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mikauzoran · 3 years

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Lukadrien: Among the Wild Things: Chapter One

For @pawsomelybuggy because she’s awesome like that. ^.^ <3

Read it on AO3: Among the Wild Things: Chapter One: Meeting

On the third day that the blonde boy visited the clearing in the enchanted wood, Luka’s curiosity won out.

“Are you planning on throwing yourself into that river, or are you just in love with your own reflection? You’re staring into the stream rather intently,” he spoke from the shadows and couldn’t contain an amused grin as the young man sat up on the bank with a jerk.

Adrien scanned his surroundings frantically, eyes searching the dim forest just beyond the edge of the oasis of light that was the clearing for the speaker. “Who…?” He swallowed hard. “Is-s-someone there?”

Luka had to bite the inside of his cheek to hold in a laugh. Mortals were kind of adorable when they were scared, and this one was quite attractive to start with. He intrigued Luka, so Luka had left him alone the previous two days and just watched as the young man stared into the river and sighed.

“Typically, there’s someone attached to the other end of the words,” Luka pointed out with a good-natured chuckle. “That’s the usual way…unless you often hear disembodied voices?”

Adrien gulped again, slowly getting to his feet and drawing the knife from his belt. “No, I can’t say that I do, but…I’ve heard that these woods are haunted.”

“If you knew, then why did you come here?” Luka hummed curiously, unable to figure the mortal boy out and fascinated because of it.

Adrien stiffened defensively, eyes narrowing as he raised his knife. “Show yourself!” he demanded, exuding bravado.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Luka snickered.

The human boy was very, very cute when he pretended to be tough.

“As you say, these woods are haunted. Do you really want to know if you’ve been speaking with some dreadful monster?”

To his credit, Adrien didn’t back down. He swallowed his fear and declared once more, “Show yourself! I am Prince Adrien of the Kingdom of Agreste, and I order you to identify yourself.”

Luka frowned at the idiocy of the boy, shouting his true name for any pixie to pick it up and wreak havoc with it.

He gave a snort as he took the form of a young man and stepped out into the light. “It is unwise, Prince Adrien of the Kingdom of Agreste, to give your name so recklessly.”

Adrien’s eyes widened as a handsome man a few years older than Adrien appeared with hair as blue as the river and eyes like two, clear standing pools of water.

“If you’re not careful, someone might take it,” Luka warned.

Adrien gaped at the stranger, struggling to string together thoughts. He had never seen someone so ethereally beautiful before. He couldn’t breathe, and his heart was beating its way out of his chest.

Adrien dropped his knife. “Who are you?” he asked in awe.

Luka smiled kindly, pleased at the effect he’d produced. “You may call me ‘Orpheus’, Little Prince.”

“Orpheus,” Adrien repeated as if in trance.

Slowly, Luka approached, stopping about two meters off and taking a seat by the river. “It’s dangerous here, you know,” he informed matter-of-factly as he slipped off his boots and dangled his feet in the water, delighting at the surge of power it sent through his being.

Adrien bent to retrieve his knife and slipped it back into its sheath. “It doesn’t look dangerous. This forest is beautiful.” He slowly lowered himself back down to sit on the bank and gaze into the glass-like waters of the river, periodically sneaking glances at his mesmerizing companion.

“The most dangerous things are often very pleasing visually,” Luka informed, pretending not to see Adrien gawking at him.

He supposed it was only fair. Luka had spent the previous two afternoons gazing, enraptured, into Adrien’s breathtaking peridot eyes while Adrien peered into the stream, completely unaware of his audience.

“Deadly creatures often make themselves attractive to draw in their prey, lull them into a false sense of security.” He turned his head to smile disarmingly at Adrien.

Blushing at being caught staring, Adrien bashfully looked away. “What’s so dangerous about these woods?”

“For starters?” Luka scoffed. “This river. A kelpie lives here.”

Adrien frowned, looking back up at Luka. “Kelpie?”

Luka nodded, kicking his feet, splashing gently.

“What’s a kelpie?” Adrien inquired hesitantly, not wanting to look dumb in front of the attractive young man.

Luka frowned, looking at Adrien hard before answering, “They don’t teach their prince about the fair folk in your kingdom?”

Adrien’s face flushed a deep scarlet of embarrassment as he looked down into the water. “My father doesn’t believe in them. He says fairy stories are for children. My mother used to tell me about the fair folk, but she…died…a few years ago.”

The way he fumbled over the word made Luka suspect that the death had not been due to illness or accident.

Adrien cleared his throat and attempted to distract from the implications of his unnatural pause, rushing to get back on topic. “I know some things, but…I’m sorry. I don’t know what a kelpie is.”

Luka nodded slowly, admiring Adrien’s sad, self-conscious expression. “It’s okay. It sounds like your father is to blame for your ignorance, then. It’s not your fault…. And I’m sorry that you lost your mother.”

“…Thank you,” Adrien whispered, a brittle, vulnerable word but very much heartfelt.

It touched something in Luka, seeing how completely Adrien had lowered his guard.

He wasn’t like other humans Luka had met. There was no aura of deception and greed. Though grown, he was still like a child, still innocent and naïve.

It made Luka want to protect him.

“Kelpies are water spirits,” Luka patiently explained. “They usually appear as black horses, but they can take human form as well. They’re excellent singers.”

“Are they anything like sirens?” Adrien wondered, scooting in closer, intrigued by the story.

“A little,” Luka allowed, wiggling his hand, open palm down towards the ground. “Kelpies sometimes lure their victims in by singing.”

“Victims?” Adrien shifted uneasily.

Luka nodded. “Kelpies drown people.”

Adrien shifted his gaze nervously towards the water before looking back to Luka. “Do you think…?” He moved back away from the river and closer to Luka, eying the stream warily. “You don’t think they’re actually real, do you?” he whispered, as if afraid of being overheard by creatures whose existence he doubted.

Luka chuckled softly as he closed the distance between them, coming within an arm’s reach as he clicked his tongue. “Oh, My Little Prince…kelpies are very real. Every bit as real as I am.”

Adrien gulped, reaching out to rest a nervous hand on Luka’s forearm.

The touch shot an electric jolt through Luka’s body, igniting warring hungers within him and leaving him torn about which to slake.

Adrien’s soft skin would be tender and delicious…but if Luka gave in to his stomach, there would be no way to satisfy the intense desire Adrien’s scent sparked within him.

It was best not to act now. After all, if Luka was patient, he could always decide to eat Adrien at a later date once he’d satisfied his lust.

Adrien, completely oblivious to the danger of his current situation and Luka’s intentions, tightened his grip on Luka’s arm, voice shaky as he inquired, “If a kelpie lives in that river, do you really think you should be kicking your feet in it like that?”

A thin smile spread across Luka’s lips, and he reached up to cup Adrien’s cheek, eyes suddenly dark like a storm at sea. “Sweet Little Prince,” he cooed, running his thumb along Adrien’s cheekbone and watching as the skin turned bright red. “I’m not the one in harm’s way,” he whispered.

Adrien’s breath hitched, and his pupils dilated wide as Luka leaned in and gave Adrien’s cheek a long, slow lick.

“You are.”

Luka couldn’t rationally explain what he did next.

Adrien was completely defenseless, and Luka could have done whatever he liked. He was master of the situation.

And yet, he thought about the beautiful, tragic-looking boy who had come to the clearing three days in a row now and sat by the bank of Luka’s river, staring into it—into Luka’s eyes—and sighing and crying.

Luka remembered the salty taste of Adrien’s tears as the stream assimilated them into its waters and carried them away, and Luka pulled back, releasing Adrien and slipping into the river, turning to water himself right before Adrien’s very eyes.

“These woods are dangerous, Little Prince,” his disembodied voice warned. “Tell your father that the fair folk are alive and well and not to wander too far into the forest. My kind are not usually as amicable as I’ve been.”

Adrien stared, trembling, at where Luka had been only moments before for ten full seconds before the peril he was in registered. When it finally did, he scrambled to his feet and ran, his heart pounding in his ears all the way home.

