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tarithenurse · 3 years

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In the eyes

Fandom: Naruto Pairing: Uchiha Itachi x fem!reader Content: Feels. Angst. Loss. Love. Reference to killing (war and murder). Captivity. Sorrow. Hope. Anger. You name it, it’s there. A/N: I just want to say in my defence that this story isn’t my fault. Blame @maladaptive-ninja-returns...it’s her birthday present (yes, I’m late)!

In the eyes

The steam is long gone together with your interest in the drink when you drain the cup of tea as the black-haired man gets up to leave. The cape hides what he’s missing – if only it was his leg instead – that way you wouldn’t have to keep the distance to the bare minimum, constantly risking him discovering that you’re following him. It doesn’t help to complain, though: he’s alive and mobile...and you have to watch your every move.

Volunteering for the assignment has probably been one of the more masochistic choices you’ve made, but you just couldn’t let the last Uchiha go yet.

For years, watching the kid grow older had kept a wound alive that no one knew about. It festered, saturating you with a sickening, rotten, sadness that never washed off but wasn’t detected by your peers. You should have let it heal. Should have moved on. But there had always been something keeping you from accepting what everyone else had decided must be true.

You weren’t the only one dealing with grief, of course. The life of a Leaf ninja was to say goodbye too soon and then to live with the numbing ache, renewed each time memories stirred.

Before the fourth war, the newfangled gossip of the dead returning was treated as ghost stories by most people until the climax of it all, when too many stood face to face with loved ones. Lost ones. And you were too weak to prevent the hope from being rekindled, so once peace was a reality and all the shinobis prepared to celebrate in the chaotic haze of the aftermath, you made a decision.

That is why, three seconds after the door closes behind Uchiha Sasuke, you get up...

...and sit right down again to avoid pressing against the sharp blade of the person suddenly appearing beside you.

The newcomer’s face is hidden partially under the wide-rimmed hat and the rest behind a dark and tattered cloak. Glancing down, a hand with purple-painted nails slips the kunai into the darkness of the cloak, leaving you with the knowledge that it’s there.

There’s no doubt in your mind that this is a shinobi. Where did you come from? Admittedly, there are others frequenting the little tea house because it’s a popular stop at a major crossroads...even if it mainly services those without national affiliations. None of the rest of the clientele reacts to the scene unfolding discreetly and you have no wish to catch their attention before you know what and who you’re dealing with.

“What do you want?”

It takes a second before you realize the question isn’t asked by you. Another one to recover from the smooth dusk that is the stranger’s voice. A voice with a hint of familiarity in the timbre which you decide must be your mind playing games.

“Nothing. I’m no enemy of yours,” you try to placate them, silently counting the seconds worth of head start separating you from Sasuke, “and I hold nothing of value...you should let me go.”

The tickle of a laugh surprises you. “If I’d wanted your possessions, they’d already be mine. I want answers, Konoha-girl.”

The headband you carry is hidden under your clothes, well out of sight from any prying eyes. Finally giving up on stalking your initial target, you turn your undivided attention to the person who has seated them-self before you.

The little skin you can see is pale, and a few black strands have escaped the slack ponytail and fallen in front of the face where only chin and jawline is visible. As if knowing your annoyance, the head is tipped slightly, allowing you to glimpse soft, gently smiling lips. Kissable. The thought jars you.

“I recommend you give up that wish.” No one should be able to hear the nervousness in your voice...but the stranger smirks. “My business is my own.”

“Not when it involves him,” they says, inclining the hat towards the door where Uchiha left.

You’re out to get him? You almost feel sorry for this fool who clearly doesn’t have a clue about the one-armed ninja’s identity.

“Don’t be mistaken,” the person smiles as if reading your thoughts, “I know who he is and what he’s capable of, after all...he’s my brother.”

Calmly meeting your gaze, the eyes meeting you flash red.

...

“Don’t look an Uchiha in the eyes”. It was the warning that was whispered into your ears as soon as you were big enough to run errands on your own. Naturally, you had to do it, and what met you was not as demonic as the warning stories had made you think – rather, they were kind, and wiser than the smooth face hinted at – although you never looked another Uchiha in the eyes just to be on the safe side.

It was impossible to discern the colour. Some days, they seemed leaden as if the rain clouds were gathered inside the boy too. A few times, in the morning when he watched where his fists struck the wood, the sparks from the cozy fire of the evening before still lingered in the warmest of black. What you loved the most, though, was when the gaze was locked onto infinity and they were soft like liquid.

...

Everything is different: the stuffy tea room with its noisy patrons has been replaced by somewhere deserted that seems to be carved out of grey stone.

How did I get here? Careful to move as little as possible, you take in the new surroundings only to find the place empty and with only one way in and out. A dull cold has already seeped into your feet as you stand there, lost as your bearings have nothing to latch on to – the only light is a torch in a wall sconce to your left.

Feet. They are bare, and a quick pat-down reveals that all of your weapons, your belt, and your headband have been stripped from you too. The sensation is uncanny, akin to nakedness. The logic behind it is obvious as it reduces the chances of a successful escape even if you were to make it out and establish a route.

On the other hand: you’re unharmed and unbound.

Turning, you have no doubt that the wooden door is locked but of course you go over to try, heart frozen near your throat when you push against it with your shoulder. Surprisingly, it does open and the screaming hinges sets the tiniest hairs on your body on end.

“Not wasting any time, Konoha-girl.”

You recognize the voice and the decorated nails on the hand that appears to pull open the door completely, and not just from the rest stop but from years of aching recollections that have been warped by watching Sasuke grow up with this man’s shadow lingering over his life. Over your life.

No. There’s no way. He died. Now your heart jackhammers a frenzied rhythm.

It’s a fool’s hope that powers the jab towards his neck. An idiot’s dream urging you to sprint past him. At least I tried, a bitter thought comments the moment both attempts are thwarted as a rib-crushing kick sends your tumbling backwards and you land sprawled in the middle of the room.

The ceiling is still spinning, it seems, when you sense the man’s presence loom over you. The fingers are cool (and surprisingly gentle) as the curl around the back of your skull, fingers digging into your hair to grant a tight grip to pull you closer by. Very close. A hand’s length separates the tips of your noses and you want to be oblivious to the way his mouth curves softly.

“You’re not leaving,” he whispers, “until I say so.”

Feeling and strength are beginning to return to your arms, including a sharp ache in your chest that grows with every shallow breath which you try to ignore. Should have restrained me, fool...and the thought dies there as everything shifts and the ground swallows your limbs.

“N-no...how...? No!”

He watches your struggles lazily before releasing his grip and sitting down next to you on the hard floor. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

But you did. Wait...no! You haven’t...it wasn’t you...it can’t have been...

“You lie about your identity,” you scoff, regretting the outburst immediately as pain stabs coldly into your side, “so excuse me for not trusting you on this either.” There is a little smile there on his lips, full of sadness and regret that makes your insides cringe momentarily until you have the breath to explain to him (or yourself) why it can’t be true: “Uchiha Itachi has been killed!”

“Yes...and then I was brought back.” He’s impossibly calm as though he’s simply discussing the weather. “Twice.”

Double reanimated? As if! The war had been a horror to live through and would have been without people facing their deceased comrades and family members on the battlefield. However, once destroyed or sealed, none of the animated dead had walked again and all of them had been dealt with properly in the end.

Looking at the ninja, none of the signs of reanimation are prominent. On the other hand...even if they had been, you might not even notice it now that you meet the man’s gaze and the liquid infinity there.

“I could show you...but I’m afraid your mind can’t take the strain in your current state,” the so-called Itachi explains.

Mind, your aching heart still reels from fear of being broken once more, this is all in my mind.

Zoning out everything else, you focus on the flow of chakra within. Calming it, soothing it, until abruptly forcing the flow to revert. It feels as if your very soul drops for a second but the moment it returns to its place, the world is no longer made up of lies and imaginary sensations...and you’re still lying on the ground in a room made of stone, your ribs feeling as if they’re speared by frost. The only improvement is that at least your limbs are free.

And Itachi? Yes, you have to call him that because deep within you can’t deny it any longer.

The official reports hadn’t been released by the time you left Konoha and you’re not high enough up in the ranks as a shinobi to get the juicy information unless it’s necessary for a mission – and since your missions tend to be B or simpler A rank...well, I guess my current mission’s a bust but this is an important discovery!

A silky chuckle refocuses your attention. “Very good...I suppose I must strengthen my genjutsu against you.”

He’s so close, you could touch him. Shifting to lean against the wall, he rests his arms casually on the knees and begins to pick at the chapping nail polish.

“No need to,” you bite back a groan as you roll over to sit up, “I take it that’s how you got me here?” Pretty eyes are watching your every move as he nods in agreement. “Hm. It’ll probably be useless to ask where we are, so...why? Why show yourself now?”

Sitting cross legged, you find the pain lessens if you pull your clothes and arms tightly around your torso, restricting the depth of your breathing. Broken or bent ribs? Not that it really matters. First of all, he would be able to beat you in a fight anyways; secondly, even if you got out of here you wouldn’t know where “here” is; and third (but not least), you don’t really want to run from him.

Rather than answer, Itachi stands up and holds out his left hand for you. Puzzled, you take it. Soft fingers curl around yours and he pulls you to your feet, studying your movements and the twisting facial expressions.

He doesn’t let go.

Not when he guides you out the door and into a hallway shaped of the same kind of stone as the room was made of. Carved from.

Not when he slows down at the sound of the squeaky breathing the pace forces from you.

There doesn’t seem to be many rooms along the winding path. Here and there a door bars the way or you catch a glimpse of a dead-end that looks as though the excavation was abandoned or even disrupted by cave-ins.

You do your best to memorize the path, but frankly, your mind is getting fuzzy from pain and exhaustion. You have no sense of time, just hunger and tiredness weighing you down to indicate the loss of many hours.

“Just a bit longer, [Y/N],” Itachi soothes.

When did I tell him my name? You want to ask or at least protest, but it would be a choice between talking or getting to wherever he’s leading you...and you doubt he’ll let you pause.

A few dozen steps later and a short flight of stairs up, he ushers you through a door into a room that looks like a mix between a kitchen and work station. A fire is the only light and heat source (the smoke venting up through a chimney too narrow to be an escape route), casting a warm glow over the solid wooden table and chairs. Everything else is hewn from whatever mountain you’re inside.

“Sit,” your captor finally releases the grip and points at a chair near the fire and you obediently do as you’re told.

There are shelves and niches almost hidden in the dancing shadows at first holding with boxes, bundles, and various utensils. He knows where everything is, grabbing a few items before returning and laying it out in the light. Bandages. His movements are fluid and elegant, just like you remembered.

He motions towards your upper body, then turns to tend to the fire. “Strip.”

“That’s really not -”

“Some of your ribs are broken. Restraining them will minimize the pain.”

He’s right. Of course he is.

With clipped movements, you pull off the layers until you hesitate at the poor excuse of a bra. Despite the now roaring fire, the cold from the stone still seeps into your body and raises waves of goosebumps and tightens your nipples. It would be easier to apply the bandages correctly without the last bit of clothing in the way, but right now it feels like the only shield left at your disposal as Itachi turns back to you.

“We’ll work around that,” the man offers softly.

He works quietly at first. Hands winding the linen bandages around you adeptly, pausing each time the ministration intensifies the pain and causes the discomfort to escape as stubborn hisses. The purple nail polish is mesmerizing – simultaneously a contrast to the horrific stories of a killer and perfectly fitting the pretty, nearly feminine, traits you see. Especially the eyes. Sure, they’re filled with a bottomless sadness that you don’t feel comfortable acknowledging, but they’re beautiful. Haunting.

“You’re staring,” he hums without looking up.

Shit. “No. I just -...let’s say you’re who you claim to be,” you try to recover, “why’re you back?”

“To be his watcher.”

“Says who?”

This time, he stops and looks you dead in the eyes. “Otsutsuki Hagoromo, the Sage of Six Paths.” There are very few proper comebacks to that, so your captor continues without giving you a chance to think of something, “Otsutsuki told me about the bonds of families and that it can transcend blood. He knows hatred can cause – and has caused – too much harm...but something rekindled his hope that it can be overcome.“

I don’t have an eye on Uchiha constantly, but... “Does Sasuke know?” Returning to his work, Itachi avoids your gaze. “He doesn’t...”

“He’s finally found peace and is on the right path...I can’t risk undoing it.”

Bullshit! “Or you’re a coward who doesn’t have the guts to fa-” the rest is cut off as soft fingers tighten around your throat.

Blood-red eyes pierce your mind, numbing you for an eternity or a millisecond.

...

They were a means to reach the goal but their words still hurt as you followed meekly in their footsteps. Snobbery. Disdain. Considering how proud your two team members clearly felt, they had very little to show for their reputation as Uchihas and frankly, it was your skills rather than theirs that ensured successful missions and still, you never once looked them in their face. Instead, you kept an eye out for two other of the clan.

Where one was, so would the other be. Thick as thieves, the boys had found a companionship that complemented their differences in the same manner as the sun and the moon. But as opposed to your teammates who swooned at the brightness of the sun, you were drawn to the night and the calmness it brought whenever that boy was near – each time he met your eyes, time became meaningless.

...

The two of you sit in silence as the steam from the soup caresses your face. Your mind is blank, slowly starting to pick up on the absence of stone walls – wood has replaced the cold surfaces, making it almost unbearably warm with the bandages underneath your layers of clothes – and a plethora of questions begin to press against your conscious only to be held back as most of your thoughts get derailed whenever you look at the man before you.

Without the hat and cloak to conceal him, it’s impossible to ignore all the details you’ve nurtured in your memory for ages, such as the slight pull of his lips as he thinks or the elegance of his movements now that he gets up and refills his bowl from the pot hanging over the fire.

“Why are you following Sasuke?”

You should be diplomatic. “I could ask you the same.” You’re not.

“I already told you,” Itachi shrugs.

“Well I...I don’t believe you.”

But you do. There’s no denying anymore that this man is who he claims to be and so, why would he lie about his purpose? The sad smile. The quiet mannerisms. The idea that Itachi would somehow transcend death to watch over his little brother? That’s a mysterious intricacy that fits with your memories of him from before that night.

“You do...but something else is bothering you.” It’s a statement, not a question. “Am I not what you expected?”

No, you’re not. However, he’s what you remember with a layer of sorrow added on top. He doesn’t get to be sad. The little spark of anger is what you need. You nurse it, feed it until it flares up hot and bright and consumes your regrets and self-pity.

“Expected? I don’t know what I expected from someone like you!” Your voice is rising, shaking with years of frustration. “Clan killer. Murderer. I never told anyone but I was in love with an Uchiha! That night, I’d gone to bed, finally sure that I was gonna tell him but when I woke up...” Something inside you had broken that day and it still hurts now. “They told me how you’d left Sasuke alive...but the boy I loved was gone and no one knew I was mourning. Each time I saw him -” you can’t hold back a strangled sound and you realize, you’re crying -”I saw the ghost of...” The bowl of floating vegetables looks blurry until you blink angrily. “Ugh! But what does a teenager know of love, right? They’ll grow up. Get over it. Except I knew you were out there still and that you had all the answers. Why? The Itachi I remember wasn’t a mindless monster! I was told a story, but it doesn’t make any sense. If all the monster wanted was power then why spare Sasuke? Why did everyone else have to die?”

The inhalations are shallow and rapid, making you dizzy as you cling to the table and the spoon. It burns in your lungs and cheeks.

“I am sorry for the pain, I’ve caused you.”

Your gaze snaps to his face and you know he’s speaking the truth but it doesn’t matter right now.

“Sorry? Sorry?! You don’t get to be sorry! I missed y-...the boy, I loved was gone and it took ages before I could let go and stop mourning, finally accepting the truth had died with you and now...now you’re here? And it’s all back and I don’t understand! How could you?” Itachi doesn’t flinch as you launch the bowl towards him – he doesn’t have to because your aim is off and it clatters to the floor in a shower of shards and wasted food after hitting the wall behind him. “How? The boy I loved was not a monster! He wouldn’t do what they s-”

The echoes of your wheezing shouts ring through the room after the abrupt stop. Holding your breath, you wait for the ground to swallow you whole or for the man at the other end of the table to react and the fear is colder than the burning in your chest.

“Things aren’t always what they seem,” Itachi eventually whispers, “they were just people who had been wronged and misguided until their arrogance made them blind.”

What? That’s not exactly what you had expected. Without explaining further, your captor gets up, handing you his bowl of food before beginning to clean the mess you’ve made.

“Don’t...I’ll get tha-” you begin.

He only has to look at you.

...

The dew had soaked your toes, cooling and soothing them after each kick that you landed on the wood stump. Pine. The new splinters refreshed the scent as they fell to the ground and you knew that birds would rummage through them in the hope of finding a morning snack once the training grounds were free of people again – they were already gathering at the edge of the clearing except for where Itachi stood.

The realization made you stop mid-kick, gaze locked with his and heart fluttering in your chest. How long had he stood there?

“They’re wrong.” You could barely believe he was talking to you. “Your teammates...don’t listen to what they say.”

Before you could ask what he meant, Itachi was gone and maybe it had all been your imagination running free.

...

Sitting up abruptly, it takes a few seconds for your eyes to get used to the low light of the dying embers. Where am I?

Salt and drying seaweed is heavy in the air, somehow worming its way into what appears to be yet another room of stone. No...it’s a cave. You’re sitting on a bedroll splayed out onto the sand filling the place and you have no memory of arriving.

The dark form on the other side of the fire pit makes no move as you slip a hand underneath your shirt to confirm what you already know: the bandages are gone and there’s only a muted tenderness as you prod at the ribs. How long has it been?

“You’re safe,” Itachi’s gentle voice assures, and you feel your pulse slow despite the ominous situation, “go back to sleep.”

Yes. Sleep...hang on! Shaking your head, you fight the urge to succumb to the fuzziness that weighs your thoughts. “Why’re you doing this?” you mumble.

It doesn’t make sense why the man wouldn’t simply get the answers he want and then dispose of you or at the very least leave you locked up somewhere while he keeps following Sasuke from the shadows. Instead, your captor has put an effort into keeping you comfortable. Feeding you.

“I remember you.” His eyes reflect the red coals as they burn into your soul all over again. “Memories don’t do your justice, though.”

...

There is no world beyond the walls of the garden but a red sheet of sky dotted with storm clouds. The sliding doors have been pushed aside, opening the hallway to the view, and you know the wood beneath your bare feet should be silky from decades of use. You can’t feel it. There are no scents either, no breeze to toy with the soft fabric of your yukata, nor insects clicking from the rhododendron.

“This isn’t real.”

“No,” Itachi confirms from behind you, “but here I can create what you need. Who you need.”

Turning at last, there’s no reason to shy away from meeting his gaze even if it matches the fake sky. He looks real – as opposed to the familiarity of the home of your childhood that surrounds the two of you – and the ghost of a smile kindly tries to hide the sadness.

“...need. For what?”

The black strands falling into his face are strangely dull in the nightmarish light. “Closure.”

“That’s not possible.”

Wanting to leave, to run away and avoid what Itachi intends, you find yourself rooted in place by an invisible force. Even turning your face away is impossible and you pray that he doesn’t understand the well of emotions he must be able to see in your eyes.

“This is a chance for you to say goodbye to the one I killed. The one you...love,” he pauses to scrutinize your expression and you try to remain neutral, “because you do. You still love him.”

“You have no right...” swallowing hard, you fight to keep the words back, “no right t-to claim to know what I need!” Finally, you manage to close your eyes but they snap open again at the touch of his fingertips on your forehead. “This isn’t something you get to fix like -”

...

The world has shifted again and you’re back in the ocean side cave. You can feel how uneven the sand is under your knees and shins even with the bedroll to soften the press and some some the grains have found their way in between your toes...but none of that matters because Itachi is still right before you, his fingers gently resting on your brow.

A pop-and-crackle from the fire pit is the only sound other than your shallow breathing. You know, he knows. Eyes widened in nigh-comedic understanding, it’s as if he sees you for the first time.

“I’m sorry, [Y/N].”

You barely manage to whisper, “for what?”

His fingertips send shivers along your spine as they trace a path, allowing him to cradle the back of your neck in his palm.

“Everything” Itachi’s lips brush your cheek, “for breaking your heart in so many ways and for making you think your love was unrequited.”

#Itachi #Uchiha Itachi #Uchiha Itachi x fem!reader #In the eyes #Itachi x fem!reader #Itachi x you #Itachi x y/n #Itachi Uchiha #post naruto shippuuden #naruto fandom #itachi fanfiction #itachi fanfic #writing #fanfiction #fanfic #naruto #anime #x reader #x fem!reader

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mythiccheroacademia · 4 years

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My Vow to You

A/N: Dragon King!Bakugo has my heart and so I wrote a little something based off a dream I had awhile ago. I like writing Bakugo with a spouse that’s just as much of a hardass as he is :’) I’m not sure if I’ll make a part two. This could stand alone butttt we’ll see.

Important things to note: ~*Aurea: It means golden in Latin. This is your family name that is used in public. Even though you’re married to Bakugo, I made it tradition that you keep your last name for distincition purposes, but you’re a Bakugo when I addressed elswhere. That’s based off something from my own culture. Also, it’d be kind of weird if Bakugo said his own name lmao. You’ll get it as you read. ~*You and Bakugo have dragon-like traits? Idk man. I just thought the red eyes and fangs added flare.

Word Count: 1.6k Pairing: Bakugo x Fem!Reader Warnings: blood, injury, death, there’s a severed head in there but the description isn’t gory, cursing

All Characters are 18+

My Vow to You:

You remembered the day you were wedded to your husband. It was one of the most treasured days between both the Crimson and Golden Tribes. A day so powerful and glorious in meaning that it was named the Holy Matrimony of the era.

That day, two of the most powerful tribes in the nation joined in hand to rule. Their people prospered, their land grew rich, their army went by the hundreds, and best of all, this would happen out of true love.

There was no contract—no arrangement. The only reason the two tribes had encountered was to trade. When you and Katsuki had first met during the primary meeting, the next day, he brought you his most precious stone to begin courting. From then on, it was like destiny took ahold of the reigns. At the wedding, you wore it proudly upon the crest of your head.

The dress, the decorations, and the gifts were all beautiful, but nothing could compare to the sight of your groom. When the warriors parted, revealing his path to the alter, you almost forgot how to walk.

Matching ceremonial tattoos were painted across his bare arms and chest. He stood tall under the weight of precious stones of ruby and gold and led the length of his white fur coat across the floor. And despite his heavenly appearance, his crimson eyes, full of love, regard, and dignity were what led your feet to stand before him.

Katsuki was as gorgeous as he was powerful. There was a moment of reverie between the two of you before you both kneeled, bowing your heads when the past Kings and Queens walked to the alter.

You remembered when you shared your vows, words of strength to affirm the sacred bond the two of you would never break. When you both spoke, each word was a threaded swear into the other’s heart. From that moment, you were not two, but one. You were no longer just a couple, but a union. Once the religious leaders had said their prayer, you two shared a kiss, anointing the other with the love you were ready to boundlessly give.

That promise was seared into your heart. You would act on it every second you were married.

So, even as your guards worriedly rushed you into the infirmary, blood dripping from the open wounds on your body, you wickedly grinned in triumph. No one would be able to take this away from you.

Not that foreign king. Not his weak ass army. Not your worried parents.

And certainly not your raging husband.

“What the hell were you thinking? Damn it, Aurea*! You could’ve been killed!” he roared.

Honestly, he looked worse for wear. If it wasn’t the dark circles underneath his eyes, it was the obvious stiffness in his neck. Apparently, he had been at your bedside every minute during your three-day coma. He was worried to say the least. Bless his heart.

You tried to lighten the mood with a smile. “Aww, you do care. How kind of you, my beau~”

Evidently, the joke wasn’t appreciated. Katsuki’s face soured into an expression only a mother could love. His eye twitched and the guards winced.

“You want me to put you back in your shitty coma?”

“Bakugo, I’m fine,” you sighed, relenting to the seriousness of the situation. “I know you’re worried, but I made it out. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“That’s beside the point!” he snapped. Perhaps you wouldn’t have felt so attacked if it weren’t for the harsh glare he gave you. “I told you the Black Fleet was dangerous and yet you still acted foolishly! If Kirishima hadn’t found you—“

“I endangered no one—“

“No one but yourself, and that’s what you fail to understand!”

Despite your conscious telling you to calm down, his scolding got the better of you. And your temper rose like an ugly beast. “And if it were for the safety of you and any one of our people, I’d do it again; because when they threatened to put your head on a platter, it was personal! I won’t be scolded like a child for doing my duties as Queen!”

In better circumstances, Bakugo would’ve treaded lightly. He would’ve empathized with your sentiment. However, he had done nothing but stare at your bloody bandages and bruises for the past three days and his patience with just about everything ran thin.

“And I’m doing mine as King! If I tell you to stay away, what I fucking say goes!”

“I don’t know what kind of women you dealt with before me, but if you think that you can just order me around like some bitch, you’ve chosen the wrong woman to marry,” you seethed.

Bakugo’s furious scream thundered the hall and the guards jumped as his fist hit the wall. “ARGH! FUCK Y/N! WHY CAN’T YOU JUST LISTEN TO ME!?”

The use of your personal name in the presence of guards made you reel. Now he was just being disrespectful.

“YOU ARE NOT MY MASTER!” you shouted.

His eyes glowed with rage as he grew in size, a feat that would’ve sent anyone running. “NO, BUT I AM YOUR HUSBAND!” he boomed.

Your eyes turned to blood and fangs shot out from your lips as you roared, “AND I AM YOUR WIFE!”

Katsuki tried to subdue you with an intimidating growl, abnormally large canines bared towards you. However, you only matched it with your own. There was an intense moment between you two as your energies nearly bubbled over. However, one of the nurses at your bedside reminded you of your injuries.

“Please, my queen. If you’re not careful, you could reopen your wounds,” they softly spoke.

The gentle hand on your abdomen reminded you of the ache. You winced and sighed away the sizzling anger as you were led back into the comfort of the cot. The weight of your husband’s glare fell upon you for a moment more before he frustratingly blew out of his nose and turned on his heel, out the door.

Once the door slammed shut, you rolled your eyes. If he wanted to throw a tantrum, then so be it.

“Ungrateful brat,” you muttered. Just then, a sharp pain shot up your leg from one of the nurses changing your bandages. “Ow!”

They shrunk back and gave you a shy smile. “My apologies, your highness,” they giggled.

Despite your sour attitude, you just huffed a laugh from your nostrils. “Careful there,” you sighed. They ducked their head again in slight embarrassment and went back to tending to your wound with a softer hand.

The silence gently settled in the air as the atmosphere returned to its once lax state. When the nurses had finished patching you up and left you and the guards stationed in your room, you found yourself finally able to process the harsh exchange of words between you and your husband.

You couldn’t believe he would just order you around like that! Talking to you as if he didn’t know the type of woman he had been married to for the last five years. And to use your first name in the presence of non-family members? Mitsuki would have his head if she knew!

Regardless of that, you thought back to when you two truly lost your cool and frowned. You hated acting out of character, especially in front of a crowd, but you couldn’t help it. His words were an insult to your pride and abilities.

He was being ridiculous. You were the Dragon King and Queen, damn it. The fiercest rulers the earth would know, governing over two tribes with armies that sent shivers down their enemy’s spines at the mention of your name. And just as their people stood strong, their leaders were stronger, and that meant protecting their honors to no bounds.

