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makeste · 3 years

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BnHA Chapter 316: We've Had One, Yes, But What About Second Explosion

Previously on BnHA: Deku was all “[powers up like whoa because it’s time to end the fight]”, and he saved Overhaul from getting not-shot, and then smashed up Nagant’s arm with the power of his new rechargeable super knees. Nagant was all “yoooo this kid is crazy strong whaaaat, it’s like he’s some kind of protagonist or something.” Deku was all “I AM A PROTAGONIST, ACTUALLY, DO YOU WANT TO JOIN FORCES AND FIGHT BAD GUYS WITH ME?” Nagant was all “ah shit why the hell no -- ” and then AFO was all “SURPRISE” and everyone was all “?!?!?!” and AFO was all “TIME TO EXPLODE NOW” and made Nagant explode because he’s an absolute fucking dick. And then Hawks showed up, because Horikoshi just wanted to stuff as many plot points as humanly possible into a single chapter I guess.

Today on BnHA: Hawks is all “good job giving motivational shounen redemption speeches Deku but I’ll take it from here” and screams very earnestly right in Nagant’s face until she finally wakes up. Nagant is all “oh hey it’s my successor, you seem surprisingly unfucked-up from your own HPSC tenure, how did you manage that?” Hawks is all “fandom is going to love hearing this one, but basically it’s because I’m very upbeat and also I had the world’s best role model Endeavor to look up to,” and I swear this man stirs the pot on purpose, but damn it I still love him so damn much. Overhaul is all “HELLO AGAIN, JUST A REMINDER THAT, THE BOSS!!” and Deku is all “MAYBE TAKE TWO SECONDS TO REFLECT ON HOW YOU TORTURED A LITTLE GIRL,” which, thank you, lol. Nagant is all “btw AFO’s hiding in a house in the woods”, and so Deku and the gang go to the house in the woods. Video recording!AFO is all “hi I’m AFO welcome to Jackass” and blows up the house. Sometimes I wonder if this manga is just a weird dream.

I am once again reading the Bean version because I think it was actually the best out of all three translations last week. and that is surprisingly including Viz’s. “faux” is not nearly as entertaining as “knockoff”, and also I have literally no idea why Caleb thought Deku was saying the Third’s lines lol

oh hey, Endeavor’s here too! not that you’d ever be able to tell from this first panel lmao

glad you received All Might’s call, mysterious unidentified glowing smudge

oh snap he says he’s weaker in the rain. is that why AFO told Nagant to attack then?? except that as we discussed the other day, I believe that AFO fully intended for Nagant to lose the fight, so him giving her info that would give her an advantage doesn’t really fit in with that. maybe he wanted Deku to be separated from Endeavor and the rest for maximum angst, though

btw Deku’s eyes are unsurprisingly back to the new normal here

alas, the angst continues. I say, pretending like I’m not totally eating it up each and every week and writing essay after essay about it lol

anyway so apparently Hawks can’t actually fly lmao. he was just yeeting himself with style

for some reason this is the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever seen omfg. wave to Hawks, kids! say “bye, Hawks!”

j/k of course Deku is catching them. -- except???

wow so he was just running on fumes there at the end. well, good to know there is actually a limit to his shenanigans, particularly regarding this new “knockoff” 100% OFA. it will definitely not alleviate any of the discourse, but it’s good for my own peace of mind because it’s solid confirmation that he still needs his pals in order to win this thing

anyway, but on to the rest of this conversation, which is basically Deku deducing what we all deduced last week -- AFO implanted some sort of trap into Nagant when he gave her Air Walk. though I’d still like to get the actual details from AFO and/or Horikoshi, because this was particularly wild even by quirk standards lol

omgggggg

she still has a face after all!! so it’s confirmed, Horikoshi has no idea what “blowing up” actually means. we might have guessed, based on what happened to Toga in the MVA arc, and also based on everything Katsuki does ever, but shhh

so now Hawks is all “NAGANT PLEASE WAKE UP, IF I SHOUT MY NAME AT YOU WILL THAT DO THE TRICK”

this is actually kind of touching though because even though we all know (or most of us acknowledge at any rate) that Hawks is a pretty caring person, it’s rare to see him actually panic over someone’s welfare like this

oh shit Horikoshi is really doubling down on it

I wonder how much Hawks knew about what really happened between Nagant and the HPSC. regardless, he probably sees her as a kindred spirit of sorts, and I’m more than happy for Deku to pass the redemption torch onto him now that he’s on the scene. like no offense Deku but they actually know each other and stuff lol