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spectores · 4 years

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. ﾟ * ｡･ ( sydney park / cisfemale / she/her ) — wait, is that GABRIELLE THEODORA PRESCOTT walking down the street? i’ve heard the TWENTY ONE year old BOOKKEEPER happens to be a GHOST. apparently they’re really -SCATTERBRAINED & -MELODRAMATIC, but surprisingly +HUMBLE & +CHARMING. I always think of SIDEWALKS AFTER IT RAINS & SHAKESPEARE SOLILOQUIES when i hear their name. (dae, 25, she/her, pst)

name: gabrielle ‘brielle’ theodora prescott

birthday: may 29th

gender: cisfemale

sexuality: pansexual

personality.

+ humble, charming, gregarious

- scatterbrained, melodramatic, sullen

aesthetic.

the smell of rain / thunderstorms / water crashing onto rocks / spilled ink / candles burning / leather journals / bookcases / piles of books / marble statues / grand libraries / trench coats & pleated skirts / flower crowns carefully woven / hearts drawn in pen on skin / sunlight peeking through blinds / messy buns & glasses

about. triggers: death

brielle was born in 1775, shortly after america had gained their independence from england. having high aspirations and the joys of a new life, she thought she was going to have the world. that was suddenly stripped from her when she was murdered while walking the beach in the early morning. her killer had strangled her from behind, throwing her over the cliffs and into the waters below where her body would rot and decay, slowly drifting out to sea. she understands that she’s dead and accepts her fate (though she wishes she could know if the man ever saw justice), but she also cannot accept the fact that she can’t coexist in society.

as a child, she loved literature and only wished to be a writer or a great poet, so she decided to roam the local library, indulging in her favorite stories and poems. she gets enraged from time to time when she realizes all of the things that were stolen from her and she tends to hate what she is during these moments.

she wears a necklace almost every day that allows her to stay tied to the physical plane. it was the only thing she died with that actually stayed with her. she met a seer who was able to help her perform a ritual to enable her to remain on earth with the help of a druid’s dying words.

brielle is a romantic okay, she just wants love and happiness. she sees the world always with rose-colored glasses and believes the best in people. she’s been enamored by books and poetry so her ideas of life and how the world should be are entirely warped. she is that child that would run around and pretend she was some princess or maybe even juliet! she is sweet and lovable, but she has her dark sides.

if you think even for a moment that this girl isn’t slightly vengeful, you’re wrong. while she does have a heart of gold & a kind soul, brielle is not one to be messed with & if you piss her off enough she can be a torrential hurricane that destroys everything in her path

she definitely has characteristics of a poltergeist type or an interactive personality. poltergeist is when she’s overly emotional and unable to control herself or her powers. she gets like this and can be considered malicious at these moments though she never means to hurt anyone (unless you’ve done something to deserve it). interactive personality is any other time, it’s fleeting memories and moments. a smell, disembodied voice, her figure standing by the lighthouse cliffs. she can seem otherworldly & ethereal at times

she wanders the coast constantly. the water was always something she adored, it was calming and peaceful and when she was staring out at sea, she could feel herself breathe again. her parents were hard on her, wanting her to get a grip on reality, but she would always be a dreamer through and through.

#grove.intros #i'll get a tagging system up soon i gotta go have dinner !!

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sinister-loving · 4 years

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Ethereal (Monster! Yandere! OC X Hunter! Reader)

Never enter the forest alone

That was the latest piece of superstition being spread around your village, mostly by old widows and young children, but you never believed it. For one, you'd been in the forest dozens of times by yourself and nothing happened. No giant snarling monster, no secret portal to the other worlds, no secret murderer waiting to slice you into a million pieces. The only odd thing you saw there was the baker's wife kissing the blacksmith, but after a bribery of fresh bread, you chose to delete that memory.

The forest had long provided your family with food and shelter, and you saw no reason to fear it, unlike the more urban citizens of your village. You were raised in that forest, you knew every branch from every tree like the back of your hand, and it made you a bit upset that people would start spreading such an awful rumor about the place you loved so dearly.

Jumping over a puddle that had formed from the thunderstorm last night, you walked up the main street of the village, your adventure pack resting somewhat heavily on your shoulders. You'd packed to be in the forest for quite a while since it was prime hunting time, but as the rough fabric of the pack suddenly shifted and brushed against your already sore shoulder, you began internally scolding yourself for overcompensating the trip. You glaced up at the giant arch that marked the boundary between the village and the forest, took a deep breath, and entered.

Desperately trying to avoid getting caught in the sticky mud of the main trail, you paid close attention to the ground, stepping on places that you presumed were solid. Your intuition only failed once or twice, and thankfully the mud didn't go any higher up than your heel. It wasn't long before you found yourself at your spot.

You glanced around the small base camp. There were probably dozens scattered around the forest, each belonging to a different brave soul that dared to traverse into the woods, but a quick glance at the trees forming a barrier around the camp was proof enough that this was yours. Each adventurer was given a symbol, and yours was a star, and unsurprisingly, messy stars had been carved into the trees. Hey, you were a hunter, not an artist.

You quickly tossed your survival pack down, taking a break on one of the nearby stumps as you looked for a granola bar. You hadn't eaten breakfast, a choice you quickly began to regret, but the problem was solved as you pulled the snack out of the bag, quickly unwrapping it and shoving the wrapper into the front pocket of the pack, knowing better than to litter in such a sacred place.

Once you finished your small snack that would probably hold you over until you made your first kill, you took a small roll of fabric from the inside of the pack. It was clear that it took up most of the room inside, as the minute it was removed, the dark forest green bag began to withered and sunk in on itself. You placed the fabric on the ground and rolled it out, revealing all manner of parts for a crossbow. Having done this countless times before, it was no problem assembling the weapon, and before long, you found yourself getting ready to leave to hunt.

Throwing your bag inside the small tent you were provided, you grabbed the bright orange scarf from a branch you'd hung it on last time, and wrapped it tightly around your neck. It was a wonder it was still there. Sure, it was taboo for hunters to mess with other's camps, but you would've guessed an animal would've snatched it down or the storm last night would've blown it away, but miraculously, it was as dry as a desert, and hey, you weren't complaining.

You turned around, holding your crossbow close to your chest as you loaded it with a fresh arrow, the snap of the arrow falling into place filling you with a new adrenaline rush which fueled your journey deeper into the forest. You were careful to watch for the sudden sparkle of silver, an indication of a snare, as you proceeded, your attention darting from the slightest noise to the slightest tremor in the leaves. It wasn't your first time hunting, you knew what to look for, but today, you were oddly on edge.

Had the rumors gotten to you? No, no way. You weren't that dumb, it was just a silly kid's tale and besides, it wasn't even a scary rumor. It was just a provision to not go into the forest alone, it wasn't like some giant monster was going to crawl out of the undergrowth and devour you if you take the wrong step. These woods were practically your second home, and no silly rumors were gonna keep you away from them, nor make you fear them.

Attempting to get out of your head and focus on your objective at hand, you took another step forward, completely forgetting to check for snares.

Within seconds, you were upside-down, at the complete mercy of the metal wire that was now digging into your skin like an arrow into a deer's soft flesh. You let out a hiss of pain, and attempted to grab your dropped crossbow. If you could just get the arrow, then it would be no problem for you to slash the wire, but your fingers just barely grazed the smooth wood of the bow. With each swing, a new wave of pain shook your body, the initial adrenaline of fight-or-flight wearing off.

You tried to reach the tree beside you, just to provide some relief from the blood rushing to your head, but as your fingers brushed over the bark, you could feel yourself becoming tired. It wasn't normal, it usually took a few hours upside-down for you to faint, which caused the singular panic alarm in your body to ring at full volume. If you were left here, you would die.

