen that smile…too long.

Pulling her satchel off her shoulder, she quietly approached him and slouched down beside him. They sat silently for a moment, the warmth of their touching shoulders spreading through them. Gene was the first to break the silence.

“Did you see Bill?” he asked quietly, his eyes still glued on the rocks in front of him.

(Y/n) nodded, looking up at him with a small smile. “Yeah, he’s gonna be okay.”

Gene leaned his head back against the ground with a thud, his eyes closed as a shuttering sigh escaped his lips. She sat up off the rock and turned toward him, gently taking his hand.

“I’m sorry about Deacon.”

The second her fingers intertwined with his, Sledge’s heartbeat accelerated, and the man felt heat spread through his body. He took a moment to compose himself before he opened his eyes. He looked down at their intertwined hands before meeting her concerned gaze.

In that moment, Eugene could have sworn she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. It didn’t matter that she was coated in blood, mud, and sweat. She was there for him like nobody else had ever been in his whole life. Sure, he was close with his parents, but he felt they never completely understood him.

Who’d have thought that he’d have to travel almost eight thousand miles to find someone who could do so?

Eugene’s eyes flashed down to her lips, unable to control himself as their closeness made him suddenly bold. He always wondered what they’d taste like. How they’d feel against his. They were chapped, just like everyone else's, but that didn’t matter. The young man wanted a way to show her how much she meant to him. Sure, there had been moments where he told himself he was going to kiss her, but the moment ended before he had the opportunity. Something in the moment felt wrong, though, and he decided to wait once more.

“Thank you,” he whispered, swallowing thickly as he tried to regain his composure and keep the memories of his beloved dog at bay. “He was a good dog.”

“How old was he? 10? 11?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “10.”

The woman’s eyes searched his face, trying to get a read of what he needed from her. She saw pain in his hazel eyes. Pain from the loss of Bill. Pain from the loss of Deacon. Pain caused by the war.

She decided he needed some hope. Some laughter.

“Did I tell you about the time Snaf and I almost got caught stealing from an Army captain?”

Later that day, Gene and the rest of his squad sat among the rocks, each lost in their mind. (Y/n) was beside him, writing in her journal, and they were doing the same…all except Peck, who was attempting to dig a foxhole in the soaked ground. Since the day they arrived on the wretched island, Sledge kept up with how many days they spent there with tallies in the back of his Bible. With the days running together, they rarely knew what day it was or how long they’d been there.

“What’s the date?” Burgie asked, putting down his small journal.

The group turned to Gene, who took a deep breath. “June 5th, maybe. Might be the 6th.” He turned to (y/n). “(Y/n/n), which one you got?”

“I have no idea,” she sighed. “I gave up keeping track a while ago.”

Peck decided to chime in as he dug. “We’re never getting off this island.”

Everyone was thinking it, but he was the one person who dared to speak it aloud.

(Y/n) rolled her eyes, glancing over at Gene with an annoyed expression. If looks could kill, Peck would be six feet deep from the redhead’s glare. His jaw clenched tightly, and his chest began to heave as he stared at the replacement.

Sensing his rising anger, (y/n) reached over and placed a hand on his thigh. His eyes moved to meet hers, and her (y/e/c) irises seemed to whisper, ”He’s not worth it,” and, “It’s okay. I’m here.”

Gene took a deep breath in an attempt to calm down. Beating the crap out of Peck wouldn’t bring Bill back, and letting anger consume you was a dangerous game. Every time he was tempted to let it in, (y/n) was right there, a soft presence telling him that hate was not the answer. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted daily. Sledge had seen what men could do to each other. He had seen what the Japs did to his friends.

Looking away from Gene, she was met with a strange stare from Snafu, who was smoking a cigarette and sitting on their makeshift toilet. His gaze was questioning, but not criticizing. When the man’s eyes drifted down to her hand, her stomach dropped, and she felt like she was caught red-handed. (Y/n) quickly removed her hand from Gene’s leg and shot to her feet.

“I’m gonna go-uh-do some rounds,” she announced, not daring to look at Gene or Snafu.

A few seconds later, she went treading through the sludge, her corpsman satchel pressed tightly to her side. The men all watched in confusion as she left, unsure what had made her so jumpy all of a sudden.

“She alright?” Hamm asked once she’d disappeared from view.

Burgie, always an observer, glanced over at Sledge to watch his reaction. He looked somewhat like a kicked puppy. Wrapping up his Bible, Gene began to tuck it into his pocket without a word.

“Don’t worry about (y/n), Hamm,” Burgie replied with a nod.

Hamm raised an eyebrow at his sergeant. “But did you see her-”

“She’s fine,” Snafu interrupted, pulling up his pants and rejoining the group. “Besides, she’s already got someone to worry about her.”

At the statement, Eugene froze, a cold chill running through him despite the heat. A million thoughts ran rampant in his mind.

Is there someone else in her life?

Does he know something I don’t?

Does he know how I feel?

Groaning, Burgie smacked the Cajun’s shoulder. “Shut up, Snaf. Don’t go starting crap.”

The sergeant first noticed the bond between Sledge and (y/n) back in training, but especially when the company landed on Peleliu. They always stuck by one another when they could, and she seemed to help calm the Marine amid his anxiety. As time went on and their relationship changed, Romus knew they had feelings for one another, even if they didn’t admit it. He’d never spoken about it to anyone, fearing it could become a rumor that would possibly get the pair in trouble if they ever acted on their feelings. Hearing Snafu insinuate something between them sent a pang of panic through him.

“We all worry about (y/n),” he continued. “But she’s a great corpsman. She can hold her own.”

Before he could finish his sentence, Eugene rose to his feet and went to take a leak. He did have to relieve himself, but he also wanted to get away from the conversation. If Snafu knew about how he felt, the man would never stop tormenting him. Even if it was in a joking way, Gene didn’t want to be the subject of Shelton’s teasing.

Just as he made it to a somewhat secluded spot, he heard Mac’s voice ring out from above him.

“I need a stovepipe boy up top!” he yelled, coming down from the ridge.

Gene slightly ducked his head behind a rock, hoping the lieutenant would miss him. To his dismay, Mac caught his movement in the corner of his eye.

“Sledge, that’s you. Bring some comm wire.”

Sighing when his superior disappeared over the ridge, he muttered, “Yes, sir,” and went to follow his orders.

The stench of excrement and death permeated the air as (y/n) walked through their temporary camp checking on the men. Her eyes watered from the smell, and it took all her willpower not to gag. Even though she’d built a great tolerance to gruesome sights and smells over her time as a corpsman, sometimes it all got to her.

Snafu’s stare replayed in her mind, and she hoped that she didn’t accidentally give herself away to the group. Worry buzzed in her stomach like the disgusting flies that seemed to be ever-present among the mud and filth of Okinawa. (Y/n) tried to busy her mind with the long list of men to check on, but she couldn’t focus more than a few moments before getting lost in her head again.

Spotting a man on her list, she called out to him.

“Hey, James,” she greeted, approaching his muddy foxhole. “How’s the ankle?”

He groaned and shook his head. “As good as it’s gonna be, Doc.”

In the barrage the day prior, the private slipped and rolled his ankle in the mud trying to get to cover. He insisted he was fine, but some of his squadmates sent (y/n) to check on him. Henry James was a stubborn young man who wasn’t even old enough to drink, yet he was on a foreign island in Southeast Asia fighting for his country…fighting to survive. She crouched beside his hole, inspecting the ankle that was elevated above the entrance.

“Were you able to stay off it much?” (y/n) asked, gently prodding the bruised skin.

“A buddy of mine took my OP shift so I didn’t have to walk around on it. It’s more stiff than anything.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “That’s how ankles are. They’re tough-”

Her voice came to a stop as yelling filled the air. It wasn’t cheers of victory or anything of that nature. They were cries of attack…of desperation…of death. The second the sound registered in her mind, she was darting toward the ridge, hoping to get there before the shooting started in case someone got hit. The rapid beating of her heart filled her ears as she ran through the mud and past battle-weary marines. A few of them called out to her, but she didn’t hear them.

The first ping of an M-1 being fired echoed through the air as she made it to the base of the rocky ridge. Cursing under her breath, she quickly began her ascent. Finding the most solid footing, she climbed the hill, using the jagged rocks as handholds. Gunfire filled the air, silencing the screams of the enemy. (Y/n) was out of breath when she made it to the top, but she didn’t stop. Most of the fire had stopped, but a few shots still rang out.

At the moment the corpsman reached the other marines at the top of the ridge, her heart sank at the sight of Eugene unholstering his revolver and aiming at a wounded Jap.

“Cease fire!” Mac cried from the other side of the ridge. “Cease fire!”

Gene didn’t care.

“Damn, Sledge. Leave him,” Hamm muttered to the redhead.

Whipping around to face him, Eugene scowled. “What for? He’s a Jap, ain’t he?”

(Y/n) watched in horror as Gene opened fire on the man already wallowing in the mud. He missed the first two shots, but the third hit its mark, hitting the Jap just above his hip. The soldier sunk into the mud face down, his writhing coming to an end.

“Cease fire!” The Lieutenant repeated as he neared them. “Cease fire, damn it!”

Satisfied with his work, Sledge grabbed his rifle from beside Hamm and turned to descend the ridge. When he noticed (y/n) a few yards away, he froze for a moment, his eyes resembling a dark storm cloud that could start down pouring any second. Guilt seemed to cloud his usual hazel eyes, and he looked away, unable to stay steady beneath her gaze after what he’d just done. He then continued down the ridge.

Mac was quick to confront him, gripping his carbine in one hand with white knuckles.

“I told you to cease fire. What are you doing?”

The private spun to face Mac with gritted teeth.“Killing Japs,” he seethed, turning to go down the hill again.

Before he could get far, the lieutenant spoke again. “You just gave away our position!”

“I think they’ve got a pretty good idea of where we are,” Gene chuckled bitterly.

Mac pointed toward the dead Japs. “I told you to cease fire. You’re supposed to be observing, and then I see you with a damn sidearm!

“We were all sent here to kill Japs, weren’t we?” Sledge screamed, climbing back up to be nose-to-nose with his lieutenant. “So what the hell difference does it make what weapon we use?”

(Y/n) couldn’t help but flinch at Gene’s sudden outburst. She’d never seen him like this before, and she wondered what made him finally break. What was the straw that broke the camel’s back? What had happened in the five minutes she was gone?

A tear streaked down her cheek seeing the man she cared about more than anything giving in to the war. Seeing a man be reduced to a shell of who he once was was always heartbreaking, and (y/n) didn’t realize just how much until she witnessed him finally crack.

“I’d use my damn hands if I had to,” he whispered to a frozen Mac, who clenched his jaw and slowly walked past him. (Y/n) was quick to try and follow Gene once he stormed down the hill, but a gentle hand on her shoulder held her back.

It was Burgin, his face scrunched with concern. “Let ‘em cool off, (y/n/n).”

“Romus, he-”

“I know what he means to you,” he interrupted in a whisper as he glanced around them for any eavesdroppers. “But trust me. You need to leave him be for a little bit. Let him think.”

(Y/n) swallowed thickly. “Please don’t tell anyone, Burgie. I could be-”

“Your secret’s safe with me…He needs you, (y/l/n), but give him a few hours.”

Releasing a shuddering breath, her gaze dropped to the ground. “He was fine when I left. What happened?”

“I don’t know. But we did hear him hollering about something right before he went up top.”

“Thanks for everything, Burg,” she sighed, patting his shoulder softly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you and the guys.”

A sheepish smile grew on his face, and he chuckled under his breath. “You’d be a lot more ladylike, that’s for sure. The other day, I’m pretty sure I saw you smoking Sledge’s pipe.”

“Whatever,” she groaned, rubbing a hand down her dirty face. “A lot of women actually smoke, ya know?”

The rest of the afternoon did not go according to (y/n)‘s plan, and she was unable to check on Gene after he cooled down. Within an hour of his outburst, she was called back to the field hospital to assist in an all-hands-on-deck emergency following a Jap ambush. The corpsman was up to her elbows in blood, bowels, and every other bodily fluid from vomit to urine. It was a hard night, and it got even worse when a terrible rainstorm moved in, trapping her from returning to her company due to poor visibility.

(Y/n) spent the night, and most of the next day, helping around the hospital. She dressed wounds, administered pain meds, and helped transport men to the hospital ships on a Jeep. A radio call was received that told of the 1st Marine’s plans to take the ridge, and (y/n) knew she needed to be there.

She caught a ride to the ridge just in time for the assault. The men were checking their weapons and quietly conversing with each other as she walked through the various companies. When she reached her squad, however, silence filled the air. They all had thousand-yard stares, and the group was missing two guys who had been there the day before. Her pace slowed as she approached them.

“Hey, guys,” (y/n) said softly, her eyes flicking from man to man. When none of them acknowledged her, she knew something bad had happened. “Where’s Hamm and Peck?”

Silence.