When the enemy sent your kingdom a severed head of a deceased warrior as a threat to have Bakugo’s next, there was nothing left to be said. You saw your chance to humble your foe and took it. And you succeeded. That should’ve garnered celebration, not a dispute.

You carefully turned on your side and noted your crown with the lone jewel he gifted you before you courted. Memories of your spoken vows ran across your mind and reinforced the stubbornness in your heart. You remembered the way his eyes, brighter than any precious stone, glowed with pride and love as he swore his life over to protect you by any means necessary.

You could still feel the warm squeeze he gave your hands when you repeated those same words back to him.

So if it was an apology he wanted, then tough luck. You wouldn’t apologize for defending his honor.

Not when you knew he’d do the same for you.

#bnha bakugo x reader #barbarian!bakugo #dragon king!bakugo #katuski bakugo #bakugo katsuki x reader #bnha fics #mha fics #bnha oneshot

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mintmatcha · 3 years

Text

10 Months

Matsukawa and Hanamaki

Part One

CW: mentions of death and illness, ANGST

Today’s just another day at work. Someone’s dead and someone else is talking about it.

The worst part of the job, Mattsun decides, isn’t consoling the grieving or dealing with the aftermath of death: it’s listening to these shitty, repetitive speeches. There’s only so many times a man can hear about God’s plan and how much better someone is now that they’ve entered the great beyond before he goes numb. Sure, yes, logically, he understands this is all sad, but before all else?

It’s boring.

Has he always been this bitter? Has he always been this good at choking down his feelings? Probably.

Mattsun looks away from the speaker at the front of the room, who's droning on about some shit while practically draped over the coffin. He does a precursory scan across the room, making sure everyone was properly teary eyed and mourning, before pulling out his phone. Maybe it’s unprofessional, but it doesn’t matter. No one’s looking at the funeral director during these things. If they were, it was something for them to discuss later during the reception.

'Did you see that employee?'

'No, I was crying.'

'He was on his phone!'

'How horrible!'

Just before he can open Twitter, a glimpse of unforgettable, bright strawberry blonde hair catches his eye. For a moment, he ignores it off. He’s used to imagining things, used to his brain searching for hints of pink wherever he goes. He's used to turning his head to see it was a trick of the eye.

But this time the color doesn’t fade. Instead, it comes into focus, catching the light that pours through the stained glass windows, rainbows painted across pale skin. All at once, the presence becomes real, and Mattsun feels like he’s seen a ghost.

Not a literal one, but, fuck, he might as well be.

It’s been years since he’s seen Makki, longer since they actually talked, but there he was, standing at the back of the parlor with an obituary in hand. He loathes himself for the way excitement bubbles inside him and his heart gets caught in his throat… and then immediately drops as he processes why Makki would be here. He tries to remember the last name of the deceased, hoping the last name wouldn’t be familiar. Makki’s dad was never in good health, could it be-

No, he definitely would have recognized anyone else with the last name Hanamaki.

That’s when it hits him that Makki isn’t dressed for the funeral. In a sea of black, he’s wearing some raggedy sweatshirt with coffee split down the sleeve and a loose pair of jeans, ripped in all the wrong places. Frankly, he looks like shit, but he’s just leaning against the door frame, standing there like he belongs, with a tiny little grin on his face.

Makki never looks over, too involved in the speech, but he’s aware of Mattsun’s presence. His torso is angled to face his old friend, chest broad and inviting. Mattsun hates that after all these years, he can still read his body language and understand what it means. It’s an invitation to come over.

Mattsun has to stop himself from going over there. Time has passed, he’s made his choices. He can’t just drop his work for an old friend.

No, not a friend. Stranger adjacent.

He’s made his choices.

He stays where he should be, in the corner, for what feels like hours, autopiloting through the rest of the service. By the time it’s all over, and the lights are dimmed, Makki’s already gone.

Mattsun hates that he knows exactly where to find him.

They find each other behind the parlor, wedged between the building and the dumpster. Makki’s sitting on the curb, legs folded up under him and pressed into his chest. That signature smile hasn’t faded, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. He pats the empty space next to him, but Mattsun just shakes his head and stays standing.

“Just like high school, huh?” Makki says, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pouch. He taps the bottom four times, then shakes it, hard. Waking up the cancer, making sure it’s out of bed, he used to joke.

“Except we aren’t hiding from teachers anymore.” Mattsun kicks at a crumpled soda can and watches it bounce across the asphalt. “And you’ve changed brands.”

“Now we’re hiding from your boss.” Makki pulls a stick out and waves it, “And Iwaizumi’s not here to bitch about it.”

“Dude,” Mattsun tries not to sigh, but it sneaks out. The casual act was unsettling; Makki was pretending that past 3 years never happened. “I’m happy to see you and all, but I’m working right now.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Makki pats his pockets frantically, then pulls out a small pink lighter. It's not the same pink as his hair, but it's close. He brushes it against his pants, back then forward, opening it and lighting it in one smooth motion. He holds out the cigarette, twirling it between his fingers, “Help me light this, why don’t you?”

Mattsun blanches, scoffing in annoyance at the thought. There's the flash of a memory, Hiro's fingers against his lips, holding the cigarettes for him as he breathes in, skinned knees brushing against each other, but he pushes it down.

“Hanamaki, I-”

“I’ve been demoted to just Hanamaki, huh?” he places it between his teeth and sets it alight, sucking in until the end glows orange. He holds still, savoring the moment, then lets out his breath, smoke seeping out through his teeth. “So, it turns out that I need to plan a funeral.”

Mattsun lets his apathy break, just for a moment. He runs his hands through his hair, completely fucking up the slicked back style as he processes this. “Fuck, dude, I’m sorry.”

“Eh, don’t be.” Makki shrugs, “Not the end of the world.”

Mattsun blinks, trying to shake off the initial shock. He just lets his work persona take over. “Well, we would be happy to help you plan. We can scheduling for next week in my office, if you want-”

“There’s no rush, don’t worry.” Makki leans back and faces the sun. Even though he’s sitting on the ground, no more than 5 feet from garbage, he seems so peaceful.

“Who’s it for?” Mattsun asks the obvious question and Makki grins wider, like he’s been waiting for this moment. He waggles his fingers in the air, like he’s celebrating.

“Me.” Makki says. He rolls his head forward and that pleasant air about him fades. It strikes Mattsun that he’s lost weight since high school; his already sharp features are more sullen, sunken into his face. “I’m dying.”

How hadn’t he noticed earlier? He spent so much time looking at Hiro in high school, so much time studying his features…. How could he miss such a dramatic change? Even now, he can remember exactly how the curve his cheek felt under his thumb, how smooth his skin was. Mattsun doesn’t realize he’s sitting until loose gravel bites into the palms of his hands.

“Fuck, dude.” he can only look straight ahead, focusing on nothing, “Are--- are you sure?”

“As sure as medical science can get,” he has the audacity to laugh, “I got brain cancer.”

Brain cancer. Mattsun knows what that means in a vague sense and yet it means almost nothing to him. Questions bubble up in his mind, all of them swimming around, begging for any sort of information to make this all make sense.

"How long?" He wanted to ask anything else, but that’s the only sentence he could form.

" 'bout 7 inches.” Makki pauses for affect, “Oh, you meant how long do I have left to live?" he's grinning wildly at his own joke, waiting for Mattsun to react. When he doesn't he just takes another drag of his cigarette, smile never fading. "I thought it was funny.”

"It was a little funny." Mattsun relents, gesturing for the butt. It's passed with brushing fingers, knuckle against knuckle. It's been years since he's smoked- since third year of high school- but each pull still burns all the same. "How long?"

"Well, two months ago they told me I had years," he says, like it's nothing, "But the doc did a rescan and it's way worse than they thought.” He taps his temple, “Apparently, three lil fuckers in there."

"How long?" Mattsun can’t stop repeating himself.

"10 months." he wobbles his hand side to side, “Give or take.”

Mattsun takes another drag, harder this time. It’s unfair that he’s this upset about it, that this isn’t just another funeral to him.

“Whoa, don’t hog the whole thing!” Makki grabs for his cigarette, opening and closing his hand like a small child, “You’ll get cancer from these, you know? ”

Mattsun doesn’t laugh. He just watches the ember fall on to his slacks. They flare of a quick moment before dying, leaving little discolored burns in their wake.

“Both of us can’t get cancer- it’d be like wearing the same dress to a party. So embarrassing.” he finally just snatches it out of Mattsun’s hand, “So, are you going to help me?”

“H-help you.” he repeats back. Nothing that’s happening right now feels real.

“With my funeral. Duh.”

“You want me to plan your service?” Mattsun asks.

“Well, us. Not just you. Duh.”

Duh.

“Why?” Mattsun breaths and yet he feels like he’s suffocating, “Why me? After everything I did-”

“I don’t want my dad to worry about it.” Makki kisses his teeth and pulls himself into a ball, “He almost had a heart attack trying to figure out my mom’s and I …. I just don’t want him to worry.” Makki breathes out through his nose- it’s how he dispels negativity in his life, just like how he did in high school. “Besides, if I plan it, it doesn’t have to be some fucking boring ass pity party. We can make it fun. A fun-eral.”

These all just seem like words. There’s meaning behind them, sure, but they don’t seem to mean anything when they’re strung together like this. Mattsun wonders if this is shock, or some weird form of it. He’s seen it before, in the eyes of family’s blindly choosing and planning. He always thought they dumb, not knowing how to react, not knowing if they should be sad or angry or …. Something.

But he gets it now. The news doesn’t always sink in.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admits after a long moment, “I don’t… I don’t think I’m processing this.”

Makki pushes off of the curb and stands, brushing off dust from his pants. “I get it. It’s a lot to hear.” he flashes a peace sign over his shoulder as he starts down the alley, “Think about it and get back to me.” A thin puff of smoke curls into the air, “My number’s the same as it always was.”

Mattsun sits there, hidden between the dumpster and his work, and tries to process as he watches Makki walk out of his life once again.

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alicemitch09writes · 3 years

Text

lame

09.

new beginnings are always the hardest part

Despite everything you said – being happy to see your two childhood friends finally acknowledging each other, coming to better terms with their relationship, you didn’t talk to the two for a week though, slightly pissed that they let their damn egos get the best of them.

Really, boys were stupid. So stupid. How stupid? Fucking stupid!

Yet, at the same time, you merely used it as an excuse to really re-evaluate your stance on things.

Honestly, it was nice to have them work through their feelings and finally see each other on equal footing, despite the fact that they had to use their goddamn fists and talk civilly- nope. Childhood friends with serious issues that were slathered by insecurities and bullying could only be mended by fists and screaming. Still, despite having the two finally coming to terms with each other, they still felt so far and out of reach. You had to wonder, where were you in all of that?

Exhaling through your nose, you rested your head against the mop handle, running your forehead through the wood to ground you. “Stupid,” you say to no one in particular. Well, maybe it was more to yourself.

Tiredly making your way through your home, sluggishly pulling the door open, you announced your presence, voice slurring. “I’m home.”

All you wanted to do was bury yourself in bed, take a short nap, or drown in bath-

Something was off.

Immediately, your senses were on high.

First, you caught a familiar scent – two of them, actually. One smelled like sweat and body wash, the other was of burnt sugar. Then, there were the familiar gentle beats. Rushing towards your living room, you all but slammed the door wide open, yellow eyes opening just as wide.

Green and carmine eyes widened at your presence. Staring. You blink. They blinked. You blink again. Izuku raised a tentative hand, smiling weakly. Bakugou just stared with his hands in his pockets.

…

“OLD MAN! What are they doing here!?”

At your outburst, your grandfather comes running towards you whacking you in the head, hard.

The boys winced at that.

Your grandfather eyes you sternly. “Don’t be rude to our guests, foolish girl!”

The two guests just eye you – one worried, with his hands out, the other in awed concern, feeling the pain from the whack.

"You didn't answer my question," you growled, the back of your head still hurting. "WHAT THE FUCK ARE THEY DOING HERE!?"

"Simple: they came to visit."

"AND YOU JUST LET THEM!?"

"They were standing outside the house, it's rude to just leave them there."

"THEN YOU SHOULD'VE! THEY'RE NOT FUCKING STRAYS!"

"They're our guests, foolish girl."

"You should've left them out, then asked for my opinion!"

Beside you, the two boys shifted their eyes going back and forth at your heated exchange with your grandfather.

"Why should I? It's my house."

"Don't I get a say?"

"Do you want me to hit you again?" he raised a hand threateningly, causing you (and the two boys) to wince and take a step back, the back of your head still throbbing. "Ha, thought so." You gave him a sneer, he smirked smugly.

“I’m going to cook now, keep them company!” turning his back, he casually waves off at you three, walking to the kitchen. “Have them greet your parents.”

Sighing, taking a few calming breaths, you glared at the two boys, gesturing then with your head. Without a word, they were on their feet and followed after you.

It’s been a while since Bakugou’s ever been to your house. Izuku comes over a lot, has been over the years. He can't help but feel jealous of how close the two of you are, he felt so left out.

There was an altar by the corner of the living room, where he found you kneeling in front of, lips pressed tightly staring hard at the wooden cabinet long and hard. Eventually, you took hold of the doors and opened, expression softening as you saw the smiling photos of your deceased parents.

“Hi Ma, Pa, looked who came over to visit.”

Quickly getting to his knees behind you, Izuku gestured for Bakugou to do the same, hands pressed together in front of his chest. “Auntie, Uncle, it’s been a while!”

“A-Ah, yeah…” Bakugou says, awkwardly, you had to roll your eyes at that.

“These idiots finally got their act together,” you reported, almost smugly. “still, doesn’t change the fact that they’re the worst knuckleheads in this day and age.”

Some would think that it was a little odd to have your guests come and greet the dead, but this was quite the tradition in your home. Most of your family’s close friends were used to it, Izuku included.

Knowing this, Bakugou felt left out than ever.

For he remembered the day after that day, how his parents spoke in hushed tones when he came home after nearly dying by the hands of a sludge villain and saved by Deku – of all people, the solemn look in their faces after a quick inquiry on the bruise on his jaw, tears alarmingly threatening to spill from his mother’s eyes, his father’s careful expression – “(Name)-chan’s parents, they’re dead.”

It was all too surreal.

You missed out on school for a whole week, grieving. Classmates were murmuring amongst themselves at your absence, having heard of your little altercation and the death of your parents on the same day. Also, students fawned over him for the Sludge Incident, for managing to hold back the villain (when in actuality he was barely breathing had Deku not jumped in) which was honestly the last thing on his mind.

Deku, who was surprisingly left alone, would stare at your chair worriedly, thumbs quick to send a quick text in between classes. He had wanted to ask him about you but held himself back. Pride and guilt held him back. Also, it felt like it wasn’t his place anymore, neither was it his right.

During the funeral, he finally saw you dressed in an all-black kimono his heart clenching at the bags under your eyes, the redness surrounding it, your puffy tear-stained cheeks, the dullness in those once bright (e/c) eyes.

When they arrived, immediately both his parents gave you a big hug, you barely hugged them back, much to their concern. Auntie Inko gave you a hug, as well, when she and Deku arrived. As for him? He kept himself back, hidden, knowing how his presence would only make things worse. And yet, he still came because he was worried about you, so, so, so fucking worried.

You were barely there, receptive or alive. Bakugou hated it, it wasn’t you – you were never much of a crier, always wearing your heart on your sleeve and brimming with life. Now though, it looked as though you were half-alive. He couldn’t blame you really, he can’t imagine losing his parents, of having a part of you die.

While your grandfather attended to guests, receiving condolence money and sympathies, he ensured a distance was kept, knowing you needed time to mourn. Judging from the redness in your eyes, the blankness in your gaze, it would probably take a while.

Looking at you now, seeing the color back in your face, your eyes, the lively (if not, careful hostile) aura emanating off you sets him at ease. Well, almost.

He tried not to linger on the fact that he had a part in utterly destroying a part of you the same way he did Deku, but it bled through as the months went by. All he could do was stare at your parent’s faces, silently offering his heartfelt apologies for all those years he wasted.

"GRANDDAUGHTER! WHILE YOU’RE AT IT, BRING THEM TO THE DOJO!" A yell came from the kitchen, disrupting the peace.

His eyes fell to your form, shoulders slacking. He may not see your face, but he could tell there was a sour expression written all over your face.

Then you sighed, twisting in place to look at the two.

"How about it, boys? Wanna let off some steam?"

The dojo was adjoined to your house - a small traditional dojo that's about ages old, you're not sure but you know but it's been there forever - or so you're told.

A wide space greeted you, polished wooden floors and tatami mats on the ground, calligraphy of 'fortitude', and your family name done by your grandmother hung from the walls along with some ornaments and nondescript paintings that were as old as you (maybe) – everything was in place.

With your grandfather as the head of the family, duly seeing that he lived the family legacy and upheld tradition, he saw fit that the dojo was well-taken care for, that his students weren’t weaklings – family or not, and that the Yoruichi family lived up to its potential and filled with honor (this part, he drilled hard on you when you were younger). In addition, he was the current coach of your school's martial arts club and you were his star pupil, which spelled big favouritism, but nobody complained after sweeping the floor with them on the first day.

Growing up, this place was your safe haven, you could always find peace here, it also held so many good memories that smelled pleasantly of bamboo, faintly of wood, and the faint sounds of a wind chime resounding.

Unable to help yourself, you threw yourself to the ground sideways – an act catching the boys by surprise, Izuku to shrieked, and Bakugou to start - hands planted firmly on the ground, cartwheeling away before doing it again except doing it forward, then sideways, and then your body twisted in mid-air, before landing gracefully on your feet arms raised on both sides.

"(Nickname)!" Izuku called after you, causing you to giggle, especially because your hair was a complete mess now.

"Sorry, couldn't help myself." Patting your hands to the sides, the feel of your skirt made you realize why both boys seemed red in the face. Thankfully, you wore shorts underneath.

With Shinsou busy and final exams in the way, your sparring sessions had been put to a hold. You missed sparring, training – even if it were against Aizawa-san or your grandfather, you loved the thrill of fighting. It was in your blood, after all.

“Really, you shouldn’t be so reckless!” berates your green-haired friend, marching towards you, the blond following close behind.

Looking around, the blond teen took in his surroundings - the aged wooden beams overhead, the cubbies, your grandmother's calligraphy set neatly set in one of the fine cabinets, until his eyes stopped on some pictures. It was the three of you, during your younger days when your grandfather wanted to train all three of you.

Unaware of the way his eyes softened at the picture, he continually looked over and relived the memories – he could almost hear Deku’s crying as he tried to punch hard, him hollering in mad glee, and then you lording over the two because the dojo was ‘your turf’. Carmine eyes traced the smile on your 8-year old face, pulling away to find that you were wearing the same smile. Except, unlike the photo – where the smile was directed at him, Deku was crying in it – your smile was directed towards your green-haired friend who marvelled at the trophies you and some fellow students of the dojo won.

Jealousy was an ugly emotion, but it was always there. He hated it.

As a child, since discovering his quirk, he’d been showered by praise and was the center of everyone’s attention. But for him, the only praise and attention he wanted was from you. However, because he was a shitty kid with an overgrown pride, you barely batted his way and spared him even an ounce of acknowledgment. Honestly, he’s been starved for your attention for so long now.

Only when you had shoved his kindness away in middle school did he realize how badly he’d hurt you, how little of an effort he did to truly reach out to you. He had a handful of ‘friends’, but not really, and you had Izuku – a friendship built on trust and love, he wanted that. But he was too selfish and prideful to do shit about it.

Before he knew it, Bakugou acted on his feelings.

“(Name),” you looked up, (e/c) eyes blinking in question. “let’s spar.”

“Ka-Kacchan-?”

“Sure.” You said with a shrug.

Green eyes blinked at you, then at the blond-haired teen, darting back and forth at the two of you. Were you really doing this now?

“W-Wait a minute! Are we really doing this now?” Izuku tried to reason, seeing at the two of you began to circle each other, him in the middle. “We should just talk, recall the good times! L-Like…Like…um…” the tension between you two, it was unpalpable, raw, and intense. “(N-Nickname)! Remember the first time you showed us a kick split and Kacchan tried to mimic?”

As funny as that memory was, his two friends were too busy circling each other, resembling animals in the wild. Their expressions were blank, but their eyes spoke too much.

(E/c) met carmine. Both unwavering, unyielding, and both hungry.

“(Nickname)? Kacchan? Are you listening to me?”

Readying into a stance, you closed your eyes as you took a deep inhale, opening them when exhaling slowly out your mouth. Bakugou’s fingers were tingling, smoke emitting.

“(Nickname), Kacchan, please there’s no need to-!”

Without a moment of hesitation, Bakugou was lunging forward, the explosion – which was half-powered, Izuku noticed – leaving a cloud of smoke behind that momentarily filled the area.

You didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered by the smoke, one arm quickly raised to guard against his fist, and the other readily grabbing hold of his knee that followed soon after. With all your might, you pushed him off. (In a fit of panic, Izuku cleared the smoke clouds away with a fling of his fingers at 2% power.)

Bakugou threw his fists, to which you easily deflected or swatted aside, keeping the blows away from you. Tossing his hand away, you planted your hands on the ground and swung your legs to hit him low, Bakugou quickly moved out of the way, rather clumsily. For a moment, he swore he saw you smirk, swinging your legs around with ease to swing at him again.

He had realized then that he had no idea how you fought; he was going into this blind. You both (three, counting Deku) may have trained together under the same dojo when you were younger, but that had been years ago! Plus, being a Yoruichi meant that you were proficient in other forms of martial arts. But again, emotions got the best of him. For some reason, despite being caught at a disadvantage, he found himself gleaming.

You were fast – much faster than he had anticipated, and extremely agile. He took note of the fact that your eyes were its usual (e/c) color, despite the fact that it was dark out. All the punches and hits received were all raw strength, honed from years of training under your grandfather. He always knew you were a capable fighter, despite having not used your quirk just yet. Fuck, were you mocking him?!

Seeing the frustration in his eyes, you smirked, grabbing hold of his incoming fist, catching him off guard, to toss him aside. So answer: yes, you were mocking him.

He had no idea how much you had studied his fighting style over the years, becoming familiar with his straightforward tactic – it was so predictable. And after seeing the Sports Festival and the fight with Izuku from yesterday, you easily caught up on how adaptable he was given the situation and had quick reflexes. It made you sick.

Yet at the same time, despite knowing this, both of you seemed rather in tune fighting each other.

Izuku, who had long given up trying to be the peacekeeper, could only watch in awe at the two. The mood between you two was…something, to say the least. And watching you two fight? It felt as though it were a dialogue if that even made sense – a mad disarray of Kacchan lashing out on you, you easily avoiding all his punches and explosion, you were able to catch Kacchan off-guard a lot whenever you changed fighting styles to which he’d manage to counter in his own reckless way. It was a nail biter to watch, yet it was fascinating at the same time. The two of you were in perfect synchronization with each other.

A cloud of smoke filled the air, your eyes narrowed to see through just as a palm cut through, nearly punching your cheek clean. Ducking a swipe of Bakugou's smoking fists, you took hold of his wrists and twisted them inward, Bakugou barely had time to react and the explosions went off his skin.

Angered, he used your closeness in an attempt to headbutt you, but you easily evaded, losing balance in the process. Seeing this, he grabbed hold of your hand, tugging hard to twirl against him, back to his chest. Instantly, he caught hold of your other hand. The position looked as though you were dancing, it was rather intimate.

"What's the matter? Not gonna use your quirk on me?" he taunted in your ear, making you shiver.

"As a matter of fact," throwing your head forward and back, smacking your hair to his face, he releases you - just barely - but it was enough to free you, sweeping him off his feet to pin him to the ground – an elbow to his back and one arm stretched out painfully behind him. "I don't need my quirk to beat you. I'm plenty strong on my own." Releasing your hold, you tilt your head to the side, unable to help the smug look on your face, faint lines of yellow lining your eyes. "Not bad for one 'seemingly quirkless', huh?"

Quirkless. Something in him roiled, especially with the way you said it.

Pushing himself off, making you lose balance, he grabbed hold of your collar and nearly slammed you to the ground, switching positions. “What the fuck is your problem?”

(E/c) eyes gave him a cold hard stare, the corner of your lip slightly twitching. It made his tenuous temper flare.

Tightening his hold, he asked again. “What is your fucking problem?!”

“My fucking problem is you!”

Okay, that threw him off.

Bakugou pulls back, blinking at your response, completely dumbfounded “I thought you were ‘working on being a better friend’? Was that all for show?” His voice was soft, hoarse. It hurt that after all this time, he was still a stranger to you. Yet at the same time, he's rather confused with how lightly you've been handling this.

Unable to look at him any longer, you look away. Those carmine eyes were full of hurt; you didn't like it.

"Let go of me," you tell him, his hand had slackened, allowing you to push him off. And he lets you, feeling defeated as he watches you pick yourself up.

His eyes turn to Deku for help, assurance, assistance, never would he have thought that he'd come to Deku - of all people - for such. Deku just stared, weakly at you, then at him – at a loss.

Before you could walk away, Bakugou grabbed your arm, his grip hard. "No, you're not walking away that easy, (Name)."

Your name sounds so foreign when he says it, you gulp, refusing to look his way. "What the fuck do you want from me?"

He glowers, tugging you back to face him, staring you down. "What I want is for you to stop being so fucking difficult and talk to me!"

You couldn't help scoffing, harshly tugging your arm free. "You? Talk? Wow."

Bakugou had always known you were a petty person, but to be this difficult at the same time? It was really grating his nerves.

"(Nickname)..." Izuku berates in the background, which was silenced by Bakugou.

"CAN YOU FOR ONCE JUST LISTEN TO ME!?"

"K-Kacchan..."

"WHAT DO YOU CALL THIS THEN?"

“I’M FUCKING TRYING TO BE CIVIL, BUT YOU’RE BEING SO FUCKING DIFFICULT!”

“YOU? CIVIL? IF THAT ISN’T THE JOKE OF THE CENTURY!”

(Somewhere in the kitchen, Shihan casually cooks dinner, knowingly oblivious to the explosion, yelling, screaming, going on in his beloved dojo. Casually checks the spice intake on one of his dishes, adding a bit more.)

Bakugou opens his mouth, about to berate on one of your bullshit of an excuse to give him the time to speak only to stop. He realized how much you’d instigate and rile him up, and how much he’d fall for it. This was never-ending, the ceaseless anger between you two, it had to stop. “Why won’t you give me the chance, (Name)?” his voice was brittle, so brittle and soft, from yelling and of hurt.

Vulnerability was something you never expected of him, but you were too proud to even recognize it from him of all people. “Your life is fucking perfect, why the hell do you want to make a mess outta mine!?”

“Perfec- “he nearly spat out the word, hating it. “you think my life is perfect?”

Rolling your eyes, hard, Bakugou swore it was enough to see the insides of your head. “Come on, do I need to list it down? You and your perfect family, your perfect little cozy home, your perfect academic performance, your perfect quirk,” that part just had to be overly emphasized, dramatized, much to his disgust “life just hands you everything perfectly in a neat little bow-“

“My life is anything but perfect! I'm anything but fucking perfect! My life’s not fucking perfect because I don’t have you in it, (Name)!” he angrily yells.

That made you stop. Izuku, too.