Your survival instincts kicked in, and you desperately thrashed, attempting to grab at anything within your reach, which only resulted in more blood sliding down your leg and dripping onto your face. If you kept going like this, you would have your foot sliced clean off by the wire, and just the thought of that made you feel even more lightheaded. Before you knew what was happening, black fuzz swarmed the outside of your vision and finally filled it to the brim, and you fell unconscious.

When you woke up next, you thought it would be in the afterlife.

You wished it were the afterlife.

Forcing yourself to open you eyes, another rush of adrenaline proved that you weren't dead, but you certainly felt like it. Every muscle in your body screamed, scolding you for the lack of blood and oxygen you provided. You didn't ... feel any different, until you looked down at yourself.

You were dressed from head to toe in a robe similar to that of the priestesses that roamed the prayer tower. The fabric was an almost blinding white, with a light pink trim around the middle, provided a bit of contrast and color. Your hands, legs, and neck had been wrapped in bandages. Odd, because you only remembered your ankle being injured. Beneath the bandages, you could feel some sort of paste, and from the ones on your arms, you could see it was a thick plant mixture of some sort. Your crossbow was nowhere to be found, and neither was your scarf, which you really needed as the freezing cold air of the room soon became apparent to you.

You glanced down at your surroundings. A tall cave-like room that was eerily similar to a burial tomb you'd seen in a history book. Sliding your feet off of the cold rock and onto the ground, you winced and let out another hiss of pain as you mistakingly put pressure on your injured ankle. However, the only thing you wanted to do was get out of this chamber, it reminded you of death, something you'd so narrowly avoided, and you didn't want to be here anymore.

You hobbled to the door, putting as little pressure on your ankle as possible and peering outside of the chamber. The opening lead to a small hallway, and at the end was a warm yellow light that reminded you of the lanterns at your house. Forcing yourself to move, you went to investigate the light, hoping that whatever was causing it would be the way out of here.

You hopped into the hallway and watched as the almost suffocating walls opened up into a much larger cave, with a large opening to the forest directly infront of you. The sun had set, and the forest looked more terrifying than usual, or at least what you could see from beneath the thick vine covering layering the opening.

"What are you doing up, little rabbit?"

A cheery voice from behind you sent chills down your spine, and your instincts kicked in, causing you to spin on your good foot to face the disembodied voice, swinging your arm to attack.

However, your attack was quickly dismissed as the figure wrapped a surprisingly strong hand around your wrist, stopping it about a few inches from contact. You glared at the figure, taking this moment of weakness to try and analyze what you could.

The figure was actually a male, who had a sickeningly sweet grin on his face as he simply stared at you. Odd pastel pink hair flew everywhere and remained a mess on top of his head, with stands sticking out in random places. His slightly darker rose-colored eyes were locked with your own, and the spiral pattern inside only made you more uncomfortable as you ripped your hand back in one last act of defiance.

"Oh, I'm so glad you have a little spunk left in you, darling." His voice was laced with an affection so sickly sweet it almost made you recoil, but you'd been through worse, you could handle this.

"Don't call me that. I don't even know who the hell you are." You snapped, before your eyes flicked upwards to something you hadn't noticed before.

Horns.

Resting on top of the stranger's head were two sets of horns. The primary ones were the largest and were directly on top of his head, and curved inward at the tip. Directly beneath those were smaller horns that grew slightly sideways and curved upwards. To confirm your suspicion, you glanced down at the ground. A long, thin, whip-like tail with a fluffy tip was swishing back and forth with an unknown emotion, and kicked up a small cloud of dust around the ground.

"You- you're a-" Your throat felt dry, you couldn't bring yourself to say anything.

"A what? A god in human clothing? An incredibly kind and nice person? Aw, thank you, sweetheart. You're always so nice to me." The boy grinned, revealing a set of long pointed fangs, only confirming your suspicion more.

This boy was a demon.

You didn't think they were real, they couldn't be real. Demons were things in storybooks, not living and breathing creatures. Only a figment of some twisted person's mind, nothing you ever worried about. Yet, as the boy reached out to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, your blood turned cold once again.

This was no joke.

You were dealing with a real life demon.

"Don't touch me." You quickly slapped his hand away, remaining eye contact to prove you weren't afraid when deep down, you were terrified. You liked to picture yourself as somebody who had a plan for everything, but you never once had a plan for something like this.

"That's not nice, little rabbit. You wouldn't like it if I did that to you." The boy's expression turned from happy to cold within seconds. He took your temporary petrification as an opportunity to finish what he started, gently pushing a strand of your hair out of your face. Your eyes shot from the hand withdrawing from your face to the one he kept by his side, the one you hadn't seen move yet.

The one tightly wrapped around the handle of a knife.

Another wave of adrenaline and you backed up, and he seemed almost remorseful that you'd do such a thing.

"Little rabbit? Why do you look so scared? It's okay, you're safe now, you have me." The boy took another step closer, becoming more visible in the bright lantern light.

He was thin, and pale, but he was still taller than you by a few inches, a fact only proved when he took another step closer. He was dressed almost as oddly as he acted, with a puffy pastel purple long sleeve shirt adorned with upside-down crosses and a short black and lavender miniskirt. White knee high socks with bright pink bows contrasted from his outfit, but they were covered up mostly by the knee high combat boots that made a very prominent thud when he stepped forwards once more.

Another step closer.

What disturbed you the most, however, was the pale pink choker wrapped tightly around his neck, with a heart charm directly in the middle. In the center of the heart was only one thing, and it made your blood turn cold again.

Y/N

He had your name carved into his choker.

"-won't ever have to worry about going back to that dangerous place ever again, I promise."

You zoned back in to find him practically on top of you, and you felt terrified. You felt helpless.

You felt like a prey animal.

"Get away from me!" In an act of self preservation, you used almost all of your force to shove him away. He landed against the wall with a thud, and you backed up, the pain in your ankle bringing tears to your eyes, but you quickly wiped them away to focus on the task at hand: getting away from this lunatic.

"Ow. You sure are feisty, aren't you? But I get it, it's gonna take a while for you to adjust to your new life."

"Shut up! You're speaking nonsense!"

"You should've thought about that before you started courting me."

You fell silent, appalled by what this creature was suggesting. You, a human, court a demon? The very thought of it made you sick to your stomach.

"Leaving out all those teeth, bones and feathers just for me. You're so precious, you know that? It's a wonder another demon didn't answer your call." Before you knew it, the boy was back on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck with that same sickeningly sweet grin of his.

"That was trash, I never meant to court any demon!"

"Silly, silly, silly little (Y/N), your innocent facade is so cute! That's one of the reasons I fell for you so hard. And you fell for me too! You wouldn't have left that 'trash' out if you didn't love me right back." The boy purred, getting closer to you once again. You thought about running, but you would never make it. And plus, you didn't have the upper hand here, you didn't have a knife.

"Oh dear! I get it now! You must be so embarrassed that I answered your call! It's not every day your crush returns your feelings. Well, darling, you couldn't just be my secret admirer forever, I had to admit my feelings for you too one day. But, I am a demon after all. I can't just waltz into your civilization."

"So, I waited. I attacked any adventurers who weren't you. I know how attracted to danger you are, my little rabbit. It just happened to be my luck that you fell into my trap! Had it been anybody else, they would've died instantly from the curse I put on the wire, but imagine my delight when I see my cute little darling waiting for me!" The boy finished his monologue, and once you recovered from the initial shock, you couldn't stop yourself from crying. All because you left out some hunt remains, you'd almost gotten your ankle ripped off and now some demon was instant that you were now in a relationship with them. All over some trash. Not to mention, the adrenaline was wearing off and your ankle hurt like a bitch. Everything hit you at once and you felt the tears streaming out of your eyes.

"Oh, come now, little rabbit, don't cry. I hate seeing that pretty face like that. Besides, there's nothing to cry over! I love you back! I love you so much! And now we can live without any disturbances, because I'll take care of you for eternity." You felt yourself being pulled into an unwanted hug and no matter how much that voice inside your head told you that this was wrong, that you needed to get away, you finally ended up melting into an emotional puddle while your captor silently whispered reassuring words, a little comfort in a time like this, especially from the one it was coming from.