She took a deep breath, trying not to imagine the worst. “Please, guys, whe-”

“Gone,” Gene interrupted harshly, his gaze snapping to hers. “Hamm's dead and Peck’s gone. He cracked.”

(Y/n) felt the all-too-familiar punch of grief knock the air from her lungs. Eugene’s hazel eyes were dark and stormy, even more so than the previous day. She swallowed thickly, attempting to push down the emotion that clogged her throat.

“What happened?” she asked shakily, her eyes never leaving Gene’s.

Before he could respond, Snafu spoke. “Doesn’t matter. They’re gone.”

“Shelton’s right,” Burgin added. “It’s hard, but we’ve got other things to focus on.”

(Y/n) nodded once and dropped her gaze to the group, blinking away the tears that burned her eyes. Two more of their group were gone. Sure, Peck wasn’t her favorite person by any means, but he was still part of their company….on their side. And Hamm…he was a kid. A kid who deserved better than to die in the mud on some foreign island.

They all deserved better.

“Let’s move out!” Mac announced, waving for them to follow.

Each man followed suit, but Eugene hung back to wait on (y/n). Seeing her tear-filled eyes, he instantly regretted opening his mouth. The anger within him seemed to dissipate momentarily as he joined her side.

“Remember, you’ve got a bullseye on your arm,” he murmured, gesturing to the red and white medic brassard on her arm. “Please be careful.”

“I will.” (Y/n) lifted her helmet to look up at him through her lashes. “You take care of yourself, too, alright?”

“Yes ma’am,” he whispered, admiring her features. His eyes trailed from her eyes down to her nose, and then to her lips before flicking back to her (y/e/c) eyes. They stayed locked in each other’s gaze for a few moments, their eyes seeming to have a silent conversation communicating everything that was left unsaid. Gene slowly reached up to cup her cheek, rubbing his thumb over her cheekbone. The racing of (y/n)‘s heart wasn’t from the artillery that had begun hammering the ridge, but Eugene’s warm caress against her cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed at the gentle touch.

They both wished the moment could last forever.

Another yell from Mac shattered the moment, leaving (y/n) missing the tenderness of his hand in its absence.

“I’ll find you after,” he said, turning around and backpedaling to catch up with his squad. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

The corner of her lips quirked into a smirk. “I’ll leave that to you.”

Once the battle had died down and all the remaining Japanese were either killed or taken prisoner, (y/n) went searching for Gene. When the bullets began to fly, she couldn’t get the boy from Mobile off her mind, and anxiety churned in her stomach as she looked for him. The stench of gasoline, blood, and burnt flesh filled the air along her ascent to the ridge. Bodies of both marines and the enemy lined the narrow path up the hill, and her eyes scanned each one, praying that none of them were the men she’d come to love dearly.

“Burgie, you seen Sledgehammer? He was just over here.”

Hearing the familiar Cajun accent, she spun toward the voice and sighed in relief when she saw Snafu atop an old bunker, his legs swinging as he sat on the edge with a cigarette hanging from his lip. Romus was talking to another sergeant a few feet away, his rifle swung around his shoulder.

“There you are!” (Y/n) called out, reaching up and slapping Snafu’s foot. It was all she could reach from his elevated position on the concrete bunker. “You alright?”

He smiled and raised an eyebrow, blowing a puff of smoke into the humid air. “Not a scratch on me,” he mused. “I don’t know where Eugene is, but don’t worry, I just saw him. He’s okay, too.”

With this news, a wave of calm washed over her, and she let out the breath she’d been holding since they parted. “Thanks, Snaf. I’ll find him.”

“Have fun,” he laughed, waving his cigarette around in front of him. “And do me a favor and fuc-”

This caught Burgie's attention. “Hey!” He interrupted, scolding Snafu like he was a parent whose child was acting up in public. “Cut it out.”

Busting out laughing, Snafu winked at (y/n), who could feel the embarrassment creeping up her cheeks at his intended comment. She raised a hand and flipped him off with a grin before continuing her search for Gene.

It took her a few minutes of wandering to spot his familiar frame among the sea of dirty green uniforms, but when she did, a huge smile painted her face. (Y/n) almost called out to him, but something stopped her.

He was sitting alone on the busted remains of a bunker with his helmeted head in his hands, his weapon lying idle in the dirt beside him. She continued toward him slowly, observing the gentle shake of his shoulders that told her he was crying.

“Hey, Gene,” (y/n) murmured with a softness that matched the gravity of the moment, lowering herself onto the earth beside him. He reacted quickly, averting his gaze and hiding his face as he wiped the tears from his dirt-covered cheeks.

Reaching over, she softly turned his face toward her. After a moment of resistance, he gave in to her gentle touch. His eyes, glistening with unshed tears, met hers. (Y/n)‘s fingertips traced the dirt-streaked paths on his cheeks, her touch a soothing escape from the horror they lived in.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, ducking to meet his eyes. “I’m here.”

Gene’s lip began to quiver, and a stifled sob escaped him as he covered his face with trembling hands. “I’m a monster, (y/n). The things I’ve done…” he strained, moving away from her comforting touch.

(Y/n) watched the play of emotions on his face as he stood up abruptly, throwing an arm out to point to a bombed-out building. The skeletal remains of what once was a home loomed in the smoky haze. “There was a family in there. Now a baby with grow up without a family! I called in the mortars up there! I did that! I’m a monster!”

“No,” she shot up, her voice cutting him off. “You are not a monster, Eugene Sledge. We are at war. We’ve all done terrible things here, but it does not make you a monster. The fact that you’re feeling like you are proves you’re not. It means you’re human, Gene.”

Another tear streaked down his cheek as he clenched his teeth. “After Bill and everyone we’ve lost, I wanted to get them back. I wanted to. You saw me yesterday!”

“Eugene! Look at me!” she ordered, cupping his cheeks as she implored his attention. His gaze wandered everywhere but her face until she spoke again, her tone much softer this time. “Hon, please look at me.”

Tear-filled hazel eyes met hers, and she tugged him a little closer, they’re faces only inches apart. “We all want to get them back. You are not a monster.”

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” he croaked, more tears spilling down his cheeks. “What if this is who I am now?”

“I know exactly who you are. You are Eugene Bondurant Sledge. You’re still that same boy from Mobile, Alabama who loved his dog more than anything, the same one who loved to fish with his father, and the very same one who I fell in love with before we even stepped foot on foreign soil.”

A sob escaped his lips, and his eyes squeezed shut, overwhelmed by her words. “There’s no way you can love me like this. You deserve someone else who-”

“I don’t love anyone else, Gene!” she urged, tears stinging her eyes. “I love you, and I’ll say it over and over, every single day, for as long as it takes to make you believe me.”

Shaking his head, he tried to break free from her touch, but she held on. “I’m not a good man.”

“You are good, Eugene. You are a good man. We’ve all done things we’re not proud of, but it’s how we respond to them that makes us who we are. This right here? It proves you’re a good man.”

Her words seemed to break through in his mind, and he froze for a moment. Pulling off his helmet, he moved (y/n)‘s hands from his face and cupped her cheeks, his red eyes still glossy. “I love you,” he murmured, voice wavering. “And I will spend the rest of my life working to be worthy of you if you’ll let me.”

The tears (y/n) had been holding back filled her eyes, a few of them trickling from her waterline. She nodded in his gentle hold. “You already are.”

He wiped a few tears away softly, a lopsided smile forming on his lips. “You’re too good for this world, darlin’,” Gene cooed. “You always see the good in people. Even me.”

With utmost care, Gene reached up and removed (y/n)‘s helmet, her tousled (y/h/c) spilling out. The fading sun added a soft glow to their faces, emphasizing the exhaustion etched in their features. As he delicately held the helmet aside, Eugene’s eyes met (y/n)‘s, a silent understanding passing between them. He closed the gap, his breath mixing with hers as his eyes lingered on her face, taking in every detail-the mud smudges, the fatigue-as if memorizing each nuance.

With a gentle touch, he pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was a tender blend of longing and comfort, a quiet promise to stay by the other’s side. In that moment, the world around them ceased to exist. Time slowed as they embraced, finding solace in the simple act of being together at last. The sounds of war faded into the background, replaced by the gentle symphony of two hearts seeking refuge in the warmth of each other’s touch.

[juneknight]

Slow Degrees

Chapter One |

“Perfection is attained by slow degrees; it requires the hand of time.” — Voltaire

OR: the fic where Steven is a practically a blushing maiden and you corrupt him step by step.

About this: fem!un-named original character/Steven Grant. Explicit. 5k

You walk with a purpose that sets you apart. 

This Saturday, the British Museum is crowded. People meander from one spot to another, their steps slow and eyes on the exhibits. Bloody good on them for using the weekend to experience some culture, but it’s bloody terrible for you: side-stepping prams, dodging couples with clasped hands lest you burst through their linked arms, nearly tangling yourself in the leash of one toddler whose mother gives you the stink-eye. 

The gift shop is even worse somehow, and then you see that the stuffed animals are having a two-for-one sale and you feel liable to scream. Fate is like a teenager on the bus, sticking out its foot for you to trip over. But you haven’t come all this way for nothing. Without any sense of pride, you thrust yourself through the ring of children blockading the stuffed animals and begin to wade through the synthetic furs and empty marble eyes. 

“No, no, no,” you groan under your breath. You spot a black stuffie in the arms of a girl no more than six and have to struggle not to snatch it from her—not that it would do you any good. When she turns, you see that it isn’t the animal you’re looking for. No tall, sleek ears nor a long muzzle. You can’t help but look up towards the heavens and mutter, “Why are you punishing me?” 

“Can I help you?” 

You whirl.

“Maybe,” you admit while you fish your phone from your pocket, glancing at the nametag pinned to the employee’s lapel. “Donna. Don’t ask why, but I’m desperately looking for this stuffed animal.” 

She glances at the phone and steps around to the other side of the 360-degree-display. Face twisting, she points to an empty section wedged between stuffies resembling alligators and hippos. She gives you a look of contrived sympathy cultivated through years of customer service no doubt. “Sorry,” she says. “Looks like that’s been a popular one.” 

“You’re out?” you ask, fingers itching to grab her by her business-casual blouse and shake her. “You’re positive? Because I need this; I’ll pay double, triple whatever the marked price is. I’m desperate.” 

“I can see that,” says Donna dryly. “But—” 

“I’m sorry,” another voice breaks in. “Maybe I can help?” 

Your eyes track the sound of the soft accent. Standing just a few feet away, boxes of indeterminable tourist-trap merchandise in his arms, is a man. The first thing you notice about him are his eyes—tired. Dark brown, dark bruises beneath that hint at many sleepless nights. The next thing you notice are the curls: inky, charmingly chaotic. A small, wary smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he glances between you and Donna, shifting on his feet to try and make the load in his arms more comfortable. 

The last thing you notice: he is so absolutely handsome. 

“You, help? Doubtful,” Donna says, just as you say, Absolutely. 

You tilt your phone towards him. His face lights up in recognition, and for a moment, the seed of hope in your heart blossoms, threatening to break through soil. He’s going to be able to help you. You can feel it. But then his eyes move past you towards the display and his smile falls. 

“Oh, no,” he murmurs. “Let me just pop these behind the counter and then I’ll help you look, yeah? There might be one hiding amongst the others. Kids don’t always set them back where they’re supposed to.” 

“Steven,” says Donna, voice tight with disapproval. “The display is empty.” 

“Please,” you grit through your teeth at her. “I said I would pay, didn’t I? I have eighty pounds on me, and if you direct me to a cashpoint, I can withdraw even more.” 

In the face of your insistence, Donna gives in, though you can tell by the thin press of her lips that she isn’t happy about it. Rolling her eyes, she waves a dismissive hand at the both of you and turns away, stalking off to some other part of the gift shop. 

“Pleasant, isn’t she?” You glance at Steven, your mood already lightening at the earnest kindness on his handsome face. “Are you her boss?” 

“Am I her—oh god, if only she’d heard you say that.” 

Together, you and Steven scour the display from top to bottom, but to no avail. 

“Can I ask, why the urgency?” he calls, elbow deep in stuffed scarab beetles. “Not a lot of people offerin’ to empty their bank accounts for Egyptian-themed stuffed animals.” 

“It’s for my nephew,” you admit. “He has autism, and he’s absolutely fixated on Egypt right now. Has been for years, really. Last time they were in London visiting me, my sister bought him that stuffie, and apparently he’s grown quite attached. Yesterday, she called me about an electrical fire at her building in the flat below hers. I guess they won’t let anyone back in until they know it’s safe, not even to get their effects. They’re staying with our mum in Leeds, but he’s taking it so hard, being in a different place and all that without anything familiar. She asked me if I would try to find another of these loveys for him and send it through the post overnight, but she couldn’t remember the museum she’d bought it at. You know how many museums there are in London?” 

“Too many, by your count I would imagine,” he says in sympathy.

“Spot on. Do you have any nieces or nephews?”

He smiles, eyes looking a little distant and wistful. “I’m an only child. Always wanted a sibling though. I guess my mum had her hands full enough with me.”