And after a few seconds of saying it, as did Bakugou. "Fuck," he muttered, ducking his head, to hide his reddening face, he was reeling at his confession – pent up after being so long overdue.

“…what…?”

Izuku’s hands slapped over his mouth, a small noise coming threatening to come out as he watched the two of you in keen interest. “…K-Kacchan…(N-Nickname)…”

(Now would probably be the worst time to gush, squeal, or scream over this, as though he were watching a rom-com movie, but he couldn’t help it! Izuku had always been the biggest supporter of you two, wanting you both to end up together since you were children.)

After all this time, he liked you, too?

When he looked up, he was surprised to see how red you were – you were, like him, blushing hard. Like that one time you visited to give your ochugen gifts.

Wait.

“Wait.”

“I’m outta here!”

The door slammed shut behind you.

Dinner was an awkward occasion, an extremely awkward one especially because your grandfather had Bakugou sit right next to you.

Your grandfather, painfully knowing that he is, acted oblivious to the tension and casually chatted up the boys - Izuku mostly doing the talking, whilst Bakugou mumbled here and there, you kept your head low avoiding the gaze of anyone in the table.

Just after dinner, you made a beeline for your room, uncaring for your grandfather's wrath - you could deal with that later, you just wanted a moment to yourself after Bakugou's confession.

“My life is anything but perfect! I'm anything but fucking perfect! My life’s not fucking perfect because I don’t have you in it, (Name)!”

Fuck.

His words rang in your ear, all the blood rushing the instant his voice rang in your head.

Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck," you wailed into your pillow.

With special permission from Aizawa-san, and Izuku's insistency, you found yourself at the prestigious UA once again in time for its culture festival.

To say the place was huge would be an understatement, and that’s saying because you’ve been here a lot whenever Izuku was injured, more than just three USJs, it felt like its own continent! This time though, it was colorful and vibrant than usual.

The school went all out, I see. You thought to yourself, after all the bad shit that happened to them.

You still held Izuku with careful regard, it was always easy to forgive him, but appreciated the gesture that he extended his invitation to you. He wanted you to be there, to experience the joy of a high school culture festival even if you two weren’t school mates anymore. (Also, it was his way of saying sorry.) All things considered; things immediately went back to normal between you two.

(Save for one)

Meeting up with your best friend at the front gate, you were surprised to find him covered in dirt and grass. But before you could even ask, he hurriedly brought you backstage to meet up with his classmates before the show started.

“Everyone this is my childhood friend, Yoruichi (Name)!”

Giggling at his stutter, you shouldered him playfully before bowing at his classmates. “Hi everyone! It’s nice to meet the lot of you!”

A series of ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ came afterwards, soon after, the two of you were bombarded with questions. Tiredly, you turn to your best friend, sharing a look. Man, I miss the days when we were invincible.

“Ah, it was that girl who yelled at him at the hospital!” a tall plain-looking guy pointed at you, to which Iida yelled that it was rude to point. You could only offer an apologetic smile, nudging at your best friend’s shoulder again.

“Eh? I didn’t know Midoriya had another childhood friend!” some guy with flaming red hair and shark teeth said, kindly and in shock.

“More than that, Midoriya’s been keeping this beauty from us!” a small purple-haired boy screeched, angrily turning to your best friend. On instinct, you stepped in front of your friend protectively.

“Wow, I’m offended you don’t talk much about me, Izuku.” You teased, elbowing the green-haired teen. He laughed, scratching his cheek.

“This is so radical, a female childhood friend. Must be nice~” a boy, with a streak of black over his hair that could only remind you of Pikachu, gushed. “But wait, haven’t I seen you at that one café- “

“Dunce face, shut your mouth.” Bakugou suddenly appeared in your line of sight, you immediately turned away before he met your gaze, fighting the blush creeping its way to your cheeks.

“Ne, ne, ne,” a pink-skinned and pink-haired girl gushed, nearly shoving her face into yours. “So, like, is Midoriya your boyfriend?”

In unison, you two stared at each other before bursting into laughter, used to the question for so many years.

“No way,” Izuku says, trying to calm down. “(Nickname)’s like a sister to me!”

“I second that! Izuku’s such a whiny big brother with a big brain.”

“(Nickname), you didn’t have to put it like that…”

Grinning toothily, you playfully ruffled his curly locks, discreetly eyeing a brunette who seemed to sigh in relief.

“Wait a minute, since Yoruichi’s your childhood friend, does that mean that Bakugou’s your childhood friend, too?” a short-haired punk-looking girl asked, a few heads turning to the blond. Said blond stilled, expression a careful blank.

“Yeah, he is.” The reply came easy, nonchalantly. Playfully. “Is. Was. Somewhere in between.” You wiggled your hand in the air for emphasis.

It was a cold response, almost as cold as Todoroki’s ice.

“But that’s enough about me, I heard you guys were putting on a live performance?” the mood easily shifted, two kinds of excitement stirring from the class. “And Izuku, you’re dancing? Since when!?”

“Sadly, we kicked him out.” The pink-haired girl says, arms crossed.

“Deku-kun worked his best!” Ochako defended, cheeks puffing.

“That’s right! That’s right!”

“Ah, Midoriya-chan looks mad?”

“More than that, he’s blushing too.”

Several eyes turned to the green-haired teen, cheeks puffed and an angry flush dusting his cheeks, glaring your way.

“I-I mean, dancing sounds fun. Plus, I’ll have you know that we’ve danced together before, (Nickname)!”

(e/c) eyes narrowed playfully, finger poking at freckled cheeks. “Dance Revolution, Just Dance, and Dance Master don’t count, dumdum. Plus, you suck at those!”

“She’s so brutal!”

“Almost like a female Bakugou.”

“Uwa, it’s kinda rare to see Midoriya like this. He seems more comfortable and less grounded.”

“I see what you’re saying! And he usually shies away from girls!”

“Yoruichi’s got spunk, doesn’t she?”

“Oi, we got to prepare! Come on, now!”

Realizing this, you stepped away from Izuku, wishing him luck. He had told you that he wanted you to meet someone after the show, you could only nod at that.

Meeting carmine eyes, you faltered, body shifting to move, but stopped. Braving a look his way – much to his shock, you offered a small smile. “Break a leg.”

Their show was amazing, spectacular, a showstopper, and you made sure to relay your praises to the class afterwards.

Shortly after the show (and sharing your thoughts about their presentation), you were introduced to Eri, the sweet little girl Izuku told you about during his work-study. The moment you saw her, she immediately won your heart. Oh, and you were introduced to Mirio, a goofy senior who was super friendly and an amazing presence to behold.

Without even knowing, you somehow wounded up with the rest of 1-A joining whatever sorts of fun the cultural festival has to offer. Most of the time, you stuck close with Eri, who'd grown fond of you after your first meeting, sometimes, sticking with the girls (even though your nose would crinkle at girlish topics), or even hung with Bakugou's ragtag of friends (of which, you were surprised to find that he had a clique of his own!).

It was a rather eventful day, and your legs were all tired out from constantly moving around. Still, it was a fun day. Sitting against a railing, you watched as Izuku ran off towards the gate, a paper bag in hand. Smiling at his retreating frame, you leaned back and watched around, eyeing the festivities - or what's left of it, feeling suddenly lonely about it all. This was where Izuku and Bakugou went to school, this was their cultural festival, and you were just an outsider.

“Here,” you blinked as a churro appeared out of nowhere, offered to you. Retracting your hands from your sides, you carefully took the treat in your hands and looked up, meeting carmine - Bakugou.

“Thanks,” you reply, dumbly.

Sitting next to you, Bakugou was strangely quiet, hands buried in his pocket. “What did you think of our performance?” he asked, rather quietly.

“Pretty kickass,” you say honestly, still staring at your treat. "I forgot how well you could play the drums."

The corners of his mouth twitched, but his expression remained a careful, almost wistful blank. His eyes though, they were another story. “I’m glad you came, (Name).”

Scoffing, a smile found its way to your lips, you bump his shoulder with yours. Surprised, he looks up, eyes finding yours, (e/c) warm. “Yeah, me too.”

Something inside him stirs, strangely, comfortingly. He could feel his throat drying just looking at you, just as you bit on your churro - a big crunch, followed by sugar falling off.

“You should consider transferring.”

“Pass, I’ll just take the supplementary lessons Aizawa-san offers.”

"Like they'll do you good."

"Hm,” you swallow, using the back of your hand to wipe the cinnamon sugar off your mouth. “lest you forget I have my shitty old man, and he teaches me plenty."

He mulls at your words as you chew on your churro, enjoying the youthful vibe of the cultural festival. Truth be told, being here actually made you jealous. You never enjoyed the cultural festival at your middle school because everyone did such a mediocre job and could care less about having fun. But this? This was nice. Relaxing, fun even.

"What happened to you?"

Stopping midchew, you let the words sink in - word by word, before finishing the last piece of your churro. Mulling over his question, you leaned your head back to watch the cotton candy-colored skies. "I gave up." You said simply, decidedly, honestly. "You seem to disregard people who care about you."

He swallowed thickly at your words. There were a million things he wanted to say while you were right there, no animosity between the both of you for once, however, he found himself choked up. All the words, questions, they held up in his throat. It felt pretty fucking lame of him.

However, if anything, there was one thing he's been meaning to say to you for a very long time. "(Name)," he starts, he liked the way your name comes out of his mouth, always liked how it's comparably lighter to say compared to a million words that made up language. "I'm sorry."

Startled, you turned to him, really stare at him. Two words, yet they carried so much weight. So much history addressed. So many years of fighting, crying, yelling, and stubbornness. All it took were just two words.

Surrendering, you leaned against his form - feeling his body flinch at the contact, but doesn't move away, eyes falling shut. "I'm sorry, too."

That made him scoff, offended at your apology. "Shut up," As far as history has shown, you have nothing to apologize for.

"No, really listen." you continue, eyes dropping to your fingers. "I'm much to blame for our history. I've been so incredibly petty, cynical even whenever it came to you. Izuku was always so forgiving and he'd try to pass it on to me, but I just tossed it aside, never realizing that in the process I was hurting both of my dearest friends. By neglecting Izuku's wishes, I was neglecting you in the process. I was so selfish."

"I've been selfish, too."

"I know."

"And prideful."

"Oh, I know."

The makings of a smile creep its way to his lips. "And shitty."

You snort. "Oh, believe me, I know." Unknowingly, you laughed easily.

Bakugou watches as you laugh - eyes crinkling, cheeks brightened (with a few specks of cinnamon sugar sticking), your teeth were exposing, a light-hearted laugh escaping your mouth, you looked so pretty like that. He rather liked hearing your laugh.

Finding his elbow, you wrapped your arm around his, leaning ever so closer. Bakugou might've jumped at that, but you couldn't tell, too contented at that moment. "I missed you, fucker."

At your admission, he felt his chest stilling, calming. Before realizing it, the expression on his face lightened, softened, carmine eyes taking in your form against it – had you seen it, it would have done you over.

It was the softest expression he could ever muster.

"I missed you, too-"

"Oi, Bakugou!"

"There you are! We've been looking all over for-"

Kaminari and Kirishima both stopped at the sight of two teens, relishing in each other's presence - quite comfortably, too - which was ruined by their arrival.

Curious, you peeked a look at the two teens.

And then there was Bakugou, who was absolutely furious.

masterlist • ten

#lame #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugou katsuki fic #bakugou katsuki angst #bakugou katsuki angst fic #bakugou x reader #bnha #bnha x reader #bnha fic #bnha angst #bnha angst fic #mha #mha x reader #mha fic #mha angst #mha angst fic

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bulletballet-arch · 3 years

Text

REALLY LONG CHARACTER SURVEY. RULES. repost , don’t reblog ! tag 10 ! good luck ! TAGGED. I took this from Minnie’s archived Bioshock blog. I’ve been looking for this meme all this month. TAGGING. @hammurabicomplex. @bluuxriising. @ Me - for Sal on @bulletsoverbensonhurst. @immaterialed (charlie) @soypeor (bella) @svmmercmance. @mrflayed. and you!

BASICS. FULL NAME : Eve Delores Littlejohn NICKNAME : Evie, Little Evie (by her maternal side of the family), Delores, Didi NAME MEANING / S Eve is from the ancient Hebrew name חַוָּה (Chawwah), which was derived from the Hebrew word חָוָה (chawah) meaning "to breathe" or the related word חָיָה (chayah) meaning "to live". Delores is a variant of Dolores, meaning "sorrows", taken from the Spanish title of the Virgin Mary María de los Dolores, meaning "Mary of Sorrows." Littlejohn is a surname that has historically been found in England and Scotland. With potential origins being either ‘to distinguish a beloved child that was not the eldest.’ Or, ‘a contradictory nickname for a large man.’ HISTORICAL CONNECTION? : She’s named after her grandmother, Evelyn Hollins.

AGE : 42 BIRTHDAY : June 2 ETHNIC GROUP : Black-American. Meaning she’s mixed with a lot (Some of her relatives are respectively Creole and Italian) but uses Black as a catch-all term. NATIONALITY : American LANGUAGE / S : English, Italian, Spanish, Latin, some French SEXUAL ORIENTATION : Bisexual ROMANTIC ORIENTATION : Biromantic RELATIONSHIP STATUS : Verse dependent, usually married -or connected- to Salvatore Scozzari in some way. CLASS : Upper-Class HOME TOWN / AREA : Brooklyn. Spent time between Bedford-Stuyvesant - with her paternal grandfather and Park Slope - with her maternal grandparents. CURRENT HOME : In her childhood home in Bedford-Stuyvesant. PROFESSION : Ballet Instructor. Former Professional Ballerina. ( Other verses see her as a professional thief. )

PHYSICAL. HAIR : Black. In terms of her natural hair, Eve has springy, 3C hair she seldom shows off because she was raised in a family where straightened hair was deemed presentable and professional. EYES : Thin almond eyes. Dark brown. NOSE : Straight and small. FACE : She has a prominent, high forehead, that’s accented with high cheekbones and a pointy chin. LIPS : Full. COMPLEXION : She has a light brown (tawny) complexion. SCARS : None major. TATTOOS : None. HEIGHT : 5′4″ BUILD : Eve has a slender build. One of those people who have been small and petite since childhood. Despite this, she also stays skinny because she is obsessively conscious of the food she consumes. The older she gets the more she weighs, however. USUAL HAIR STYLE : Her hair is cut short. Reaching her shoulders in a neat, even bob. She either curls it in a retro fashion or curls the tips. For work she wears it in a traditional, pinned bun. USUAL FACE LOOK : In public, she appears stoic for the most part. Any emotion shown (such as the length of a smile) is carefully calculated. She has to seem perfect. USUAL CLOTHING : Form fitting dresses. Incredibly chic and fashionable for the time. Shoes include heels - never open-toed, unless she has on stockings. Extravagant earrings. Jewelry that can include either necklaces, crosses, pearls, or dainty rings. Prone to wearing black sunglasses in public.

PSYCHOLOGY. FEAR / S : Thunderstorms, airplanes, creatures like weasels, snakes and ferrets, break-ins, men she doesn’t know, harm coming to her children ASPIRATION / S : Formerly wanted to become a major [black] ballerina in the elite world of ballet, now she just wants to expose more [inner city children] to dance through her job. Personally, she wants her children to change the world in some form or fashion, too. Eve also has good ideas on improving the community, but at the moment has no idea how to go about these ideas. POSITIVE TRAITS : Generous, compassionate, patient, protective NEGATIVE TRAITS : Strict, sullen, hard to read, represses her emotions, secretive MBTI : Advocate - INFJ-T ZODIAC : Cancer TEMPERAMENT : Melancholic ANIMALS : Lioness VICE / S : Pride & Lust FAITH : Christian. Grew up Baptist, but Catholic influences have been around her since childhood. Attended a Catholic High School in Park Slope, her grandmother Evelyn was also a practicing Catholic. GHOSTS ? : Yes and no. She feels that objects formerly owned by the deceased posses the essence of their previous owners and that they essentially live on through these pieces of property. AFTERLIFE ? : Yes. REINCARNATION ? : No, but it’s a romantic concept. ALIENS ? : No. POLITICAL ALIGNMENT : Democratic ECONOMIC PREFERENCE : She likes being where she’s at now. But honestly, being upper class is all she’s ever known. SOCIOPOLITICAL POSITION : Bourgeoisie, basically. The Littlejohn’s represent The Historical Black Elite. EDUCATION LEVEL : College level. FAMILY.

FATHER : William ‘Bill’ Littlejohn MOTHER : Linda Littlejohn ( nee Hollins ) SIBLINGS : None EXTENDED FAMILY : Amos Littlejohn (paternal grandfather) Liza Littlejohn (paternal grandmother) Evelyn Hollins (maternal grandmother) Giuseppe D’Aietti (maternal grandfather) and a wide host of cousins, aunts and uncles.

FAVOURITES. BOOK : Night Song by Beverly Jenkins. The Color Purple by Alice Walker. Some sort of old, French erotic novel that was published before she was born. MOVIE : Eve watches films along the lines of...Waiting to Exhale, Beaches, The First Wives Club and Fatal Attraction. She loves Made-For-TV movies from the time period. In regards to plays, her favorite one is Sunday In The Park With George. 5 SONGS : Meet Me On The Moon / Essence of Sapphire / No One In The World / People / The First Time I Saw Your Face DEITY : Persephone HOLIDAY : New Years Eve, Christmas, Thanksgiving. Major holidays during the colder season. MONTH : October SEASON : Autumn PLACE : The dance studio she works at. WEATHER : Sunny, but cool. SOUND : The voices of Anita Baker and Sarah Vaughn. A skilled hand running over piano keys. Soft trumpets. Running water. Cats making chipper little meows. SCENT / S : Perfume, floral scented lotions, her partner’s cologne TASTE / S : Caramel, the tang of dark chocolate, strawberries coated with either chocolate, or sprinkles of white sugar. Light Vinegar. FEEL / S : Performing in front of an audience. Hot water engulfing your skin after a long day. Satin - whether it be the fabric of her clothes or sheets, your fingers tightly intertwined with another’s, feeling your significant other’s chest raise and lower against your skin with each breath they take. ANIMAL / S : Cocker Spaniels, Afghan Hounds, Cats, Birds - she loves all ( well, a majority ) of animals. NUMBER : Doesn’t have one. COLOR : White, Pink, Gold.

EXTRA. TALENTS : Dance, Eve is trained in ballet when it comes to her main verse. She has attended ballet classes since the age of eight and ever since then she placed all of her focus into it. Similarly, Eve has always had the makings of a good artist - as a child she enjoyed drawing and had informal art lessons with a man who lived in the basement of her grandfather’s brownstone, but she never invested into that half of her. BAD AT : Singing, Being interviewed, Public Speaking (as in Speech Giving), Decision Making TURN ONS : Charisma, Leadership Skills, Temperature Play, Phone Sex, Heavy Kissing, Light Roleplay TURN OFFS : Public Sex, Tearing [ Her ] Clothes, Threesomes, Cruelty, Senseless Violence HOBBIES : viewing plays & some musicals, reading romance novels, shopping, working out (she was into the whole celebrity VHS tape exercise trend), playing tennis, decorating AESTHETIC : Vintage Black Glamour, Black Ballerinas, Champagne and Wine Glasses, Paintings by Melinda Byers and Edward 'Clay' Wright QUOTES : "I'm bad with words, I hope you're good in reading eyes." / "There are truths I haven't even told God. And not even myself. I am a secret under the lock of seven keys."

FC INFO. MAIN FC / S : Lynn Whitfield ( A Thin Line Between Love & Hate ) ALT FC / S : Kylie Bunbury ( Twisted ) OLDER FC / S : Lynn Whitfield ( Greenleaf ) YOUNGER FC / S : N/A VOICE CLAIM / S : Lynn Whitfield

MUN QUESTIONS.

Q1 : if you could write your character your way in their own movie , what would it be called , what style would it be filmed in , and what would it be about ? A1 : Recently I decided that if/when I try to write anything serious about Eve again, it’ll center on her being a jewel thief because it presents me more fun, and emotionally diverse, opportunities. That and I have a very specific cover image in my mind. Ideally, her adventures would be a series of books. I have no title in mind, no idea about how ‘it would be filmed’ ( although a style replicating 90s films would be excellent, film grain and all. ) but, I do have a bunch of plots in mind that I really don’t feel like typing out here.

Q2 : what would their soundtrack / score sound like ? A2 : Her score would have a vintage sound (or a jazzy Spike Lee sound, if you will) with instrumentals by Dorothy Ashby (a Jazz Harpist) the Ahmad Jamal Trio, Pharaoh Sanders, Yusef Lateef and Tarika Blue. For music with lyrics, the soundtrack would include the likes of Julie London, Sarah Vaughn, Ella Fitzgerald, and Dionne Warwick.

Q3 : why did you start writing this character ? + Q4 : what first attracted you to this character ? A3 : Whenever I make NPCs for my character’s lives I actually can’t just let them just be NPCs. I start thinking about them too much. Developing them too much. And then I’m like, ‘wow! I really like this character!’ Eve was a different character when I began writing her, and likely wouldn’t be considered the same character as she was previously, if I told someone in real life who knows about my writing (like my grandma) about all the changes she has undergone. Originally Delores was a university professor, because I thought it could lead to interesting interactions with college-age muses. And her previous history with the mafia was also something interesting to tap in. But then I started thinking about what was realistic, what wasn’t realistic, what did I feel comfortable/interested writing? What didn’t I feel comfortable/interested in writing? So as time went on, things would alter about this character. And the new things I came up with attracted me more.

Q5 : describe the biggest thing you dislike about your muse. A5 : I have a love/hate relationship with Eve’s quiet demeanor. On one hand, I think quieter characters need love and the ability to be fully dimensional but on the other hand, writing louder characters has always been more fun for me. But really, Eve’s guarded behavior makes writing her stressful in some cases with others because sometimes...if I’m going to be honest...people don’t know how to carry a thread and interact with someone of her demeanor effectively.

Q6 : what do you have in common with your muse ? A6 : We’re both black, we’re both into art (although our exact interests and aesthetics with art differ)

Q7 : how does your muse feel about you ? A7 : Realistically she would think I need to take better care of myself.

Q8 : what characters does your muse have interesting interactions with ? A8 : We skippin’ this question.

Q9 : what gives you inspiration to write your muse ? A9 : Films such as, “Waiting to Exhale,” “The Kitchen” and “Widows.” Books by Alice Walker, like “The Third Life of Grange Copeland” as well as her short story, “Roselily.” The historical mob figure Stephanie St. Clair.

Q10 : how long did this take you to complete ? A10 : A few hours.

#long post #dash games.#headcanons.

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mamabear-elinor · 3 years

Photo

The Forging of Bitter Bonds

III. A Shining Light September 07, 1992; September 14, 1992

[cw for a small instance of ~~casual racism]

The first day of the semester at the University of Edinburgh was insignificant to most. The weather was average; overcast and cool, the wind sweeping in off the ocean and chilling the bone if one was not careful. Elinor found it invigorating as she walked over the uneven cobblestones through the stone corridor that led out onto the street in Old Town. She checked the map that the student’s union had passed out at orientation and then crossed the street and into the warm little pub.

“Ellie!” A pretty, redheaded girl stood up in her seat and waved rambunctiously, garnering the attention of a few other patrons of the quaint pub.

Quickly, Elinor headed toward the table and slipped into the seat across from her. “Goldie, crivvens, you’re going to get us kicked out.”

“Oh, psh. It’s fine. I already made friends with ol’ Tommy.” She wiggled the whiskey in her hand.

“You’re underage,” Elinor pointed out, torn between disapproving and impressed.

“That’s such a nice name, don’t you think?” Marigold DunBroch ignored her.

Elinor turned and looked over her shoulder at the bartender, who was nothing to look at. Old and balding, with a red nose and a missing front tooth. “No,” she replied primly after her assessment.

Marigold made a face but just sat back in her seat. “How was it then? I don’t have class until tomorrow, thank God.”

Finally, Elinor smiled. “Wonderful! My professor for Art History 101 is a woman, Professor Howell. She’s amazing. I want to be just like her.”

“You got all that from one class?” Marigold curled her fingers in a wave at a strapping young lad a few tables away, not looking in her friend’s direction.

“Have you ever heard of Artemisia?”

“Bless you.”

“Hilarious. Listen.” Elinor tugged her friend’s arm. “She was this woman painter in the seventeenth century. She was the first woman to be a member of the Accademia di Arte del Disegno. I didn’t even know women were painters then! It’s only my first day and I’ve already learned so much. Oh, there was another one. I can’t remember her name, shoot.”

Elinor dove for her notebook in her satchel, which was made from fine leather. Her father had given it to her as a gift. She pulled out her notebook and sat back up.

There was a girl standing in front of their table.

“Oh, hello,” Elinor said with a tight smile, her brow furrowed slightly. “Can I help you?”

Marigold had turned her focus on the newcomer as well.

“You’re in Professor Howell’s class.” Her accent was Scottish, but there was something strange about it. Elinor could not place it.

“Yes?” Elinor had a feeling it was not a question.

“Me too,” the girl smiled. “I’m Sorcha. Can I sit with you? All the other tables are full and it’s started raining.”

Elinor glanced over her shoulder to the rain, then over at Marigold, who shrugged a little and moved her stuff over to make room. “Yeah, sure, sit. Please.”

“Fabulous.” Sorcha did not need telling twice. She plopped down in the spare seat as soon as the table was clear. Her gold jewelry glinted in the low light, almost too bright for the dim pub. There were raindrops in the tight curls of her black hair. They caught the light too, twinkling like stars. She reached up and shook out her hair. A few droplets fell onto the table. “Sorry. I forgot my scarf at home today. It wasn’t supposed to rain.”

“That--that’s alright,” Elinor said after a moment.

Sorcha smiled at her. “You’re sweet. I didn’t get your names--?”

“I’m Marigold DunBroch.” Marigold held out her hand. “And that’s Elinor Briar. We call her Ellie, though.”

“No, no we don’t,” Elinor corrected, feeling the tips of her ears heat slightly.

“No worries,” Sorcha said, leaning back in her chair and spreading her legs so that one of her knees bumped the table, making Elinor jump slightly. Her posture was horrid. It was alarming. “I like Elinor better. It’s pretty. Do you know what it means?”

Elinor furrowed her brow, her eyes jumping up from Sorcha’s thigh which was encroaching into her space. “What? No, uh--I think it was my grandmother’s name or...something like that.”

“Shame. You know, a name can tell a lot about a person.”

“How’s that?” This was Marigold, her eyes sparking bright as she leaned forward slightly.

“Well, you were named after your grandmother or something?” Sorcha was still looking at Elinor, her dark eyes assessing.

Elinor couldn’t quite meet her gaze. “Do Marigold,” she mumbled, but cleared her throat and laughed once.

“Yes, tell me about my name.”

“Alright.” Sorcha’s eyes lingered for another moment on Elinor and then turned to Marigold, who was sitting primly, shoulders back, and wide, dazzling smile. Ever since they had been young, Marigold commanded every conversation her and Elinor were in. They did not see each other often, but if anyone asked, Marigold DunBroch was Elinor’s best friend in the whole world.

“Well, from what I know marigolds are used for Día de los muertos.”

“What’s that?” Marigold asked, grinning like a loon now at the attention being lavished on her.