"It's okay now, (Y/N), you've got me here now, like it was always meant to be."

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see faint lettering on the collar. You already knew that your name was engraved on the heart in the front, but the faded letterering on the leather made you curious. Between sobs, you were able to focus your eyes enough to read the name on the side of the choker.

Lunaris.

#yandere #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere x you #yandere oc x you #tw: kidnapping #tw: mental manipulation #let me know if i need to tag anything else #admin bug

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unpack-my-heart · 5 years

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Above, Beneath, Betwixt, Between (formerly ‘The Ghost of You’) – Updated

@tinyarmedtrex @violetreddie @xandertheundead @constantreaderfool @eds-trashmouth @mrs-vh

PSA: I changed the name of this fic. It was once ‘The Ghost of You’ but I don’t think that fit the story anymore, so I changed it. Hope that isn’t too confusing!

Chapter 4 - Nothing Ever Becomes Real Until It Is Experienced

Read on AO3 HERE

A stream of lava-hot water hit Richie’s back, waging a brutal war against the knotted muscles of his back.

“SHE’S ALL I NEED ALL OF MY LIFE!”

He rubbed the bar of ivory coloured soap between his hands, before rubbing the soapy lather over his chest.

“I FEEL SO GOOOOD IF I JUST SAY THE WOOOOOORD”

Turning around, Richie closed his eyes against the torrent of water, letting it rush over his face and chest, the soapy suds disappearing down the drain.

“ SUH-SUH-SUSSUDIO”

Richie opened his eyes, mouth still half open from where he’d been singing, and, as if he had always been there, Eddie’s disembodied head looked back at him from where it was sticking directly through the shower curtain.

“Richie! The lambs have come back down off the hills and – oh good lord, you’re naked!”

“JESUS FUCK!”

A primal scream tore its way out of Richie’s throat as he unceremoniously tumbled to the floor of the shower, clasping helplessly at the shower curtain as he fell. The curtain ripped from its fastenings, and floated to the ground gently. Richie grabbed at it, yanking it towards him to cover what was left of his modesty.

“What the fuck, Eddie!”

Eddie was standing in the bathroom, looking scandalized but also very mildly amused.

“I’m ever so sorry, Richie!”

“The door was locked, how the hell did you even get in here?!” Richie demanded, feeling his face bloom with blush, caused not only by the scalding temperature of the water.

“I – I didn’t use the door”

Richie blinked, incredulous.

“You didn’t use the door” he deadpanned, raising his eyebrows, an invitation. ‘Explain yourself’.

“I haven’t used a door in seventy years, and I don’t intend on starting now!”

For a moment, neither of them speak. Eddie has his arms crossed in what Richie imagines is supposed to be indignation, a silent ‘I’ve been here longer than you, this is more my house than it ever will be yours.” Richie can’t help but feel a pang in his chest, something so close to affection it’s uncanny, a cloying kind of feeling that envelops his heart and holds it hostage.

Eddie breaks first.

“It really was an accident, Richie, I sort of forgot – I forgot about …” he trails off before he can say it, but Richie knows.

I forgot what it’s like to be alive. What it’s like to spend time with another person.

Richie’s annoyance melts like snow.

– X –

The house is almost finished. Nearly all of the major appliances have been installed, the water runs perfectly, and the electrics have been wired and approved. The only major task facing Richie now was decorating, which was unfortunate because Richie had been cursed with perpetually shaky hands meaning that his lines were never straight or clean enough. He’d been complaining about it to Eddie one evening, sat out on the porch, wind rustling Richie’s hair like autumn leaves, but leaving Eddie’s untouched, each hair frozen in time and space.

Richie had fallen asleep outside, a combination of the lake’s lullaby-ripples, and the warmth of the balmy night. He’d slept deeply, watched over by the moon and the stars, and woken up with a crick in his neck and freezing hands.

Eddie was no-where to be seen, but Richie was unbothered. Eddie made a habit of wandering the moors at night, unbound by the mortal need to sleep, dream and recharge. He was free to roam as he saw fit, truly a being of the night, drifting amongst the dreaming lambs and the trees that stretched humbly towards the moon. He always returned, though. Returned to the house that he’d died in, and, by association, to Richie.

Richie hauled his heavy bones into the house, and up the rickety stair case, desperate to change out of the stale smelling clothes from the night before. He could hear the clanging of something metallic, and Eddie’s high and bright whistling, like a bell beckoning Richie into the room. When Richie cautiously pushed the door open, his mouth opened in shock.

While he slept, the summer sky had materialised on his bedroom walls. Fluffy marshmallow clouds on a cornflower blue sky.

Eddie was standing in the corner of the room, paintbrush in hand, looking somewhat guilty.

“I didn’t think you’d wake up yet. You don’t normally wake up before 7 or so”

“Eddie what the hellllll” Richie drawled, eyes scanning the room in astonishment.

“Do you like it?” Eddie asked, eyes and voice earnest and so sugary sweet Richie couldn’t take it.

“I so wish I could hug you right now, this is fuckin’ torture, s’what it is. This is beautiful, Eds. It’s – I don’t have the words”

“Heh. The oven mitts are downstairs, so, I suppose … I’m glad you like it, though. I was worried you’d hate it and think that I’d over-stepped, or something”

“No! Not at all. It’s … thank you, Eddie. Seriously, thank you. This might be the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me”

“I know you hate painting and I used to paint a bit, when I was, y’know, so … I thought I’d help you out a bit”

“You’ve done more than just help me out, Eds, yowza!”

Richie sincerely wished Eddie was wearing those damn oven gloves, as he wanted nothing more than to squeeze his hand and never let go.

– X –

The kitchen hated Richie, and, by all accounts, the feeling was pretty mutual. Laying a new floor down had been an absolute nightmare, considering the fact that the room was bizarrely shaped, so Richie had had to painstakingly cut each piece of timber out with a circle-saw to the exact measurements. This had taken longer than Richie cared to admit, but he had eventually finished, and the glossy oak floorboards smiled up at him, thanking him for his time and effort. Painting the kitchen was a breeze in comparison, throwing a white emulsion onto the walls before covering it with a blueish-grey, light and bright enough for a kitchen, but not an emotionless white. The back wall was the only one that was still just white emulsion, and Richie had planned to paint it grey in the afternoon.

That had been his plan, before he heard an almighty crash echo throughout the house, a metallic clang, and then a horrified yell.

“Eddie?! Eddie, are you okay?” Richie shouted, running down the stairs at light speed, expecting to find Eddie contorted in pain, or gone from the house entirely, or a number of equally as horrifying possibilities.

What he found when he rounded the corner, and burst into the kitchen, was blueish-grey paint covering practically every surface in the kitchen, and a very forlorn looking Eddie staring at the mess.

“What – What happened in here?!”

Eddie looked up at Richie with pleading, guilty eyes, wringing his hands together.

“I… I tried to walk through the wall carrying the paint and … Well, I suppose paint cannot travel through walls”

“What have I told you about using the effing doors!” Richie bellowed, gesturing with his thumb over his shoulder to the door that he had just sprinted through.

His new floor, his expensive oak floorboards that he had laboured over for weeks, ruined. The oven had thankfully not been installed yet, and sat in its protective plastic packaging, but even that was splattered with paint. The clock was covered in paint. The gas stove that Richie had been using to cook was covered in paint. In short, everything was covered in a sheen of grey paint.

“I was trying to help,” Eddie mumbled, mouse-small, “You said you loved your new bedroom walls and I thought – I thought I’d save you some work because I know how much you hate painting and – I am a catastrophe”

Richie felt awful.

“Naw, Eds, you’re not. C’mon, it’s not that bad. I can get some white spirit on the floor, that’ll probably lift most of it, and maybe Mike will let me borrow his electric sander. Hey now, Eds, c’mon, you look like you’re going to cry, you’re killing me”

“I would cry if I could”

“Can you cry?”