DAMMIT NAGANT CAN’T YOU SEE HOW LOUD HE IS YELLING

apparently being freed from his HPSC shackles has finally given Hawks the space to embrace his own inner shounen protagonist. is there anything more shounen than trying to motivationally scream someone awake when they’re lying in your arms inches from death?? 100% guaranteed to work

!!! IS THIS NAGANT’S POV OMG

SO SHE IS ALIVE. THANK GOD. Horikoshi doesn’t want to meet with my emotional distress lawyer today after all

love how she’s all “just gonna stir up the weekly Hawks Discourse pot here by implying that he probably committed a lot of Atrocities just like I did, so now people can get all hopped up about that, even though there’s no evidence he’s ever killed anyone aside from that one horrible ‘damned-if-you-do...’ situation with Twice.” no one asked for your provocative speculation young lady!! trust me Nagant, our rabbles don’t need the rousing lol

but nice save there with the “so how are your eyes so untainted” well you see it’s because even when he was following the HPSC’s orders he always went to great lengths never to go against his own moral compass. which just to be clear was incredibly difficult, and led to a ton of pain and suffering on his part, because the life of a spy is basically just one impossible situation after another. but in spite of that he never stopped trying to do his best to help people. I don’t really know where this tangent came from or is leading to, lol, but anyway p.s.a. I love Hawks a lot and he’s a good kid dammit

oh shit??!?

how is the League always able to swing all these fancy forest mansions. where do they find them. how many do they have

so Deku’s dropping them -- very roughly, not sure if he was reacting to finally getting AFO’s location, or if his energy really is giving out -- and now Nagant’s saying that AFO hired other villains as well. well of course he did. gotta keep chipping away at OFA’s ninth successor little by little

now Nagant is asking Hawks how he’s able to keep making “that” face. I assume she’s again talking about the fact that he somehow didn’t let the HPSC wear down his spirit

oh my god???

thanks for stuffing this chapter to the brim with good nutritional Hawks Feels, Horikoshi. what a good. he just keeps on trudging forward undeterred no matter what bullshit comes his way. what a steadfast little guy. I WILL PROTECT YOU FROM DISCOURSE MY SWEET SUNSHINE

lmaoooo

“SPOTTED THIS DUDE JUST CHILLING OUT THERE ON THE ROOF WITH NO ARMS, SEEMED PRETTY SUS” good job Endeavor

anyway so you don’t really need me to tell you that Overhaul is immediately starting in with the “BUT THE BOSS WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO TAKE ME TO THE BOSS YOU PROMISED YOU WOULD TAKE ME TO THE BOSS” stuff again. but I will go ahead and tell you anyway. so yeah. he’s doing that

OMG YOU GUYS LOOK AT DEKU’S “of all the fucking assholes to just randomly drop in on my life once again why did it have to be you” FACE THOUGH, OMG

fun fact, if you go back to chapters 124 through 160, there was an entire story arc where Overhaul imprisoned and tortured a little girl. yeah, I know!! suuuuuuuuper evil. anyways just an interesting little anecdote for you all that’s somewhat relevant to the current situation

OMG, YES. FUCK YES, DEKU

THEN WHAT ABOUT SPARING ONE FOR HER!!! YES!!! EXACTLY!!! JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, SOMEONE GETS IT