Outside, thunder rumbled and the rain began to come down more steadily against the window pane. Elinor realized she was still clutching her notebook. She wondered, if she just took a peak, if she would be able to remember the name of the artist they’d learned about in class. Maybe the artist had a name that meant something important.

“It translates to the Day of the Dead. A day when the veil between worlds is thinnest and the deceased walk amongst the living.”

Elinor shivered as if one of the cool raindrops from the windowpane had slipped down her spine.

Marigold deflated slightly, her blue eyes a bit more cautious. “Oh. Well! Do Elinor’s. I bet it means something lame like--dark-haired. Her parents are so unoriginal.”

“I--don’t know, actually,” Sorcha admitted with a little shrug, but when she looked at Elinor again, she had the sense that Sorcha knew more than she was letting on. “At least you have a family name. That’s nice. To have a legacy like that.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Elinor took a sip of her water.

A legacy. That was certainly something her family had given her. Or, more accurately, placed on her shoulders without her consent. She felt it heavy now, her first day of classes behind her and now a countdown until her new first day of classes. Elinor had yet to tell Marigold that she would be transferring to Oxford. In fact, she had yet to tell her that she was no longer seeing Francis Smith. She didn’t want to think about any of that. She wanted to enjoy her semester. To learn what she could. The comment had brought her back down again, though, as she was reminded that this was not permanent. Professor Howell would not be her teacher next year. Nor even next semester. She couldn’t write her thesis with the woman. It was silly of Elinor to have even been thinking of it.

“What does your name mean then, Sorcha?” Marigold asked, not sensing her friend’s withdrawal. She put an elbow on the table (unladylike.)

“It means brightness,” Sorcha said and those dark eyes of hers sparked, her white teeth stark against the dark lipstick and her dark skin.

“I have an Aunt Sorcha and she is not bright at all.” Marigold laughed loud enough that she snorted.

“I think you’re very bright,” Elinor blurted without thinking and then felt her ears burn.

The look that Sorcha fixed her with made Elinor’s stomach churn. She felt as if somehow Sorcha had looked right through her. Or, perhaps, more accurately, directly into her, like she could see Elinor’s soul. This time, though, Elinor couldn’t look away. Their eyes locked.

Then, Sorcha’s face broke out into another grin. “Aw, thanks, sweetie pie,” she said, reaching out to squeeze Elinor’s forearm. Her nails were long and bright red. (Garish, Elinor’s mother said in her head. Only women of certain proclivities paint their nails bright like that, pale colours only or don’t paint your nails at all.) “You’re not so bad yourself.” She winked.

“Oh, uh--I just meant--”

“I know what you meant.” Sorcha patted her arm. “Now, what’s in that notebook? I saw you pulling it out when I came over.”

“I was just--we can talk about something else.”

“Well, how am I gonna say if I wanna talk about it or something else unless you tell me what it is?”

“It was just some artist she was trying to remember,” Marigold waved. “I’d much rather know more about you, Sorcha. Where are you from?”

“Spain,” Sorcha replied offhand. She was still looking at Elinor. “What is the work from the artist? Was it one of the ones we were shown in class?”

“Spain? But you sound like a Scot!” Marigold said, looking like a dog with a bone. She was even more curious now.

“That’s because I grew up here. Now, what artist is it?”

“It’s really--I can’t remember at this point,” Elinor said, leaning over to slide her notebook back into her bag. “It’s not important.”

“You’ll just have to tell me next class. Looks like the rain has cleared, so I’m going to head out.” She stood up, the chair scraping behind her.

Elinor blinked rapidly. “Oh, well. It was nice to meet you.”

“You too.” She gave a little salute and then sauntered off.

“That was...odd,” Elinor commented, shifting in her seat slightly, crossing her ankles.

“I liked her,” Marigold replied with a grin.

→ → →

The next week, after classes, as Elinor headed back out into the misty evening. Someone called her name.

“Elinor!”

Turning, she saw Sorcha waving at her, then jogging down the steps to meet her. She had a bright yellow scarf tied around her thick hair this time.

“Did you remember the artist?”

“Oh, uhm, yes,” Elinor said as she began walking back toward her dorm. “It was Leonora Carrington.” It was a good thing the wind was brisk, for it hid the warmth of her cheeks.

“You would totally like Carrington,” Sorcha agreed with a sage nod of her head.

“What? What is that supposed to mean?”

“I just figured she’d be your style.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Just a hunch.”

They walked silently for a few steps. Elinor had assumed that Sorcha would peel off again, but instead she stayed right next to Elinor, her wide hips occasionally bumping Elinor’s own.

“I looked up what my name means,” Elinor admitted after a few more moments.

The smile Sorcha gave her made Elinor think that she had somehow known this too. “And?” Sorcha prompted.

“Light of God, I suppose. There were a few other meanings but--”

“That was the one that stood out to you?”

“No, I mean...that is probably what my parents intended anyhow.”

“Who cares what they think? That’s not what I asked.”

Elinor, if she was not so well-schooled in walking gracefully, might have tripped over a cobblestone. She clutched her books tight to her chest. Who cares what they think? What an absurd thing to say.

“Well--it also means shining light or...the bright one.” Elinor’s heart felt like it was beating extremely fast for a casual, brisk autumn stroll across campus.

“We match!” Sorcha sounded extraordinarily pleased with herself. “That’s brilliant. Would you like to join my study group?”

“Oh, I--” Elinor had a feeling saying no would be rude. She didn’t want to say no. Or...did she? There was a part of her that did. She was only going to be here for one semester. Gone before the snow melted and the spring bloomed again. Making friends had never been a priority for her anyway. She wanted to do well in school, so that her parents would give her freedom. If she failed, they would drag her back to the castle kicking and screaming.

Education for women was a privilege, after all.

“It’ll be fun, I promise.”

“Very well,” Elinor agreed stiffly.

“Perfect, we meet in classroom 124B on Wednesdays from 6pm to 7pm. I will see you there!” Abruptly, Sorcha turned on her heel and struck off straight across the quad. As she went, she removed the scarf from her head, allowing her hair to spring free, even though the rain had just begun in earnest.

#the forging of bitter bonds #a shining light #self para #featuring sorcha benjumea #featuring marigold harrington #:))#posting this on bisexuality visibility day #was an accident but feels right

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bbykpoper · 4 years

Photo

Chapter 1 // Masterlist

GENRE: mafia au, fluff, a bit of smut, a smudge of angst if you squint your eyes hard enough, possible fantasy????

SYNOPSIS: A centuries old feud which kept itself silent suddenly ignites once again as two warring gangs face each other for the first time. A family of established immortals who came together after the war, a band of humans who began remembering their past lives and officials breathing down their neck threaten the world once again as fantasy and reality clash in the form of a young man hell bent on being in the lead and a young woman hell bent on ending this meaningless feud. A story will unfold before you now, questioning your morals as well as grinding your nerves to the edge.

“A princess turned assassin?”

“A coward turned prince?”

Who will survive the last wave of this war?

°˖✧

“My hands are stained with blood... yet again...” There came a soft whisper in the distance as droplets of red fell to the floor.

The strong stench of blood glided to the young man’s nostrils as he observed the scene before him. A body laid on the ground, it’s face unrecognizable as a young woman of short stature stood, her fists slightly bruised and bloody. Her strong willed eyes were trained on him and he extended his arm to beckon her towards him.

“You’re becoming more vicious in your battles.” He spoke as the young woman moved towards him, jumping down from the ring in which two other men began cleaning the now deceased body. “What seems to be bothering you?”

“It seems our rivals have decided to invade our business inside the ring.” The girl let her companion clean her fists as she observed the body being thrown out. “The boy they sent was said to be a rising star in their ranks, his ego decided to challenge me and he ended up where he is now. It angers me how much they seem to refuse to stay in peace and in their own lanes.”

“It seems that they wish to take over the underworld.” The man’s groaning blue eyes met her dark ones. “Forcas calls for us all. It seems he has had enough of peace as well.”

With a small nod she went after the taller man, covering her face more with the black mask she grew used to. It was rare to see her without it, but today she decided to keep her face free, so that it would be the last thing her poor oponent saw before she beat him to death without mercy.

“Would you like my jacket?” Her companion asked her as he noticed the attire she sported. A simple sports bra and leggings.

Not exactly an outfit she would like to show herself in before the head of their family, but the meeting seemed urgent, and she didn’t have time to change.

“No, it’s quite fine.” She simply stated, climbing into the black SUV after him. “The meeting seems urgent, has he finally come to terms with what it is we are to do?”

“By his tone of voice, I would say it’s quite serious.” Her companion placed his hand on hers, his eyes trained on the clear night sky as the stars twinkled in his eyes. “The stars have shifted drastically. Our futures are in danger Fae. Yours more so than ours.”

The woman didn’t say anything as she kept quiet beside him, allowing their fingers to weave together. They both felt each others pulse through their wrist, something which calmed them down and finally the woman could breathe more calmly and freely. The car took a swift turn into the outskirts of town and headed down the road, getting further on the outskirts. Soon enough the car pulled up to a large mansion in the middle of nowhere, two large men opening the doors for the two passengers.

“Good evening Miss, Sir.” They greeted them and both nodded their heads in greeting. “Leader is waiting for you in the war room.”

The small woman rolled her eyes at the mention of the room but still obediently followed their guide. As they entered she felt a sudden warmth crawl up her skin and she moved to the left, evading the overly excited man-child that hit her companion straight on.

“Why did you move?” He whinned turning to her. “I don’t want to hug Tae, I wanted to hug you y/n.”

“Stop whinning Jungkook.” Her companion spoke up as he helped steady him on his legs. “She did that to tease you.” He rolled his eyes along.

“Is that true?” He went over to her.

“A little bit.” She answered him with a small giggle. “You’re just super cute when you get frustrated.” She pinched his cheeks, laughing when he slapped her hand away.

“I’m a grown man, older than you not to mention and handsome.” He gritted out with a pout. “I’m not cute.”

The trio went further into the large mansion, small talk flowing between them with ease. The room they were going to was located on the first floor but deeper into the mansion, closer to the west wing. The interior was decorated like a European museum if you asked any person that came to visit. Golden chandeliers, paintings lining the walls, an elaborate statue here and there, and of course high doors and even higher ceilings. The young woman and her companion still kept holding hands as they were announced in the room and they took their respected seats at the oval shapped table housing 8 seats that were now finally full.

“Congradulations on your win y/n.” The tallest amongs them spoke up, a soft smile on his features. “I hear the young boy is unrecognizable.”

“Thank you. I tried to not let my emotions take over me.” She spoke up, swiftly taking off her mask. “But then he decided to open his mouth and I just didn’t have the strength to control myself anymore.”

“I’ve heard.” A small hologram began showing the file of the man who she had her fight with earlier this night. “Na Jaemin. The boy wonder of NCT who was supposed to quietly climb up in the ring but he just had to run his mouth next to our little y/n here.” The man laughed. “It seems he was favoured by their bomb expert Taeil.”

“Does this mean they will retaliate by blowing me up?” The girl raised her eyebrow earning a hearty laugh from her left.

“No no, they aren’t that dumb.” The man who sat next to her had the widest smile on his face, bopping the girl’s nose with little to no force at all. “They don’t know he is dead. Well, not yet at least.”

“They don’t know?” Tae asked from her right side.

“No. We made sure that people think that we just kindly locked him up somewhere.” A man next to Jungkook spoke up, drawing their attention to him. “For now, we made sure that nobody from that match says a word outside on the streets. We don’t need children on our doorstep seeking vengance.”

“I’m sorry.” She spoke up.

“Why are you apologizing?” The head of the table asked, visibly confused.

“I let my emotions take over and I killed him.” She sighed, slumping in her seat.

“Kid, your job is to kill off the pests we don’t need.” The man with distinctive red eyes spoke up to her, he stood up and walked over to her, earning Taehyung’s side eye. “Everybody that goes up against you in the ring knows what the fate is if it’s your bad day.” The man squated next to her, sliding his hand up her arm to cup her cheek. “Now I know you weren’t having a bad day, so what did he say to you that made you so angry?”

“He commented how he’d easily take me down and make me his little cock hold afterwards.” She said with an unamused facial expression, which had seven different men stare at her with wide, angry eyes.

“I say, we kill the whole den of idiots.” Jungkook said, already on his feet ready to leave.

“Take a seat Azazel.” The head of the table spoke up, silencing the whole room.

“My poor baby.” The hand gently caressed her cheek, pulling back and standing straight. “What should we do Forcas? The NCT pests have been getting bolder. And now they are trying to take us out from the business we began?”

“I know, though I have this idea which I think you will like.” The head of the table, a tall man with sleeked back grey hair, smirked with danger in his golden eyes.

°˖✧

On the other side of the city, deep in the abandoned district of Seoul, a group of men decided to come together this night, worried faces painting all of the newcommers. The two people standing guard at the front looked at each other when the final car pulled up and the two men walked in.

“Isn’t it weird that the big bosses are here?” One of the men spoke up.

“Yeah, but to be honest are you surprised?” The other sighed.

The inside was fairly nicely decorated, the inspiration coming from old Italian mafia films, the distinctive arches holding up most of the structure. The dinning room was currently occupied with seven people, two of them standing and facing each other in a heated argument. The newcommers that took a seat at the table sighed as they calmly looked up at the two standing men in the middle of an argument.

“Both of you, that’s enough.” One of the men spoke, his dark blue hair neatly styled as his eyebrow stood up in disapprovement. “Lucas, Baby. Sit down.”

With a groan the two addressed sat down with glares still present on their faces.

“Is everyone present?” He added on, looking over to his right hand man, a tall, fair haired young man.

“Everyone that needs to be.” He answered.

“Good. Johnny you may take over with the report.” The blue haired man said, loosening the tie around his neck while the fair haired man stood up and went over to the head of the dinning table.

“Thank you Boss.” Johnny spoke up and looked over his notes, his eyes stopping at the picture of the masked girl. “As you all know, we’ve successfully infeltrated the underground fight ring of the Bangtan hold and I’ve recieved intel that Na Jaemin has progressed in the ring. Sooner or later he will be going up against their top fighters. However, he has not conntacted his superior so what’s the deal with that Taeil?”

“I don’t know, he had strict instructions to conntact me when he jumped ranks in the ring but he hasn’t.” An aggitated man answered his question, barely looking up from his laptop.

“I’m telling you, the kid is fine. He’s probably just shagging a girl or two. Typical Jaemin stuff.” One of the men who was standing and arguing earlier spoke up, Lucas to be more precise.

“No! He is not.” The other, Haechan cut in. “He’s dead. He was made and they probably killed him!”

“Calm down both of you!” The dark blue haired man, Boss, yelled out. The silence following becoming eerie. “Let Johnny finnish and then on your own time go and beat it out or shoot each other but not now!”

“Thank you Boss.” Johnny smirked, turning to the table and throwing down a letter and a few pictures. “Haechan was right about one thing. Na Jaemin was made and we got this letter delivered today.” The reactions to the news of one of their own being made had them all turn serious, eyes fixed on the pictures on the table. “These are the three Bangtan members responsible for the underground fight scene.” He pointed to the first picture. “Azazel, lead recruiter whose blessing you need to enter the ring or even be thought of participating.” His finger moved to the second picture and his breath withered a bit in his thorat as he said the name. “Fae, leader and fighter. She is the one responsible and the big boss down there. They say nobody survives a fight with her.” His gaze stayed lingering on the picture until Boss cleared his throat and Johnny moved on to the last picture. “And lastly Solas, Fae’s right hand man, always by her side.” Then he raised the piece of paper from the table. “This is an invitation letter to a race they are holding tomorrow night. It’s signed by Forcas, their leader and it states that if we wish to know more information about Na Jaemin’s situation we better show up.It’s addressed to you personaly Moon Taeil.”

“What is their game?” The person in question turned his head to face the taller boy. “Why address it to me?”

“They are aware that Jaemin was under you. Which makes me wonder what more are they aware of?” Boss spoke, glancing at Johnny. “Brain, Johnny and Bulls Eye. You three will visit the race. Take one of the cars if yoou have to. Find out what they want, but be careful. We may never know what awaits at those organized races they hold.”

#kpop #kpop imagines #kpop reactions #kpop fiction #mafia au #fantasy au #johnny seo imagine #johnny suh imagine #nct #nct u #nct 127 #nct dream #way v #nct imagines #nct reactions #nct scenarios #ikon #blackpink #bts

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ninbayphua-moyan · 3 years

Text

An Instant’s Beauty: A Moment’s Eternity

I cannot sleep deep in the night; I rise and sit to play my lute. Thin curtains mirror the moon bright; Clear breezes tug my lapels mute. A lonely swan shrieks over the plain; Hovering birds cry in north wood. What do I see pacing in vain? My heart is grieved in solitude. [1]

Warm morning sunlight streamed in through the lightwell, painting the dimly lit room in a dreamy pastel gold, quite like that of a faded photograph. The balmy Penang air was steeped in the fresh, earthy petrichor of a recent shower, blanketed with a sense of Saturday languidness. A gentle breeze, pleasantly cool against my skin fleeted through the wide-open windows, carrying with it the alluringly sweet scent of frangipanis.

I flipped the century-old poetry book, its yellowed leaves a beautiful contrast against the teal-blue covers. White silk cords stitched together the pages in a butterfly binding whilst faded black ink encased in vermillion frames marked each leaf, punctuated only occasionally by an ink wash painting of landscapes or plants and animals. Reflexion. I placed the book back down on the table and picked up the brush. Dipping the tip in freshly grounded black ink, I started copying the text.

I remember a sense of meditative calm seeping into the room against the backdrop of gently rustling palm leaves and running water. The way my hands traced the familiar characters with controlled ease and precision. The movements of the brush long since deeply ingrained into muscle memory from years of practice. Stroke after flowing stroke danced gracefully across the beige xuan paper, each carefully crafted character a painting of woven words. It strikes me now, as I pen my memory onto paper in Bute Park, how similar writing is to calligraphy. Even though it bears a certain form, each writer brings with them their own flair as they string together the words and weave them into a tapestry of thoughts.

A ripple in the tranquil air.

The soft fluttering of paper-thin wings. A shimmer of blue at the corner of my eye.

Propping my brush against the holder, I looked up to see a beautiful blue butterfly flitting in through the window bars. It hovered by the inkstone momentarily before finally coming to a rest on the wooden brush rack next to it, the erratic beating of its wings slowing to a stop. Brilliant hues of cobalt and azure scales glistened as it sat there peacefully basking in the warm tropical sun. Watching the butterfly, I couldn’t help but wonder if the old folklore A-Poh[2] told me was true – that butterflies were the souls of deceased ancestors visiting the living. Wouldn’t that be nice if it was real. Then I’d be able to tell A-Gong[3] all about getting into university; about how part of me was glad that I got accepted but also about how another part of me didn’t want to go since I’d be leaving home for three years straight. What if everything changed whilst I was away? The places I’ve known since childhood…the familiar faces I’ve grown up with…If only the butterfly really was A-Gong. He’d be able to give me some advice.

A tantalising aroma of freshly steamed glutinous rice dumplings wafted through the air, successfully drawing me out of my musings just as the clock struck noon.

“Jia-bui-lo!” [4]

Scurrying feet on creaking floorboards could be heard all over the house as my siblings and parents made a beeline for the dining hall. I looked away from the butterfly and smiled at A-Poh who was standing in the kitchen doorway. She beckoned me over with a toothless grin, her eyes crinkling into two half-moons as she motioned at the large bowl full of steaming glutinous rice dumplings in her hand. Getting up from the Luohan bed[5] where I sat cross-legged, I joined them at the dining table where Di-Di[6] and Mei-Mei[7] were already sat with their chopsticks at the ready, excited grins plastered across their hungry, eager faces.

I take a seat next to A-Poh, and, picking up my chopsticks, took a bite out of the dumpling in my bowl, its familiar flavours instantly crashing over my taste buds like waves washing up against its shores. A groan escaped my lips as I relished each mouth-watering bite. The savoury note of succulent pork belly marinated in soy sauce and five spice; umami-rich dried shitake mushrooms with its juicy and chewy quality; firm-textured salted duck egg yolk that gives the dumpling a briny aroma whilst its bright orange-red hue creates a pleasant splash of colour against its otherwise brown and black counterparts; the refreshing sweetness of the water chestnuts, a crunchy nuttiness amidst the softness; soft, sticky golden brown glutinous rice encompassing it all, delectably infused with the subtle fragrance of its bamboo leaf wrappings and rich flavours of its fillings from the hours of steaming…ah…these tenderly wrapped packages of love though plain in appearance were worth more to me than gold.

I was still half way through my first dumpling when another newly unwrapped one plopped into my bowl. Quickly swallowing my food, I tried protesting only to be shushed with another mouthful of rice being forced into my open mouth and a fond pat on the cheek. I shook my head in resignation whilst my siblings sent me cheeky looks before sneakily scooting closer to our parents. There was no stopping A-Poh now that she was on the rampage and those little troublemakers were smart enough to know to stay out of arms reach of her stuffing chopsticks. The rascals. Di-Di even has the audacity to stick his tongue out at me which was obviously returned with an eye roll.

Little did I know then that these habitual banter, familiar aromas, and accustomed faces would be what I would miss most after leaving. Everything was as it should be; and everyone was where they belonged. In that instance, surrounded by dust particles glimmering in the golden tropical sunlight, it was as if a spell had been cast that would make today go on eternally. For a moment, I let myself believe in the enchantment; that tomorrow will never come and the flight ticket to London was nothing but a forgotten fantasy…

Bzzz.

Bzz. Bzzzzzz.

Bzzz.

I instinctively reach for my phone to turn off the alarm that pierces the heavy veils of sleep. However, when I open my eyes, I’m met with an unfamiliar white ceiling instead of the usual worn wooden beams. For a moment, I lie there, disorientated before realization sinks in. Cardiff. I am in my flat in Cardiff and the weight I felt on my stomach wasn’t Hua-Hua[8] but rather, my laptop which was still perched on its spot from yesterday’s all-nighter. I must’ve dozed off at some point.

Slowly sitting up, I gaze around the silent room. Its bleak white walls; books and worksheets sprawled messily across the covers; steely early morning sunlight filtering through the narrow window into the dingy room; folders organized in a nice pile on the desk...My wandering gaze comes to a grinding stop when it lands on the calendar next to the neat stack of folders.

February 7th.

I sigh. Looks like I’ll be celebrating both my birthday and Chinese New Year alone this year…

The frigid February air is still bitterly cold despite being swaddled from head to toe in layers upon layers of coats and scarves. Miserably, I trudge onwards along the banks of the River Taff. Razor sharp winds slice at my cheeks leaving behind searing scars. As the last remaining trickle of warmth leave my body, my mind shuts down and I plod along the cobblestone streets mechanically, limbs and face numb from the biting cold.

A lukewarm breeze flutters by, stirring my slumbering senses. Bit by bit, warmth seeps back into my frozen limbs and my foggy mind clears as if waking up from a trance. Glancing around, I spot the words Marchnad Caerdydd [9] and realise I’ve arrived at the market. I shake off the remaining frost induced spell and venture into the quiet maze of stalls, trolley in hand.

The smell of freshly baked bread and pastries wafts through the crisp air, tinged with a breath of floral sweetness. A range of raw meat laid out in clear glass cases bathed in neon pink lights line the murky grey brick walls. Whiffs of coffee beans tickle my nose whenever a dull-eyed person shuffles soullessly pass me in the near vacant market. Stall owners sit spiritlessly at their stalls staring lazily into space. It was almost like walking into a ghost town.

A splash of colour.

Turning around, I see a stall filled to the brim with a rainbow array of fruits and vegetables. A refreshing sight in the seemingly deserted marketplace. The sudden craving for something sweet results in me buying a bag of strawberries before wandering on.

As I nibble away happily on the strawberries browsing through the stalls up in the gallery, I was suddenly struck by a sense of déjà vu. Bit by bit, the scene before me starts to change. The glaring daylight fades away into the tranquil darkness of night and the dusty marketplace roof is now a sky full of twinkling stars. A magnificent full moon shines softly against the vast velvety void, casting a gentle glow on everything below. Towering, lush palm trees replace murky grey brick walls and the cobblestone floor is transformed into a well-travelled dirt road. A lively buzz fills the now soothingly warm tropical air as a familiar sight begins to emerge in the distance. For there, at the very end of the road, stood Penang’s bustling night market, glowing and glittering like a chest of magical gems in the blanket of darkness.

Brightly lit stalls sheltered by rainbow umbrellas formed a colourful labyrinth, drawing people young and old towards those warm lights like moths to a flame. The sound of street vendors hollering out their wares permeated the air, mingling with the cheerful haggling. Weaving in and out of the throng, I hurried over to the food stalls section. Bellowing clouds of smoke imbued with the irresistible aroma of Asian street food rose into the night air and my mouth began to salivate.

As memories melt into ink and reconstruct themselves as words on the page, I am suddenly reminded of Lauren Elkin’s essay on being a flaneur.[10] Wandering through the streets of a city, uncovering its secrets and crafting it into a tale for the shelves. Having read Virginia Woolf’s Street Hunting, it’s fascinating to see not only the difference between Penang and London but also her contrasting writing style.[11]

A familiar smell wafted down the street. I snapped out of my trance and made a beeline towards a stall tucked away in the corner. An old couple stood amongst bamboo steamer baskets selling staple dim-sum[12] delicacies. Noticing my arrival, the old woman hurried up to me and enveloped me into a bone-shattering hug.

“Nai-Nai![13] Can’t – breathe –”

She lets go of me with a laugh, grabbed my hand and quickly led me inside. As she busied herself fawning over me, Ye-Ye[14] quietly filled up a bowl and placed it in front of me with a kindly smile. I looked into the bowl to find it full of crystal shrimp dumplings[15], my favourite dim-sum dish.

I picked up a piece of dumpling with my chopsticks and take a tentative bite, my mouth immediately exploding with flavour. The saltiness of grounded shrimp marinated with soy sauce and sesame oil contrasting exquisitely against the unique juicy sweetness of fresh prawn; a thin yet sturdy glass-like wrapper encapsulates it all with delicate pleats, creating a tasteful balance between the plainness of the dough and the richness of its fillings. Ah…heaven in a bite-size bundle.

Ye-Ye and Nai-Nai smiled fondly as they watched me wolf down the shrimp dumplings with the same unrestrained gusto I’ve had for the past nineteen years. We reminisced about the past, laughing at funny memories whilst savouring the simple dim-sum dishes, and I couldn’t help but noticed how time had flown. Just yesterday I was barely tall enough to reach their knees; today, I stood half a head taller.

“How long?”

“Three years.”

Minutes pass, neither of us uttered a word. Then, Ye-Ye gently ruffled my hair, the same way he’s been doing since I was two, only this time, the smile on his face seemed tinged with a hint of melancholy.

“Silly child.”

My nose soured at the affectionate nickname and I quickly tilted my head back to stop tears from falling. The stars seemed strangely lonely that night.

“Still such a cry-baby.”

“Am not!”

Hastily blinking away the tears, I got up and enveloped Nai-Nai in a tight hug.

“Take care.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. After a few pats, we broke apart and I turned to head home.

“We’ll save some shrimp dumplings for when you come home!”

I dared not look back so I raised my hand and waved farewell instead. Until next time.