“No, because if I could, I would be doing so now”

Richie opened one of the now grey kitchen drawers, and pulled out Eddie’s oven mitts. He passed them over to Eddie, who reluctantly slipped them onto his hands, the scrunch of concentration that Richie had grown so fond of etched onto his face.

“I’m gonna hold your hand now,” Richie announced, before taking Eddie’s hand in his, “I promise that I’m not mad with you. I’m just – I’m just a bit frustrated but it’s not the end of the world. Kitchens come and go but Eddie Spaghetti’s are forever”

“Is that a joke … because I am dead?” Eddie asked, voice hesitant but Richie watched as a smile formed on his face, slowly, like a flower opening to pray to the sun.

“It wasn’t ‘sposed to be” Richie shrugged, hand still gripping onto Eddie’s mitted-hand tightly.

“Are you sure you’re not mad with me?”

“I promise”

– X –

One thing that Richie soon came to learn was that Eddie loved music. Richie often heard Eddie’s ethereal whistling echoing around the house, or heard him humming little ditty’s that Richie didn’t recognise. Sometimes Eddie sang properly, a surprisingly rich and strong tenor that stirred things in Richie’s heart that had been dormant for years.

One day, when Richie was sanding the grey paint off the floorboards in the kitchen and singing along to Higher Ground by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Eddie’s voice announced his presence before Richie was even aware of him being in the room, a habit of Eddie’s that he was growing slowly used to.

“This music sounds so different to the kind of things I used to listen to when I was younger”

Richie turned off the electric sander, before turning the radio up, Anthony Kiedis’ voice booming out of the speaker. Eddie looked vaguely alarmed, before tapping the toe of his boot slightly, face screwed in concentration, as if he was sampling the music like wine, trying to decide whether he liked the taste of the beat or not. Richie hopped around on alternate feet, pretending to slap an imaginary bass, his face screwed up in his best approximation of ‘bass face’. He wasn’t sure that Eddie would know what bass face was, but he didn’t care. Eddie watched Richie with wide, half-confused half-amused eyes, the toe of his left boot still tap-tap-tapping away to the beat.

The song drew to a close soon after, and Richie bounced over to the radio and turned it off.

“So, d’ya like it?”

“It’s … interesting. It’s different, absolutely, but … it’s good. It’s got a good beat, I like the rhythm. I … rather liked his voice,” Eddie stuttered, and Richie was sure that if it were possible for Eddie’s face to flush with embarrassment, it would be doing so right now, “but one thing I don’t understand is where you put the records in that tiny machine? Are records really tiny now?”

“Records? Why would there be records?” Richie asked as confusion washed over him in waves, before realising that Eddie had no idea what a twenty-first century radio looked like.

“Oh, no, this is a radio, not a record player. Some people still use records, but those people are called ‘hipsters’ and you wouldn’t like them. But this is a radio, you know what a radio is, right?”

“Yes, Richard, I know what a radio is. I wasn’t born 700 years ago” Eddie groaned, rolling his eyes.

“Jus’ checkin’, jus’ checkin’. So you know how radios work, right? Like … the music is in the air? Radio waves and all that jazz?”

“The music is in the air?!” Eddie spluttered, eyes wide like dinner plates.

“I thought you said you knew what radios were?!”

“Well, I know what they are, I never professed to know how they work”

Richie can’t help but laugh at the expression on Eddie’s face, a picture of exasperation mixed with confusion, and he is semi-horrified by the realisation that he wants to kiss it off Eddie’s face.

Well that’s new.

Richie tries to squash all ghost-kissing desires deep into his brain into a box marked ‘bad idea’ but he knows that that box has a habit of refusing to remain closed and springing open unexpectedly.

In his desperation to sway his attention from Eddie’s grumpy, kissable face, Richie cranks the radio up even further, switching the station to the all-day 80s bangers station he’d found a few weeks ago. Bonnie Tyler’s voice filtered out of the speakers, and Richie lip-synced along with her as she lamented about the fact that she didn’t have a street-wise Hercules. Eddie watched as if transfixed, eyes following the minutia of Richie’s movements but standing on the side lines, not joining in Richie’s one-man dance party.

“Dance with me!” Richie yelled, waving his arms erratically in the air as Bonnie’s voice howled around the room.

“I can’t!”

“You can!”

“I can’t!”

“YOU CAN!” Richie practically screamed, “dance with me, Eds! Please!”

Richie’s pestering finally broke Eddie’s resolve, and just as the song peaked, Eddie started to dance.

Now it was Richie’s turn to gawp.

Eddie threw himself around the room wildly, feet a blur as he alternated between rhythmic walking, jumping and kicking his feet , whilst waving his arms in a jaunty swing, occasionally snapping his fingers or clapping his hands in time with the music.

“You’ve been holding out on me, you sneak! Look at you go!” Richie yelled over the music, hardly moving, just watching Eddie spin and twist and jump.

“I may or may not have been quite the accomplished swing dancer when I was … y’know …” Eddie gasped, mid spin.

“I fuckin’ bet you were! Look at your fancy feet!”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Eddie laughed, performing a particularly complicated piece of footwork, and peeking up at Richie with his tongue caught between his teeth.

“Damn straight, look at us, a couple-a movers and shakers, but damn, Eds, you shake it the best. You gotta teach me.”

Eddie laughed as he span past Richie, and Richie followed him, shimmying his shoulders and shaking his hips in a way that he assumed looked ridiculous, but the way Eddie’s eyes lingered on the swivel of his hips suggested otherwise.

The song finished, and a slow ballad started to play – all slow, smooth guitar and mellow vocals.

Richie, gasping from exertion, stopped dancing, and so did Eddie, who looked exactly the same as he always did, not a hair or piece of fluff out of place.

“How do we dance to this one? It’s a bit slow, Rich”

An idea crashed into Richie’s brain at warp speeds.

“Hang on”

Richie disappeared downstairs, and returned clasping Eddie’s oven mitts in his hands.

“Put these on” Richie instructed Eddie, like he always did, and once Eddie had put the mitts on, he grabbed his hands and placed them on his shoulders.

“We gotta slow dance to songs like this, them’s the rules”

“Uh … but we’re both … you aren’t a … I’m not a woman”

“I won’t tell if you won’t”

Eddie didn’t say anything in response, but he didn’t move his hands, either. Knowing that he couldn’t put his hands on Eddie’s waist like he wanted to, Richie settled for placing his hands over Eddie’s mitts, on his shoulders. They swayed back and forth.

“Are you like me?” Eddie whispered, voice barely loud enough for Richie to hear over the music.

“Depends what you mean by that, Spaghetti. Am I dead? No. Am I a wicked dancer? Yes. You gotta be more specific”

“You are a brute! You know exactly what I mean”

“Do you mean ‘do I fall in love with men’?”

Eddie hesitated for a second, before nodding the affirmative.

“Then yes, I am like you. But I also fall in love with women. I like ‘em both. Greedy like that”

“Is that … is that possible?”

“Sure is, sugar!”

Eddie closed his eyes, and Richie was sure that if Eddie could cry, this would be another occasion where he would be doing so.

“I only … I only fall in love with men. I had – Rupert. We – he died. I never got to say goodbye”

A heavy sort of sadness settled in the room. Eddie’s eyes, downcast and lidded, refused to meet Richie’s. They stood in the middle of the room, touching but not really, dancing but not really, in silence.

“I hate that I can’t hold you, Eddie”

“I hate that you can’t hold me, too”

– X –

Something changed after they danced together. Not a seismic shift, but a small tremor. Eddie told Richie about Rupert, and how they’d lived together in relative sin, and as he spoke, he’d screwed up his face as if willing himself to cry, to feel something. Richie cried enough for the both of them.

A few days later, it was a lazy Sunday, and Richie is listening to a local Scottish radio station sat out on the porch with Eddie in a comfortable silence.

“I don’t know what everyone else’s plans are for the afternoon, but I’m off to have a lovely roast dinner!” the radio host announces, before signing off for the day.