Usually, small talk is a form of torture, but you can’t help but want to press, to know more about him. Already you have begun squirreling away facts about him. His name is Steven, with a V. He works at a gift shop in the British Museum. He is an only child. “Were you rotten when you were young, then?”

“Aren’t all teenage boys?” He smirks, a quirking of his lips that makes him look years younger. Mischief makes a home in him, you can tell. But you can also tell that he isn’t rotten, not at all. Not many grown men would wade through stuffed animals for a stranger. Bruised, maybe, like an apple that has been dropped too many times by careless hands. But aren’t those apples just as sweet as any other?

“You don’t strike me as someone who has ever misbehaved a day in their life,” you tease. All at once you realize that both of you have stopped rifling through the toys. Perhaps it is just in your head, but electricity bounces between you two, charging the air until your hair feels liable to stand on end. Your voice has dropped on instinct into something smoother, warmer, the voice you usually reserve for flirting. Steven doesn’t blush per say, but his mouth can’t seem to close and he looks a little warmer than he was a moment ago. 

A little girl jabs her sharp elbow into your side, working her way in between the two of you to get access to some falcon shaped animal on a lower tier of the display. The look she casts up at you suggests that the ache in your ribs is entirely your own fault. 

“Well,” Steven says, clearing his throat. He can’t meet your eye. “Unfortunately, it looks like we’re fresh out of your nephew’s favorite.”

The moment and whatever charge had been growing between you two has popped like a soap bubble. Your eyes burn. How will you have the heart to call your sister and tell her that you’ve come up empty handed? 

“There’s one last place I could check,” he says. “But if Donna finds out I took you, she’ll have me sacked for good. Come on then, let’s be quick.”

It is cooler in the stockroom, wall-to-wall Egyptian goodies hibernating under the fluorescent lights. Out of respect, you linger just inside the doorway, unwilling to take advantage of his generosity by looking around in an area where customers clearly aren’t meant to be. 

Steven disappears for a long time behind some boxes—knocks over a stack of overpriced, bagged gummies that you nearly enter the room just to help him pick up—before reappearing looking even sadder than before. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says. 

You try and scrape together a smile for his sake; he looks about as devastated as you feel. After the three other museums you had visited across the city today, one would think you would be used to the disappointment. “It’s certainly not your fault. Not unless you’ve got a stash of Bastet stuffies you’re hoarding at home. There are a few more places I can—“

“Sorry, so sorry—Bastet? You showed me a picture of Anubis.”

You blink. “No. Here, look—says right here on the website that this is Bastet.”

“Bastet takes the form of a cat or sometimes a lioness depending on what dynasty you’re—well, anyway, that’s not a cat, is it? That’s Anubis, a jackal. Website must have it wrong. You never saw the stuffed animal?”

“Once, the day they bought it, but it’s been ages.”

“Could he be mistaken about the name then?”

“I’d trust him more than I’d trust myself when it comes to such matters.”

“Then,” and he pulls from between the counter an extremely similar stuffed animal to the one you showed him on your phone, except the ears are curved and feline, the muzzle not nearly so long and thin, “this is your goddess. Cheers.”

You clutch your heart, flooded with relief and triumph so keen that a happy shout bubbles up in your throat, just barely able to be swallowed. “Thank you so, so much, Steven. I really can’t explain how much I appreciate you going above and beyond for me. It’s going to make a big difference to my nephew, that’s for sure.”

The praise flusters him, that not-quite-warmth growing high in his cheeks as he looks away, unable to meet your eyes. The angle only emphasizes the sharp line of his jaw. On instinct, you glance at his hands which fiddle with a nearby mountain of ankh-shaped erasure. No ring. 

He takes you back to the gift shop and rings up the stuffed animal, only charging you the normal price despite your insistence that you would pay more. Passing you your receipt, he gives you a smile and the most endearing wave you’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s in your head, the sweet sadness you see in him. The reluctance he has to part ways. If it is, then oh well. You’ve never been one to shy away from a risk when the reward could be so sweet. 

You pluck a ballpoint pen from his side of the counter, turn over your receipt, and scribble down your name and number. “If you’re interested, I would love to take you out sometime. To repay you.”

He looks at the number with wide eyes. “Oh, that’s—really, you don’t have to. It’s my job, innit?”

Firmly, you slide the number back towards him. “If you’d rather not, just toss it. After I leave though. Then, if you don’t call, I can just pretend you lost it.”

Without another word, gift bag in hand, you turn and begin to sift your way through the busy shop. You spot Donna by a stand of puzzles and make sure to stop and point to Steven, insisting, “He deserves a raise!” Her face twists as if she’s swallowed something sour. Her own tongue, hopefully. 

Before you’ve even made it out of the building, you have your phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, calling your sister with the good news. 

*

Days pass, and then a week, and then two. Sometimes Steven crosses your mind: when banners go up advertising a new exhibit opening at the British Museum, when you spot a man of similar build ahead of you in line at the coffee shop. He never calls, which you understand. Perhaps he has a partner or you misread the situation. You try to just be grateful that he helped you find what you were looking for, and you put the handsome gift-shoppist from your mind. 

Until he does call. 

Another Saturday, though this one doesn’t find you with blisters on your heels from running all over London. Instead, your feet are curled up beneath you, a bowl of sugary cereal balanced on your lap while you alternate between spooning breakfast into your mouth and scrolling through the news on your phone. It’s a bloody morbid way to start the day, thanks to the state of the world, but it’s a habit that is hard to shake. 

All at once, a news story about the latest political drama disappears, a strange phone number lighting up the screen. 

“Really,” you mutter to yourself. “Telemarketers even on Saturday? Don’t you people bloody rest?” 

Swiping to answer, you tuck the phone to your ear and noisily slurp a bite of cereal. “City morgue,” you chirp. 

Silence on the other end, and then Steven says: “Sorry, I must—did you say city morgue?” 

You choke, inhaling milk and sugar and nearly upending the bowl on your lap as you scramble to set it on the table beside you. Wiping milk from your chin with the back of your hand, you clear your throat as quietly as you can. 

“Steven? Is that you?” 

“Oh, it is you! I thought I recognized your voice, but then I thought maybe you’d given me the wrong number on purpose which, well, that wouldn’t make any sense, would it? Would be strange for a person to go around offering fake numbers, they usually just give them out to creeps who won’t take no for an answer, don’t they?” 

“They do, and you are far from that.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m rambling aren’t I? It’s just that I can’t believe I actually called you. Not that I haven’t been thinking about it, got the number memorized by now. But when I picked up my phone, I swear I was just thinking about calling my mum like I usually do on the weekends, and somehow I must have dialed your number instead–” 

“Would you like to hang up so you can call her?” you tease. 

“I’d like to take you to dinner,” he says, pleasantly surprising you. 

“Yes,” you agree easily. “But I’ll be the one taking you to dinner. I offered, didn’t I?” 

The two of you agree on a time that evening, considering neither of you have plans (and you’ve waited long enough for dinner with the gift-shoppist, thanks very much). 

Before you say goodbye, you tell him: “Steven? I’m really glad you called.” 

“Me too,” he breathes. 

After hanging up, you can’t help but spread yourself out on the sofa, stretching like a satisfied cat who has caught the canary and drank all the cream and whatever else cat’s enjoy doing. Thank you, Steven Gift-Shoppist’s mum, you think to yourself. 

*

“Lookit you,” Steven says, standing from the table when the maitre ‘d leads you across the dimly lit restaurant. It has a cozy atmosphere, perfect for couples with secluded tables tucked into nooks to give the illusion of privacy. Steven’s eyes trail over you from head to toe, lingering on the soft curves of your waist, the dress that clings to your figure. You’re showing a little more leg than you’re used to, but it’s worth it for the way his throat bobs at the smooth expanse of skin. “You look amazing.”

“So do you!” And he does—dark slacks and a form-fitting dress shirt, the collar open to reveal a glimpse of his tan throat. You see the chain of a necklace, though it disappears inside the fabric. His curls may be tamer by a fraction. Gods, he really is handsome, you think. How are you going to get through this dinner while thinking about setting your teeth into the warm, soft skin of his neck? Or tangling your fingers in his hair so that you can guide his mouth between your legs? 

It’s been too long since you’ve had sex, and far too long since you’ve had sex with someone who you felt so attracted to. A part of you—the part not including the bits between your legs—cautions you against coming on too strong. 

Slow and steady, you think, while he kisses both of your cheeks. He smells softly of cologne, and you have to let a measured breath out of your nose. Easier said than done. 

“I almost thought I had the wrong place,” he admits while helping you into your seat like a gentleman from an old black and white film. “Never been somewhere so fancy.”

It ends up being one of the best first-dates of your life. Steven’s humor is witty and sometimes biting, his education not formal but nonetheless robust. If there was any doubt that he was interested in you romantically, it fades in the face of his sweetly clumsy flirting. How a man so attractive and enjoyable could be out of practice dating is beyond you, but you’ve never been one to question a good thing when the universe drops it into your lap. You talk about every topic under the sun (that’s appropriate on a first date), and with every new detail you learn about the man, you find yourself being more and more charmed by him. 

Between the appetizers and entrees, you pull out your phone to show him a picture of your nephew asleep among a sea of blankets with Bastet tucked under one arm. Steven lights up, even looks a little choked. “Not often do I get to make an actual difference to someone with what I do,” he says. “Just a cashier, aren’t I?” 

“I’d like very much to see you again,” you say while he walks you out of the restaurant on his arm. There are only a few minutes until your cab arrives, so the two of you linger beneath the restaurant’s awning watching the busy London nightlife pass you by. 

“Really?” Steven asks.

“Of course.”

“I—I would like that too. Very much.” 

You shiver a little from the cold, goosebumps blooming on your exposed legs. Steven tucks you closer to himself, suffusing you with his warmth. The wine simmers sweetly in your belly, so you can’t blame the way your head swims on him entirely. But you feel a little drunk on him as well. The smell of him, the feel of his body beneath the thin dress shirt, the burning heat he throws off. When you glance toward him, your breath brushes against his neck. It’s his turn to shiver. 

It rests on the tip of your tongue to invite him back to your place. You’re a modern woman, if the connection was right, you would have no qualms about sleeping together on the first date (and Gods is the connection right). 

By your sides, his fingers brush against your own. Keeping your eyes on the busy London street, you take note of how very still he has become, as if he is holding his breath. Another brush, his calloused thumb brushing over your knuckle. Turning your hand over, he lets his fingers lace with your own. He lets out a sigh of relief. 

Here you are thinking about getting his trousers off, and he’s trying to scrape up the nerve to hold your hand. 

Slow, then, you think. You meet his eyes, dark like ink in the dim light, and he grins. Butterflies spread their wings in your tummy. I can do slow. 

*

But it isn’t just slow, is it? 

It’s glacial. Your fourth date arrives, and short of holding hands and the breathless, closed-mouth kisses he bestows on you before he sees you safely into your cab, there has been no forward momentum. 

There are benefits to the pace, though; the intimacy is divine. Tonight finds you both swimming beneath a blanket in his apartment, fingers tangled together while you watch a French drama. Steven has the subtitles on for your benefit, though you wouldn’t mind him translating, murmuring the lines to you in his warm voice. 

As the movie progresses, your positions meld together until he is mostly reclining with you nestled into his side. His every breath moves your body, his hand resting on your own, thumb making sweet passes over the pounding pulse of your wrist. 

The movie begins to pass in a blur, subtitles blending together. All you can think of is Steven beside you. The obscene warmth of his body. The masculine, clean scent of him. You angle your face upward into the hollow of his throat, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin but not close enough to kiss him. 

You sigh shakily, breath fanning across his skin. His throat bobs. A kiss couldn’t hurt, right? Your lips positively buzz with the urge to feel his skin beneath them.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, you think, leaning in so that your softly-parted mouth can brush against his throat. Steven keeps clean shaven, but you have the feeling he’d be able to grow an amazing beard if the stumble beneath your lips is any indication. You’re close enough to hear the sound of him swallowing, his jaw clenching. 

“Is this okay?” you murmur, lips brushing his skin. 

“You’re killing me,” he whispers back. But he tips his head back to rest it against the couch, baring more of his throat to you. 

This time you press a kiss to his pulse. When you feel his heartbeat hammering beneath the thin skin, you nearly groan. His smell here is potent, the clean scent of his cologne, faded throughout the day. It’s enough to make your head go light and fuzzy. All of the sudden Steven gives a punched-out noise above you, and you realize that you’ve lapped your tongue against the hollow of his throat. 

“God in heaven,” he says. The hand which had been resting against the armrest clenches into a tight fist. 

“Should I stop?” you ask. Part of you is only teasing him, but part of you needs to know the answer. You’ve been working so hard to take things at Steven’s pace, but you were beginning to think that he needed you to make the first move. Either way, you didn’t want to be strongarming him into this; you wanted him to be a whole-hearted participant.  

“I–do you want to stop?” 

“Honestly? No. Not unless you’d like to, in which case, yes.” 