HERE’S THE PANEL OF DEKU SAYING THE EXACT SAME THING I’M SAYING LOL

(ETA: so apparently there’s some discourse about this because some people are interpreting this as Deku saying “you should apologize to Eri”, which would obviously be a terrible idea even if Overhaul actually wanted to do that, because Eri shouldn’t ever have to see him again. however I just want to point out that there is a HUGE difference between saying “it would be nice if you could direct that feeling of regret/being sorry towards Eri as well”, vs saying “you should also apologize to her.” all Deku is doing is rightfully pointing out that Overhaul has hurt way more people than just his boss, and if he really is remorseful, then he should extend those feelings of remorse to Eri and the rest as well. it’s not a directive to take any specific action, and I’m 1000% sure no one at U.A. would let Overhaul within 100 miles of Eri ever again.

tl;dr “try feeling remorse sometime” =/= “do you want me to fly you over to U.A. right now to surprise the little girl you traumatized”, lol.)

[slings an arm around Deku’s shoulders] you’re a good kid. I like you. I don’t know if I tell you that enough, but it’s true

meanwhile here is Overhaul’s “spare... a thought... for Eri...???????” face sigh

the struggle is real y’all

(ETA: and that’s... the last we ever saw of Overhaul, I guess? well all right then. I assume Deku will make good on his promise, so we know he’ll get that little bit of closure before going back to jail or whatever, and I confess I’m more than fine with leaving the rest of it open-ended, especially given his character’s history. I think this was pretty generous all things considered.)

lmao holy shit

All Might what did you do to those tiki torch guys?? did you thrash them. did you give ‘em those hands. did you deliver their own asses to them complete with a sticker reminding them Amazon Prime Day is on June 21. we missed out goddammit

so Endeavor, who wasn’t the one he was asking, is telling him that they captured (well let’s be real, Deku captured, give the credit where it’s due) Nagant and Overhaul. and so I guess they’re going to take Nagant to the ER now

fire is no one’s weakness

-- oh my GOD I scrolled down and audibly gasped

[is politely but firmly approached and asked to remove my arm from Deku’s shoulder by the physical manifestation of all this Dekuangst] “we’re sorry, he’s not allowed to have visitors right now” oh shit, my bad. [goes to stand behind a police barricade]

lmao what. did you run out of room on the previous page

what an exaggerated fade to black lmao

-- AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

I actually can’t see what he’s reacting to so maybe I’m just seriously jumping the gun here lol, but THE HELL WITH IT. the next panel appears to be a cut to Haibori Forest, so I’m just gonna go ahead and declare that Deku ran off on his own all wounded to go have more Dekuangst, just like I manifested. now go call Katsuki goddammit

[scrolls three more inches down] oh

yeah so like I said, Deku is walking very slowly a few feet in front of Endeavor, who’s telling him to wait up. yep. we’ve all gotta be so careful to not just jump to conclusions. I know we’re excited but still

anyway, so! welcome back to Mt. Lady and Kamui Woods (ARE YOU GUYS DATING) and Edgeshot! have fun walking into this obvious trap lol

dammit Deku why are you so determined to tempt fate

[monkey puppet meme faces]

OH MY GOD THIS IS PURE GRADE-A CHEESY COMIC BOOK VILLAIN 101 SHIT AND I’M HERE FOR IT

that’s such a weird way of clapping who claps like that

unlike certain other people who shan’t be named, AFO doesn’t feel the need to inexplicably take his shirt off when recording sinister villain monologues. I think we’re all pretty grateful for that

high fives to everyone who called it!! yep yep

anyway so this whole scene has major booby-trap vibes, which I’m enjoying immensely even though I don’t think anything is really going to come of it lol. probably just another long-winded AFO Speech. but wouldn’t it be funny if like the ceiling started lowering down to try and squish Deku afterwards lol

(ETA: well the explosion was still pretty funny too ngl.)

ffff

[“Dekuangst is the trap” intensifies]

anyway so yeah. he’s just hitting up all of his usual villain talking points. we get it, you’re so smart and you see right through the thin veneers of society and people who don’t conform are left to fend for themselves and labeled as villains and history is written by the victors, and blah blah blah dude are you just jumping randomly from one soundbyte to another lol. literally what are you talking about. what does this have to do with you blowing up Nagant

-- holy shit??