“Oh, I do miss a roast dinner” Eddie announces wistfully, rubbing at his stomach comically.

“What’s a roast dinner?”

“You’ve never had a roast dinner?!”

“Uh… no? Should I have? What is it?”

Eddie abruptly stands up, and walks back into the house, listing off all the components of a roast dinner as he walks. When they get to the kitchen, Eddie marches straight over to the fridge and, without opening it, sticks his head right through the door, before also sticking his left hand straight through the metal, as if the fridge was not a solid object at all. Richie is sure that there will never be a day that he doesn’t find that unbelievably funny.

“You have all the vegetables, but the only meat you have is … this!” Eddie pulls his head back through the fridge door, looking at his hand triumphantly, only to find that his hand is empty.

“I keep forgetting I cannot move things through other solid objects” Eddie deadpans, smacking his forehead in embarrassment.

Richie cackles at him, before moving to open the fridge himself, and seeing a lonely looking peperami lying on the bottom of the fridge. With Eddie’s help, Richie manages to cook the roast dinner without too much issue. The only time Eddie screeches at him is when he pours way too much oil into the roasting pan for the potatoes, but that issue is quickly rectified. After a few hours, the meal is prepared, and Richie plates up feeling overwhelmingly guilty that Eddie can’t share in the meal that he helped to prepare. Eddie assures him that he doesn’t miss eating that much, and ushers Richie into the dining room, where the new dining table stands proudly in the middle of the room. Richie places his plate on the table, before realising that he’d forgotten cutlery and a glass of water. Eddie, who had been standing behind his chair, follows him into the kitchen, walking straight through the table, and babbling nonsense about how Richie was about to experience something truly magical.

When Richie returned to the dining table, he found that his food was now burnt beyond recognition, the fresh vegetables that had been lying on his plate mere seconds ago now transformed into a smoky black sludge.

“What in God’s name …” Richie muttered, staring at the burnt food in disbelief as the cutlery slipped from his hand and fell to the floor with a thud.

Richie looks at Eddie, then back to the ruined food on his plate, then back to Eddie. Without saying anything, he ran back into the kitchen, grabbing a piece of broccoli, before charging back into the living room and throwing the broccoli directly at Eddie’s head.

The broccoli fell to the floor.

Or, more accurately, the broccoli that was now a black, burnt sludge fell to the floor.

“For fucks sake!”

– X –

Richie stays up late that night, sleepy eyes glued to his computer, scrolling through useless website after useless website before he lands on the first thing that looks even remotely promising 16 pages into the google search.

Stanley Uris – Corporeal Reanimator

#reddie #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #ghost au #property developer au #Richie Tozier x Eddie Kaspbrak #ao3 #thefutureisbright

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meupila · 7 years

Text

Blade Runner 2049 (2017)

Seen on October 6th 2017 in a 2D cinema.

A beautiful film, powerful story, and immersive experience. It left me feeling like its protagonist– exhausted, confused, and yet somehow at peace.

I am certain there was symbolism that went way over my head, but I thoroughly appreciated what I was able to register. The theological parallels with the figures of the savior, the holy virgin, and the immaculate conception pushed my expectations along subtly but surely. I was as devastated as K / Joe (Ryan Gosling) when I found out that I would not get to follow the path of the hero after all. The question seemed to become: if you are not the hero of the larger narrative, what is your role?

K, much like the audience, becomes a witness to a miracle. When it becomes clear that he himself is not the miracle, he must choose either to fight to preserve it or to sink into indifference/nihilism. Either choice would be understandable in his circumstances, and both would make for relatable stories, but Blade Runner 2049 takes us down the path of fighting for a larger cause– a path shared by many characters in the film. Sapper Morton (Dave Bautista) fights to keep hidden the story of the Replicant birth; Rick Deckard (Harrison Ford) leaves his loved ones to protect the miracle they'd created; Lt. Joshi (Robin Wright) desperately fights for social order; Niander Wallace (Jared Leto) is keen to transform civilization. They are all driven by a grand vision larger than themselves.

Therefore, the climactic fight between K and Luv (Sylvia Hoeks) is significant not only in the lives of those involved but also as a conflict between self-preservation and self-sacrifice. By this point, K's motivation is mostly devoid of ego, while Luv's main concern remains to be "the best of the angels". Somehow, Luv's shameless egotism made me sympathize with her– there is some of that in all of us. Perhaps by fighting her to the death, K completely kills what remains of his own ego. Perhaps by watching it, we experience part of that too, and this may explain why I was on the edge of my seat during this fight, unable to pick a side, and dreading either outcome. The encounter is visceral and genuinely tense, with the water pulling everyone closer to their death, relentless and impersonal. The blue and yellow hues from the fallen vehicle were a creative way to light this crucial scene, making the struggle all the more ethereal.

The cinematography (Roger Deakins) and visual effects were stunning throughout the film. In retrospect, the range of landscapes presented to us is remarkable, but during the film, they flowed naturally. Every moment was filled with marvelous detail, but worldbuilding never overshadowed storytelling. The vast cityscapes, mind-bending architecture, deep colors, and the wondrous reflections that lit so much of this film all seemed but backdrops to a powerful central narrative. In between being utterly lost in the emotional and personal, I would suddenly become aware of the amazing world underneath.

I have yet to research the extent to which Ridley Scott was involved, but it is obvious the film owes a lot to Denis Villeneuve's clear vision as a director, and to a good script by Hampton Fancher and Michael Green. The mojo is consistent, the structure is creative, and it's clear these filmmakers didn't take us for fools.

The acting was excellent. Mackenzie Davis as Mariette had a magical significance about her, and the overlaid performance with Ana de Armas as Joi was visually striking as well as emotionally potent. Armas completely sells the character of Joi, a disembodied entity that is totally genuine in its desire to be, to have a body, and to please K. The fact that Joi is a mass-produced product does not change the sincerity she projects, nor how easily we and K buy it.

Robin Wright as Lt. Joshi was very much human, with her arrogance and sensitivity blatantly exposed. Her final moments with Luv were painful to watch, and for a moment Wright embodied all of us in the face of the unyielding machine. When she downed that glass of whiskey, she knew what was coming, and so did we. In contrast, Jared Leto as Wallace was somewhat opaque and obscure, but I suspect this is how the character was intended to be. We get a glimpse of an overwhelming ambition and idealism driving him, but it felt distant and cold to me– human, but not in a way I liked. This should not be surprising, as after all there are very few Niander Wallaces in the world, and their calculated vision must be alien to most.

Harrison Ford, returning as Deckard, appears fairly late in the film and adds a reluctant charm, grounding the film at a point when it could have easily gone off the rails. He plays someone who has made tough choices and has long since learned to live with them. I wonder what a day in the life of Deckard would have looked like, drinking whiskey with his dog and tending to his bees amidst the surreal ruins of Las Vegas. One particular scene especially owed its poignancy to Ford's powerful performance: when Wallace throws into question Deckard's life and love as pre-determined and devoid of meaning, we get a long close-up of Ford's face and witness a sequence of subtle transformations. The terror that flickers across his eyes, and the weight that sets down upon him, and the inexplicable strength that he somehow musters to speak the words, "I know what's real," were thrilling to watch and a perfect vessel for my own experience of those same emotions.

The soundtrack (Hans Zimmer, Benjamin Wallfisch) and overall sound design worked wonders, completing the feel of the universe and driving home the dread and hope. I felt some kind of rage writhing beneath the music, subtle and powerful, and it hinted at the unimaginable inner experience of K and the Replicants in general. Who is to say what it is like to be an artificially intelligent bioengineered being? I have no idea, but rage is a primal experience I find easy to imagine in others.

Ryan Gosling's task of portraying K's utter fury and desperation cannot have been easy. Like Pinnochio, K is tossed between the lures of pleasure, dreams of family, and a quest for the truth. His relationship with Joi is fragile, touching, and tragic. His anger and hope in finding a father figure, Deckard, is ultimately baseless and heartbreaking.