“In what world would I want you to stop?” he laughs breathily. “I mean, your mouth—oh god, I shouldn’t have said that. Now all I’m thinking about is your mouth.” 

“Is this the first time you’ve ever thought about my mouth?” you murmur. 

Steven goes stiff. You draw back, sure that you’ve made him uncomfortable. The flush on his face, clear even in the dim lighting of the flat, tells you that it isn’t that. He’s embarrassed. When he speaks, he stammers over his words: “I—do you mean?—well of course it, I mean—” 

You let him circle around the subject for only a few moments before your smile fades away. Is this normal shyness? You’ve had many partners in the past (though it has been longer than you’d like since your last), and you had never classified yourself as a blushing virgin. You couldn’t classify any of your past partners in that category either. But part of you wonders if Steven’s hesitance isn’t more than typical first-time-with-a-new-partner jitters. 

“Oh, no, I’ve offended you, haven’t I?” Steven says when you draw back. “I just, I’m not sure what the right answer is, love—”

“No, no, you haven’t offended me, honest.”

That’s how the two of you end up cuddling and talking about your past sexual histories. Steven seems to find it easier to talk when you’re facing away from him, nestled in the hollow between his body and the couch, both of you watching the lights flare and dim just outside the flat window as cars come and go on the street. 

“What was your first time like?” you ask him.  

“I—well, to be honest, I don’t really remember.” 

You glance up at him, looking for any tells that he’s lying. But Steven isn’t even looking at you; his eyes are still on the window. Distant, brows a little low as if he’s racking his brain. Is it even possible to forget your first time? you wonder. Even if it was the most lackluster, boring occasion, don’t most people remember something? 

“Maybe it’s best that you’ve forgotten,” you jest weakly. “My first time wasn’t all that special.” 

“It wasn’t?” 

“Not really. I don’t even think I began enjoying sex until I was much older.” 

“Does it bother you that I’m not very experienced?” he asks. 

“Not at all. Does it bother you that I am?” 

He smiles. “Not at all. Someone has to know what they're doing, eh?”

“I know plenty that I’d like to do,” you tease. You test. 

Steven swallows, his eyes dipping down to your mouth for a moment. “Yeah?”

You hum. Shifting a little, you move to rest on top of him, your forearm braced against the armrest that his head lays on. Earlier, he said that you were killing him, but you don’t think he has any idea how much he’s killing you as well. Just having him beneath you, curls a mess, mouth parted as his breathing picks up, eyes unable to linger anywhere that isn’t your mouth. He already looks on the verge of being fucked out. 

“I am absolutely going to wreck you, you know that?” you murmur. 

Then you relax into him, letting your body rest against the hard, warm planes of his own. He’s already hard, shockingly erect and sizeable even beneath the restricting denim of his pants. His eyes slip shut at the pressure of your hips against him, at the crush of your breasts against his chest. Leaning down, you cover his mouth with your own. He meets you eagerly, all tongue and gently nipping teeth, tasting so sweetly of the dessert you had shared at the end of your dinner. When he groans, it vibrates through your body landing squarely between your legs. 

“God I want you,” you pull back to whisper against his lips. 

“I want you too,” he whispers. “I think I’d like to take things slow, though. Savor you. I don’t ever want to forget this.” 

“I like the sound of that. Should we stop, then?” 

“Bloody hell, no. Kiss me again.” 

So you do. And you do. And gods, you do. Your mouths are swollen, lips raw from the kisses you share. When you trail your burning tongue across the sharp angle of his jaw, Steven moans, a sound that has you groaning as well into the hollow of his throat. Besides the sound of your wet, slow kisses and the heaving breaths you share, the flat is silent. 

Opening your mouth, you drag the sharp line of your teeth across the stubble of his throat gently, and his hips jerk upwards, hard cock dragging along your lower stomach. 

“Ohmygod, do that again,” he gasps. 

You whine, shifting upwards so that the next time you drag your teeth against his skin, his cock presses against your aching center. It’s enough to have you gasping, toes curling in your socks. God, you’re wet. You can’t remember the last time someone made you this wet from foreplay, even, much less just some sensual kisses. But every reaction of Steven’s is so raw and honest and wrecked that you can’t help but tighten the muscles in your thighs, lean up and grind down against him hard. 

“Fuck, oh—oh fuck!” Steven’s hands grip at your thighs, knuckles turning pale. 

“You’re so hard for me, love,” you breathe just to watch the way his eyes squeeze tightly shut. You drag your clothed pussy along the hard line of him, relishing in the muted friction against your clit. You’ve never been the kind of person to hold back from something that feels good, so you let your body chase the feeling, grinding yourself against him again and again just to feel the zap of pleasure. “Gods, I’m so wet for you.” 

“You are?” Steven gasps. 

“Soaked, can’t you tell?” 

“I—” 

“Won’t be surprised if I soak your trousers. How the hell are you this bloody sexy? Your cock feels so good and you aren’t even inside me—” 

“Love, I—” the frantic lift of his voice combined with the sharp surge of pressure where he grabs at your waist has you freezing, lifting yourself up and away from him even if your cunt aches at his absence. 

“What is it? Are you alright?” 

His grip on your hips tightens as he urges you to rest your weight against him again, the cords in his neck standing in sharp relief. “Fuckfuckfuck don’t stop, oh fuck I’m cumming, I’m so sorry—“

“Fuck,” you breathe, resuming the ocean-like drag of your hips over his spasming cock. He’s cumming. From just a little dry humping. Like a teenager. 

God, you’d never been so turned on in your life.

[strugglingatart]

Jr Year ep4

This is me live blogging bc I need to get thoughts out also would love fandom friends full spoilers bellow the cut just so no one accidentally reads anything they don’t want to this will be long

I have wanted most if not all of Zac's and Murph's shirts this season

I still have issues with the multiclass system but also no school thing has made the most sense in universe

I believe you and that's why I'm not saying anything is SUCH a trouble friend mood

"what's the drinking age?" "you have murdered SO many people"

BRENANS FACE WHEN KALINA SAYS I'M NOT BAD ANYMORE OH LORDS

the whole Kalina/Cassandra/Kristen scene is so nerve wrecking and interesting and once again I can talk so much about this topic and I know I have critized Kristen's approach but that's bc honestly I do have issue w it despite understanding it but it does make for an interesting arc and with this conversation it does seem like she believes in this domain of faith on the unknown. I will at some point talk more about from the point of someone who also left a culty religious thing but was still expected to perform similarly once out of it but my thoughts are still not the most organized

that being said I do not trust kalina and i do love cassandra

when you're in the dark I'm there holding your hand why am i crying

not kvx still being a thing lmao so Brennan

oh I just love how complicated but absolutely Bill Seacaster is the whole trust thing, the money going to the nemesees, there being a whole department, honestly that's a department I'd work for it's basically spy and gossip stuff

but also poor Fabian having to go through all this head ache stuff alone

watch Caperslolly Cattlekrush not be a direct nemesis but someone from her party be yes Fabian get that service!

I too keep thinking it is rat ccrushers no t grinders and will absolutely get it wrong

the gorthlax art is PERFECT

my school nurse did not have sweat pants but ok murph(i also absolutely am not from the us idk why i keep pointing out diferences)

they each will have a foil in my head so why just one owlbear contender? also is riz in the bloodrush team?

grinding for xp is so much weirder and terrible imo in this context also should be less effective bc like lbr experience is important like thinking on your feet etc like yes they are probably equal level and Brenan will play them well but they should absolutely not be as good as the bad kids at actual adventuring

I love how they all are so agro tho bc I get it and love the energy and I would absolutely be that mad

YES SOMEONE CALLED OUT THE HIPOCRISY

xp isn't bad if you at least still DO INTERESTING STUFF TO GET IT

if brenan makes them like grinding i will become as agro as the bad kids so far lol

gorthlax gave great advice, that being said i do hope they get a lil bit petty and end annoying grinders

nooo Gorgug (cries) I really want him to do well

listen I am so emo about gorgu's storyline like it's just no thoughts just feels and all of them

listen i don't do character builds but it does not sound to me like artificer and barbarian are THAT ill fitted, like yes the require different focus levels and types but they are also USED in different moments, nothing is stopping Gorgug from using his down time to come up with gadgets that work WITH his strenght and dex and rage and then use reckless abandon in battles. I think even th solar lasso is very much an example of that because it uses his strenghts, he's realing it in with atheltics checks iirc or how his shoes have jump like yes absolutely a challenge and not the most obvious but people are acting like it's impossible when it absolutely isn't

we love Corsica Jones

Riz helping Kristen <3

Brenan is absolutely having so much fun with Ayada's messages

Listen Fig does not need to go to warlock classes, no one in the school knows she is a warlock just do bard and barbarian and help your friend

also i get that procrastination girl

Please I want Fig and Gorgug to work on a song together and for us to get that scene so bad

Aelwynn is a whole entire mood

well that answers me: riz is not on bloodrush

I KNEW BRENNAN MADE THEM STUPID RATS TOO GOOD I HATE IT BUT I LOVE IT

wouldn't detect magic tell riz what enhancements she has? cause otherwise it's nnot THAT useful for spies (which is reason #1 the gadget exists)

oh brennan REALLY made people we will all hate

Yes Bucky I adore him

someone please go home with Fabian

ohhh Brennan put extra stakes at Fig just quitting/failling auegfort since she technically doesn't need it

oh warlock classes are night classes, kinda love that for Fig and also good for her being good at it

also looove the talk about exchanges and that

FIg could make an album out of pressure and expextations that woul be rad as hell

RAGH we love him

LISTEN Ragh should be like party guy, he was absolutely popular and is older and it takes stuff away from the bad kids to do

oh Fabian goes into it immediately we stan

Listen Ally is MASTER of weird ass energies and I love them for it

they truly are such dorks and somehow cool at the same time

I cannot tell if they don't know milkyriver's name or if they are benedict cumberbunching it and I love that

literally everything kalina says is so threatening

also the bad kids should count as followers of cassandra like they are not clerics sure but they ablsolutely belive in her... do only clerics/paladins count?

LISTEN BRENNAN WE DON'T NEED MORE PROBLEMS

oh the shard and red thing that was in one of the arts

oh I REALLY thought they were gonna split party this

I do hope the party still goes well

[gumnut-logic]

Five times alan discovered a secret and one time he kept one (Part Four)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

This one fought me like crazy. gordon is a slippery fish and doesn't like telling.

Many thanks to @onereyofstarlight for the read through and support. You are amazing as always ::lots of hugs::.

And thank you to thunderfam who continue to feed my pen with all your wonderful support ::hugs the lot of you::

Lots of terrible two in this one. I hope you enjoy it :D

-o-o-o-

4.

“Can you turn it off?!”

Alan glared at his brother. The fish was sitting where he had parked himself for the entire trip - his lumpy feet up on the dash, guzzling his disgusting cheese and watching that stupid Buddie and Ellie show.

Gordon didn’t even bother to turn around. “Why?”

“You’ve been watching it since we left Earth and I’m sick of it! And your cheese is getting into everything! Brains will kill you when we get back and I’ll help him!”

His fish brother finally responded this time, the holoprojector flickering off. He shrugged. “Okay.”

“And clean up your mess.”

“Sure.” Gordon flicked him a WASP salute and began picking cheese out of the air.

Alan grunted and went back to his checklist. He was in command of this mission. He had the right to ask his brother to behave.

Scott was counting on him.

Okay, so he was a little nervous. This rescue was one for the record books, after all. Not many people managed to make it to Europa. You needed special permission to land there as it was restricted for scientific exploration only with no commercial leases available - unlike Jupiter’s other moons.

Europa could have life on it - or in it - depending on your perspective and to get the chance to visit it?

This left Halley’s Comet in the dust.

How Buddie and Ellie had managed to get permission was beyond Alan’s comprehension.

Or maybe he was just resenting them due to having to listen to their voices for so long.

So, so long.

“What would you like me to do next, Commander.”

Alan blinked and looked back at his brother. There was no smart-ass expression on his face, just a genuine interest directed towards the back of the cockpit where Alan floated.

“Something productive maybe?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Think of something.”

“Okay.” Gordon turned back to the controls and sat staring out at the blackness of space.

Alan glared at his brother, unsure of how to respond. Gordon could be…well, Gordon…and so frustrating.

Alan swore under his breath. Gotta love him. Can’t kill him.

He worked quietly for a while, relieved and finally relaxing just a little in the silence with a calming sense of work well done.

Oh great, now he was beginning to sound like Virgil.

And yes, he knew that wasn’t a bad thing. Thank you, biggest brother for chiming in with your two cents, too.

Space bonkers, here I come.

“Allie, do you need a hand?”

Alan startled and turned to find Gordon floating just behind him.

“Couldn’t find anything to do?”

“Well, you’re the astronaut, you tell me. I’m just a lowly aquanaut on the voyage to an extraterrestrial ocean.” His brother grinned.

Alan thwacked him with his clipboard.

“Hey, that’s violence in the ranks.”