[”Dekuangst is the trap” intensifies MORE?????]

LOL WHAT

BRO. WHAT IS WITH YOU. DON’T YOU KNOW HOW TO LAY ANY OTHER KIND OF FUCKING TRAP GOOD LORD

“YOU’RE NEXT” THE CALLBACK?? THE PARALLELS?? THOUGH WHEN ALL MIGHT POINTED HE MADE IT LOOK WAY COOLER. AFO’S POINTING JUST LOOKS LIKE SMOKEY THE BEAR

HAS ANYONE CHECKED IN ON KAMUI WOODS I HEAR HE IS WEAK TO FIRE?? THE ONLY ONE WHO IS, APPARENTLY

r.i.p. to this particular forest mansion. don’t worry they have a ton of backups

remember last week when I said maybe AFO thinks explosions are gauche. well never mind. he fucking loves explosions

anyway so that’s the end of BnHA, everyone. hope you enjoyed. it was a good ride while it lasted. see you all, good luck in your travels

#bnha 316 #hawks #takami keigo #lady nagant #midoriya izuku #all for one #bnha #boku no hero academia #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #bnha manga spoilers #makeste reads bnha #manifesting 317 opening with a slightly modified version of my previous fantasy scenario lmao #'WHADDYA MEAN THEY BLEW UP THE NERD'#that's *his* job #sorry lol I kid I kid

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spvce-cowboy · 3 years

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drivers license

francisco morales x f!reader - oneshot

rating: mature

3.1k words

warnings: drug/alcohol use, reader is a dealer, age gap, so much YEARNING!!!

summary: a surprise visit from an old friend

a/n: 100 follower celebration!! partially inspired by this post but also the fact that i have been sing-screaming “drivers license” for oh about four days straight now. thank you guys so so much for all the support so far ! 💕

A fist slamming against your front door wakes you from a dreamless sleep.

You push yourself off your mattress, blearily checking the time on your phone and cursing under your breath when you see that it’s almost 3am. You sit up all the way, blinking as you wait to see if what woke you up was something you’d imagined or if it were real.

It’s real. It starts again after a second, three sharp raps against the door, followed by some kind of muffled talking. Your heart rate picks up in your chest, you grab the baseball bat you have leaned against the wall as you reach your apartment door. Squeezing one eye shut, you look through the peephole.

The good thing is that it definitely isn’t the cops. You take a relieved breath, leaning away from the door.

The bad thing is that whoever is knocking is hunched on his knees, just outside of the peephole’s line of sight, so you have absolutely no idea who the fuck it is.

“Please open the door,” the man’s voice begs from the other side of the door. You’re about to yell at him to fuck off, but he interrupts you before you can even open your mouth. “Little flower, it’s me, please.”

The nickname makes your heart go to your throat. The bat in your hands falls to the floor.

You rub a hand over your eyes, huffing an exhale in a vague attempt to prevent your heart from ricocheting against your ribs. It doesn’t work. Because as soon as he says it, as soon as you realize who it is, it brings everything back with him.

A set of sturdy, tanned fingers cupped against the knuckles of your grandfather’s hand, the voice went low in a warm but respectful greeting. You didn’t realize how gnarled your old man’s hands had gotten until you had someone else’s to compare them to. You looked back down at the crumpled up dollar bills you’d just been handed, one of them still rolled. Turning to find your bag on the coatrack, you stuff the money in your back pocket.

“My little flower, this is a good one,” your grandfather told you with a small hum that signifies whatever he just said must be set in stone. You hear the sound of him heavily patting the hand cupped over his own in that way he does when he appreciates the presence of something. “He has a decent head on his shoulders, no?”

“Little flower?” You can hear the boyish smile in that all too familiar voice before you even turn back around. “That suits you well, I think. Florita. I like that.”

“Christ, Frankie, what are you doing here?” You rest your head against the doorframe, heart sinking in your chest. You don’t open the door, to protect him or yourself you don’t know.