On the one hand, his character is ultimately an alien– something entirely non-human; at the same time, his struggles mirror an experience that humans have utterly monopolized: the journey of defining oneself and one's path. The only reason this film works at all is that we can relate to K, but the main reason it works so well is due to the uneasy reminders that, in the end, he is not one of us.

There was a sense in me that his experience cannot possibly be authentic – a feeling clearly shared by K himself, who is constantly reminded that he "has no soul"– and yet I was convinced that those same feelings in me would be as valid as can be. As his doubt slowly seeped into me as well, I began to wonder about my own human experience: what makes it authentic?

In some sense, Blade Runner 2049 explored not so much what it is like to be an AI, but what it is like to be human. Perhaps the writers hid a jewel in an inconspicuous joke quipped by Deckard in the casino– when K asks him if the dog he lives with is real, Deckard smirks and says, "Why don't you ask him?"

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nevervalentines · 7 years

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trimberly prompt: “seven minutes in heaven” (2.7k)

Kimberly is the first over the lip of the chasm, collapsing to the ground once she reaches the top, coarse gravel digging uncomfortably into her shoulder blades. She considers moving, but only manages to lift her head instead, biting back a groan, watching as Jason climbs out of the ravine, close behind. He splays on the quarry ground next to her, reaching out to pinch weakly at her arm.

“Maybe it’s time we invest in a rope,” he says, “or like a really long ladder.”

Trini is the next up, and she greets them with a glare, tossing a handful of gravel halfheartedly in their direction.

“Who made you the leader again?”

Zach hauls himself over the edge, reaching back to pull Billy up behind him. “I think that was the giant disembodied head,” he says. “If I remember correctly.”

Kimberly laughs and Jason mimes a frown, swatting his hand vaguely in Zach’s direction. “It’s not my fault I have the coolest color.”

Trini scoffs. “As if.”

“Yeah,” Kimberly says, snapping at the elastic of her pink sports bra, the hem visible under her low-scooped tank, “that would be me.”

If the motion draw Trini’s eyes, Kimberly doesn’t notice.

Jason protests, more out of habit than anything, before rising to his feet with a low groan, massaging the tense muscles in his shoulder with his hand. Zach mimes a punch at him and Jason playfully ducks his swing, catching Billy in a loose headlock.

Kimberly watches the boys scuffle, almost annoyed at their show of energy after their punishing training session. She eyes her own wrists, the skin mottled by a string of bruises, abrasions below her collarbones stinging with sweat-salt and the memory of the Putties’ all-too-real projected fists.

She manages to sit up, propped on her forearms, and watches the beginning of a storm simmer deep in the valley. The air tastes like rain and iron, heavy gray clouds settling low against the jagged peaks of quarry rock.

It’s the anticipation of the storm more than the thing itself that Kimberly loves, and when she catches Trini watching her from the cliff’s edge, she doesn’t look away.

Trini blinks, slow and careful, and Kimberly thinks she sees the threat of lightning in the dark iris of her eyes. Kimberly smiles soft, earning a small grin in return.

Thunder rolls over the distant, muted cityscape of Angel Grove, chasing the rain toward them.

Trini looks away first.

Jason has extracted himself from Billy and Zach’s skirmish and walks to Kimberly, leaning down to offer his hand. She accepts, letting him haul her to her feet, dusting dirt and pebbled rocks from her pants.

“Are we heading home?” she asks, eyeing the quickly approaching storm.

Jason turns toward the group, offering them a lopsided grin. “Actually, I was going to see if you guys wanted to come over tonight.” He pauses, squinting sheepishly. “My parents are out of town, so.” He trails off, but the implication is there.

Zach is first to react, whooping loudly and punching at the air. “Ranger bonding, part two.”

Kimberly rolls her eyes, raising her eyebrow at Jason’s sloppy smile. “So the quarterback finally reveals his true colors.”

Jason holds his hands up, palm out, in protest. “Hey,” he says, “former quarterback.”

Kimberly laughs. “I can’t believe I’ll finally get the chance to go to one of Jason Scott’s famous parties.”

Jason shakes his head quickly. “Just the five of us, I promise.”

Zach grins, reaching out to tug at Trini’s loose, mud-stained shirt. “First keg stand is on crazy girl.”

Trini glares, shoving him away. “Dream on.”

Only Billy seems lost, and Jason shrugs at him, tilting his voice into a question. “Drinks? At my place tonight?” At Billy’s hesitance Jason smiles, “You definitely don’t have to drink, we can just hang.”

Billy’s face breaks into a grin and nods. “Only if I can control music.”

Jason laughs, starting for the mine’s exit, the rest of them trailing habitually behind. “Fine, but at the first sign of country music you are fired.”

Kimberly laughs, falling back to tie her shoe, fumbling with the lace, fingers still shaky with the last remnants of adrenaline and power. Her strength roils beneath her skin, ever-present and devastating. Sometimes she wonders how she is still trapped in a town so small, wonders that the light and brawn and otherworldly burden that lives inside her doesn’t just shatter the claustrophobic boundaries of Angel Grove.

When she stands Trini is next to her, lips curled in a customary smirk, yellow beanie slunk low over her ears.

“Hey,” Kimberly says, half-startled, heart beating heavy in her chest.

Trini’s smirk pulls into something softer, her right cheek dimpling. “Hey.”

Trini reaches toward her and Kimberly’s breath catches high in her throat, eyes wide as Trini’s hand sifts through her hair. Trini pulls away quickly, nose wrinkling, holding a pebble between her fingers. “You had something…”

Kimberly ducks her head in a laugh. “Yikes, I desperately need a shower.”

Trini ignores her, eyes falling to Kimberly’s wrists, her fingers hovering just above her pulse point, thumb trailing over her bruises. “That Putty got you good, huh.”

Kimberly hums low, fascinated with the play of Trini’s fingers across her skin. She reaches out on impulse, brushing a touch against the cut that splits Trini’s lip. “You too.”

They stay there, suspended, Trini’s hand at her wrist and Kimberly’s thumb at her lips, and Kimberly feels an unfamiliar ache pull below her collarbone.

Lightning cracks sharp at the horizon and they jump apart, Kimberly laughing unsteadily and Trini’s face falling back into a glower. They turn to follow the group, silent, and Kimberly pretends she didn’t feel the static-lightning-hum mirrored in Trini’s touch.

So Billy is playing country music. But Jason seems too far gone to care. A guitar wails low through Jason’s portable speakers, a southern accent crooning across the Scott’s finished basement.

The five of them are arranged loosely in a circle, sprawled lazy on the plush, cream carpet. Kimberly sips carefully at her drink, tepid wine borrowed from Jason’s dad’s reserve, making sure to only drink enough to stoke the low, warm hum in her belly, but not enough to grow sloppy, careless.

Only Jason seems to be hovering anywhere near drunk, and he shrugs away their concern. “I’m on house arrest,” he says, sticking out his leg, “I need this.”

Trini lolls her head back against the couch, legs kicked across Zach’s lap, hands tangled in the hem of Kimberly’s leather jacket. When she laughs she twists them tighter, turning her face into Kimberly’s neck. The weight of her breath, warm and wanting, against Kimberly’s skin is enough to rocket her tipsy-wine-buzz to the kind of inhibition that slurs syllables.

The storm met them at the house, rain battering windows and slamming hard at thin, copper roofs. Trini tips her face toward to the high, basement windows, the play of fractured shadow across her cheeks casting her ethereal and wind-swept.

Kimberly remembers Trini at that evening’s practice, teeth bared feral, hair swept back across her forehead, shadow drenched and taught, wound tight as coiled wire.

Trini turns her face into the crook of Kimberly’s neck, laughing low in her throat. Kimberly thinks of lightning and shivers.

Zach gets bored first, because of course.

He throws a crumpled cup at Jason’s face, cheering when it bounces off of his cheek. Jason swipes at the air, delayed, and Billy laughs.

“We should play a game,” Zach says, head cocked. He taps exaggeratedly at his chin, pursing his lips. “What should it be?”