Strolling down the five-foot way, I paused in front of a pair of ventilated timber doors. Mythical creatures of Chinese folklore embellished each panel. The dragon floating reverently amongst wispy clouds, each delicately carved scale shimmering with contained power. Opposite it, perched nobly on golden branches, was its gentler feathered counterpart – the phoenix, its wings spread wide, ready to take flight. Under the moonshine, it was as if those gilded bodies were suddenly brought to life. Their once dull sheen now aglow in brilliant shades of scarlet, orange and gold, almost as if they would burst into flames at any moment, just like in the myths of old, and be reborn from the ashes.

As I gazed at the exquisite carvings, entranced, an old memory resurfaces. Same door, same carvings, but a very different time. I was a lot shorter for one, and I wasn’t alone. The large calloused hand that held mine was wrinkled and dry like the pages of an old book. Where a finger was supposed to be was stump, the only remains of a work accident in his youth.

I tugged at the hand and A-Gong glanced down, a gentle smile on his weather-beaten face. Seeing the question in my doe-like eyes, he laughed. “These?” he asked as he lifted me up with one arm whilst running his other hand over the carvings which glittered under the setting sun. “These are spirit guardians sent by the Jade Emperor to watch over our household.”

“Howshowld?”

“Family,” he chuckled and tweaked my nose. I giggled, playfully reaching out my stubby fingers to grab his beard. Still laughing, he pushed open the heavy, half-a-century-old doors and we entered the house.

Standing in the living room, the sounds of mirth slowly faded into silence and evening sunlight was replaced with the darkness of night. Without bothering to turn on the light, I walked over to the Luohan-bed and struck a match, lighting the wooden lantern. A pool of golden light was casted around the table where a flight ticket to London sat, my passport placed neatly beside it.

I sighed.

Sinking down into the cushions, I glanced at the clock. Five hours. Then it’s goodbye for a very, very long time. I gazed absentmindedly around the familiar room as my mind takes a trip down memory lane: mornings sprawled across the brightly coloured majolica tile floor trying to trace its intricate patterns; Evenings spent watching A-Poh wielding her embroidery needle with decades of practiced ease; A-Gong playing the erhu[16] on peaceful nights…ah yes, the erhu. Closing my eyes, I could almost hear it. The bamboo bow strung with horsetail hair traversing between two silk strings as A-Gong’s fingers dance deftly along its slender neck producing a vast array of tunes: one moment tender and sombre, the next sonorous and joyful.

“Mmmreeoow?”

I opened my eyes and found myself gazing into the forest-green orbs of a young calico sat patiently on my lap. Snuffing out the lantern, I laid down and wrapped my arms around Hua-Hua as she snuggled against my chest.

An intoxicating sweetness tickled my nose.

I glanced over at the potted plants to find the tan-huas[17] blossoming. Head propped against the pillow; I watched as the tightly rolled petals bloom in slow motion. Its fiery red tendrils unfurling elegantly to reveal a profusion of feathery white petals, much like a swan ruffling its wings, about to take flight. In the darkness of night, its snowy petals seemed to glow from within, as if made of moonbeams. With moonlight streaming in from the lightwell above, even the floating dust particles were transformed into shimmering stardust dancing in the quiet night air.

Yet, as enchanting as it was, I couldn’t help but remember that it would all come to an end very soon. By dawn, before the sun’s first kiss, its lustrous petals would be shrivelled up and a withered carmine carcass would be all that remains of its snowy beauty from the night before; its lingering exotic fragrance a ghost of its twilight arrival. There’s an old saying A-Gong used to describe the tan-huas blooming: an instant of beauty but a moment of eternity. Even though beautiful things don’t last forever, they live on eternally, etched into our deepest memories. Just like the tan-huas, my time left on this quaint little island was coming to an end. By dawn tomorrow, I too would be gone; and though I’d be leaving this cozy old house I called home, I’d take with me its memories, just as the scent and beauty of the tan-hua lingers on forever in the memory of all who witnessed it.

Listening to the rustling palm leaves and soothing gurgle of running water, tension oozed out of my body as my muscles relaxed. The tranquillity of night imbued with the intoxicating sweetness of tan-huas calmed my racing thoughts and my eyelids started to droop. Just before being lulled to sleep by Hua-Hua’s soft purring, I caught sight of a glimmer of azure amongst the radiant white blooms. The fluttering of delicate wings; quiet footsteps; something warm being tucked around me; and the familiar scent of incense from eleven years ago accompanied me as I drifted off to sleep.

NOTES:

[1] Ji Ruan, ‘Reflexions’ in 300 Gems of Classical Chinese Poetry, trans. by Yuanchong Xu (China: Peking University Press) pp. 88-89

[2] ‘A-Poh’ means ‘grandmother’ in Hainanese

[3] ‘A-Gong’ means ‘grandfather’ in Hainanese

[4] ‘Jia bui lo!’ means ‘time to eat’ in Hainanese (one of the Chinese dialects).

[5] ‘Luohan bed’ is a traditional Chinese furniture equivalent to the modern sofa-bed. It is made of wood, often containing a low wooden tea table set in the center.

[6] ‘Di-Di’ means ‘younger brother’ in Chinese

[7] ‘Mei-Mei’ means ‘younger sister’ in Chinese

[8] ‘Hua-Hua’ means ‘flower’ or ‘patterned’ in Mandarin which is a reference to the calico cat’s tri-coloured coat as well as the fact that calicos are called ‘Yin-Hua-Bu-Mao’. The naming is also a pun and an allusion the association it has with the memories her grandfather and his favourite flowers – the tan-huas.

[9] ‘Marchnad Caerdydd’ means ‘Cardiff Market’ in Welsh.

[10] Lauren Elkin, ‘A tribute to female flaneurs: the women who reclaimed our city streets’, in Flaneuse: Woman Walk the City, (London: Chatto & Windus, 2016)

[11] Virginia Woolf, 'Street Haunting', in Selected Essays (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), pp. 177 - 187

[12] ‘Dim-sum’ is a style of Chinese cuisine that’s prepared in small bite-sized portions served in small steamer baskets or on a small plate. It is also a metaphor in this story for a Chinese saying: 麻雀虽小，五脏俱全 meaning ‘small as it is, the sparrow has all the vital organs’. Just like dim-sum, the narrator’s happiness comes from a seemingly insignificant object such as a bowl of shrimp dumplings.

[13] ‘Nai-Nai’ means ‘paternal grandmother’ but can also be used as a general reference to or a friendlier and more affectionate way of addressing an old woman which is often used to show the closeness of the relationship.

[14] ‘Ye-Ye’ means ‘paternal grandfather but can also be used as a general reference to or a friendlier and more affectionate way of addressing an old man which is often used to show the closeness of the relationship.

[15] ‘Crystal shrimp dumplings’ also known as ‘Har-gao’ are a staple dim-sum dish made of prawn semi-translucent wraps kneaded from flour. In Chinese culture, dumplings are normally associated with togetherness and reunions since the wrapping of dumplings is a group activity that is usually done with family which helps emphasizes on the sense of belonging within the narrative.

[16] ‘Erhu’ is a traditional Chinese two-stringed fiddle.

[17] ‘Tan-hua’ also known as Epiphyllum Oxypetalum is a species of cactus found in South America and Southeast Asia that blooms rarely and only at night. In the Chinese culture’s language of flowers, the tan-hua means ‘an instant of beauty, a moment of eternity’, meaning beautiful things don’t last forever but they last forever in our memories.

Author's Notes:

Back with Part 3 of the short story slash prose pieces from uni series (this part was also written in second year lol) The story is back to the present, picking up a year after that rocky start in Part 1 and A-Yun is now in her second year of uni reminiscing about the time leading up to her departure for the UK. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed reading Part 3~

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4

Since exams are over and graded and I've officially graduated, I can finally post my work online without having to worry about Turnitin picking it up as plagiarism because apparently you aren't allowed to plagiarise yourself according to university which is absolutely ridiculous but I'm not the one making the rules here so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also, please don't reupload my works without permission.

#ninbayphua 墨彦 #prose #short story #constructive critisms are always welcomed #please don't repost without permission

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unholyplumpprincess · 4 years

Text

Get Familiar

A long, long awaited commission for @relentless-boredom!

Summary: Revenant set in before the games, during the Hammond Robotics slaughter (after Forge’s death) with him trying to find answers as well as finding himself dealing with his new injury causing memories he doesn’t remember to course through him. And of course, trying to familiarize himself with new feelings for his body. He jacks it, is what I’m getting at.

Reblogs > Likes. It costs zero dollars to reblog!

!!!Minors and ageless blogs dni or you will be blocked on sight!!!

Fandom: Apex Legends

Relationship: Revenant/His hand

Warnings: R18+/NSFT, mentions of violence and blood, human/simulacrum dysmorphia, wireplay, masturbation, robotic attachments, Revenant has a cock attachment, mentions of past bdsm

Words: 2.5K

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Blood.

Fury.

The slick material slid through the joints in Revenant’s hands as easy as oil might. Hands he had thought had always been metal, hands that had sliced throats just as easy and could transform into blades. Hands, programmed for destruction, and as far as he knew, had always been.

A flicker. Glimmer. Blonde straight hair, high and tight- no- Now black, curly, with dark brown eyes staring back where amber optics should have been- no. Now a buzzcut with pale white skin, sharp features-

A loud scream echoes through his body, causing his voice box to ripple and vibrate towards the end until the glass before him shatters and he snarls under his breath. His shoulders slump, his body following as his hands pull up to his face and the tip of his finger traces the edges of the line connected to the corners of his mouth over his jaw. He could unhinge it into a terrible maw, full of metal, sharp points and a silicone tongue.

His optics flick over the broken glass as another face fazes into existence. Dark brown flesh, long dreadlocks, golden eyes bright and wide staring at himself in horror as he rips his head away to look away.

~Rest under the cut~

His programming had been compromised due to the glass that had shoved through his cords acting as nerve endings. It could make him see in waves, waves of a life- lives? Anything that he had lived in a...human body.

The symbols that had once rested on the backs of his hands in neat little ‘H’s were now scratched out. It wasn’t like he could feel the pain of a knife scraping the metal off until the shape didn’t make sense anymore; But the pain of the emotions raging through him?

Those. Those were real.

A snarl bubbles in his throat as his optics flicker back to the glass to a new face.

They built him to be a monster. Who’s he to argue with programming?

Hammond Robotics stays on high alert and issues out warnings and encouragements for facility members to proceed on with their work. Employees go missing, gone for days on end and everyone inside is on edge, yet the big bosses keep them going. A mistake, Revenant thinks, but perhaps it’s to keep him away from anyone more important.

He does his research on who is more important. Scientists and engineers are targeted, but more people on the lower scale he ignores. He finds the program name for what he might be- a simulacrum. It starts to piece itself together after that, the rage he’d felt before now beginning to make more sense, and the mindless obedience to something- or someone, he could not see.

The throat in his hands cracks satisfyingly with a beg dying on the person’s lips.

The rage he feels bubbling in his body like a near erupting volcano, isn’t a new thing. But the pain? The pain is all so new. So even when he gets his answers, even when he finds a familiar satisfaction in the slide of blood between his joints and ridges, why...

Why can’t he get rid of this sense of longing?

A useless feeling, in his opinion, as was anything else that wasn’t on task. And that task was rather simple, he thought. Destroy, demolish, get answers, spill blood.

It’s why he’s found two scientists. A couple, married. They would have answers, he was sure of it. One of their family’s names had explicitly worked on him centuries ago for a military purpose. He found the answers of that in a file. But the memories of a war on another planet, feeling nothing and caring for nothing except completing a mission, were something that stayed in his own memory bank. It didn’t matter how many people around him died, just that they weren’t wearing the same uniform ‘his side’ was on. Didn’t even matter HOW he killed them.

A monster, programmed right into him.

He could laugh.

But instead, he doesn’t. He’s quiet now, the blue light illuminating the living room he’s slinking in. It’s a large area, could classify as a mini house if it wasn’t in a compound. The blue light comes from an area with different blueprints and components on a table, resembling robotic body parts and sketched out formulas to match the engineering level quality to create such pieces.

A sneer finds its way onto his face.

The living room is passed by towards a hallway where framed pictures rest. The couple on their wedding day, graduation days, even a prom. They’d obviously been together a long time, but one makes him stop. Just a simple image of them both, with their arms thrown around each other and foreheads together, big smiles stretched across their faces.

A flicker, a memory, something- someone etches into his own body. Of a smile, of his heart beating a little louder- and actually beating at that. Of the butterflies in his belly, someone- or people- was it multiple people? Faceless, as always, looking at him with adoration. Their sounds, their voice all a blur and melded into a thousand voices at once. As if trying to whisper a name, stretch out to him, beg, plead, moan, cry-

It’s dizzying when he finally can feel himself slammed back into his own body. For a moment, Revenant’s optics flicker back over the image, as if hoping it would spur something like that on again. Just a taste of something positive-

No. No he couldn’t.

His optics drop to the side, flickering to the floor and trying to remind himself of who he was now. What he was even doing here. He needed answers, not kindness. He needed answers about who and what he was, but not like this. Not like the noises he heard in his head, or the l...the lo...

The love he had felt.

He ignores it. The waiting game started now as he waited for one, or the other to arrive so he could begin his questioning and paint their walls bloody.

Something he hadn’t factored in would be the couple returning as a couple. Both of them walk into their dark home, removing their white coats and talking about the lockdown on staff. Concerned for their own lives before one takes the others hand in both of theirs and reassures that no one would come for them.

He almost blows his cover with a laugh. He could have, truly, what pitiful little things humans were.

What a pitiful little thing he probably had been.

Skinsuits were temporary, something he would make known by the time he finally scales back down the wall and slams one of them into a wall with a sickening crack of their nose hitting the flat surface. The other he had tied up not too long ago, in a place away from where they would see their coupled partner perish under his very hands.

Was it from sympathy? Of knowing they would be heartbroken to see their lover be harmed? Or was it merely to shut them up?

The questions Revenant snarls in the scientist’s face are of himself. Who had he been? Where had he come from? Had they known that he was a product of war? That he had been created by the very same hands that his person now possessed? Where was the simulacrum program now?

The answers are sobbed out, bloodied lips and the knowledge of death hanging in the air. They knew they would die, even if they gave up the information. Willing or not.

There’s almost sympathy in his mind. But when he lays their lifeless, bloodied bodies together and their hands seem to hold the others, he blames the pang in his chest as merely disgust.

A home no longer a home was an empty house. Revenant never found himself wanting for things, especially materialistic items, but he searches for answers, files, anything. The work station illuminated by the blue light he’d seen prior is something he finds himself coming to, pulling out drawers and files to find anything of himself. However, no name stirs anything in him that he thumbs through. His database analyzes each name, finding faces to them with ‘deceased’ or locations splayed across the screen. Nothing helpful.

Revenant snarls under his breath, going for the drawers that should have only contained items and tools to work on simulacrum attachments, but he finds himself rather...face to face with something more interesting.

Attachments of different...things. Things he wouldn’t have expected he’d be compatible with, let alone would find here. Revenant supposes, as he turns the phallus shaped objects within his hands, that the engineer had really specialized in upgrading these models. These others that were like him.

Others that could feel more human things such as pleasures.

Revenant nearly turns it over, nearly puts it back right where he found it, but he finds himself scanning further for usage of how it worked. Where would it go? How did it work for a body like his? Where wiring was the only thing keeping him together?

The answers lie in a user manual. Attachments for MRVN units went hand in hand for simulacrums due to their upgrading systems being similar. It speaks of instructions on how to attach it, whether to a sex working MRVN unit or a more willing, more coherent unit or simulacrum.

Truly, Revenant should be ashamed of his interest, but the thoughts from earlier? Of the crying voice, begging, pleading, hissing, hair pulling, hands- far too many hands-

You really can’t blame him when he takes it, and the manual with him.

His stalk to their bedroom could be seen as morbid when he finds himself perched upon it. A bed was far more comfortable than the streets for exploration, and even he’d admit that it was comfortable with all of its familiar warmth of blankets and far too many pillows.

Humans, he muses, were suckers for comfort.

Revenant finds himself admiring the attachment in his hands. It was hot pink, black silicone nearing the base in almost a ribbed-like texture. The head was bulbous, the slit partially open to allow any lubrication reserves to spill from the body it was worn to. Another object he glances at, the relatively large tube that apparently, he could stick somewhere near his hip and it should click into place with all his wiring...

The click should have made him embarrassed when he finds the right placement, but instead Revenant starts to find himself feeling more at home in his own body. More...himself. Sure, the attachment doesn’t match him whatsoever, but even that’s easy to attach with the hook of a wire and settling it in the right place.

The sensation isn’t bad, but it’s a lot.

A sigh he does not need exhales from his lips as his hand comes up, exploring the wiring at the side of his neck under his cowl, gently tracing the tip of his finger over the thicker one where a jugular might be. A familiar sensation of a creeping shudder rolling up his spine like a shock wave, the slow roll of thunder as his other hand slides down to his hip area upon feeling the jerk of his cock.

Cock. His.

If he had blood in his body, perhaps his face would be red from how sensitive he was. Instead, Revenant tries to treat this like a mission with a bit of a grumble to his own mutterings. Sliding the hand that had been fussing with his wires to wrap around his throat, pressing his thumb between the two thicker wires and stimulating air loss to make his hips buck up briefly.

Revenant can picture a beautiful face above him, warm, soft fingers wrapped around his throat. A voice crooning praise and, “A few more seconds, baby, you can take it. You look so beautiful so red.” In his head like a faint echo of a memory. And instead of getting upset or frustrated, he finds his voice box betraying his interest with a shuddering vibrato of a groan.

The cock- his cock, jerks once more, spilling a drop of lubrication- no. Pre-cum, warm and wet and oh he can feel it. He’s so sensitive, able to feel how it trails down the underside of his cock where it feels all too warm and unfamiliar yet so familiar.

Motor motions, memories keep him going. His fingers run up to his face, grabbing his own jaw a bit too rough and force two fingers into his own mouth. Saliva is stimulated from similar lubrication reserves, making it easy to press down on his tongue to cause more to pool and threatening his own fingers with his deathly sharp, metal teeth.

His other hand now, finally, wraps around his pretty hot pink cock. It’s almost too much with the suddenness of it, of how long it had been.

At some point in his body, there’s a warning of overheating that he doesn’t listen to.

Revenant’s hand works fast and shaky over his over sensitive cock, squeezing the head and finding his optics flickering in and out as his memories seem to come and go as they please. Each time they come, he makes a low groan in his throat, and each time they go he about whines. A whine could only be stimulated in a low, deep, shuddering sound like a high whistle from his already shaky voice box.

“Pathetic,” The person he can feel and see in his mind- or memories- coos to him like it’s a sweet thing to say rather than a degrading term. “Look at you, so needy, do you ever say thank you? Or please? Is that too much to ask for?” The voice croons, and Revenant finds his hand sliding back down to his throat, followed by his hand quickening on his cock.

“Than -- thank you- thank youthankyou-” Revenant finds his own voice mimicking to no one. Breathing out heavy without a need for breath, near about panting as his hips come up to fuck his own fist. His hand flies down from his throat to catch the sheets as a snarl rips through his throat like a starved, wild animal.

His orgasm hits him far too hard. Overloading his systems to new, dangerous levels as his cum comes out clear and spurts all over himself. His hips tremble, over sensitive yet too stubborn to stop touching himself. Revenant keeps tugging, hellbent on getting the glimpses of that beautiful person telling him what to do-

A weak orgasm shakes him right after, dry and not as satisfying as he finds himself immobilized and almost dizzy from the harsh sensation of pleasure.

There’s a calm after the storm, always. Even for someone like him. It takes all of five minutes for his body to stop threatening his heating levels, steam popping from his inner shoulder areas to cool down his circuits and joints. Revenant finds himself slowly flickering back into existence, optics lazily rolling to the side to look at the nearby screen that must have belonged to one of the slaughtered scientist’s flash of a new email.

‘Apex Games data entry’ it’s labelled.

Revenant grunts, rolling onto his side, back facing the screen and feeling more at peace than he had in years.

Apex games, huh?

He’d have to look into that.

#Revenant #Apex legends #apex lemons #nsft #lemon #commissions #princess writing

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keanuvibe · 5 years

Text

Noses in Roses (John Wick x Reader)

A/N: Hi! this is the teacher!reader x John fic I’ve been working on since literally December 21st. It’s taken me so long, and you’ll see why in the word count. This aint even all of it. I decided I’m going to post this in two parts, as there is so much I want to add to this little world. Anyways; enjoy <3

Words: 12.7k

Warnings: swears, pregnancy, mentions of deceased ex-spouse

Summary: You are an elementary school teacher, first grade to be exact. One afternoon your student, James’s nanny is late to pick him up. You then meet his father, John Wick.

October 9th

“Okay kids, go to your cubbies and grab your art folders!” You smiled at the children sitting throughout your classroom. The children immediately got up, rushing over to grab their things. A gentle sigh escaped your lips as you sat down in your desk chair, hand resting on your pregnant belly. The sun shone into the classroom, casting a golden glow throughout the space. Your eyes watched as the kids eagerly began to make art, chatting amongst the others at their tables.

You are an elementary school teacher, first grade to be exact. You've been teaching for nearly seven years now, starting back when you were twenty-five. You jumped around from grade to grade for about three years before settling into teaching first graders. You've been doing that for three years now, and couldn't be happier. You are also pregnant, six months and three days; expecting a little girl. You were very excited, however things hadn't turned out to how you planned.

You used to be married, in fact you were married for six years. Unfortunately, your husband passed away over five months ago. An unknown brain tumor, you found out a few days after. You were devastated and fell into a deep depression. The only thing that helped was your little baby. When she began to move around at four months, it gave you a renewed sense of purpose. From then on you decided to seek help, and now you are doing better. Sure, there were still the bad days, but they were few and far between. Work helped, not being so lonely all the time. Your coworkers were a big help, always offering to be there for you. Miss Dalton, a fellow first grade teacher, had become a close friend of yours over the past three years. She helped you through your husband's death, and still does. There are days where you’ve cried in her class during lunch.

“Miss (Y/L/N)?” A quiet voice asked. You turned your attention to James, one of the boys in your class. He stood next to your desk, arms holding a paper behind his back.

“Yes, honey?” You responded, looking into the boys dark brown eyes. He shyly held up a piece of paper containing a watercolor painting of a tree. The background had been hastily painted blue, and the bottom green. There was a little sun on the top corner of the sheet as well. Typical kid art.

“I made this for you.” He spoke quietly. You smiled wide, grabbing the paper from his grasp.

“Oh, James, it's beautiful!” You cooed the boy, setting the artwork on your desk. James is a bright young boy, and quite adorable. He was one of your favorites, though teachers don't have favorites. You've never met his parents, as his Nanny tends to pick him up. She also attends his parent teacher conferences. You were curious though; you’ve always wanted to meet the mysterious Wicks.

“Thank you.” He said, cheeks turning pink. You smiled at him and gently pat his shoulder before he returned to his seat.

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

Class ended at the usual time, 3:15. You watched as the children scattered, gathering their backpacks and jackets before exiting. From your classroom windows, you watched students load onto buses and cars before taking a seat at your desk, letting out a sigh. You started grading papers, humming quietly before a small knock sounded at your door. Furrowing your brows, you padded over to the entryway and swung open the door. You met the sight of your supervisor, Nancy, and little James standing in front of her.

“What’s up?” You asked, allowing the two of them to enter the room.

“His ride is late, he came to the office unsure what to do.” Mrs. Nelson spoke, sitting James down at one of the tables and handing him a little package of Animal Crackers from her pocket.

“Oh, I’ll handle it from here Nancy, thank you for collecting him.” You spoke to the woman. With a nod, she exited the room.

“I’m going to call Miss Lee, okay?” You spoke to James. Miss Lee is the boys nanny. You’ve gotten relatively close with her, as she’s quite active in Jame’s school career. The boy nodded with a content look, enjoying the crackers in front of his person. You sat back down at your desk, opening a drawer and gathering the kids personnel files. You located his Nanny’s phone number before dialing. There was no answer, even after you've called twice. You took a deep breath, quietly hanging up the phone and looking at the young boy who was sitting at a desk quietly, having finished the crackers. You opened his file once more, noticing another number that'd been scribbled below his Nanny’s. You made out the numbers as best you could and bit your lip before dialing.

“This is Wick.” The phone rang twice before a deep voice answered.

“H-Hi, Mr. Wick. I’m your son's teacher, Miss (Y/L/N). It’s nearly four now, and I noticed James’ Nanny hasn't picked him up.” You stuttered, feeling intimidated by the deep voice. You haven't even seen his face before. Maybe he’s a little dorky but has an attractive voice? Whoa. You've haven't been this flustered over a man since you and your husband started dating.

“She hasn't?” He asked, frustration lacing his tone.

“Um, yes.” You answered, looking at James take a sip from his water bottle.

“I’ll be there in ten.” The line went dead. You nodded and hung up, pursing your lips. So, today was the day you're going to meet Mr. Wick. You were a little nervous, to be honest. James looked in your direction and gave you a warm smile, causing you to feel your heart swell at his cuteness.

“Your father is on his way, James.” You gave him a gentle grin and he nodded in return.

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

Mr. Wick did arrive exactly when he said, ten minutes nearly on the dot. You could hear his shoes echoing down the carpeted hallway of the school, he walked that loud and determined.

“Miss (Y/L/N). Nice to meet you.” You turned your attention from James to the figure that had entered your classroom. Your breath caught in your throat upon seeing the man. He was gorgeous. Sharp features accommodating dark brown eyes; tall, larger than six foot no doubt. His hair was long, but cut at his shoulders and gelled behind his ears. He donned a three piece black suit, and sleek shoes to match.

“Mr. Wick.” You swallowed and stood from your seat, hand smoothing your shirt over your pregnant belly. Mr. Wick caught the movement, and you swear you saw his eyes soften at the sight of your bump.

“Please, call me John.” He spoke gently, holding out his hand for you to shake it. His large grasp engulfed your own, the two of you shaking your arms in unison. You broke the handshake, feeling your fingers tingle from his touch and stepped back.

“James is a wonderful boy, he’s quite smart.” You changed the subject, beckoning the boy to come over. You witnessed him blush slightly, jogging over to his father and hiding behind his leg.

“Well, he wouldn't be this way without a wonderful teacher.” John replied, a smile crossing his features. You felt your heart race and shyly straightened your shirt across your belly.

“Thank you.” You responded, trying to hide the hotness of your cheeks. The man nodded, making sure James had gathered all of his things. John was so gentle with his son it made your heart ache. The way he spoke to him was so caring, and the tender touches. You caught yourself staring while rubbing your own bump and quickly blinked, clearing your throat. John’s hands placed themselves on his son's shoulders. You took note that there wasn't a ring donning his left hand. So, there isn't a Mrs. Wick? Interesting.

“Thank you, Miss (Y/L/N).” James spoke, gleaming up at you. You smiled, pinching his little cheek gently.

“Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow, honey.” You spoke, then looked up to John. He nodded at you, and began leading James out of the classroom. You padded back to your desk, taking a seat as the two men exited. However, footsteps once again approached your door and John poked his head back into your classroom.

“When is the next parent teacher conference?” He asked. You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to repress the butterflies that's erupted in your tummy.

“October twenty-fourth, first come first serve at four in the afternoon.” You responded, blinking at the attractive man. He nodded, making a mental note before disappearing behind the door once more.