“You deserved it.”

“Hmph. Well, if you don’t want me to watch Buddy and Ellie, what do you want me to do?”

“Be quiet.”

That earned him an arched eyebrow. “Okay.” Gordon shrugged and turned towards the hatch that led to the cargo bay. “If you need me, I’ll be in Thunderbird Four.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.” Gordon shut the hatch behind him, leaving the cockpit to Alan and his checklist.

-o-o-o-

Alan ran out of checklist eventually. He sat back in his pilot’s seat and relaxed, enjoying the quiet solitude.

It was him, his rocket and all the great unknown emptiness beyond. This was the life he wanted, the life he had been aiming for the entirety of his fifteen years of existence.

This was it. The dream…

And…

…damn, it was lonely without his brother’s company.

And so quiet. So, so quiet.

How the hell could he be missing Buddy and Ellie? It was noise. Silly, ridiculous, over-hyped noise.

But it was also Gordon.

Who had done exactly as Alan had told him.

Damnit.

He lasted another whole half an hour before throwing himself out of his seat in frustration. He pushed himself out of the chair and nearly whacked himself on the bulkhead.

See? Gordon made him do stupid things.

He launched from the pilot’s seat to the back door of the cockpit, throwing it open with no consideration for the lack of gravity.

It banged and bounced back at him, catching him on his funny bone.

Grandma wasn’t here to veto his cursing.

He fumbled his way through the hatch, floating down to the cargo bay.

It was quite a sight to see Thunderbird Four where the pods usually sat. She wasn’t small and her presence loomed, both secure yet out of place.

She had been loaded with her nose pointing up towards Three’s cockpit and her undersides facing Three’s cargo doors, ready to be deployed.

Consequently, entering the bay, Alan had no trouble spotting his brother asleep in Four’s cockpit.

He sighed. Typical.

But Alan’s shoulders sagged. Now who wasn’t being fair?

He floated himself down to Four’s hatchway and wriggled himself in. It took a bit to slide into his brother’s cockpit. Despite her size being much bigger than the average pod, Four was the smallest Thunderbird and there was a vast difference between her and Three.

In any case, he managed to slip in beside his sleeping brother and surprisingly didn’t wake him up. Lack of gravity did have some uses, apparently.

He stared at Gordon. Four’s interior lighting was off and only Three’s cargo bay lamps were providing any illumination. This left his brother’s face cast in reds and greys, slack in sleep.

Three was travelling at high speed and her autopilot was very capable of taking them all the way to Europa without any attention on Alan’s part, but he preferred at least one pilot to be in her cockpit at all times, usually himself. So there was no way he felt comfortable sitting down here for any long period of time.

“Enjoying the scenery?”

Alan startled. Gordon was smirking at him, obviously not asleep.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I was having a lovely snooze before you banged your way in here.”

Alan glared at him. “I was just checking on you.”

“Sure you were.”

“Why do you have to be such an ass?”

Gordon stretched, interlocking his fingers behind his head. “It’s the reputation, gotta keep it maintained.”

“Gordon…”

His brother reached over and soft punched Alan in the arm. “No worries, bro. I’ve got your back.”

Maybe he was just making things hard to give Alan command experience. He stared at his brother. “Why are you down here?”

Gordon rolled his eyes. “So I’m not bugging you with Buddy and Ellie, derr.”

“You were sleeping.”

“So?” Brown eyes cast red by the lighting were peering at him. “Not much else to do, is there?”

“So this is what you do at the bottom of the ocean?”

“No. There is always something to do down there.”

“Like what?”

His brother sat up in his seat. “Life for one thing. Can’t say you’ll find a squid or deep sea fish out the window right now.”

“Hey! We’re at the cutting edge of science here. I’m streaming data back to Five that at least three different universities asked for. Do you know how many people would love this opportunity?”

Gordon shrugged. “Same for my girl.” He patted his seat eyeing the inside of his cockpit. “I have friends who would kill to play with her.” He turned back to Alan. “Space is your thing, Al. And Johnny’s. I’m just a fish out of water up here.”

“You don’t like space?” Alan stared at his brother. “But it’s so cool!”

Another shrug. “Whatever floats your boat, baby bro.”

“But you’re a qualified astronaut.”

“Of course I am. We all are. Dad made sure of it.”

And in Alan’s case, Scott and John. “You didn’t want to be?”

Eyes, almost a deep red, looked up at him. “I wanted to join International Rescue, it is part of the deal. Same for you. Can you say you enjoy the ocean?”

“It’s okay.” He had to say it, for exactly the same reason. Alan was not a fish of any kind. He could do what was necessary, but water was definitely not his favourite medium.

The soft smile on Gordon’s face was understanding itself.

Hmph.

“So what don’t you like about space?”

Another full body stretch and Gordon looked away. “The nothing. There is so much nothing with no life.”

“Yet. Who knows what we will discover. You do realise that we are going to be one of very few people who have landed on Europa? Do you realise that almost all of it is unexplored? Almost everything we will be seeing hasn’t been seen close up by a single human being!” It was so incredible, Alan found it hard to believe that Gordon and he were flying out there to do so many firsts. They would end up in the record books. In history itself!

“Except for Buddy and Ellie.”

Alan rolled his eyes. He was so sick of hearing about Buddy and Ellie.

But then if they hadn’t had their accident then Three wouldn’t be needed and Alan wouldn’t have this chance.

Gordon poked him with a finger. “If we find life, it will be in that ocean under all that ice. Not in space.”

“But you need to space to get there.”

“That’s the boring bit.”

“Aargh, you are so annoying.”

“Just polishing the reputation.” His brother grinned.

“How will that reputation stand up if I just happen to mention to Scotty that you squawked when I engaged the ion engines?”

Those deep red eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Oh, really?” Ahhh, blackmail material bullseye.

“Alan…” Gordon was frowning at him. “Don’t.”

Alan grinned. “Oh, I think it is a juicy bit of information that Scotty will definitely enjoy.” He pushed off the bulkhead and slid back out of the cockpit, aiming for the exit.

“Alan! Don’t you dare!”

And the chase was on. Alan was definitely the more experienced in space as he bounced himself expertly out of the cargo bay, leaving his brother tumbling behind him.

Gordon called his name several times, but Alan made it back to his cockpit way ahead of him. He was poking at the transmitter controls as Gordon finally caught up, pinwheeling through the hatch.

“Thunderbird Three to Tracy Island.”

“Alan, no, please don’t.” A hand landed on Alan’s shoulder.

Alan frowned up at his fish brother.

“Tracy Island to Thunderbird Three, how are the two of you doing?” Scott’s hologram hovered above the dash and a wave of reassurance washed over Alan.

Scott was safety. Even several million kilometres away.

The hand on Alan’s shoulder gripped tighter.

“Just checking in. Three is cruising. Ion engines working like a dream.” He looked up at Gordon and frowned. There was so much pleading in his brother’s eyes, Alan’s throat knotted up for a moment. What the hell? “Uh, is Virg back from Venezuela yet?”

“No.” Scott’s posture shifted. “He’s had to take the long way round. There are now three cyclones across the Pacific.”

“Three? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. A little grumpy perhaps. Tell Gordon he forgot to restock Two’s coffee supplies.”

“Oh, crap.”

“I heard that, Fish. You’re lucky you’re on the other side of the solar system.”

“Tell him I’ll buy him extra when I get back.”

“You can buy me some of that apple pie from Darcy’s. I’m the one who has to face him.”

“Ugh, sorry.”

“Apple pie, Fish. Lots of it. With fresh cream.”

Alan was grinning.

“Fine. FAB. Can do. Thunderbird Three out.” He reached over and killed the connection.

“You’re toast, Fishboy.”

“Shut up.” He pushed off, heading towards his co-pilot chair.

“So what’s with the big secret?”

Gordon didn’t look at him. “What secret?”

“You were terrified I was going to tell on you.”

His brother didn’t answer as he slid into his seat.

“Gordon, what’s wrong.”

He sighed and looked away a moment. “You can’t tell Scott. You can’t tell anyone.”

“Tell them what? That you squawked?”

“I’m serious, Alan.” His brother turned to face him, eyes earnest and determined.

What the hell?

“Okay.” A blink. “Why not?”

“You promise?”

Alan stared at Gordon…and held up a hand. “I promise. Tracy’s honour.” He frowned. “Now tell me what’s wrong?”

Gordon sagged in his seat…or as much as he could in zero gravity...and stared at the dash. “I told Scott I could handle it and I can. It’s just…took me by surprise, okay?”

“What?”

Gordon sighed. “I have a thing.”

“I repeat, what?”

“I’m fine. I can fly, I can sail, I can drive, it’s not a problem really.”

“Gordon, you’re not making sense.”

“It’s stupid.”

“It doesn’t sound it. I haven’t seen you babble like this since Miss Kent thanked you for saving her life.”

“Huh? Oh.” He waved a hand as if to dismiss the blushing and stammering because their school teacher kissed him on the cheek. “Nothing to do with that.”

“Gordon…”

His brother held up both his hands. “It’s speed, okay? I’m a bit funky with acceleration.”

“Funky.”

“Funky. I told Scott I was over it.”

“Over it.”

“What? You turning into a parrot? I have a thing with speed. I was going kinda fast when the hydrofoil…you know. That.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh. Took me a bit to get my legs back under me.”

Apparently in more ways than one.

“So you don’t like going fast?”

“Sometimes.”

“But you’re okay?” That dread at the bottom of his stomach that had blossomed into life that horrible day just over two years ago when Gordon nearly died in the hydrofoil crash. It had swelled and retreated so many times as his brother slowly recovered. He hadn’t felt it flutter in a while.

It was not a welcome return.

“I’m okay, Allie. I just don’t want to worry Scott. Or Virgil. Or Grandma. Or John. Or anyone really. So don’t tell anybody.” He looked down at his hands. “They’ve worried enough.”

“But-“

“I’m okay, Allie, I promise.” His brother’s eyes bored a hole into Alan’s forehead. “It’s under control.”

“Is that why you don’t fly very often?”

Gordon rolled his eyes. “God, no, the Tank is just a control freak.”

Alan looked down at his controls. They were travelling ever so fast. “That’s why you don’t like space.”

A shrug. “Maybe. Mostly because it’s boring and there’s no fish.”

Alan narrowed his eyes. “So you’d be happy if we discovered a space whale?”

“Sounds good to me.” Gordon nodded with a satisfied smile. “And a nice little astro-octopus for extra entertainment. We could call him ‘Bob’.”

Alan stared at his brother. “I won’t tell anyone, Gordy. I promise.”

“Thanks.”

There was silence after that.

At least a good five minutes before Gordon flicked up the next episode of Buddy and Ellie.

A sigh and Alan settled back into his seat. It was going to be a long trip.

But at least Gordon had a distraction.

-o-o-o-

Part 5

[alovelyburn]

So, I did write about this in some depth five thousand years ago in Rambles About the Golden Age Part 11 (I cant even deal). But the long story short is, he’s not pulling the King apart to delight in his pain or destroy him as a person. He’s recognizing parallels between the King’s emotional place and experience of life and his own. 

I mean look, if you think about the King’s character, he’s a genuinely great leader who is emotionally isolated and internally fragile in ways that no one appears to understand or recognize. He feels pressured to preserve the lives of his citizens and is tormented by his inability to do so. He is frustrated by how little lives mean and his powerlessness in the face of war and destruction. He is portrayed, in short, as someone who is trapped by his own position - a position that people are envious of but which he, himself, perceives as a burden. And the thing is until this moment no one realizes that’s how he feels - it’s when he feels that he’s lost Charlotte, who is his sole source of happiness and, as he puts it, warmth, that the cracks are revealed and he falls apart. Ultimately, this loss leads to his physical deterioration (and even the commission of a sexual assault that seems wholly out of character with the person he’s been up to that point).

...sound familiar? 

Many of their lines are direct parallels going all the way back to Griffith’s observation during the BSM flashback that people’s lives are snuffed out as though they’re meaningless, which the King echoes in his rant. And when the King accuses him of having no way to understand the feeling of being responsible for lives, Grififth gives him a withering look that is replicated almost to the line in the Eclipse when he finally caves under the weight of the Godhand reminding him of all the deaths he’s caused and that if he stops he will have wasted those lives. 

Even the smile in the post is not a smile of pleasure, it’s an expression Miura uses when Griffith is smiling through the pain, so to speak, e.g. when Guts blows off his insecurities about being a terrible person (by accident, obviously). 

The parallel is even emphasized through Griffith’s comparison of the throne to a sword.

"You’ve done nothing more than not fail, how worthless.” 

This section interesting because he’s saying that the King is seen as a great man and as having accomplished something great, but in reality all he’s done is keep succeeding - it’s easy to come off as a great man when you never have to deal with a loss, but the first time he takes a real (emotional in this case) hit he breaks like a crystal cup. Again, same thing as Griffith. And it’s really driven home later when he’s alone in the cell and refers to his own situation and self as worthless - the same thing he called the King.