Jason rolls to his side, fixing Kimberly with a messy grin. “Truth or dare.”

Kimberly rolls her eyes, pretending not to notice as Trini abruptly pulls away. “Fine,” she says. Her eyes narrow to match Jason’s challenge. “Dare.”

Jason glances around the room, eyes searching the plaster walls and his dad’s vintage framed Grateful Dead posters like they will give him an idea.

Kimberly realizes abruptly that she may have given him too much power, but—

“I dare you to—” Jason stalls, drawing the syllable long, “finish your drink.”

Zack’s yelp of protests cut off Kimberly before she can reply.

“That is deadly lame, man.”

Trini shifts beside her, and Kimberly can sense her apathetic pout without having to look. “So lame.”

Zach points at Trini as though her affirmation proves his protests. “See? Even Dee-dee agrees.”

Jason frowns, mock hurt. “Then you think of something.”

Zach smiles slow, grin pulling high at his cheeks, and oh God now Kimberly is sure she has given them too much power.

He empties the wine bottle into his cup before waving it in Kimberly’s face, smile climbing even higher on his face. “We spin this,” he says, “and whoever it lands on gets seven-minutes-in-heaven with our favorite mean girl.”

Jason sits up on his forearms, frowning in earnest now. He fixes Kimberly with a look, brow pulling low. “You don’t actually have to do that, Kim.”

Zach rolls his eyes. “Fine. But at the very least you two are trapped in a closet for seven minutes.”

Jason settles back down. “Fair.”

Trini’s expression sharpens into a glare. “Since when do you make the rules?”

“C’mon crazy girl,” Zack says, “We all know you’re hoping the bottle lands on you.”

The silence that follows is fraught, deafening, and Kimberly ignores the blush that is clinging to her ears, worried if she doesn’t act soon a brawl is going to break out in the worst way. She leans across Trini, snatching the bottle from Zach’s hands.

“I’ll spin.”

She holds the bottle carefully, feeling the fragile flex of glass beneath her palm. At this point, she’ll be lucky it doesn’t shatter.

It lands on Trini, because of course.

Or, rather, it lands halfway between Trini and Zach, but he’s pulling Trini to her feet before there can be an argument, looking a lot like this is what he wanted all along. Trini pulls away from his loose grasp, a red flush crawling up her chest, staining her cheeks a mottled pink. Kimberly would find it helplessly endearing if Zach wasn’t nudging her toward the pine-paneled board-game/linens closet at the other end of the room.

Jason cheers them on and Billy joins in, turning up his country music a few notches so they—as he puts it—“can hear it in the closet.”

Kimberly wonders at the irony.

Though last week she literally battled a sentient, gold skyscraper and a sociopathic alien with an affinity for Krispy Kreme, as the closet doors close behind them, sealing them in close, warm quarters, Kimberly still thinks this might be the most surreal thing that has ever happened to her.

And that includes her pterodactyl inspired fighting machine.

Their only source of light is the narrow band of golden light that leaks underneath the closet door, and when Kimberly meets Trini’s eyes she finds her pupils blown wide, hair pushed careless and messy about her face, devoid of its customary braids.

Kimberly realizes that at some point before the party Trini must have showered. She smells sharp, like citrus and soap, with a hint of sweat layered underneath the synthetic fragrances. Kimberly has to restrain herself from pushing closer for more, from burying her face in the crook of Trini’s neck, at the hinge of her jaw, in search of satiation.

Trini’s lips are parted and Kimberly finds herself transfixed by the sharp, curved cupid’s bow of her mouth, the perfect divot in her top lip, the breath that stutters harsh into the air between them. Kimberly presses herself closer to the back wall of the closet, pinning her hands behind her own hips.

“We don’t have to do anything,” she says, attempting a laugh. “I mean obviously.” A pause. Trini says nothing. “We can just, like, wait it out.”

Trini’s jaw tenses, muscle rippling beneath taught skin, and she meets Kimberly’s eyes with a glare, taking a step forward. The movement leaves them pressed impossibly close, and Kimberly holds her breath, heart fluttering high in her throat.

“Why?” Trini says, jerking her chin up to level their gaze, “You think you can’t handle it?”

Kimberly immediately feels the thrill of a challenge cut deep in her chest, biting and sharp, the same thrill that got her to the top of the pyramid freshman year, that sent the text, that made her wrap her arms around Trini’s waist and send them both plummeting into the ravine.

She bares her teeth, pressing forward, hands unknotting from behind her back to fit tight against Trini’s hips instead.

“Actually,” Kimberly says, pulling Trini close enough that their hips press flush, “I’m not sure you can.”

The kiss that follows is inevitable, as much a part of the greater design as the destiny that clings to them both.

It’s all teeth and tongue, and Trini crashes their lips together hard enough that if they were entirely human it would bruise. Trini’s arms wind around Kimberly’s shoulders, arching onto tiptoe to slant her mouth more firmly against Kimberly’s own, licking into her mouth carelessly, foreheads bumping and noses pressed tight.

Kimberly inhales sharply, a small noise curling involuntary from her throat as she catches Trini’s bottom lip between her teeth, only pulling away to nip kisses against the sharp line of her jaw. Her fingers crawl from Trini’s hips to the high hem of her jean shorts, digging rough into her skin, curling at the backs of her thighs, urging her close, closer.

Trini tilts her head back, baring the long slope of her neck to Kimberly’s wanting teeth. Kimberly feels a thrill at the universal sign for surrender, but the satisfaction of victory pales in comparison to the whine Trini makes when Kimberly laps hard over her pulse point. She nuzzles into the crook of Trini’s neck, painting kisses at the crux of her jaw and the hard line of her collarbones before moving back to her mouth.

She lets Trini kiss her now, dirty and messy and deep, Trini’s hands moving from her shoulders to her cheeks, cupping her face fragile between her palms. Her careful touch is a stark contrast to the wild wet heat of her mouth and Kimberly feels the ache in her stomach drop between her legs, throbbing low and insistent.

Kimberly nods against her mouth, humming quietly into the kiss, hands smoothing from the back of Trini’s thighs to the small of her back, cradling her close. Somewhere in between the initial challenge and the scrape of Trini’s teeth against her bottom lip, Kimberly has forgotten where they are, the haphazardly stacked spare towels and precariously positioned boxes of connect-four and Monopoly blurring to the way Trini sighs against her lips.

Trini remembers first, jarring back, head colliding roughly with a jutting wooden shelf. She yelps in pain, hands reaching to cup the back of her head, more out of instinct than anything. Kimberly shakes free of her daze, wincing in sympathy, reaching out to cradle Trini’s chin in her palm.

“Are you okay?”

Trini barks out a laugh, face flushed, lips kiss-bruised and red. “Never been better.”

Kimberly feels her blush return, staining her ears dark pink, and she heaves a shaky breath. “We should probably talk about this,” she says, gesturing between them. “I mean, we should—”

Trini cuts her off with a slanted grin, hands dropping from the back of her head to twist in the lapel of Kimberly’s jacket, tugging her forward. “We could,” she says, voice dipping low, “Or we could just use the rest of our seven minutes, figure it out later.”

Kimberly means to shake her head, but finds herself already moving back in, tilting her mouth to frame Trini’s lips, brushing a light kiss at the corner of her mouth before pulling back. “How will we know when it’s been seven minutes?”

Trini grins, “I’m sure one of the guys will come get us eventually.”

Last week, Kimberly fought the forces of darkness in a battle that devastated several city blocks, a small town’s economy, and one very pivotal Krispy Kreme. She played a part in the legendary, eternal battle of good and evil, held the fate of the world in her hands and saved it from utter destruction and endless chaos.

But here, in Jason Scott’s basement closet, wine-tipsy and helplessly turned on, she thinks that destiny can wait. Just for a little while. At the very least, seven minutes.

#trimberly #power rangers #trini x kimberly #my writing #...........i....love...this trope so thank you!!!!#trini kwan #kimberly hart

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