“I need—”

“You’ve got a kid now, Frankie. I told you I’m not going to sell to you anymore.”

“Ever the moralist,” the bite to his words is so uncharacteristic you can’t help but flinch. He seems to realize this, too. His apology is nearly immediate. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. You’re right. I… It’s not…”

You swallow, closing your eyes and wrapping your arms around yourself for some bare semblance of comfort. “Please go,” your voice is so quiet you’re not sure he can hear you through the layer of wood separating the two of you. “You’ll wake the neighbors.”

It’s quiet for a long time. Long enough that you nearly think he’s left. Long enough that you don’t know why you’re still standing at the door and not back in bed.

And Frankie says your name, voice cracking. Your actual name. It’s been so long since you’ve heard it come off his lips you can’t help sink into the door.

A held breath leaves you in a shuddering sigh. Your shaking hands open the door.

The man who spills onto the ground before you is a stranger, yet, heartbreakingly, just as he had been when you first met him. Messy hair, worn blue jeans, gray button-down stretching over the perfect expanse of his back. All that is missing this time around is that lazy smile, that easy, Hey, darling.

In a bar. Right when your grandfather started getting sick.

“Eighty,” you said without him having to continue his sentence beyond his syrupy greeting, eyes trained on the shelves of liquor in front of you instead of having to meet his gaze.

He copped an eighth, tucking the little baggie in a pocket on the inside of his jacket. You went back to your drink, angling your body away from him again and expecting him to return to his table of friends. But then the knuckles of his hand nudged the side of you elbow. He gestured to your beer, the neck of the bottle clasped between your thumb and the hook of your middle and index fingers.

“Lemme buy you your next one, yeah?” He had a hunched lean to his posture, in that way that men do when they want you to feel like you’re the only person in the room. You were mad that it worked. He extended a hand. “Frankie Morales.”

The truth of it was that the two of you became friends, after that. Nothing more. Regardless, it was too close for you to get to someone you dealt to, but you were so lonely at that point in your life—taking care of the old man by day, GED classes at night--that meeting Frankie was a small blessing. Nothing ever happened between you two but God you wish it did.

To describe what you felt towards him as a crush didn’t really cut it, but you were fine with friends. Being completely fair, he was definitely one to send mixed signals—Christ, your weekly tradition of driving to an overlook to split an order of fries and milkshakes on the hood of his truck just about screamed every romcom you were raised on. But despite the occasional prolonged touch, the hand he would place on the small of your back to move you out of the way or guide you forward, nothing happened.

You dealt with it. Tried to be supportive as possible when he met his girl. Frankie broke the news that she was pregnant. The two of you saw each other less and less frequently. Sometimes he would call to catch up. Eventually, you stopped answering when he did. Your grandfather died. You got into a local art school.

It was sad how quietly it all faded. You didn’t know it could, but it did.

And now here he is, literally crumpled at your feet.

Frankie messily pulls himself up off the ground and onto his knees. He reeks of booze and old cigarettes. You freeze as his hands wrap over your hips, as he presses his face into your stomach and murmurs an incoherent apology—for what, you’re not exactly sure.

And when you finally processing what’s happening, what you had begged the universe for years, you can’t help yourself. Your card your fingers through his hair, gritting your teeth and squeezing your eyes shut.

“Frankie,” it’s a warning. It’s a reminder. “You’re drunk. You need to go home. Your girlfriend--”

“She left a week ago,” he speaks into the fabric covering your belly. The words burst forwards as if not even he was expecting to say them. It’s a confession. His hands flex from where they hold onto you. “She’s gone.” Your heart drops to your gut, your chest aching. “I need… Just for the night I… Little flower, the house is so empty.”

You keep petting back his hair until his breathing quiets. He keeps holding onto you, even then. The two of you stay like that for a long time.

“Why don’t,” your voice comes out too shaky. Too unsure of itself. You clear your throat and try again. “Why don’t you take a shower, I’ll get you some water and we can sober you up a bit. Okay?”