The only difference Griffith appears to see between them IN THIS WAY is that he, Griffith, attempted to harness the beast instead of letting it run him over as the King has done, yet in the end they both ended up in the same place.

This is something that can make people uncomfortable mostly because the King is a horrible person who wants to sleep with his daughter whereas Griffith’s a pretty good guy, he’s just in love with a man. But it does make sense if you think of it from an EMOTIONAL AND PRACTICAL rather than a MORAL standpoint - it is a yearning that controls their respective lives and provides the fuel they need to keep doing what they’re doing, but which cannot be fulfilled due to Factors. 

[tar-maitime]

found you, I'm not alone

Rating: T Characters: Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekano Relationships: Maedhros/Fingon, fem!Maedhros/Fingon Additional: War of Wrath, reunions, angst, making plans for the future WC: 1.3k

Direct follow-up to "if you stay by my side"

Maedhros drifts in and out of consciousness. 

Or maybe they’re dreams. She’s not sure. Some of it definitely can’t be anything but a dream - the moments when she thinks she registers Fingon beside her holding her hand, or talking (or shouting) at someone. That can’t possibly be real, can’t be anything but her mind having finally cracked. He’s dead, he can’t be here. Even if he were alive, he wouldn’t want to be here with her.

She thought he was there with her on the battlefield, but she must have hallucinated it in the midst of her pain. It’s impossible that he could’ve actually been there.

When she finally comes awake fully, she’s a little surprised. She’d really thought, when she first passed out, that that was it. It wouldn’t have been such a bad way to die.

Ah well. She’ll do whatever’s in front of her. She always does.

As she catalogues her body - the usual aches and pains, dull throbbing where the spear got her, much less of a sleep deficit than usual - she becomes aware that someone is holding her hand.

It’s impossible, but she would know that warm, firm grip anywhere.

She pries her eyes open and lets her head roll to the side, and he’s there. Finno is there. He’s perched on a camp stool next to the cot she’s on, hunched over and with both his hands wrapped around hers. He’s wearing clean clothes, not what she remembers from the battlefield, but he looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

The moment she moves, his focus sharpens on her. “Russë! You’re awake, are you all right?”

“Finno.” That’s all she can manage to say at first.

“Yes.” He’s holding back tears. “It’s me. I’m here.”

“...How?” Maedhros gets out. “How? You died, you were dead--”

“I came back,” Fingon says earnestly, squeezing her hand. “I came back for you. I got out of Mandos just in time to come over the Sea with the new army. I’ve been trying so hard to find you.”

Some of this is starting to sound familiar, like maybe it came up in that encounter on the battlefield that she apparently didn’t imagine, but Maedhros is still unclear on one point. “Why?” she asks. “I...I killed so many people, Finno, I killed people who used to be yours...”

“I know. I saw. I still love you anyway.” He says it like they’ve gone over this before, but Maedhros still doesn’t quite understand.

“How...why...Finn-Fingon, you shouldn’t have to. I’m not - this isn’t like after Thangorodrim, I’m not some broken little thing you can put back together; I’m a murderer. I’m the monster the Sindar tell their children about to make them behave.” She knows this for a fact. She heard some of the stories Elrond and Elros had been told about her, even though Maglor tried to shield her.

But Fingon’s jaw has that familiar determined set to it. “We went over this after Alqualondë, Russë. We’re both killers, and it’s terrible, but we love each other anyway. Do you really think my love for you is so little that this could stop it?”

“That’s not fair to you,” Maedhros murmurs. 

Fingon pauses a moment. “If it had been you who fell in the Nirnaeth,” he says finally, “and I had somehow ended up joining in with your brothers, if I had done all that you have - would you then stop loving me?”

The mere thought is enough to make her recoil. The mental image of Fingon covered in elvish blood is nightmarish, world-rattling, but even so, it is unimaginable that she could ever cease to love him.

He seems to read her thoughts on her face, and gives her a soft smile. “You see,” he says, “it is not unfair at all.”

Maedhros considers arguing, but is too tired and in too much pain to do anything but accept it.

“What’s going to happen, then?” she asks, since now that they’ve established that Fingon’s love for her makes even less sense than it ever did, that seems like the next most important topic. “What happened with the battle? Wait - where are Kano and the children?”

“Maglor should be back soon,” Fingon reassures. “He only stepped out for a few moments, under great persuasion, so I don’t doubt that he’ll return any time now. We sent the twins to get some rest; they insisted on helping the healers who worked on you, and wore themselves out pretty well. And Ereinion hasn’t been by yet today, he’s been nearly run off his feet--”

But Maedhros interrupts, barely daring to believe the unspoken implication. “Gil-galad came?” she asks. She hadn’t meant to include him in “the children”, when he wouldn’t want it.

Fingon’s smile is warm with understanding. “Yes. He’s come to see you at least once every day, more often if he can manage it. There’s been a lot going on - well, actually...” He pauses, like he’s not sure how to phrase it. “The battle we were in ended up making it all the way to Angband. And the Valar showed up. And so did Earendil, they say he fought a winged dragon. And...it’s over, Russë. The war’s over. We won. It’s over now.”

Maedhros can’t blame him for having to take a moment to find the words. She can hardly believe what she’s hearing. War, in one shape or another, has defined her life for centuries. That, and...

“What of the Silmarils?” she finds herself asking, hating herself for it. “Do you know what has, what will become of them?”

Fingon grimaces. “They were recovered from Morgoth’s crown, I will say that much. Who has them now, I will not say, because I want you to stay resting in that bed and not leaping up to go chase after the accursed things. We are working on a plan to deal with them, with the Oath. Once you are stronger, we will bring you into the conspiracy.”

For a moment, Maedhros tries to picture a world, a life without the war and the Oath. She almost can’t. She hasn’t really believed she would live long enough to outlast them both since the Union fell apart around her. The last version of her to actually live in peace died in Angband.

“That’s good,” she says anyway, because it has to be. Then, “What will be done with us, with Kano and me? Uncle Finarfin might have been lenient thus far, but I’m sure Eönwë and the Valar will want to see justice meted out for the kinslayings.”

“They may want to,” Fingon says with a slightly dangerous calm, “but I will not let them. You deserve to rest, Russë, in whatever fashion you wish. We all do.”

“What if the way I wish to rest is in chains, as would be justified, or cast into the Void?” Maedhros asks, half-meaning it, but that’s less than she would have been before.

“Then i will simply have to talk you out of it.” Fingon squeezes her hand. “You would never truly rest in captivity or bonds, love, and you know it.”

He’s frustratingly right. Maedhros sighs. “What, then?” she asks. “Are we to go larking off into the wilds, settle down in some peaceful valley and build a, a little house and live off the land and hope that the ghosts of everyone we’ve killed and failed to save stay away?”

She means it sarcastically, but Fingon nods with full seriousness and says, “If you want to, then yes. Personally, I think it might be fun to try.”

And as much as she wants to, Maedhros can’t bring herself to disagree. She can’t quite picture that warm scene, a home for the two of them and maybe Maglor and the children if they want it. It’s almost entirely impossible. But she’s alive and the war is over and her once-dead husband is sitting here holding her hand and making her believe in things again - so maybe one more impossibility wouldn’t be such a stretch after all.

[ohmygodshesinsane]

THE PRINCESS AND THE PARLEY

for @jilymicrofics / april prompt 15: stage / words: 2194 / rating: mature

“Are you mental?” Lily adjusted her straw hat, casting a panicked look out onto the stage, where James Potter stood giving the performance of his life. Remus rubbed his face, grimacing.

“I’m really sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry. But I couldn’t ask Mary, and Marlene’s already been out -” He wrung his hands. “I’d send Sirius, I really would, but his evil queen costume takes the best part of thirty minutes to get him sewn into and they’ve already started.”

Lily took a deep breath. She only had two lines to remember – that wasn’t the issue. It was that she’d gone from being a wordless fishwife to the titular character – and naturally, the titular character was a sidelined damsel-in-distress that could have been replaced with an aristocratic lamp. Why Lockhart kept choosing these sorts of plays, she didn’t know. Why had they allowed a megalomaniac of an eighteen-year-old to direct anyway? He wasn’t even making the calls – he was just in the audience basking in it, the useless knob.

 “Lockhart will skin me alive,” Remus said, clasping his hands together. “He’ll wear me as a cloak and use my blood to shampoo his hair. Please, Lily. I’ll owe you. And,” in his begging, he grasped at something. “You’ll humiliate James. He’s expecting Lisbete to prance out. You know he can hardly talk to you. You’ll get the last laugh.”

James. That much was true. In rehearsals, they quarrelled over everything, which was a miracle in and of itself as they were never in the same scene. Fortunately, however, as of late he could scarcely look her in the eyes, which made winning the arguments a lot easier. Lily huffed and folded her arms. “That’s a bit evil, Remus.” He shrugged.

“It’s show business.”

She blew air through her lips. “Fine,” she said. “But don’t lose it if I become a diva.” She hesitated. “And I want kebabs after the show.”

“Whatever you want,” Remus promised. “Anything.”

 Lily skulked further backstage, past where Lisbete sat holding an icepack to her ankle, and reluctantly greeted Dorcas Meadowes.

“I’m the princess now,” she announced glumly. Dorcas blinked.

“Oh.” She looked to the costume rack. “We haven’t much time.”

 Five minutes later, Lily had transformed from a humble villager to the King’s kidnapped daughter, clad in a ridiculously over-the-top pink gown and a matching cone with a long veil. Dorcas hurriedly braided her hair as she repeated her lines under her breath, and then Lily was shoved into the wings as the stage went dark. Benjy and Caradoc threw a red tablecloth over the metal structure that was to be her ‘bed’ and patted it.

“Hop on,” Benjy said, and Lily obliged, sitting on it.

“This is like one of those things they wheel bodies around in the morgue,” she informed him, laying down. It was terribly uncomfortable.

“Well, you would be a body if he didn’t come save you,” Caradoc said. “So it’s a fair thing.”

 They wheeled her past Remus, who gave her a thumbs up and mouthed ‘thank you’, and then out onto the stage. It was terrifyingly empty, the audience glaring with narrowed eyes, trying to make sense of the shapes in the dark. An unfamiliar set loomed around her, with painted castle walls. In her only scene it had been a market square, and there’d been so many people on stage and her so far at the back that she’d been sure nobody was watching her. Now she’d be a main feature. She swallowed hard, and when Benjy and Caradoc hurried off, she was alone. She shut her eyes. Please, please don’t let me fuck up.

 She sensed the lights going up, and James’ voice filled the world. With its disconnection from his actual face, it was almost pleasant-sounding.

“In the depths of the castle lay the Princess Acanthus, locked in an endless slumber, trapped by the Evil Queen Rostra. With every moment,” a clock tick, tick, ticked, “her life ebbed away. If Sir Arthur could not wake her, she would be lost forever.” Lily fought to keep her face still, trying to ignore the gazes of near fifty people on her. The lights warmed, and the clash of swords echoed in her ears.

“En garde! Get back!” James shouted from offstage. “Begone, foul creature!” The swords died and romantic music started as he entered the scene. He gave a strangled cry. An unscripted cry. Lily fought to keep her lips still. It would work with the character, perhaps, but it was all James.

 “Princess?” he gasped, with more question than usual. He padded across the stage. After a moment, she felt the warmth of someone nearby, and the light behind her eyelids changed. “Could - could it be? This is where the Evil Queen has kept you all along? So close, and yet…” he sighed. “So difficult to find. Had I only known.” A rummaging sound. “And this antidote! Why, this antidote! The wizard has promised that this should wake her, and I must believe him. If he has lied…all hope is lost. We will never defeated the Evil Queen. All of Etrariana will be lost to her wicked powers!” His footsteps circled, so that he stood behind her. Lily squeezed her hands where they held each other, praying she kept still. Her body tensed in anticipation of his touch.

 It was all she could do not to jolt when he lay his hands upon hers, heart pounding in her throat. His fingers brushed her cheek. Sleeping. You’re sleeping. Stay still. His thumb touched her lips, and her stomach clenched. His hands were softer than she had expected, and gentler. Something cold replaced his thumb.

“Please, let this potion work. Please, or I will be bereft! So very bereft!” he declared. Lockhart had written the play. He was the sort who named himself a great fan of Shakespeare after reading the Sparknotes of all his works. The mouth of the vial tilted against her lips. Crap. Now she had to wake. She hadn’t thought about how to act that.

 Lily flung her eyes open and sat slightly. James snaked an arm around her. She almost looked to the audience, but his fingers curled around her waist as a reminder. His brown eyes were wide, faintly accentuated by the mascara on his lashes. She had never been so close to him. His breath stroked her cheek. A gold ring outlined his irises, and his lips were slightly parted, revealing a little of his white teeth. It took her a moment to remember what she was to do. She made a small sleepy sound – James held her a little more firmly – and opened her mouth in shock.