————————————————————————

October 14th - 11:45am

Your students had just been excused to lunch when your door opened. You set down the sandwich in your hand and looked up, eyes greeting Mr. Wick. He donned a suit, like the last meeting you'd had. He must've come from work. You stood from your seat, brushing off any bread crumbs that'd been trapped on your belly.

“Mr. Wick, what do I owe the pleasure?” You asked softly. Johns eyes smiled as he walked over, towering your shorter frame.

“James forgot his lunch this morning.” John spoke, holding out his sons lunch box. You felt your heart swell at the deed, and grabbed it from his grasp. Your fingers brushed as you passed the container, causing your cheeks to gather a little heat.

“I will make sure he gets this.” You said softly, setting the box on your desk. John still stood, his eyes looking around your classroom. You took the moment to study his face, really gathering in his features. He was older you could tell, as he had a few wrinkles by his eyes And his beard contained little gray specks. His hair was gelled back like before as well. You noticed a small cut along his cheekbone, and furrowed your brow. Possibly a shaving nick?

“Oh, are these their solar system projects?” The man asked, pointing to a display table that contained little clay displays of the planets. You nodded, and walked over to them prompting John to follow.

“Yes. Aren't they cute?” You asked with a soft giggle, picking up one of the displays and showing it closer to John. “I picked colored dough out of the carpet for at least three days after school. I didn't want the custodians to be mad at me.”

John admired your face while you fiddled with the displays. He took in how adorable you were when it came to the kids, always cheerful and loving towards them. At least, from what he's witnessed with James. John hasn't felt much over his life span. Growing up for him wasn't exactly easy, when he discovered he had a son, he promised to be a family-- one he's never had. James’ mother only stayed for a few months of his life before she bailed. She left a nearly folded note on the pillow next to Johns explaining that she didn't want to be a mother anymore. John was left to raise James all by himself, with the help of Nannies over the years. He hadn't tried dating again, maybe a few flings while he was away on work. However after meeting you; he was reconsidering.

He’s also noticed how you don't wear a ring on your finger. Were you single? A part of him hoped you are. Plus, he doesn't even care you're obviously pregnant. In fact, he thought it was cute. You were indeed a cute pregnant lady, wearing dresses with matching cardigans. He wanted to know more about you.

“Anyways, I should run this to the lunchroom so James gets food.” You spoke, setting down the display in your grasp and stepping back to your desk. John nodded, and made his way towards the door.

“I should get back to work.” He murmured, looking back towards you. You grabbed the boys lunchbox and made your way towards the door, meeting John there as well.

“I’ll see you later, Mr. Wick.” You spoke, looking up at the tall man. He smiled at you, nodding in response before flipping on his heel and walking towards the school lobby.

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

“James, here's your lunch honey.” You spoke, walking up to your students designated table. James turned to you from hearing his name and he furrowed his brow. You took note of the school look in front of his person and then furrowed your own brow in confusion.

“I always get school food Miss (Y/L/N). That's not mine.” James spoke, pointing at the box. You nodded and clicked your tongue, a little smile crossing your face.

“Right, I must have you confused.” You replied before turning around. Did John lie about his sons lunch just to see you?

————————————————————————

October 24th - 4:07pm

You currently sat at one of the tables in your classroom, three chairs set up across from you. Today was parent teacher conferences, the day you'd secretly been looking forward to. Ever since you met John, you honestly couldn't get him out of your mind. There was something so interesting about him. He was mysterious, broody, and quite handsome. You haven't seen him since your previous encounter regarding James’s lunch box. It still gave you butterflies, but you didn't mind.

You quietly flipped through your students folders when a knock sounded at the door. You looked up, your eyes greeting the sight of John and James. The man was dressed casual today; worn jeans, a white top, and his hair was loose. You resisted the urge to bite your lip and stood up to greet them.

“Mr. Wick, James,” You smiled between the two boys, “It’s wonderful to see you again.” You reached out your hand for John to shake, his large hand once again engulfing your own.

“The pleasure is mine.” John spoke, a little smile donning his cheeks. You felt slightly dazed by his charm, quickly rubbing your hand over your belly and gesturing to the table for them to sit.

“Please, take a seat and a cookie. I baked them myself. ” You smiled, taking a seat for yourself. James eagerly grabbed a cookie, but looked up at his father for permission. John nodded, causing the boy to start eating the frosting-covered treat. You giggled at the interaction before grabbing James’ folder from the pile.

“I must say, he’s smart for his age.” You began, opening the folder and showing John the statistic covered paper, grading his son. You talked him through each basic genre, telling him what James was strong in and what he needed to practice. The two men sat quietly, listening as you explained what you needed to. John even ate a cookie at one point, filling you with butterflies as he enjoyed the sugary delight.

“Thank you, Miss (Y/L/N).” John spoke, standing up. You and James mimicked his movement, and you straightened your shirt over your belly. Johns eyes cast down, softening at the sight of your bump.

“Please, it’s nothing. I love teaching James.” You smiled. “Speaking of; James, how about you take some of your artwork home, hmm?” The young boy nodded, a smile crossing his cheeks as he darted across the room to his cubby.

“How far along are you?” John’s deep voice took you by surprise. You blushed, fidgeting with your shirt before answering.

“Six and a half months.” A little gleam overtook your eyes as you looked down to your belly. Your thumb carefully traced the design on your shirt before you looked back up to John.

“I assume you and your husband are excited?” The man then asked. You let out a nervous laugh, followed by feeling your heart ache. Your husband. You two were very excited.

“Um, actually-” You paused, looking up to John, “M-My husband passed six months ago.” You nodded, pursing your lips.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” John spoke softly, one of his hands coming up and placing itself on the side of your arm, as though he was comforting you. You subconsciously leaned into the touch, enjoying the warmth his hand provided.

“Thank you.” You responded, your voice barely above a whisper. Just then, James returned with some of his art, ready to show his dad. The boy eagerly held up every piece and John commented on each one, praising his son. You smiled at the interaction, once again feeling the warmth cover your nerves. John is a good father. For a long time, you assumed ill of the Wicks; as you'd only ever met the Nanny. It seemed like they were absent parents. Now having met John twice, you felt different. And James seemed to love his father, which helped convince you more.

“You and his mother must be very proud.” You commented as James rushed back to his cubby to grab some more.

“His mother- She’s not… in the picture.” John stated, voice getting quieter with each word. You nodded, your heart cramping at the thought of James not having a mother.

“Oh... That’s unfortunate.” You murmured, looking over to your student. He finished grabbing all the artwork he was content with and returned to you and John.

“Ready?” John asked and James nodded eagerly. You let out a soft giggle at the boys reaction.

“I’ll hopefully see you soon, Mr. Wick.” You commented as the two boys began to exit the room. John nodded in agreement, leading James out by his shoulders. You let out a quiet sigh, sitting down into your seat, resting a hand on your belly. You felt her kick, her little foot pushing the roundness of your belly slightly out of proportion.

“Miss (Y/L/N)?” Your eyes shot up, jumping at the voice that filled the room. John?

“Call me (Y/N).” You responded, standing back up. John walked over to you, his cheeks slightly more pink that before.

“Okay, (Y/N). Would you like to go on a date?” Johns words rocked you to your core as nerve endings suddenly felt like live wires.

“Y-Yes.”

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

November 2nd - Saturday - 7:29 pm

Your heart pounded as the clock turned 7:30. John would be knocking at your door any minute. It was weird to think you are dating one of your students parents; was it against the rules? I guess, to you, It was more shocking he even asked. John seemed to have his shit together. You’re a single mother with a low-paying job. It was a mystery how this man was so allured by you.

You studied your figure in the closet door mirrors, your signature date dress donning your body. It’s long, hugs your figure in the perfect spots, and not to forget it nicely shows your cleavage; now that you’re a few cup sizes larger. You slipped on a pair of flat shoes, no longer caring for heels. A little anxious sigh left your lips as the doorbell ring startled you. You made your way to the door, looking through the peephole. Seeing Johns figure, you pulled the door open. The man stood, hands tucked behind his back. He turned his head, a grin growing across his lips as you two made eye contact. He wore a fancier, nicer, suit from the previous ones you've seen him in. His hair hadn't been gelled back and remained loose and untamed, falling above his shoulders. The man held out a bouquet of pink roses in one hand, pushing them towards your figure.

“I got these for you.” He murmured, a pink blush crossing his cheeks. You took them from his grasp, a giggle escaping your lips.

“Oh, John, they're wonderful.” You smiled, smelling the roses. “Please, come in. I’m almost ready.” You spoke up, quickly jogging to the kitchen and placing the flowers into a vase. You heard the door close, assuming John was the cause, then padded back out to the living area.

“You have a beautiful home.” He spoke, taking a seat onto the couch.

“It’s not much. I had to move somewhere smaller after my husband… I couldn't afford the mortgage on my own,” You sighed, “Plus, with a baby on the way it's more cost friendly.” You shrugged. “God, I'm over sharing.” You blushed, quickly walking back to you room to finish getting dressed.

John chuckled as you exit and stood up, walking to the picture collection you had on the mantle. He saw one containing an ultrasound picture, smiling softly at the ‘4 months!’ that was scribbled under. He then saw another photo slightly hiding behind it, a photo of you and your ex-husband. You were kissing the cheek of the man, arms draped over his shoulders. He must've taken the photo, as he was smiling at the lens. John set the photo back down, straightening his suit jacket as he heard your footsteps trailing towards him.

“I’m ready.” You smiled. John took in your full appearance now, lavishing over how nicely your dress clung to your frame. He bit the inside of his cheek as his eyes glazed over your cleavage, feeling his mouth water slightly at the delicious sight. You always dressed quite modest at work; which were the only times he’d seen you.

“You look beautiful.” He smiled, holding his arm out for you to wrap your own around. You graciously accepted, and the two of you exited your apartment.

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

John took you to a fancy restaurant downtown. You couldn't even pronounce the name, it was that gaudy. Tables were dressed with white cloths and centerpieces with candles, chandeliers littered the ceiling, expensive curtains donned the windows, and there was even a string quartet playing in the corner of the space. The host seated you at a table near the window, providing a vast view of the city. You two ordered your food and drinks. Of course, you got the cheapest thing on the menu.

“What made you want to be a teacher?” John asked, watching you twirl some spaghetti onto your fork.

“I’ve always enjoyed kids,” You responded, a little smile overtaking your cheeks, “I'm the favorite Aunt to my nieces and nephews.”

“How long have you been in the profession?” He then asked, quietly sipping on a glass of water. John hadn't ordered any alcohol which was surprising to you. He merely requested a pitcher of water for the table.

“Seven years.” You answered, looking up to meet his gaze. The man's features were softened by the candlelight that danced between your figures. You found yourself getting lost in his eyes before clearing your throat and blushing while looking away.

“And you've strictly taught elementary, or…?” He trailed off, a little smile resting on his lips. You were enamored over the fact he was so interested. It felt flattering.

“My first year I was a sixth grade teacher.” You recalled, resting your napkin over your bump. “It was awful. I only stayed one year before I moved down to fourth grade. Ever since then I've jumped lower and lower.” John watched as you spoke, adoring the gleam in your eye as you blabbered on about your career. He felt the urge to hold your hand gently creep up his finger tips, and he took advantage of the moment, grasping your fingers that were resting on the table. You stuttered over your words, feeling a blush crawl it's way up. John’s hand nearly drowned your own, but it was comforting.

“You know,” You began, changing the subject, “You've never told me about your job. In fact, you're a mystery to me, Mr. Wick.” His fingers tightened around your own at your comment. He also just really enjoyed how you still refer to him as Mr. Wick on occasion.

“Well, I bind books.” He stated simply. You furrowed your brow, his personality not matching his career in your head. Your eyes even drifted down to glance at his expensive suit and quickly back up to his face.

“Really?” You managed to ask, surprise lacing your tone. John chuckled at the comment. His fingers removed from your own as he gently pushed some of his hair behind his ear.

“Yes. There is a market for it.” He followed, taking a sip from his drink, feeling relief cross his nerves. Of course John couldn't tell you his actual job. You'd never see him the same.

“Well, if it pays the bills…” You trailed off with an amused shrug.

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

The ride home from dinner was lovely. Johns stunning car hummed as he drove, a quiet classic rock station playing over the radio. John’s right hand was intertwined with your left, while your other hand rest on your belly. You felt the baby moving and smiled, placing your fingers where her small foot pushed your skin. Johns hand subconsciously squeezed your fingers at the sound of your giggling.

“What’s funny?” He asked, glancing over while stopped at a light.

“Sometimes when she moves, I get to touch her feet or hands.” You commented, looking over to John. The adoration across his face made you blush. The car began to move again and the man focused back onto the road. The city passed by as you two may way back to your apartment. You watched as the night life roared around, many people donning their tight cocktail dresses and sparkly high heels. Neon lights from the businesses cast hues of blue and red across the streets.

“John, can I ask you a question?” You asked after the two of you had gotten quiet. Your right hand rest on your bump comfortably, thumb grazing softly.

“Yes.” He responded, his hand squeezing your own.

“Why're you not… scared… that I’m pregnant?” You blurted, feeling a sheer shade of pink coat your cheeks. It’d been on your mind for a while now; since John had begun showing interest. The man was silent for a couple minutes before answering.

“I’ve let myself remain unhappy for a long time... And with James… I need to be at my best. After I met you, I- I felt myself falling. I don’t care that you’re my son’s teacher. Infact, it makes it easier to see you.” The man paused, “I’m not scared because I care about you. Deeply.” John's words caused furious butterflies to scatter throughout your stomach. You bit your lip, holding back both excitement and a smile.

“It doesn't bother you that i'm almost seven months along? ” You asked, rubbing your hand down your belly.

“I don't mind that you're pregnant. It’s kind of exciting.” He spoke softly, his right hand squeezing your left firmly. Your heart felt full at his comment. You didn't respond, only basked in the happy glow surrounding your figures. John turned up the radio a little bit, and the two of you spent the rest of the car ride in a comfortable silence.

————————————————————————

November 8th

Rain pattered down onto the classroom windows as your students sat quietly, taking a vocabulary test. It was the end of the day, and Friday, however you didn't have any plans. John has been out of town due to his job for nearly 5 days now. You didn't know book binding could be such… meticulous work. You tried to coo it out of James as to where his father had jetted off to, but the little boy didn't have a clue. A little sigh passed your lips as you felt some sadness wash over you. You missed John. As weird as that felt; you've only been on one date. You've been texting, and he’ll call you in the evenings, but you wished he was standing right here.

A couple of your students stood from their desks and placed the tests onto your desk. You gave each of them a little smile as they returned to their seats. James came up next, placing his paper onto the stack of the others. He looked up towards you, a little melancholy across his face. You furrowed your brow, and made a mental note to speak with him after class.

The last fifteen minutes of class flew by, and before you knew it the bell rang dismissing the kids. You greeted each of them at the door, making sure they were bundled up from the cool fall rain outside, before sending them on their way. James was the last, you made sure. Just as he was placing a little beanie atop his head, you spoke up.

“James, how are you?” You kept your tone caring.

“I miss my dad.” He spoke, looking down at his feet. You frowned and walked over to comfort the boy. You kneeled, as best you could, at the side of his desk and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I understand why,” You responded, wishing you could've said ‘Me too’. “Shall we give him a call?” You then asked, the idea popping into your head. James looked up at you and a little smile crossed his cheeks.

“Okay,” His voice was soft, but eager. You stood back up, and trailed over to your desk retrieving your cell phone. James stood close to your person as you dialed and put the phone onto speaker. It took three rings before John answered.

“Hello.” His voice was rough, as though he was out of breath.

“Hi, Mr. Wick. It’s um, Miss (Y/L/N). I have James here with me, and he-”

“Hi daddy!” James exclaimed, excited to hear his father's voice.

“Is everything okay?” John asked. There were a few muffled grunts coming from the other line and you furrowed your brows. What could he be doing at the moment? Binding books too aggressively?

“Yeah, we’re fine... Are you?” You asked him, looking up at James.

“When are you coming home?” James interrupted any answer John couldve given with an innocent smile. You could hear John speaking a few muffled words.

“I’ll be home tonight.” The man's voice was rough. It honestly gave you flushed cheeks. Well, to be fair, your hormones right now are out of control; being this pregnant. John made you feel like a fifteen year old, not being able to control yourself.

“Oh, wonderful.” You managed, a smile crossing your cheeks.

“(Y/N), I’m going to pick you up, we’ll have dinner with James at my home.” John’s voice floated out of the phone and butterflies erupted in your tummy.

“That sounds lovely.” Was all you managed.

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

John arrived to your apartment around six-thirty that evening. His vintage car roaring outside was the tel he’d arrived. You carefully trotted down your apartment’s stairs before climbing into the man's car. He greeted you with a kiss on the cheek, as you haven’t actually kissed yet. No, he was too much of a gentleman on the first date. You wanted to feel what those lips had to offer though. God. Your hormones.

You hadn’t been to John’s home yet, and when he pulled through the gate, your eyes bugged. His home was nice, large, and private; emphasis on large. John pulled into the garage, exiting the car first and opening the passenger door for you. You thanked him as he grabbed ahold of your hand to steady your frame from falling. He then escorted you inside. Your eyes met the sight of a lavish kitchen, covered in white cabinets and light wood floors. It’d been used, as there was a pile of dirty dishes in the sink and little food remnants on the countertops. Did John cook dinner? After being gone on a business trip for five days? The man continued through the house, towards-- you assumed-- the living room. You could hear James’ laughter coming from the area, and the sounds of a TV.

“James?” John called as you two entered the room. It was spacious, donned with a fireplace and a TV above it. The little boy turned his head, facing you and his father. A smile crossed his face upon seeing you and jogged over to where you two stood.

“Miss (Y/L/N)!” He exclaimed. You let out a little chuckle to his enthusiasm.

“James, you can call me (Y/N) when were not in class, how does that sound?” You spoke softly, placing a hand onto the boy’s shoulder. He nodded, still remaining cheerful. John’s hand found its way to the small of your back and rest there. You felt a blush cross your cheeks and glanced back at the man who donned a loving gleam in his eye. Upon further study, you noted another cut on his cheek, this time higher on the bone. This was the second time you've seen the man with some type of injury. John could sense you’d noticed the abrasion to his face, and cleared his throat, gearing to speak.

“I made dinner, shall we eat?” He’d already begun leading you and James towards the dining room. The table had already been set, and the food sat scattered across the surface in serving dishes. John pulled out your chair and you graciously thanked him as you sat. James eagerly climbed into the chair across from yours, and John sat at the head of the table. He wasn’t wearing a suit, surprisingly. He donned dark jeans with a white shirt and jacket atop. It was almost more sexy to see him dressed down.

“You made all this?’ You asked to confirm.

“I don’t mind cooking.” The man answered, tying his hair back into a bun to avoid getting it into his food. You bit your lip seeing his exposed neck and shook your head, clearing away the thoughts. John served the two of you, filling your plates full of food. You felt your baby kick excitedly and softly chuckled placing your hand over your belly. John’s free hand grabbed your own at the sound, his eyes fixated lovingly on you.

The three of you ate dinner comfortably chatting about school, John’s job, random things James would babble on about. It was lovely to feel apart of a family again. You’ve been so lonely since your husband’s passing, and John brought so much of that familiarity back. You haven’t even kissed yet. You didn't care though, opportunities take time.

After dinner, you and James settled on the living room couch as John put on a movie. You watched as the man pulled it from the shelf, and noting how it was a VHS tape.

“John, is that a VHS...?” You trailed off, feeling laughter bubble up as the man held it up for you to see. The object looked worn, lovingly though. That tape alone is probably thirty years old.

“Yes, it is.” He spoke, raising his brows at your amusement.

“I haven’t seen one of those since 1997.” You giggled, biting your lip at him. He smiled and shook his head, sliding the tape into the player. He clicked the rewind button causing the machine to begin a loud whirr sound. While John was fiddling with the VHS, James politely asked if you could get a cup of juice for him. You nodded, standing up with a little extra effort, and padded towards the kitchen. Your eyes searched the cupboards, curious as to which one actually held the cups. Goodness, Johns home was elaborate. All of this from a book binding job. You never would've thought. It seemed somewhat suspicious, however. Of course if the relationship persisted, you'd really need to find out what was going on. The mans mysterious wounds didn't help the fact.

“Third to the left.” John’s voice caused you to jump, and turn to face him. He stood in the entryway, leaning against the doorframe. His arms were folded, causing his biceps to be more defined. You caught yourself staring at his muscular arms and blushed, quickly gathering a cup from the instructions he’d given you.

“You scared me,” You hummed, opening the fridge and grabbing a bottle of orange juice. You heard his footsteps get closer to your figure, followed by his hands wrapping themselves around your waist from behind. John’s full body was pressed against your back. Butterflies soared through your tummy and goosebumps formed where he touched you.

“I didn’t mean to.” His voice was low, near your right ear. He kissed the top of your head and you set the juice down, turning to face him. Your belly pushed the two of you apart slightly, causing both of you to chuckle, as you quietly apologized. John put his hands onto your waist, pulling you as close as you could manage. You looked up, forgetting how tall he was compared to you, and met his eyes staring back with adoration plastered across his face.

“I guess I can forgive you.” You smirked, placing your hands atop your bump. You and John kept eye contact before he broke it, glancing down to your lips. You felt yourself slowly standing on your tippy-toes and your hands moved up to rest on his chest. John’s lips connected with your own, and you inhaled softly at the sensation.

“Wow.” You murmured, breaking apart. John smiled softly, his hand creeping up to the side of your cheek and pushing a piece of hair behind your ear. His other hand creeped and rest on the side of your belly. You felt as the baby kicked in the spot John rest his hand.

“Did… Move?” He asked, not forming a full sentence with his eyes widening. You nodded, adjusting his hand to where she was really active. You watched the emotions range across his face, a little smile crossing yours. Had John not experienced James’ mother's pregnancy? It hurt your heart to consider his past: what type of woman abandons her son? You love James, and honestly have since before meeting John; the man was just an added bonus. The thought of him not growing up with a mother caused a tightness to form within your chest.

“Can I ask you something?” You murmured, hearing the movie roar to life in the living room. That meant James wouldn't cause a distraction; though you still needed to give him his juice. John nodded, quietly removing his hands from your belly.

“How old was James when you two met?” Your voice was soft as you spoke.

“A couple weeks, why?” He responded.

“You've… you've just seemed so enamored with my pregnancy and… not that there's anything wrong with that- in fact, I’m kind of enjoying it too.” You trailed on, before shaking your head to gather your thoughts correctly. “I guess it just makes me sad you didn't get to experience the whole… waiting period. The doctors appointments, clothes shopping, putting the nursery together...”

“What are you trying to say?” John asked softly, stepping closer to your figure.

“I have a doctors appointment on the Eleventh, just a 7 month check-up,” You grabbed John’s hand, intertwining your fingers, “Would you like to come?” The man went silent for a moment, and you began to regret the question. Was it too soon? Did you overstep the boundaries? Maybe he doesn't really want the responsibility.

“I’d love to. I’ll just have to arrange my schedule.” John's voice was gentle. The anxiety that had claimed your veins vanished and you stood on your tippy-toes initiating a kiss. His large hands wrapped around your figure, as best they could.

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

November 11th

Your hands rest on your pregnant belly as you sat in the waiting room. Some random song from the 2000’s played over the speaker system as quiet murmurs from the people around you filled the spare silence. You didn't like hospitals, and had good reason not too. That was part of the reason you invited John to tag along. He hadn't arrived yet-- as you agreed to drive separate due to work conflicts-- but you at least expected him to be somewhat early.

A quiet sigh escaped your lips as the doors opened, however another couple walked in. Couples. That's all who was surrounding you currently. Your eyes glanced around the room, quietly observing the life around. There was a man and woman one seat to your left, giggling over something on a phone. Across the room sat two women lovingly holding hands and rubbing the pregnant belly of the other. Next to them were another man and woman, however she looked not as far along. There were a few others, but you didn't bother looking at them. Seeing them all so gleeful made you realize how lonely you must look, sitting by yourself. Granted, you've been to all your appointments alone, however now that you've got John it almost hurts more. Where is he?

The room smelt like a sterilized hospital. You weren't fond of the aroma that coated medical centers. Your history with hospitals hasn't always been great; your husband's passing is a cruel reminder of that. The scent triggered memories you didn't like to recall.

-- 6 and a half months earlier --

You pushed the heavy emergency room doors open, breathing rapidly. The beat of your heart was hard and unregulated as you ran to the receptionist. Time seemed slowed as the woman calmly directed you towards your destination. You pushed passed groups of people in the lobby, making your way to the floor and room the receptionist had given.

You shoved the door open before entering the hospital room. A doctor stood over the figure lying on the bed, clipboard in hand. Your eyes filled with tears as you approached the bed, your lifeless husband under the sheet.

“It was unexpected, Mrs. Austin. He collapsed at work, there was nothing anyone could've done.” The doctor's voice was trying to show remorse, but you know the woman didn't actually care.

“Miss (Y/L/N), we’re ready for you.” A small woman dressed in scrubs caught your attention, breaking you away from the memory. Right. You nearly forgot you’d changed your last name after his passing. It hurt too much, so your therapist recommended you change back to your maiden name. You nodded towards the nurse and used the chairs armrests to help you stand.

“How're you today, hun?” She asked, throwing a smile in your direction while opening a door to the exam rooms. She donned colorful scrubs, the top being some type of pink and purple design while the bottoms were a solid baby pink.

“I've been better.” You answered, following the short woman into one of the rooms. She gestured for you to sit onto the exam table before quickly washing her hands in the rooms sink.

“What’s got you down?” She asked, drying her hands and sliding on a pair of latex gloves. You climbed onto the table, looking around the bleak, cheaply decorated room.

“Oh- it’s- it’s stupid really.” You stuttered, waving your hand in dismissal, but the nurse gave you a raised brow look. She grabbed a blood pressure arm wrap off the wall and paced over to you.

“If it’s stupid, you wouldn't have reacted like that.” She murmured, wrapping the device around your arm.

“Okay, well my-” What the hell do you call John? “My boyfriend is supposed to be here, but he’s obviously late.” John's most definitely not your significant other-- at least you haven't had the conversation yet. You've only been on one date and a handful of hangouts. He felt like your boyfriend, you weren't gonna lie, but he isn't.

“Men.” The nurse scoffed, rolling her eyes. You chuckled at her comment. The two of you fell into silence as she took your blood pressure. You studied her face, noting the age added to it; guessing she was in her late fifties. She wore her hair back in a messy low bun and had a few grays scattered throughout.

“Sorry, I just realized I didn't catch your name.” You spoke up as she was getting ready to take your temperature.

“It’s Connie.” She smiled warmly.

“How long have you been a nurse?” You then asked as Connie had you stand up to gather your weight. She led you over to the scale, having you take off your shoes first.

“Thirty- three years. Everyday I experience something new.” The woman answered, writing down your weight and guiding you back to the exam table. She then used her stethoscope to gather the rhythm of your heartbeat. You two fell back into silence as she finished taking your vitals. You didn't know what it was, but she made you feel a little better. Sure, John didn't show, but there was nothing you could do. You still had the ultrasound anyways, maybe he’ll arrive then.

“Alright honey, you are healthy. We’ll get you over to the ultrasound room in just a couple minutes.” Connie spoke, wrapping her stethoscope back around her neck. You thanked her softly and she gave you a reassuring smile as she exited the room. A quiet sigh left your lips as you rubbed your belly, feeling the baby kick.