He tilts his face up at you. It’s the first time you’ve seen him in well over a year.

And he hasn’t changed. It’s all there—the soft mess of shaggy hair, dark but kind eyes, the beloved hook of his nose.

One sun-sick evening, you rode your bike to the beach just to get out of the apartment. You need somewhere to sit and think for a while, just until your head feels more clear. There’s enough of a chill in the air that you have to throw on a jacket, it’s nice. It’s like you can feel the wind moving through you. Past you.

When you arrived at the beach, you got off your bike, leaning it against your hip as you scoped out a spot to sit in the sand. You were about to wheel it over to the rack when--

Someone pinched your elbow in greeting. Their steps were so quiet you didn’t even register their approach. It, obviously, startled you, and your hand immediately flew to the keychain in your back pocket. The knife you had attached to it.

When you turned, and it was Frankie’s familiar face, his hands raised in joking surrender.

In that light, with the sun still flirting with the horizon, it rendered his face into shapes and shadows you had only previously seen in the old oil paintings of long-dead greats. You thought it was in the deep bourbon of his eyes, soft when illuminated by a tangerine sky. It was him. All of him. Slightly breathless, hair ruffled by the wind.

“Hey, hey, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he sounded genuinely apologetic. You released a relieved huff of air.

“Fucking Christ, Frankie. A little warning would be nice next time.”

“Did you bike the whole way here? From the apartment?” He asked, there was a tinge of concern to his voice.

You shrugged, trying to hide your embarrassment by lowering your kickstand with the heel of you boot. “It’s not that far.”

“Don’t you have a car?”

“Can’t drive,” you wrinkle your nose. “Never needed to.”

He looked you for a moment, if you didn’t know any better you’d say critically.

“I was just about to get something to eat, if you wanna join me,” he tucked his hands in his pockets as he spoke. “There’s this overlook nearby that has a way better view of all of this.” He motions to the ocean with the tilt of his head. “I can drive us there.”

You regarded him as he spoke, cautiously looking him up and down. And you nodded, smiling slightly. He smiled back, it was big and crooked. It made something in the pit of your belly feel warm.

You step away, holding out your hand to help him to his feet. He complies, stumbling slightly and rubbing his hand over his face as he does so. He disappears down the hall without having to ask where the bathroom is.

Sighing, you go back into your room, pulling out a shirt and a pair of oversized sweatpants for him to change into. You knock on the bathroom door on your way to the kitchen. The apartment’s walls are so thin you can hear the hiss of the shower from all the way down the hall.

“Come in,” Frankie’s voice barely rises above the sound.

You crack the door open, keeping your eyes trained to the floor as you place the folded clothes on the sink’s counter.

“Here’s something for you to change into,” you tell him. He thanks you, the shower turning off right as you close the door behind you. You walk back down the hall and into the living room, making two glasses of water before settling on your couch.

Once, after a night out, the two of you were too drunk and too broke to afford separate taxis home. He proposed going back to his house, split the cost, grab a cab for you once it wasn’t so late and the rates went down.

You agreed, as you did anytime he extended the offer to spend time there. There was something about the quiet, tucked-in nature of the suburbs that was so novel to you. So calming.

The two of you settled on the couch. Feeling bold, you lay your head in his lap and kicked your socked feet up on the opposite armrest as you describe to him the gallery opening you’d snuck into. How you successfully schmoozed to the owner as well as one of the artists.

He asked you if you had heard back from any of the scholarships you’d applied to. You hadn’t, but you’d only just submitted the applications, so it would be at least a few months wait.

You tell him your dreams of becoming an artist. A real one. He already knew that, but you really tell him this time, all the details you usually keep to yourself, too special to you to have the courage to voice aloud. The fantasy of moving out into the mountains, getting a cabin just big enough for a hotplate and a bed and a studio. You’ve lived and breathed LA for your entire life and you were tired of the city. Tired of every street corner baked with the memories of high school and the listless years that followed, of the small humiliations you had to succumb to in order to survive.