 “Prin – princess.” James’ voice shook. She didn’t recall that from the matinee, but then, she had never paid much attention. Lily bit her lip, trying not to smirk. “You – you are awake.” He held her face with his free hand, and guided her gently into leaning back a little more. It sent her a little off-balance. If he pulled his arm, away, she would fall. She had to trust him. The heat of the lights flushed her cheeks. “I feared you would never wake.”

“Sir Arthur!” she said. “You have saved me! I thought I would die here, because of the Evil Queen’s evil intentions. I have been asleep so very long.”

“Of course I saved you,” he said, drawing nearer. Her tongue felt fat in her mouth. “I vowed to be your protector.” It’s worse for him than for you. She lifted her hand and cupped his cheek. There was colour in his face, too – she must have been harder to prop up than she thought.

“My saviour,” she breathed. “I am so very thankful.” She had to initiate. Her stomach rolled. It was stupid – she had done this plenty of times, with plenty of different people, on dares or dates or when she was drunk or dancing. What did this matter? Lily tilted her head and bridged the gap between them, pressing her lips softly against James’. He inhaled sharply, but it was only the briefest meeting, and he was the first to draw back. His lipstick had smudged a little. That hadn’t been so bad. The first was done.

“Princess,” he said. “Oh, Princess. How I have dreamed of this day.” And then he kissed her. A strike of lightning ran through her. His kiss was hungry, passionate – as it was directed to be – and his tongue swiped her lips. Fine. She could do better than that. She pressed harder against him, tasting the inside of his mouth, and lifted her other hand to hold onto the back of his jerkin. He could take all her weight, if he liked. He kissed her harder, stealing her breaths until she was gasping against him, desperately breathing through her nose, which crashed against his. Fine. If the audience wanted a show – if he wanted to make this a show – that’s what it would be.

 Her teeth skimmed his lower lip, tugging gently, and then she moaned softly. His arm jerked in surprise. She dropped back. No! But he saved her at the last moment, cradling her in his arms, and then lowered her to the table. Now James was directly above her. By rights, the kiss ended there, but she kept on, trailing her fingers up his back until they reached his hair, where she then twisted them into his locks. James leaned over more, pressing some of his torso against hers, and trapped her tongue between his teeth, slowly drawing back and releasing her. Lily could up the stakes. If they were going to send her out to do this with little warning, as a favour, this is what they would get. And besides, he couldn’t win. No fucking way. She arched her body against his, whining a little. He gripped her face with both hands and kissed her harder again, pressing down until the metal of the ‘bed’ was firm against her back. Her head spun, the lack of air getting to her. Her whole body was warm under the glaring stage lights. The music had passed where it was supposed to be, and they were dragging on too long. She had to put an end to it.

 She pulled back as best she could – her head hit the ‘bed’, and he only leaned down further, lipstick now smeared.

“James,” she whispered, very quietly. He flinched and opened his eyes. She stroked his cheek and pulled back, before sitting up of her own power. She could improvise.

“Sir Arthur,” she said, loud enough for the audience to hear, smiling pleasantly. “My saviour. My love.” Even if the line didn’t change the fact that the Princess didn’t pass the Bechdel test, at least she had three lines instead of two.

“We must run, my princess,” he said. Here, he was meant to step back and help her to her feet, but instead he stayed dangerously close. Lily’s palms sweated. Something in her core was on fire. As he let go of her, one finger swiped at the corner of her mouth. He subtly showed it to her as he finally did the blocking he was supposed to. It was marked with red. Her own lipstick had been ruined. He cleared his throat. “We must go now! The Evil Queen will realise I am here at any moment!” He circled to the front of her bed, took her hand, and helped her up. His palms were as gross as hers; she could feel his pulse jumping through his wrist.

 There was only thing left; the music changed and swelled, and he started to run slowly, pulling her offstage. Lily joined him in the overdramatic fleeing, pretending to look terrified, and followed him into the wings.

 As soon as they were in the darkness, James grabbed her waist; she rasped in surprise and he pulled her flush against him, hands stronger than she had known. Her heart raced. His face was only inches from hers, near as close as it had been on the stage. There was a wildness in his eyes, and his hair was still ruffled where she had messed it. Lily scoffed, mostly to herself. Was this his attempt at surprising her? She could do worse.

 She smashed her lips against his, throwing her arms around his neck, and he stumbled backwards. But he returned her kiss with his own, fierce and insistent, and bit her lips. She stepped forward, pushing him against the theatre wall. How did he like being beneath her? But he gripped her waist harder and it became difficult to think clearly; her body ran on pure animalistic frenzy, only caring about his tongue against hers, his lips against her, the taste of his mouth.

 “Are you mental?!” Lily broke from him at once, staggering backwards, and Remus gaped at them, holding his clipboard only by the string-attached pen. Lily smoothed her hair back, attempting decorum.

“You were the one who put me out there,” she said calmly. “I wanted to give it a hundred percent.”

Remus blinked. “Jesus Christ.”

[ro-botany]

What was Freddie's reaction to finding out Robin and Grima was the same? Did he feel he was paid enough for everything? How much did he want to say, "I told you so" to Chrom?

(Hi, this is Robot from the future after writing the post. This is a long and unorganized stream of conscious disaster. Please bear with me. I promise I have an actual point to make lol.)

---

In my mind that was a pretty complicated moment for Frederick. In part because the reveal of Robin's nature happens very late in the story, long after Frederick has become friends with Robin and come to trust them as a commander... and in part because depending on which shipping AU I'm in, Robin is likely to be Chrom's partner in marriage, by that point.

Frederick is responsible for the safety of Chrom and Lissa. Whoever those two marry becomes a part of Ylisse's royal family, and thus, Frederick's duty to safeguard the royalty extends to them. If Robin is exalt-consort of the realm, then Frederick is going to protect them. Perhaps not as fervently as he does Chrom and Lissa, given that he hasn't known them since childhood, but it's Frederick, so you know he's putting his full effort into it. The man does nothing by halves.

What happens if the exalt-consort of Ylisse is also the fell dragon? What do you do, what do you even think, when your dear friend's partner, your own close friend, the commander you've trusted your life with for years, the royal you're duty-bound to guard the life and health of... is bringer of the apocalypse?

Oh, he's certainly vindicated in his initial mistrust of Robin, but it's a bitter victory.

And it's made yet more bitter by the fact that Robin was as unaware of it as the rest of them, and as horrified. It wasn't even a betrayal on their part; he can't even direct his anger their way.

I think that at first, and similarly to Chrom, Frederick probably took it at face value that Robin and Grima must be separate entities. From the way Validar talks about it, from the ravine of difference between the Robin he knows and the monstrous fell dragon, it doesn't make sense for them to be the same.

But by the time the Shepherds reach Naga, I think he's clued in to the fact that Grima and Robin are the same person on different paths. He's seen Robin's work firsthand, worked under them for years. He remembers how they defeated the Valmese fleet. He's seeing how they're changing as a person as the battle with their other self draws nearer. He heard Robin exclaim that they are the fell dragon -- not its vessel, but it in its entirety -- and heard the other Robin confirm that. He's the one who calls out the concept of defeating Grima with his own power as suicide, too.

Whenever I think about this I keep coming back to Frederick's pyromanic tendencies, and the fact that he has them so effectively controlled that he can be trusted to set up all the campfires for the Shepherds early in the mornings. Clearly being the reincarnation of the fell dragon god Grima is at a COMPLETELY different scale of severity from his issues... But I think he can relate, to some degree, to having some inherent destructiveness in you, inextricable from you, and how scary it is to face the severe and immediate risk that you may hurt or even kill people you care about, and not necessarily be able to control those terrible actions. He's come to terms with and leashed his demons. But he can also see the world where he failed to.

---

...I guess to answer your first question, about what Fred's reaction would be... Ime Frederick's in a better position than most of the cast to understand the conflict of self Robin is dealing with, and he has a lot of reasons to worry about their fate and to work towards reaching that understanding of them. The initial shock might lead to him trying to soften the reality to preserve his opinion of his friend, but I think he would come around to genuine understanding of their nature faster than many. And that he would ultimately want them to get out of this alive. The reveal of this aspect of their nature doesn't change the fact that they've fought long and hard for what's right.

He would absolutely think "i told you so", but with the amount of trauma the whole plot point deals to the gang, and especially to Chrom, I don't think he would ever seriously consider saying it. Just silently soak in the irony. Stare into the camera like he's on the office.

He absolutely does not get paid enough for this and he knows it. Obviously he cares too much to sit any of this out but gods above, when he signed up to be a knight he didn't think he would be fighting a whole ass deity by the time he was 30.

[hollyhomburg]

Before I Leave You (Pt.38)

(Sneak Peak) (Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: Everything sort of falls apart, but you and Namjoon help it all fall back together.

Pairings: Omega! Reader, Omega! Jungkook, Omega! Seokjin, Alpha! Namjoon, Alpha! Hoseok, Alpha! Taehyung, Alpha! Jimin, Beta! Yoongi,

Tags: Angst, hurt/comfort, implied sexual content, m/m, yoonjin focus, Tae x m/c focus, Secrets, Verbal arguments, Shame, Dysphoria, Trans characters, Trans! Taehyung

W/c: 12.0k

A/n: All aboard the angst train! this is chapter 1 of 3 that will focus on tae’s coming out! i expect them to come at bi-monthly intervals! thank you for being extra patient! super emotionally charged stuff like this takes me a while to write 

Previous Chapter- Masterlist

Chapter 38: Killing Kim Taehyung 

His face crumples, and he pulls you in just slightly, just a little pressing the briefest of kisses to your forehead. It’s the only bit of comfort that Yoongi allows himself to pull from you. “Yoongi- oh- what’s wrong- what’s-?”

It’s then that you register the scents, angry. The whole pack home and every one of them a tangle of distress. You'd had the door closed before he'd come in so you hadn't realized that the others where home let alone that there was something wrong. 

The pack’s scents are all terrible, all stinky and sticky filling the house with anxiety. Jimin’s gunsmoke, Jungkook’s rotting flower, Namjoon’s liquor coffee, Tae’s peppery cinnamon and Hobi’s metallic medicinal sugar. Even Jin smells a little gross- a little like a cross between curdled cream and wet puppy. Yoongi- Yoongi smells like the ocean, his salt and chocolate all murky, washing over you.You resist the urge to clamp a hand over your nose. It’s making your eyes water. 

“Tae’s asking for you.” He’s somber- doesn’t say anything more about what just happened with Jin it happens too quick. “He’s not letting any of us comfort him.” You rush out in the direction of her unhappy scent, nearly tripping through the doorframe in your hurry. 

One of Tae’s dresses sits on the floor, dropped from where you were folding it, discarded.  

You barely register Jimin trying to calm Tae in the crowded entryway. Jin’s in between the two of them, while Jungkook holds Tae up in the doorway. Jimin’s crooning, still in his work clothes that smell like too many people. White shirt rolled up at the elbows. He drove at quite frankly dangerous and record-breaking speeds once he'd received Jungkook's panicked texts. 

He holds Tae’s face between both of his hands, skimming his fingers up and over her eyebrows, eyes panicked. Arms scrambling to try and pull Tae into them. 

“Tae- I’m here baby, just come inside, we've got you, Babyboy-“ Tae shivers, swaying where she stands. She can’t see anything through her tears- can’t see but smell? 

Your comforting cake scent washes over her, hints of vanilla, a little soggy, a little wet- your body reacting to your pack’s distress. And Tae almost falls over in relief. Tae stumbles, pushing Jimin’s hands away. 

Jimin just stares blankly after her,  blinking, like his brain is struggling to make sense of the fact that his comfort is neither needed nor preferred by the one person who should prefer it. 

You barely spot the hurt look on Jimin’s face before you have an armful of Tae pressing small wet sobs to your shoulder. She drags you close by your waist- hands scrabbling like she needs to hold onto something. But only you could keep her from rocketing and crashing into nothing- bursting in a flurry of rose-colored petals or delicate feathers after taking flight. 

The short cut pokes spikey into your neck. Gone is her gorgeous shoulder-length shag, now buzzed on the sides and long at the top. Gone is the little piece that she usually tucks behind her ear or her tiny bangs that she'd constantly blow out of her eyes. Gone is everything that makes her happy with just a few clips. 

Everything that makes her boy is put front and center, it’s a good haircut in the sense that the barber had obviously know what style would make Tae look more conventionally handsome and a terrible haircut in the sense that you hate it instantly for what it does to her face. 

Her cheekbones look sharp against her ruddy cheeks and her jaw looks sharper without the hair to hide it. Even her eyes look more masculine when she looks up at you from her spot on your shoulder, face screwing awful with misery. 

It fits Tae as well as her masculinity does (which is not at all).  

Tae collapses dropping her full weight onto you, the heaving sobs coming stronger as she lays her crushed heart out for you to take care of. Hoping blindly that you will fix it- you always fix it and you always fix her and she’s not above begging. 

You, not Jimin. 

Minnie is the person that Tae should always run to first, the person she should always want first but not today and not with this. Now, Jimin stands in the doorway, stunned, shaking in time with Tae's sobs. Mouth hardening to a line, lower lip quivering. Neither needed or wanted by the one person he needs and wants above all others.