“Just you and me, kid.” You murmured as the sensation of her foot hitting your hand occurred.

You only waited for about two minutes before a knock sounded at the door and a figure walked in. Your eyes looked up to greet those of John. He looked a little rough around the edges. His usually gelled hair was out of place, his suit seemed disheveled and there was an obvious cut across the bridge of his nose.

“Hi,” He murmured, quietly closing the door.

“Are you okay? What the hell happened?” You immediately asked, sliding off the exam table and waddling over to his person. You reached your hands up, moving his face via his chin and assessing the gash across his nose.

“I’m fine.” The man responded, dismissing your question. “I’m sorry I’m late.” Your eyes studied his own with doubt sprinkled into the mix, but you shook your head, turning back around and sitting onto the exam table.

“It’s okay. I haven't gotten the ultrasound yet.” You responded, sitting down with a sigh. John nodded, sitting in the guest chair. His long body was slightly too large, having to stretch his legs. Even though you were upset, you couldn't stay mad for too long. Whatever the reason he was late must've been serious, and you honestly didn't feel like getting into it. You just wanted to go to the ultrasound and see the baby. John’s chair was close enough to the exam table that he placed his hand on your knee, thumb rubbing the area. You placed your hand over his own, causing the man to look up at you.

“I-I’m not mad.” You spoke, voice soft. “It’s just slightly alarming when you're late and arrive with wounds. How do you get so many? This isn't the first time I've seen your face cut, John. It’s worrying me.” You didn't mean for it to sound like such a lecture, as though you were scolding a student, but it did. John even slunk into his chair, the feeling of shame floating through his veins. The man didn't speak for a few moments, contemplating in his head whether to tell the truth or not.

John’s career isn't exactly conventional, he’s never told anyone about it before; save for James’ mother, who also was in the profession. He wanted to tell you, so badly. Lying to your face about most of his life always stung. He wishes he could tell you about the fact he’s an extremely skilled assassin with a large reputation under his belt. He wishes he could explain the cuts and bruises that litter his body on occasion, and why he has to leave for days at a time. But he can't. He doesn't have the courage to tell you and lose you.

Another knock interrupted the silence that had taken over the room as Connie walked in.

“Miss (Y/L/N), Mr. (Y/L/N). We’re ready for you in the ultrasound room.” The woman greeted, a smile across her cheeks. You looked over to John, quizzical as to why she referred to him with your last name, a question you’ll need to find the answer to later. John helped you stand up from the exam table, keeping his hand on your back as you began your walk to the other room. Connie opened a door to a darkened room and gestured for you to enter. You thanked her, walking into the space. You climbed onto the chair while John stood by, helping you sit comfortably.

“How are you today Miss (Y/L/N)? I’m Nora, i'll be doing your ultrasound today.” The doctor walked into the room, a wide smile on her face. She was younger than Connie, probably late thirties.

“I’m good, thanks.” You responded, gearing to pull your shirt up. Nora gathered a small tray of items, then rolled it over to the chair she was going to sit in. John’s hand wrapped around your own, giving it a gentle squeeze. You looked up at him, feeling bad for lashing out earlier. His eyes were filled with adoration, a small grin across his face. You'd nearly forgotten this was his first ultrasound.

“Alright, lift your shirt slightly higher, the gel is going to be cold.” The woman spoke, pulling on a pair of gloves. She switched on the machine, grabbing the gel from her tray. Her hand hovered over your bare belly and you flinched as soon as she poured the goo.

“Never get used to that.” You chuckled, watching as she used the machine to find the baby. John’s hand squeezed tighter as the heartbeat sounded over the little speaker.

“There's her heartbeat.” Nora murmured, finding the spot on your belly where you could make out her body and head. “And here is her head, her arm is poking here, and there's a leg and foot.”

“She's getting so big.” You spoke, sadness lacing your tone. John leaned down, kissing your forehead. He felt his heart swell at the sound echoing in the room.

“Yes, but she is healthy and happy. Has she been active?” The doctor asked, moving so you could see a different angle.

“God, yes. She’s always moving.” You answered with a laugh, glancing up to John whose eyes were fixed on the screen. His hand was still laced with your own, holding it tightly.

“Would you like pictures?” Nora then asked, removing the device she held from your belly and placing it onto the tray. You nodded as a response and the doctor was quick to type a few things into the machine before giving you a roll of paper towels to clean your tummy off. She then exit the room to go grab the printout of the ultrasound.

“Hey, why did she call you by my last name?” You asked John, throwing away the dirty paper towels and pulling your shirt down.

“I had to lie about us being married so they'd let me back.” John responded, watching as your cheeks tinted pink and a silent ‘Oh.’ left your lips. He padded towards you and pulled you into his chest as close as he could, due to the bump.

“I'm sorry I was late.” The man spoke softly. He gently kissed your forehead afterwords.

“It’s okay. You made it to the important part.” You responded, looking up at him. The cut across the bridge of nose still stood out, and you also noticed a little bruise on his cheekbone. You didn't see that when you first saw him. John leaned down, catching your lips against his own. You sighed dreamily into the kiss, running your hands up his chest and to the nape of his neck. He smiled into the kiss, however the moment was lost when Nora knocked on the door and stepped in.

“Here are the photos,” She began, handing you over an envelope, “And we’ll see you next time Miss (Y/L/N).”

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

You shivered when the cool autumn air hit as soon as you stepped out of the hospital. John’s hand found its way to your lower back as he began to follow you towards your car. His large figure towered over your own as you waddled beside him, hand resting firmly on your bump. You approached the vehicle and unlocked it, John standing closely behind you. Before you climbed in you grabbed the envelope from your purse, gently sliding out one of the ultrasound pictures and placing it into John’s hand.

“Thank you for coming.” You spoke softly. John held the photo up so he could see, a smile growing across his face.

“I should be thanking you for allowing me to.” He responded, opening his wallet and sliding the picture in, followed by kissing your forehead. You let out a soft giggle, one of your hands gently grasping his chin. You guided his head to greet yours, lips touching ever so gracefully. His free hand placed itself on your waist, fingers gripping onto your shirt.

“I’ll be leaving again.” John whispered softly, breaking the kiss. You felt your heart squeeze at his comment.

“How long?” You asked, trying not to let the sadness of your person be evident. The man still caught onto your shift in tone, a slight frown covering his features.

“Four days. I’ll be home early Saturday morning.” He responded, voice soft. You nodded, looking down at your belly. The silence that covered the air caused a chill to run up your spine, knowing the man was staring down at you. You quietly let out a breath, rubbing the top of your bump.

“Okay, well, we’ll be waiting patiently for your return.” You then spoke, looking back up. His eyes softened, realizing you were talking about the baby too. He gave you one more, heavenly kiss. His hand gripped your waist tightly, the other at the nape of your neck. His lips dominated your own in such a pleasing way, you'd need to take a cold shower later. The man ended up breaking the kiss. His eyes scanned you over; causing you to drown in his brown eyed haze. You bit your lip feeling a shyness wash over your person, and you swiftly turned to get into your car.

“(Y/N)?” The man asked, his hand wrapped around your arm to stop you.

“Yes?” You answered, turning back around.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” His voice was deep, and so softly spoken; you could listen to him speak for hours.

“I thought you'd never ask.” A smile overtook your cheeks as you squeaked from joy. John wrapped you in his arms, bringing you in for another kiss.

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

November 16th

Sirens echoed throughout the silenced streets. You groaned, adjusting your pregnancy pillow after being awoken by the noise and peeled your eyes open. Save for the city lights that shone in, the room was room was mostly pitch black. A sigh escaped your lips as you searched for your phone amongst the sheets. Your hand wrapped around the device, and you pulled it from under the blankets, your eyes greeting the screen. Blinking, you adjusted to the brightness and looked at the time. 5:32 AM.

“Great.” You huffed, laying the phone back down. Looks like you weren’t getting much sleep tonight. It’d already taken you two hours to fall asleep, and that was only three hours ago, 2AM. You looked at your phone again, unlocking it and opening up messages. You met the conversation you had with John earlier; he was at an airport\, while you were trying to go to bed. He’d left on another work trip on Tuesday; now it’s Saturday. Luckily, he was coming home today, but not for another hour.

John - 2:17AM: Shouldn’t you be asleep, little one?

You - 2:18AM: I can't sleep :(

John - 2:20AM: Why is that?

You - 2:23AM: Baby is sitting on an organ. And I miss you.

John - 2:24AM: I miss you too. Only 4 hours and I’ll be home.

You - 2:27AM: James can't contain his excitement for your arrival. He’s been counting down the days.

John - 2:28AM: I want to see you before we go to see James. It’ll be in four hours.

You - 2:30AM: That’s okay. I’m excited. I’ll probably be awake, but if not, the spare is under the rug.

John hadn’t replied after that, only leaving you to assume he’d boarded the flight. You fell asleep shortly after you’d sent the last text anyways.

Another siren roaring down the street caught your focus and you sighed, climbing out of bed. The cool air of the apartment caused a shiver to crawl down your spine and you swiftly grabbed a robe you’d tossed over the hamper. You then exited the bedroom, making way to the kitchen. You flipped on the light, grabbing decaf from the cupboard and beginning a brew. As the aroma of coffee filled your little apartment, you walked to the windows, opening the curtains to the still dark morning sky.

A sigh fell past your lips as you cast your eyes to the framed photo of your ex-husband. You subconsciously rubbed the side of you belly while picking it up, feeling the baby kick. The smile on his face caused an ache to form deep in your chest, and you furrowed your brows from the pain. Maybe you weren’t as moved on as you thought. It was difficult, however much you tried. His family, the Austin’s, still wanted to meet their newest family member. Your ex-mother-in-law demanded you give the baby the Austin last name, but you protested. To be honest, you wanted to move on from that part of your life, and she was always mean to you anyways. Not that that was the main reason, no, it was simply too painful to be keeping the memory of him around. You couldn’t even speak his name.

Swiftly placing the photo back, face down, you made your way to the kitchen. The coffee maker steamed and hissed, filling the pot as best it could. You grabbed a mug, followed by pouring just enough creamer to satisfy before taking the pot from it’s dock and pouring the fresh coffee. You glanced at the clock, reading 6:03.

The jingle of a key caught your attention, causing you to flip around and witness as John entered your apartment, spare in hand.

“John!” You exclaimed from excitement, making your way over to him. He dropped his bags, bringing you into a tight embrace. Your belly bumped his person, but he didn't mind, he was content having you back into his arms.

“I've missed you.” The man spoke, voice low. He used his fingers to pull your chin so your faces aligned and kissed you with such hunger; his beard scratched slightly. A deep sigh of content left your lips as the kiss broke and a lazy smile crossed your face.

“I missed you too.” You spoke softly, running your fingers through his raven locks; tucking what you could behind his ear. His dark eyes searched your own and you felt a blush crawl up your cheek. He leaned down kissing you once again, before breaking away and gathering his bags. You went back into the kitchen, quickly fixing John a new pot of coffee. As you poured in fresh water, his arms wrapped around you from behind, and his head rest against your own. You could tell he was exhausted, probably from the long flight. There wasn’t enough time to go back to sleep before he promised the Nanny he’d return and release her from work.

“Would you like some coffee?” You murmured softly, watching the machine pour the liquid into the pot. The man nodded, too lazy to verbally respond. You directed him towards the couch, sitting his figure down and placing a pillow into his lap. You then grabbed his suitcases, rolling them over by the couch.

“Do you want to change from that suit?” You murmured. John made eye contact, a lazy nod as his answer. You gave him a short nod before returning to the kitchen. Though you were in a separate room, there was still a view from the kitchen into the living room. Meaning, you could see as John began to change. The room was still dim as the sun hasn't risen yet, but your lamps illuminated just enough so your eyes could make out Johns figure as he stripped down to his boxers. You studied his torso, eyes widening at the bruises that covered his flesh. You also met the sight of his tattoos just before he slipped a white t-shirt over the exposed skin. Blinking, a blush crawled your cheeks and you turned around, pouring John’s coffee into a mug to avoid staring.

You thought back to the bruises, concern coursing through your veins. How could a book binder have such painful bruises? And leave on trips one to three times in a month? You didn't want to admit it, but a suspicion that John was lying about a large aspect of his career was starting to feel true.

Without another thought, you brought him the mug, placing it on the side table next to the couch. He thanked you, taking a sip of the hot liquid.

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

November 28th - Thanksgiving

The radio played a holiday tune while you worked on basting the turkey. James sat quietly across the bar from you, coloring in a ‘First Thanksgiving’ drawing you’d printed out for him. John wasn’t currently home, as he was out on a mission to purchase pie filling before the stores closed. It was Thanksgiving today, the first one you didn’t dread attending, as it was going to be only you, James and John. John brought up the idea a few weeks ago, mentioning how he’d like to have a real family dinner, for James. It made your heart swell, the man mentioning it as family dinner.

So, here you were making dinner for the three of you. Your family was upset that you had decided not to go home, but you claimed you didn’t want to fly at nearly eight months pregnant. You hadn’t told your family about John yet. Your parents loved your ex-husband, and the thought of you moving on already would make them throw a hissy fit.

“(Y/N)? Can you get me juice?” James’ sweet voice broke you from your thoughts and you nodded at the boy.

“Sure, honey.” You smiled, setting down the basting tool, and opening up the fridge. The absence of the juice became evident and you sighed, turning around to deliver the bad news.

“It looks like we’re out.” You spoke, closing the fridge. James furrowed his brows before perking up again, an eager smile crossing his cheeks.

“Dad has the old fridge downstairs! He keeps more juice down there.” The boy spoke eagerly. You chuckled at his enthusiasm and nodded, shucking off the apron you’d put on before you began cooking. The size of your bump has started to get in the way, causing many spills to happen. So, you purchased the apron to save your clothing.

“Okay, sweetie. I’ll be right back.” You answered, ruffling the boys hair. You exited the kitchen, making your way to the closed door that led to the basement. You felt slightly nervous, as John seemed quite private regarding the basement. In fact, you remember an instance where James wanted some type of drink and John refused to let you go downstairs to get it. His reasoning was the fact you’re heavily pregnant, but your suspicion of John’s lies provided there was another reason.

Twisting the handle you opened the door to a dark staircase, leading to a blackened room. You swallowed, flipping on the lightswitch and grabbing the banister as you made your way down. The first item you saw was a desk covered in tools used for book binding, you assumed at least. The desk was neatly organized, not even dust was out of place. Yours eyes scanned the space, seeing an old armoire next to the desk. You slowly opened one of the cabinet drawers, eyes greeting the sight of three black suits hanging neatly. Furrowing your brows, you snooped more, opening a few other compartments of the wardrobe.

Your breath caught in your throat, eyes greeting the sight of three pistols laid out neatly within a drawer. Your mind raced to the image of John’s bruised body, and the numerous cuts you’ve seen litter his face. There were few other things littered within the drawer, besides the guns. One was a photo. You picked it up first, examining the item. It appeared to be a photo of John and another woman. You felt your heart pull at the sight, but you kept studying the image. He was kissing her cheek as she smiled gleefully towards the camera. The physical condition of the photo wasn’t great, it was worn on the corners and had a few fold creases. There was even a few small stains that resembled brown dots scattered across it. Was that dried blood? You shook your head, placing the photo back into the drawer before grabbing another item.

The heaviness of the necklace you grabbed next took you by surprise. A beaded chain with a large cross at the bottom was all the jewelry had to offer. You studied the cross, noting how it lacked actual gems in the design, though there were holes for small stones. It was worn, like the photo, but remained intact. Why would John have this? He’s made no mention of religion before, nor even implied he was active in a church. It wasn’t anything special, but it must be related to the other items in the drawer.

You placed it back down, grabbing the last remaining thing from the drawer. It resembles that of a watch, a pocket watch; the one’s where you pressed a button and the cover opened to reveal the clock. You studied the outside of it, noting how it had a foreign language across the edge and an intricate design. It was a faded golden color, a few dirt stains covering the metal. You bit your lip, pressing the little button. The small device popped open, and you gasped as it took you by surprise. Inside, there wasn’t a watch, but a bloody thumbprint. Your eyes widened, and you swallowed heavily. Who are you, John Wick?

Suddenly the garage door sounded overhead. Heart racing, you quickly shoved all the compartments closed, slipping the small fake-watch into your pocket. You then waddled over to the fridge in the corner, opening it and spotting an extra jug of apple juice. Grabbing it, you hustled up the stairs, hoping to beat John into the kitchen.

“...Where is (Y/N)?” You heard John speak just as you opened the basement door. His eyes caught the movement and you blushed sheepishly, closing the door with the apple juice in hand. You could feel John’s stares coating your person as you waddled over to the two of them.

“James wanted juice.” You spoke softly, eyes glancing between the boy and John. You placed the jug onto the countertop and James’ eager self grabbed his empty cup shoving it in the direction of his father, silently asking him to pour the juice. John removed his eyes from you and opened the juice for his son, filling the cup with it. You placed your hand into your pocket, feeling the cool metal of the… thing. You weren’t quite sure what it is, and as to why there's a bloody thumbprint inside of it. It was scary. You thought you knew your boyfriend, but this? This was curious.

You watched John put away some of the groceries he’d gotten while you put your apron back on. His handsome figure caused an ache to form in your lower abdomen, but you didn’t have time to be horny. You needed to know who this man is. Was he some type of mafia boss? You know those guys are prevalent in New York. Oh my god, (Y/N). You’re dating a mafia boss. Wait. No. That’s dumb. Was he a dirty businessman? Does he do shady shit? You shook your head, letting out a huff of amusement from your stupid thoughts. You stepped in front of the turkey, continuing on with basting.

“Can I go watch cartoons?” James asked, setting down some crayons in his grasp. You looked at his drawing and noticed how he’d finished coloring it in. Sure, the people were colored variants of blue and green, but he completed it.

“Sure, baby.” You answered without thought. After the boy had scurried off, only you and John remained in the kitchen. It was silent, save for the radio that still played Christmas music. You could feel John was a little tense, and it was probably due to you going to the basement.

“You know how I feel about you going down there.” John spoke up after a few moments. He’d begun to gather the items needed to begin the mashed potatoes.

“Your son wanted a drink.” You merely answered, however the guilt of taking the device was beginning to eat at you. You subconsciously placed your hand over your pocket, and John’s eyes caught the movement.

“What’s in your pocket?” His voice was low, causing your heart rate to pick up speed. You grasped the item in your hand tightly, anxiety coursing its way through your veins. You swallowed thickly, looking at John. His stare was heavy, eyes dark. It caused a slight stir in your abdomen from the tension. You bit your lip, keeping eye contact before pulling the item from your pocket. You twirled it in your hand before you held the metal piece up so that the man could see it.

“Who are you.” Your voice was low, asking the question in the form of a statement. John grabbed the device from your hand, slowly, as though he didn’t want to scare you. You studied his face as he stared down, avoiding eye contact. A quiet sigh escaped his lips as he looked back up at you, sadness evident. You felt your heart soften at his expression, your guard lowering slightly.

“I didn’t want for you to find out this way.” He murmured, staying quiet as to not alarm James. Your heart felt pained and you took a deep breath.

“Who are you, John?” You repeated, voice softer. The man sighed, placing the item down onto the counter and gestured for you to sit onto one of the barstools. You quietly thanked him, sitting on the chair. You watched as his eyes stared at your belly while you rubbed it. Over the time you’ve dated, he’s become really fond of your daughter. He loves to feel her kick, or any movements she does really. He’s also kept her ultrasound picture in his wallet ever since you gave it to him. When he goes out of town, he uses that photo as a way to calm down. That and alcohol.

“I’m an assassin. I receive contracts to kill people, bad people only.” John spoke so quietly, you barely heard. You know he’s trying to remain quiet incase James could hear. You felt your heart rate pick up, the dots beginning to connect. The cuts, the bruises, the occasional small blood splatter across his collar. The guns in the drawer downstairs, the mysterious items as well. John is an assassin; a man who is paid to kill people. You studied his figure; his strong muscles capable of inflicting pain, large callused hands which have been covered with human blood many times, strong, intimidating face with dark eyes. A chill ran down your spine as you made eye contact.

“Does James know?” You then asked, not allowing his stare to intimidate. John shuffled on his feet, almost as though he was a scolded schoolboy.

“No. He doesn't, and I'd prefer to keep it that way. At least until he's older.” He answered after a few moments. You nodded, respecting his wishes. Besides, telling James, whose six years old, that his father kills people will definitely scar the boy.

“What is that thing?” You then questioned, gesturing towards the fake watch in John's hand. He looked down at it, a deep sigh escaping his throat.

“It’s called a Marker. It’s a ‘You owe me, no questions asked’ sealed with their blood..” He answered, popping the device open. He held it so you could see the thumbprint once again.

“And the woman in the photo, who is she?” You spoke up, mind replaying the image of the mysterious lady. John seemed genuinely happy in the image, it almost hurt that it wasn't you being the reason behind his joy. A little off your rocker, sure; However, you're almost eight months pregnant and can blame everything on your hormones. The man shut the marker, sliding it into his pocket. He glanced at the walkway that connected the living room to the kitchen, knowing his son was close to earshot. You gestured for you to stand, and you obeyed, sliding off the bar stool and regaining balance using the counter top.

John grabbed your hand, snagging a cardigan you’d left on a table chair, before leading you towards the sliding doors that led to the patio. He quickly slid them open, tugging you outside before closing them again. You shivered, instantly triggering John to hand you the article. Thanking him softly, you slid the warmth over your chilly arms before looking up again. You found the man staring out into the yard, a lost look donning his face. You followed his gaze, not meeting the sight of anything but the hedges that sculpted the backyard..

“Baby?” You questioned, softening your guard and touching your cold hand to his bicep. He blinked at the sensation, pulling him out of his trance.

“Her name was Helen. She is-” He paused, looking down at you,”She was James’ mother.” A quiet ‘Oh.’ Left your lips and you wrapped your arms around his strong one, attempting to comfort him. You gently rubbed his lower back, a trick you used to use with your ex-husband to ease his anxiety.

“Why do you say ‘was’?” You spoke after a few moments. Was she deceased now? John scoffed, shaking his head. Genuine emotion gathered in the creases of his eyes as he looked down at his feet.

“She gave birth to him in a hotel room in France, not bothering to go to a hospital. He didn't have a birth certificate or social security number. When she showed up with him, she hadn't even given him a name.” He paused with a sigh, “After she left, I finally took him and got him recognized as a citizen. That makes me his sole guardian.”

“How did you not know she was… expecting?” Curiosity filled your veins. You’ve been dating for a few months, you barely knew John. It felt good, minus the circumstances of the conversation, to really see him feel.

“We had a fight about… the business; our careers. She stormed out and never returned- Until James.” He spoke lowly. You wrapped your arms around his core, pulling him in for the tightest hug you could manage. He slowly mimicked your actions, too wrapping his arms around your body. You two hugged in the cold for a few more seconds before you shivered.

“I know this is cheesy of me to say, but... You have me now. I’m not going to abandon you. You’re stuck with me, bub.” You said lightly, slowly inching towards the sliding door. John broke and chuckled from your comment, shaking his head. You smiled, opening the door and entering back into the warm house. Shivers ran down your spine as you pulled the cardigan tighter around your figure. John closed the door and came up behind you, kissing the top of your head.

“Thank you, (Y/N).” He spoke, gaining your attention and leaned down to kiss you. You accepted, enjoying the minor beard burn that came when kissing him. He broke the kiss with a smile, and stepped back.

“You’re welcome, baby. Now I need your strong muscles to lift this fat turkey into the oven.” You spoke, handing John a pair of minnie mouse themed oven mitts.

#john wick fanfiction #john wick fanfic #john wick x reader #john wick x you #keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #keanu x you #keanu reeves fanfiction

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drustvar-dragonfly · 4 years

Text

LFC ~ The Dragonfly

The Basics ––– –

Name: Lydia Willow Reid

Nickname(s): Willow, Dragonfly, Lyds

Age: 28

Birthday: September 22nd

Race: Human

Gender: Female

Marital Status: Single / Never married

Relationship Status: Single

Alignment: Chaotic good

FC/Likeness: Holland Roden & Amber Koval

Physical Appearance ––– –

Hair: Brilliant red

Eyes: Verdant green

Height: 5′5″

Build: Somewhat curvy with lean muscle tone along her legs, stomach, and arms.

Distinguishing Marks: A canvas of scars covers almost the entirety of her back, the ghosts of flames licking their way from her waistline all the way up to her shoulders. || Puncture wounds (five in total, each through-and-through) - left wrist, right forearm, left shoulder, right upper thigh, left side of abdomen. These are relatively new, but will leave lasting scars. || A light dusting of freckles across the tops of her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. || Runes are carved into the flesh of her forearms, Drust in origin, and have various uses.

Tattoos: Special ink has been used to transform the large scar on her back into a beautiful tattoo - a dragonfly, wings fanning out across her shoulder blades, surrounded by depictions of native flora - this changes with the passing of the seasons. || Wildflowers span from the center of her left thigh, and curl around to the outside of that hip.

Piercings: Both ears are pierced four times - a daith piercing in each, 2 in the earlobe, and 1 in the upper cartilage.

Common Accessories: A hex bag of protection is almost always on her person when out traveling the wilds. || A locket that once belonged to her mother. || Various pouches and knickknacks of magic enhancement.

Personal Information––– –

Profession: Harvest Witch, spiritualist medium, supplier of tonics and remedies across the lands of Kul Tiras.

Hobbies: Perfecting her craft, cooking, learning from her Grandmother, painting, horseback riding, singing, fishing, reading, hiking, and the occasional drink.

Languages: Common, bits of the older languages

Residence: Fallhaven, Drustvar

Birthplace: Fallhaven, Drustvar

Religion: The old ways

Fears: Suffering the same fate as her mother, succumbing to darker magics, the loss of what little family she has left, imprisonment / enslavement.

Relationships ––– -

Spouse: None

Children: None

Parents: Thomas Falkner (unknown, presumed deceased), Lilian Reid (deceased)

Siblings: None

Other Relatives: Unknown family back on the mainland. ( @jasper-quinn & @booksinbloom - cousins)

Pets: Cinder - black cat and familiar || Echo - barn owl and companion || Chicken - A mountain horse she raised from a filly

Sex & Romance ––– -

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual

Preferred Emotional Role: submissive | dominant | switch

Preferred Sexual Role: submissive | dominant | switch

Libido: Healthy

Turn ons: Body worship, some forms of bondage, delayed gratification, strength, ruggedness, compassion

Turn offs: Undeath, controlling behavior, poor hygiene, closed-mindedness

Love Language: Time, showing genuine interest in her partner’s hobbies, physical contact in its many forms, spontaneous gifts/displays of affection.

Relationship Tendencies: Not cold or closed off, but hesitant to jump into anything too quickly. Enjoys the chase, whether she’s on the receiving end or not. Passionate and carefree. Generally understanding and tender, though she’s unafraid of dishing out tough love where it’s necessary.

Traits ––– -

* Bold your character’s answer.

Extroverted / In Between / Introverted

Disorganized / In Between / Organized

Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded

Calm / In Between / Anxious

Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable

Cautious / In Between / Reckless

Patient / In Between / Impatient

Outspoken / In Between / Reserved

Leader / In Between / Follower

Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic

Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic

Traditional / In Between / Modern

Hard-working / In Between / Lazy

Cultured / In Between / Uncultured

Loyal / In Between / Disloyal

Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

Additional information ––– –

Smoking Habit: Rarely.