Tae makes a noise that sounds like your name, and Jimin flinches.  

Coming Saturday August 27th 5pm (time zone adjustments below)

[khaotic-neutrxl]

Please, Use Your Brain...

It's honestly surprising to me how many people still show anger and hatred towards people who don't support Pewdiepie anymore.

So, a grown man goes onto the internet to interact with his MASSIVE fanbase, which in turn has way more significant of an impact, and in the most literal sense uses a SLUR as a genuine INSULT towards someone. While face-to-face with people who have looked up to him for years, supported him, given thousands of hours towards to support, just for him to completely disregard an entire COMMUNITY with one moronic action.

His literal first response to anger and frustration in that moment was to use a slur. Not a fucking little insignificant curse word, a slur connected to GENERATIONS of injustice and genocide, related to something that has so much more of a serious impact than he could even imagine. Than he could even understand, along with the majority of people with their mouths wide open accepting an apology not even DIRECTED TOWARDS THEM. As if your word, as someone who is white on MOST occasions, is SOMEHOW above the word of people who are the only ones capable of truly understanding the impact of his words and actions. People who have RELATIVES who have TRAUMA from racism, because IT ISN'T AN OLD STORY, IT'S REAL AND STILL RELEVANT.

For the love of everything, don't go around using BLM as a way to further your point supporting a man who literally disregarded the lives of THOUSANDS of Black fans who looked up to him. Responsibility is important when you are a GROWN ADULT making that large of an impact to that many people. Especially if it's on a platform like YouTube, where people literally WATCH you grow in front of them, with them, regularly and directly, in a way that is so much more on a intimate level and that has such a large impact. And that impact is even bigger WHEN YOUR FANS ARE QUITE LITERALLY 9 YEAR OLDS.

The way that people disregard the impact of this man's actions in favor of comfort without change is genuinely disturbing.

The most cancel culture has done to this man is increase backlash, which literally comes with being a massive figure on the internet. Not to mention that, idk, maybe if you have that many fans THE BACKLASH MIGHT EQUATE TO THAT. It's almost like the more people you have watching you, the more people you impact and hurt when you do ignorant careless shit! Isn't that lovely?

But at MOST, cancel culture has not changed ANYTHING on this man's stance. He's still one of the biggest people on YouTube, making just as much revenue, having MILLIONS of people STILL supporting him.

I KNOW. Cancel culture was so terrible to him! (His follower count totally isn't still 112 MILLION!!) It must be terrible to have to be held accountable for bad actions as a grown adult responsible for the influence he has as an influencer! How awful it is for people to want a man borderline 40 to log off the internet, go touch grass, and maybe just maybe do that to make up for the absolutely massive and terrible impact he made to thousands of his fans!

Thousands of people who looked up to him and idolized him, just to find out he's like so many others who have UNDOUBTABLY hurt them just as badly in life with those words.

Because while he gets to apologize, forget, "change" and leave that moment behind, countless of his fans cannot! Because they will always associate him with an issue he inserted himself in carelessly, an issue that has CENTURIES of impact no one can understand the true pain of unless they grew up in that community. Which still ACTIVELY is facing that same horrific injustice regularly!

So yes, I think that people are allowed to be angry at someone who did that significant of a mistake at the expense of years of their support and love! Because physical wounds heal, but words don't. And YOU as a "critic" don't get to draw your own conclusions to a situation you can't even fully understand, because that is blatant ignorance! (talking to all his fans who aren't part of the community impacted)

(Also, this post, unlike the ones that support him, is actually reiterating the words of those who have ACTUALLY been impacted!)

You also don't get to draw your own lines when you yourself constantly let others, yourself, and people you favor cross them.

You're angry about the most minor petty impact out of this entire situation, and demean others for being angry.

You hate when people are too intense with their disapproval and honestly can't help but joke about your inhumane "niche opinion" because if they don't they'll only be left to cry, but then support shitty "critique" dry humor streamers and YouTubers who's entire personality surrounds telling people they're cringe and to "kys haha". Don't put on a pretty face if you've never played pretty.

Maybe put the energy you put into supporting this man into actual real life problems, instead of shedding light on them JUST to further your point that literally ends up harming them more than anything. Maybe let this little part of your nostalgia go and actually MATURE, please. Because this is not it. It's not even on the same spectrum. It's ignorant and COMPLETELY dismissive.

Just because he's someone you favorited, doesn't mean he's exempt from being held accountable for shitty things that had way too big of an impact to simply be swept under the rug and left behind. I promise, he's not a 10 year old child that made an honest mistake, he's a grown man that had responsibilities and carelessly fucked them up in the worst way possible.

You're not brave if you still support this man. You're willingly ignorant and dismissive, end of story.

And since people love criticism when it comes to getting a message across, here's some of mine! Freedom of speech is a lovely thing, isn't it? It's such a sight to see when insecure people come to the realization that criticism does in fact work both ways and they're not a special exception!

Anyways, that concludes my rant. If you want to support a better gaming YouTuber, maybe go watch some Coryxkenshin! Or, even better, a hygiene YouTuber since I can smell y'all PDP supporters from a mile away, like abetweene! She's wonderful.

Byeeee 🫶✌️:]

[bylertruther]

the 'he freezes and freaks out all the time' is such a terrible take lmao. we've seen the teenager gang shitting their pants in this very same season and they are older. will was 12-13 years old at best when a giant demogorgon kidnapped him and a giant spider smoke monster entered his body. but he always showed his bravery in both of those scenes. he did everything right and grabbed a gun, but ended up being unlucky against the demogorgon. he stood up against a literal giant spider monster and screamed at his face. but he was unlucky again. that doesn't make him unbrave

also, are we forgetting that he survived the UD and figured out how it works just by himself? he figured out how to communicate to joyce, he figured out how to use the lights, he figured out how to cheat the demogorgon for days etc. that is how the teenagers in S4 knew how to use the lights. because Will did figure out first.

damn, that's crazy, because will himself literally describes it as being frozen, and the creators as well as noah describe will as generally being someone that is, and i quote, "scared of everything."

but scared doesn't make him "unbrave," as you say. bravery is all about being scared, but doing the scary thing anyway. in fact, i've often said that's the entire thesis of will's character. that specific brand of bravery can be applied to pretty much every facet of his personality and story, which is precisely what makes him such a striking character that's so easy to love. will is scared of many things and that's okay.

you're getting defensive for no reason. everyone feels fear. will's fear and his reactions to it are literally what have saved his life. running, hiding, and trying his best to communicate with his mom are prime examples. it's when he doesn't listen to his instincts and takes someone else's advice that he fails—much like eddie, in season four.

will being scared and having a freeze response due to his ptsd is not a character flaw nor a negative trait. he is often scared. he often needs help. he doesn't volunteer to go first or stand in front. he hides, and he runs, and he clings to others, and that's okay. that doesn't make him any less brave or any less capable. that doesn't erase everything that he's accomplished. he fights back and he has use within the group—it just looks different. would you say that characters like max and dustin are useless? no, you wouldn't. but people say that about will. why?

they've all encountered unimaginable horrors, especially will, whose experiences have given him a disorder and an all-consuming direct and seemingly inalienable connection with the source of those horrors. on top of all that, he's also still just a kid that already had it a little rough before all of this. his response and the way that they've handled it makes sense.

i don't understand why saying this, which is to say just pointing at the show and the things the creators of the show have said themselves, is so controversial. i don't understand where the idea of scared being synonymous with cowardly came from. i don't understand how a character freezing, just like other characters have freezed before, is such a bad thing. i don't understand how people can look at will and think that he's so one dimensional, as if one trait or uncontrollable habit cancels out everything else that makes him him.

as if needing help makes you useless and weak. as if being scared means you're dragging the group down. as if everyone needs to fight back in the same acceptable way to be considered worthy and equal.

like, respectfully, shut up lol. every single time this conversation comes up, people always put words in my mouth that i didn't ever say. your assumptions and pitiful view of other human beings in moments of distress is not my problem. and if you somehow still have a problem with will being the way that he is, take it up with the people that write him and act out his story for us to see! i'm going based off of what they've written and presented in their show, as well as the words they've spoken in interviews. believe it or not, i don't pull things out of my ass, because i actually like this show and the characters as they are.

editing to add: will's freeze response comes after the events of season one as part of his ptsd. the entire plot of season two is that will is no longer the same after what he's experienced. there's a moment in 2x03 in mr. clarke's class, where they're discussing phineas gage and it's a direct reference to will. the scene starts with him exiting bob's car and walking into the school, feeling uneasy about everyone looking at him oddly. it then transitions to the classroom, where we focus on him and how max is also studying him.

The case of Phineas Gage is one of the great medical curiosities of all time. Phineas was a railroad worker in 1848 who had a nightmarish accident. A large iron rod was driven completely through his head.

Phineas miraculously survived. He seemed fine. And physically, yes, he was. But his injury resulted in a complete change to his personality. So much so that friends that knew him started referring to him as "No longer Gage."

will's arc has always centered around childhood, innocence, and nostalgia, because he desperately wants to go back, but cannot. this is reflected in his narrative as well as his wardrobe choices, with all parties involved repeating the same thing. him destroying castle byers is a pivotal moment, because it's then that he finally starts to accept this and begin his coming of age. this theme is much of what this character represents. he's different now, no longer the same kid, and that's the entire point. he's "zombie boy", "no longer [will]."

additionally, forced impregnation and possession are violations of his body. it doesn't matter that an extra-dimensional creature or eldritch horror did it instead of a human being (and even then, they did it at the command of a human being). will said "no" and those creatures did it anyway. it's textual and it is what it is. freezing is a common trauma response, and especially a common response to that particular brand of trauma. so, like. what the fuck do you want me to tell you at this point?

[animeloverskylarmoon]

Kenpachi Zaraki (Bleach) Chapter 2

Talk of your battle spread like wildfire. 

You couldn't get around without whispers following and now you were  actually being set up for missions.

“Damn it all.” You sulked in your barrack and Shinji laughed.

“Sorry your secret got out.” 

It was a drag. You need to do your job now. 

“Why me..” 

Shinji pats your head as you whine into the couch. 

“Cheer up.” 

You tried. As you went about your day, you did your best to drown out all the talk. It wasn’t the attention you wanted or needed. Casually walking through the barracks to deliver papers, you slowed down when you saw a familiar head of navy hair. 

His eyes raised the minute he saw you. He seemed to be doing the same.

“(Y/N)-san!” 

His face lit up, and he bowed despite the heavy stack in his hands. 

“Thank you for the last time. B-Both of them I guess.” He straightened, laughing awkwardly. 

The smile he wore, you couldn’t but compare it to one you remembered so many years ago. 

“I almost forgot it.” 

His face felt like a distant image. 

“Tarou-kun..” 

A painful memory. 

“No worries. I should get going.” You lowered your head continuing on your way. Hanataro watched your retreating form in interest as you disappeared down the hall. 

The rest of the day was surprisingly calm. Thankfully you never encountered the rowdy captain who had messed up your entire plan to fly under the radar. Every time you thought about it you got pissed. 

“Spikey-chan!!” 

The yell catches your attention. The second you see that dark hair your face goes sour. Kenpachi has a grin planted on his face.

“We finally found you and it only took twelve hours this time!” Yachiru cheered. For a moment you thought she was joking. But she was still smiling earnestly. 

“They weren’t joking about their terrible sense of direction.” 

It was actually a relief. Hopefully you could see less of him. 

“I don’t have time for games. I need to get back to my squad.” 

“Fight me first.” Kenpachi drew his sword. 

You just walked past him. 

“Not interested.” 

He frowned. 

“What a waste of strength.” 

Kenpachi’s statement wasn’t a surprise. 

“Flaunting my strength doesn’t benefit me at all. The head captain might get the wrong idea and try to put me in some dumb position. Who needs that hassle?” 

Yachiru smiles.  “You’re funny!” 

“Anyway, see you later Zaraki-taicho.” 

Hopefully not. 

“What if I pick a fight with the meek little mushroom, I bet you’d come running.” You froze in your spot. His words don't sound taunting. It was like he was trying to figure you out. 

“You like the little shrimp, that’s good motivation. We saw you that day with the menos.It was just the kind of power I’ve been looking to challenge. “ 

Your fist tightened at your side. 

For some reason, him mentioning Hanataro made you angry. You knew he was just messing with you. Kenpachi wasn’t so tasteless as to attack Hanataro. It became clear that he knew you would respond when he struck that day. Now it makes sense. He’d seen you fight the menos. So he’d scoped you out. 

“People like you..” 

You glanced to the side of you, looking at him. 

“Really piss me off.” 

Kenpachi felt the rise in reiatsu that swept over at the statement, and just as he prepared for battle, you were gone. 

“Eh!! Ken-chan you made her mad! Now she’ll never fight you.” 

Kenpachi kept a steady hold on his blade, internalizing that expression on your face.