Drugs: Only thistle, and only occasionally.

Alcohol: Honey wine on occasion.

RP Hooks ––– –

Drustvar - She has lived there her entire life, and travels relatively frequently between Stormsong and Tiragarde Sound. Her familial ties to the area reach back for generations, therefore it’s not out of the question that a certain level of familiarity would be tied to her name in certain circles.

Profession - She makes and sells natural tonics, remedies, and enchantments all over Kul Tiras.

Witchcraft/Druidism - While not a member of the coven, and though she doesn’t practice openly, it’s likely she’s made some connections with like-minded individuals throughout her life.

OOC ––– –

Willing to RP through Tumblr or Discord, even in-game if schedules line-up. I’m always open to new plots and contacts, whether it’s long-term story arcs or a simple one-off interaction, so feel free to shoot me a message if you’d like to set something up! I’m happy to throw a starter out, or vice versa. ^-^

#LFC #Character sheet #looking for contact #|Character Info|#lydia reid #Drustvar

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hannah-and-the-jets · 3 years

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Hey everyone! I wanted to post a little sneak peak for my upcoming fic, Pawns of War. I’m hoping by posting this little snippet will get me more hyped to keep writing and pushing forward. I have big ideas for this fic, but just need the self push to keep going.

I don’t have an official description of it yet, but it is an original female character main character, and starts before the first wizarding war. It follows the Black Brothers and a young girl named Anastasiya Devin.

Hope you guys enjoy!

---

Anastasiya thought it was simply a mistake, that they must be at the wrong place. Her father’s strong hand sat on her left shoulder keeping her still. A proper lady does not fidget, her mother reminds her every time she gets restless. However, right now she was unsure, because they must be at the wrong house.

Father had announced last night at dinner that they were going to meet new friends in the morning and for her to be on her best behavior. Ana knew that she did not like meeting new friends because her mother would dress her in the stiffest robes that had itchy lace at the cuffs and collars. Today was no exception to that as she was forced into a royal blue dressing robe with white lace scratching her neck and wrist. She tugged uncomfortably at her right cuff as her father started to guide her towards the building.

They were somewhere in Muggle London. Her father told her that last night, but she was not sure where. The building before her was grimy with broken windows and missing bricks. There were several sets of steps that led up to the doors that were weathered and peeling in paint. Thankfully it was still morning, as she was afraid of what it would be like at night.

As they approached the building, the bricks started to rumble and shake. She worried that it was an earthquake - she had just learned about those from her tutor -, but her father confidently led her up to the set of stairs that appeared from the concrete. The bricks multiplied and produced another door that was deep plum color that stood out in appearance from the rest of the house fronts. The silver number 12 glistened on the door, reflecting the mid morning sunshine.

Her father grabbed the knocker that rested below the number and gave one sharp knock. The knocker was a serpent that kept coiling around itself and displaying its fangs to them. She followed her father’s movements and rested her back against him, unsure of what it would be like inside. Her home was big and was painted in blues and whites. Her father would take her around the house now and introduce her to paintings of relatives and retell their lives. Ana loved hearing them and learning about everyone who lived in her house before her. However, this house scared her, and she had not set a foot inside yet.

The door swung open to reveal a house elf just shorter than herself. She was short for only being seven, but her parents would reassure her that she would grow as strong and tall as they were. This house elf did not look like the ones that her family had. This one bore a deep scowl and blood shot eyes with many folds of skin across his face. When he spoke it was with a scratchy and deep voice, “Welcome to Grimmauld Place. Master and Mistress Black is in the Drawing Room.”

The house elf led them through a massive grand entrance. Portraits of past relatives lined the dark green walls, and so did the stuffed heads of deceased house elves. The high ceiling held a chandelier that twinkled light softly onto the art. To their right was a staircase that was stained so dark that it was practically black. As they walked past the portraits, each one would halt their conversations or doings and stare down their perfectly angled noses at the outsiders. Her father steered her behind the house elf into a room on their left.

The drawing room was more like a ballroom in her mind. The tallest windows that she had ever seen sat at the front of the room giving a view of the front steps and the street beyond. The walls were the same green color as the entrance and hallway, but seemed more comforting than out there. The drawing room housed an enormous fireplace, numerous pieces of artwork, and ornate chairs and a matching loveseat by the window.

A thin boy sat behind the grand piano playing a soft, delicate passage. His fine black hair was combed back from his face, but it still curled slightly around his neck. In the chair closest to the window, an angular woman sat straight and closed the book in her lap when they walked into the room. A man who appeared to be around her father’s age, who also shared the same dark hair and pale complexion as the others, stood next to the loveseat. There sat the last family member, a boy older than herself, looking rather uncomfortable in his dressing robes as well. He tugged at the wrists and grumbled.

Everyone in the room rose to stand as the house elf croaked, “Sir Alyosha Devin and his daughter for Master and Mistress Black.”

#harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #fanfic #sirius black #regulus black #the marauders #sirius black fanfiction #marauders fanfiction

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what-big-teeth · 5 years

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Spark (Male Fire Elemental, pt. 1)

When graduate student Simone Price inherits her deceased grandmother’s house, she hopes to mend bridges that were long burned prior to the sudden passing by way of fond memories. But she soon learns two important truths. One, the cause behind those severed connections is still around. Two, the childhood fables her grandmother told her are more rooted in reality than imaginative fantasy.

Female Human (POV) x Male Monster [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] ”It’s...charming, you know? Really rustic.” Mica carefully chooses her words and attempts a cheerful smile. When she fails, she settles on tucking a loose microbraid behind her deep brown ear. “Right, Mason?”

Mason hefts the large, black garbage bag full of cleaning tools off the ground, gives the old house a once-over from top to bottom, then snorts. Loudly. Mica swiftly elbows her twin in the ribs for “being rude”, but even I can’t stop my nose from scrunching up in displeasure.

She can dress up her opinion with as many euphemisms as she wants. But the truth is plain as day: Nana’s place has gone to the dogs.

The two story’s once brilliant white paint is a dingy, chipping mess that reveals the underlying dark decay. The windows, always transparent enough to see through when the curtains were drawn back, are caked with grime and rust. And the front door, a deep, beautiful burgundy my mind can still picture, has dulled into a paler shade of red. I wouldn’t be surprised if Nana’s little garden in the backyard has been choked by weeds and overrun with wild plants. It saddens me to see the current state of her home compared to when my visits were more common. That was before Dad suddenly severed all contact with Nana ten years ago, when I was only thirteen.

A warm weight settles onto my shoulder, fending off the morning’s autumnal chill. Mica wears a sympathetic smile.

“Are you alright, Simone?”

I’ll never be able to thank Mica and Mason enough for sacrificing part of their Thanksgiving break to help me out. But I can try by remaining as positive as possible.

“I will be,” I say. “Once Nana’s place starts looking like it used to.”

“It’s your house now,” Mason says, adjusting his grip on the garbage bag. Oddly enough, his words sound sad. “You sure you don’t want to do anything different with it?”

It came as a shock when Nana’s last will and testament bequeathed the entirety of her property and assets to me. Dad did all he could to contest the document, but his attempts failed. I’ll never forget the haunted look in his dark eyes when I asked him why he disagreed with my newfound inheritance.

“That place isn’t a home, baby. Not with what it’s got locked inside of it.”

I later refused to budge on the matter, even when he begged me to. After that, Dad told me to do as I wished, but to be careful and stay vigilant. I didn’t understand what he meant then and I still don’t. But I hope, with some hard work and lots of love, Nana’s house will be whole again. Then with time, Dad will come to visit and remember the good times before his mother’s passing.

“Earth to Simone,” Mason says. “Did you hear me?”

“Yeah, and I’m sure.” I fish out the front door key from my coat pocket and smile. “Let’s get to work.”

We hang our coats in the entryway. Once the buckets, brooms, and mops are divvied up among us, Mason works on doling out the cleaning solution. We then decide on who gets what area. Mason is quick to claim the upstairs, citing the possibility of rotten wood weakening the floor.

“I’d rather fall to the first floor and get hurt than see it happen to you two,” he says in an obstinate tone. “Especially since you two might end up worse off.”

“Always the gentleman,” Mica mutters, rolling her light brown eyes. “I’ll take the kitchen and dining room. Might be worth it to see what condition your Nana’s cookware is in.”

“Good idea,” I say. “Just be sure to yell if you find anything interesting.”

“Will do!” She grabs her broom, bucket, and mop,then leaves the foyer.

“Guess that leaves me with the living room and fireplace,” I say.

Mason replies with a hum I can’t discern, which is weird since Mica and I are fluent in Mason-ese. Always have been since we were little kids.

“Something up?” I ask.

His neutral expression doesn’t reveal a thing and that worries me. He’s always had a tell or two, even when he’s tried to hide something from me. Instead of talking, he just ties back his dreadlocks, grabs his share of the cleaning supplies, and walks towards the stairs.

“Call me if you need anything.”

I follow his old sneakers until they vanish from my line of sight. That was weird. But there’s no point in digging to figure out what’s going on. He’ll tell me when he feels like it.

After locking the front door and grabbing a broom, my feet guide me down the main hallway towards the living room. And my heart nearly breaks at the sight. Just about everything is covered in a thin layer of dust and cobwebs, including Nana’s knitting basket and needles. The floor and rug are worst off and I’m somewhat scared to tackle the fireplace. But if I don’t, no one else besides Mica and Mason will. Especially not anyone in town.

After asking for directions and mentioning our reasons for being here, nearly everyone bid us a swift farewell, claiming they had something to do. Only a few upfront people told us to leave the estate alone and head back home, claiming that a witch once lived there.

My grip on the broom handle tightens to the point of pain.

Nana was many things; a huge sun tea addict, an amazing storyteller, and a wonderful knitter. She may have used Black folk magic to help me with my childhood night terrors, but she wasn’t a—

“Ow!”

A thick wooden splinter peers up at me from my index finger alongside a bead of blood. This is why I told Mason we should’ve packed the plastic brooms instead. I lean the broom against the brick mantle, swiftly remove the sliver, and flick it into the dead fireplace.

The piled ash sparks with light and heat, singeing the cobwebs.

“What in the…”

“Simone!”

“Gah!” I wait until my racing pulse calms a bit then respond. “Yeah?”

“I found your Nana’s bundt cake pan,” Mica yells out, “but I can’t tell if it’s still usable.”

“I’ll be there in a moment!”

I look back at the fireplace. Nothing but cold ash. I shake my head and make my way to the kitchen, trying to recall where Mason keeps the mini first-aid kit in his pickup truck.

Midday sneaks up on us, warming the chilly house a few more degrees. Mica decides it’s the perfect time to break for lunch and Mason agrees.

“We passed by a burger joint on the main road,” Mica says, wiping off her hands. “Wanna give it a try?”

Even with the tempting prospect of a patty melt, my mind keeps drifting back to the fireplace. And what I think I witnessed.

“Sure, but do you guys mind going without me? I want to get more cleaning in before the day’s out.”

“Seriously?” Mason is quick to call out my attempt at an excuse. “We’ve been at it for four hours.”

Before Mica can chastise him for being, well, himself, I think up a compromise.

“What if I took an extended break instead? I won’t touch a broom, mop, or bucket while you guys are out and I’ll eat with you once you get back. Sounds good?”

“Sounds perfect!” Mica chirps up. She grabs Mason by his forearm and starts hauling him towards the foyer before he can object. “We’ll be back soon. A patty melt with onions and a small fry?”

“And a bottled water too, please!”

The front door slams shut, the sound echoing until the truck’s engine revs up. I let out a heavy sigh and plop down onto the couch, uncaring of the weak cushioning.

“Finally. I thought they’d never leave.”

I stop myself from launching off the sofa, but my feet still slip on the area rug. My ass slams onto the floor with a hard thud and a deep chuckle follows soon after.

“You’re not very graceful, are you?”

“Who—!”

A large, bright flame emerges from the ash piled in the fireplace. It twists and curls in random patterns until it settles into the distinctive outline of a humanoid face. It grins. I scramble away and slam into the opposite wall.

“What’s this?” it says. “A descendant of Abigail, afraid of me?”

No shit. Who in their right mind wouldn’t be? But, as the barely-calm-and-reasonable part of my brain points out, I won’t get any answers if I let my tongue turn into lead.

“Who are you? How do you know Nana?”

The flame…face…creature remains silent far longer than need be. Its eyes narrow.

“Don’t mock me, girl. You know very well who I am. Or did you forget Abigail’s tales all too quickly?”

The creature’s words slowly begin to make sense, as much as my mind begs them not to. Nana used to tell me all kinds of stories when I was little. But she’d always retell my favorite whenever I asked: the story of a fearless Black girl who trapped an evil flame spirit, thereby saving the town she lived in.

“Oh my god. That story was about you?”

“Cruel, isn’t it? Conditioning a child to believe a lie through a simple fable. All whilst I could hear and see everything. Abigail was always a manipulative, abusive wench.”

Hot, white anger floods my body, wrenching me to my feet.

“Like hell,” I hiss, stalking towards the fireplace.

The creature peers up at me, stunned and silent. Good.

“Nana would never harm anyone. But she sure as hell didn’t take shit from anybody. Ever. What did you do?”

The story always characterized the fire spirit as evil, but never gave a reason. So why not ask the source?

“Well?!”

“Simone?”

My gaze snaps up. Mason stares at me with brows furrowed with concern and confusion. My rage dissipates into nothing, leaving me drained.

“You alright?” he asks.

I glance down at the fireplace. The creature’s vanished. Leaving me to look like an utter fool.

“Uh, yeah! I was just…re-enacting a scene from my favorite drama! Nothing else to do while waiting for you guys to get back, right?”

Mason’s eyes narrow, the simple action screaming ‘bullshit’. “Not even looking at your phone?”

I jam my hand inside my back jeans pocket and pull out my smartphone. Surprisingly, there’s service.

“Not enough bars,” I lie.

Mason doesn’t look convinced in the slightest, but thankfully, he lets my horrible excuse slide. He holds up a large, white paper bag stained with grease. The scent wafting from the inside makes my empty stomach clench with anticipation.

“Mica and I will be in the dining room. Be sure to come and eat while the food’s hot.”

He walks off, the wooden floor creaking underneath his every step. With a heavy sigh, I start to follow.

“Perhaps you are more like Abigail than I first believed: utterly stubborn and foolishly brave.”

I stop moving. If the creature’s words were meant to insult me, they fail. Pride wells up in me and it takes all my willpower to not smile. It somehow notices and scoffs.

“To answer your earlier questions, past humans have called me a fire elemental. And one gave me the name Ignis.”

The creature...Ignis begins to recede back into the ash pile, but my mouth opens before it can vanish.

“Wait.”

He does, to my surprise.

“You weren’t awake before we arrived, right? Which means something made you come around.”

I carefully recall Nana’s story, then all of the related events leading up until now. My eyes widen.

“It was my blood on the splinter. That’s what woke you up. Because I’m of her bloodline.”

Ignis continues to sink further into the ash, but says one last thing.

“You have a sharp mind as well. How interesting…”

The fireplace goes dark, but I stand before it, staring.

I get it now. I understand why Dad severed contact with Nana ten years ago and never wanted me to inherit this place. Why Nana told me those childhood fables and willed her home to me.

But Dad’s still wrong. This house will be a home. But first, I have to finish what Nana started.

#monster boyfriend #monster/human #monster romance #fire elemental boyfriend #exophilia #there are tons of stories where MC/reader inherits a house #why not add another #my writing #female reader #fem reader

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charliejrogers · 4 years

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Soul (2020) - Review & Analysis

See? 2020 wasn’t so bad. We got TWO Taylor Swift albums AND two Pixar movies! I joke. 2020 still sucked. Still, it is pretty notable to be getting two Pixar films in the same year. Last time that happened was in 2015 when we got Inside Out (what I thought was a masterpiece) and The Good Dinosaur (and I will die on the hill that more than a visual stunner it was a good movie too!) This year we’ve already had what I consider the functional equivalent of The Good Dinosaur in Onward, a very good, but ultimately light adventure tale of brotherhood. That means my expectations for this film Soul, from Inside Out’s director Pete Docter (also the director of Monsters Inc. and Up) were unfairly high. This was to be the year’s Pixar masterpiece.

It certainly tries to be. It’ a heavier film than Onward, deciding to tackle more existential questions like... “is there a point to life?” and “how do we avoid living a meaningless life?” You know… the stuff you usually see in kids’ movies. And while I am a big proponent of Pixar and recognize it is unfair to call their movies “kids’ movies,” the magic of their films usually derives from their ability to appeal to adults and kids alike. Though I love Inside Out dearly, I know it wasn’t a huge hit with kids, so it will never remembered as fondly as say Wall-E, Finding Nemo, or the seminal Toy Story . I say this because… I’m not even sure who this film is meant for? I really cannot imagine a child enjoying this film, but I’m also not a child so I won’t hold that against the film.

As an adult, however, I only moderately enjoyed the film. What it definitely has going for it is the beauty of the animation. I think The Good Dinosaur was probably still prettier, but that’s only because nature is prettier than city streets. This movie is drop dead gorgeous with environments sometimes indistinguishable from photographs.

Furthermore, the world of this movie is really, really interesting and creative in a way only Pixar could make. Well… sort of. A lot of the film is just our world, New York City to be precise. The movie tells the story of struggling, middle-aged jazz pianist Joe Gardner (Jamie Foxx) whose day job as a junior high band teacher pays the bills but doesn’t feed his soul. He’s only there at the behest of his mother (Phylicia Rashad). If not for her, Joe would be out there every day auditioning for gigs, trying to make it big and (likely) starving from want of work (though certainly not for want of talent). She’s more elated when Joe gets news he’s being made a full-time faculty member than when he gets a chance at a once-in-a-lifetime gig

But as fate would have it, that gig was what he’d been waiting for his whole life, his chance at the big time, the chance to play alongside a modern day legend, jazz sax player Dorothea Williams (Angela Bassett). He’s so excited when he gets the gig he can’t keep his eyes on traffic and inadvertently keeps getting himself into danger. Eventually, in his distraction, he actually falls down an open manhole. And he dies.

Yes. You read that correctly. Joe dies like 10 minutes into the movie. It’s really rather jarring tonally, and I feel like his death isn’t made dramatic at all. Something more impactful would make his inevitable resurrection all the more special. This is a studio that made me cry three times in 10 minutes when I first watched Up… they could have done something more here. Instead, the death just happens and we clip along to the next scene. This slightly rushed pacing continues throughout the film and is ultimately my biggest complaint with the movie. For something that tackles very big and heavy themes, it never really gives them time to breathe.

Anyway, the film then starts part 2 of 4. With Joe dead, we now see his soul alone in a vast black nothingness, standing on a bridge towards a bright light (what is referred to as the great beyond). Joe isn’t ready to die – he was just about to have his big break! So he manages to escape from the bridge to the Great Beyond into the world of the Great Before. It’s here that Pixar’s creativity gets to shine the most. The Great Before is the land in which personalities are born. Big Picasso-esque extradimensional figures (all inexplicably named Jerry and all with New Zealand accents) serve as guardians of the little, uniformly blue souls as they go through the “You Seminar” where they engage in various activities in order to become who they will eventually become. The Jerries usher the souls into various pavilions (including selflessness and insecurity as well as self-absorption!) in order to create all of our unique personalities. Apparently, the film sides hard on the nature side of the nature vs. nurture debate.

But the most important part of the seminar is pairing these newly developing souls with a recently deceased soul as a mentor. Together the two are supposed to work together until they find the developing soul’s “spark.” Once a soul gets their spark, they are ready to head to Earth and start life. Some people get their spark, i.e. their inspiration to live, from hearing about their mentor’s great life achievements in “the Hall of You” (mentors runs the gamut from Archimedes to Mother Teresa). Other souls get their spark from time spent in “the Hall of Everything,” where souls can try out various Earth hobbies and find what they will eventually love most in life (whether that’s painting, acting, or in Joe’s case jazz piano).

It’s a clever conceit, and I very much enjoyed my time spent in the colorful world of the Great Before. The movie gains its primary plot here when Joe (who isn’t supposed to be a mentor and should just be on his way to the Great Beyond) gets confused with a recently-deceased, world-renowned child psychologist and accordingly is assigned to be the mentor for a particularly difficult-to-inspire soul, referred to only by the number 22 (Tina Fey). Mentors have tried and failed to give 22 their spark for thousands of year. Ultimately, 22 just doesn’t get the hoopla about Earth and rather just enjoys the routine of their “non-life” in the Great Before. However, they and Joe make a deal. Since whenever a soul gets their spark, they get an Earth pass, if 22 gets their spark, they agree to give their pass to Joe, allowing him to return to his life and allowing themself to stay in the Great Before forever.

That plan doesn’t work. Instead the pair find some “shamans” in a desert within the Great Before who try to perform a resurrection ritual for Joe. This was probably the most creative aspect of this film’s plot. Shamans, mystics, or just serious meditators on Earth can actually have their souls transcend into the spiritual realm, allowing them to interacts with the other spirits who are permanently in the spiritual realm, like Joe and 22. I make special notice to include “serious meditators” because the main mystic/shaman is Moonwind (Graham Norton) who finds zen and therefore access to the spiritual realm by being a sign twirler on a street corner in NYC. But what I love about this aspect of the movie is its explanation that not just serious meditators can transcend to this realm, but actually any human can. Any time anyone gets “in the zone,” like when they get lost in playing music or basketball (or in my case doing physics problems), their soul can transcend up to the spiritual realm. The shamans are only in that they are aware of and can interact with that new reality; the rest of us are not.

However, in a fun, if a little too on-the-nose aside, the main job of the shamans is to return lost souls to Earth. Lost souls aren’t dead, they just belong to people who have become so addicted to something (e.g. greed) that they become soulless while living. The lone example the movie gives is of a hedge fund manager whose soul they manage to return and who subsequently quits his job. I’m sure there are nice hedge fund managers out there… so this joke fell flat for me even if I found the concept intriguing.

So the shamans perform their resurrection ritual. It goes predictably poorly as we’re only maybe 35 minutes into the movie and it can’t end yet. So we enter part 3 of the film where, because of the botched ritual, Joe’s soul inadvertently gets put into a cat and 22’s soul into Joe’s body. The rest of part 3 sees Joe and 22 try to put things back together. All the while, 22 by being in Joe’s body gets to finally experience real life on Earth (including their first experience of the human senses including tasting pizza). They find that they like Earth a whole heck of a lot, finding greatest pleasure in the smallest of things: a leaf falling from a tree, conversation among friends, a child’s hand being held. Plus, by being a naïve soul trapped in an old soul’s body, 22’s interactions with Joe’s family and friends (while Joe looks on in cat form) grants Joe an almost It’s A Wonderful Life type experience. 22 says and does things with Joe’s voice and body that he might never dream of saying, but the result of 22′s fresh take on life is the creation of new and genuine connections with those around him in ways he never had previously.

Of course, it’s not a kid’s movie without some sort of villain. While on Earth, Joe and 22 are being hunted by Terry, another extradimensional figure who serves as the Great Beyond’s accountant. Terry’s not so much a villain as he is a semi-comical plot device. While I appreciate that this movie eschews a true “villain,” I feel like Terry did little to add to this movie’s already very lacking sense of dramatic tension. I would have been perfectly content if they just added more horror and dread to Joe’s sense of loss of life.

Eventually, Terry manages to track down the pair and bring them back to the Great Before where, to everyone’s surprise, 22 somewhere along the way found her spark and now has a genuine Earth pass! She’s ready to live... and for once she’s excited to. That is, until Joe insists that 22 doesn’t deserve the Earth pass (i.e. to live) since they only gained a spark by being him and being in his body. In other words, 22 just got to copy Joe’s spark. So he takes 22′s Earth pass and rejoins life. He even realizes his dream and plays an absolutely outstanding show with Dorothea Williams!

And then feels empty. Earlier in the film, back in the Great Before, Joe got to see his “Hall of You,” that exhibit of his life, and he looking at his life so far decided that if he really stopped living that his life would be meaningless. He worked so hard for one thing for so long (to become a career pianist) and he never got it. Well, flash forward to the end of the movie, having now finally reached his dream, and Joe realizes it didn’t give him the payoff he thought it would. His life still feels empty. I appreciated the film’s quoting David Foster Wallace’s famous “This is water” speech even if it felt a bit hackneyed, and ultimately it serves as the movie’s message. Life isn’t about the big moments; it’s about what’s all around us. “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans” John Lennon once sange. Life is the stuff that made 22 so happy… the stuff that gave 22 her spark. She didn’t find a purpose or meaning when she was down on Earth that gave her a spark, she found a joy in falling leaves and conversations.

So with that realization, Joe returns to the Great Before, finds 22 and gives them their Earth pass back. Joe had in effect robbed 22 of the ability to live, and in the end undoes his harmful. But with only one Earth pass between the two of them, if 22 is to live, Joe must prepare for the Great Beyond. Now if you’re expecting to cry somewhere in this last part of the film… think again. As I said earlier, the film kinda clips along through these various story beats, not giving them time to be fully explored to the satisfaction of an adult thinker. And I don’t know about anyone else, but I didn’t feel much of a connection to either Joe or 22. so despite big moments of sacrifice and love, no tears came to my eyes. It’s not that either is unlikeable, but neither is particularly charming.

Some of it, I think, lies with some less than stellar voice acting on the part of Jamie Foxx. I don’t know. Some of his parts just felt phoned in? Tina Fey is adequate as 22, but not a stand-out. And I’m willing to concede too that the movie, the first in Pixar’s canon to focus on a Black character, may not have been made with me a white guy in his 20s as the target audience. Still, I’m not sure that race is particularly relevant to my dissatisfaction. I more think the film’s philosophy is a little jumbled, or maybe I just disagree with it. It seems to tells us that there’s no meaning to life and that the important part of life is enjoying the small things… but that’s a little naïve to say the least. Yes, trees are beautiful and music sounds good, but the movie shies away from the fact that life sucks for so many people. Like so many people. I’m sure poor and beaten down people will not feel comforted if you tell them that living is worth it because falling leaves are pretty.

But at the same time, I don’t want the movie to have argued that every person is “meant” to do something. In fact I think that idea is bullshit, and I like that the film denies this degree of determinism. If you can’t tell, I’m more on the nurture side of nature vs. nurture. But still by creating this world where souls are fully formed individuals prior to incarnation and to deprive them of a purpose feels… well soulless. Though, potentially bleaker, it feels more honest to just say we’re born as a blank slate, in a world devoid of meaning than to say that we are born fully formed into a world devoid of meaning. I would argue the later (and what the film argues) to reflect a darker, crueller world. Especially after watching a show like The Good Place which managed to so creatively and adeptly develop an entire moral philosophy that was relatively easy to understand and was largely agreeable... this feels lacking.

So yeah… I just couldn’t connect philosophically with this world, the film tackles bigger themes than its kid-friendly world seems fully capable of tackling, and despite beautiful visuals, it lags in the sound department, making it hard to really relate to these characters. I know it will find an audience because it’s a superbly made film set in a creative world with a unique premise, but that audience just isn’t me.

**3/4 (Two and three fourths out of four)

#soul #soul (2020)#jamie foxx #tina fey #pixar #disney+#pete docter

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