Frankie listened and nodded enthusiastically at all the right parts. It was only then that you realized his hands smoothed over the top of your scalp as you talked. You let it continue, it felt too nice not to.

He told you that you should, and if you needed help finding the money he could always--

You cut him off before he could finish the thought, shaking your head. Responsibilities came first, you had people who needed you. A degree to finish. Savings to maintain. You asked him about the new girl he’d been seeing and he eagerly launches into a story about a different, wild night out. You smile and laugh throughout the whole thing, trying to ignore the pang it gives you when he describes the dress she was wearing. He fingers continued to brush over the crown of your head as he talked.

You fell asleep there, on his lap. You woke up before the sun rose, hot and sweaty and still a little drunk from the vodka Redbulls that never agreed well with your heart.

It took you a second to realize you were in Frankie’s bed, alone. When you padded back into the living room, he was passed out on the couch, a throw blanket wrapped around his shoulders, using his arm as a pillow.

You left after helping yourself to a shower, texting him a sarcastic good luck with that hangover. You’re about to call a taxi home but something stopped you. You thought it might be the way the sun was barely breaking over the cusp of the smoggy horizon, the sky reduced to pale shades of violet with the coming dawn.

The quiet neighborhood Frankie lived in is all the more beautiful, like this. Subdued, empty, houses in winding but even rows that scale up the mountainside like sets of bad teeth. You decided to walk, just until the sun got a little brighter. Until the people started to shake themselves awake for a new day.

You got a text from him as you were making breakfast, back at your apartment by then. Thanks. Hope you slept well, little flower. Something about the small missive kept you smiling the whole day after.

You mess with your phone until Frankie returns.

“I’m sorry, for showing up like this,” Frankie says as he hovers over the living room’s threshold. The clothes you leant him fit well enough, only slightly oversized on his frame as opposed to how they generously drape off of you. He holds his towel in his hands, looking down at it instead of you. “I honestly don’t have an excuse and you… you shouldn’t accept any. But I thought I should still tell you.”

You look at him for an extended beat, knowing he’s being honest. You’re at a genuine loss as to how to handle the situation.

“We can deal with it later,” you settle with that. It sounds good enough to you, and when he finally meets your eyes again he looks a little relieved. You nod you head towards the glass of water you placed on the coffee table, he takes your lead and settles on the opposite side of the couch, leaning over to take his own glass.

“So um… how are you?” He asks you earnestly, angling his body towards you.

“Okay,” you take a sip of water, trying to keep it casual. “Cleaning up my act a bit, you know? Going to school, picking up jobs here and there. Trying to figure out what I want to do. Oh! I uh… I learned how to drive--impressive I know.”

“The city flower herself, operating a vehicle?” His face breaks into a familiar, goofy smile you can’t help but reciprocate. “I’ll add every pedestrian in LA to my prayers.”

“You should,” you shake your head as you laugh, leaning into your corner of the couch and pulling your knees up to your chest. You finally relax, giving yourself the small allowance of settling into the comfort that inevitably comes with his presence.

And it really is just as easy as it always has been between the two of you. The conversation naturally ebbs and flows, neither of you bother to broach the heavier stuff. For now, just this it’s enough.

It’s enough to see the spark in his eyes when he tells you about his daughter, how bright she is, how much trouble she gets into—just like her dad. It’s enough to hear about his friends, all those names and backstories that you still vividly remember. It’s enough to bask in the feeling of how he leans into you with laughter, a hand lingering on your knee for seconds longer than it probably should have, as he always tends to do.

It’s enough to see him grin when you tell him about the scholarships you got, how weird it felt being the oldest person in all your classes, even if it was only by a handful of years. He doesn’t ask how your grandfather is, the living room being cleared of all the heart monitors and breathing machines is enough to answer that question. You’re grateful he doesn’t. You’re not sure you’d be able to keep a brave face if he did.

You don’t want time to pass. You want to stay here, with him, like this, in that perpetual state of catching up, in that breathless deluge that has the not-so-subtle undercurrent of this is what has happened since you left. I wish you would have been there. But I am so happy you are here now.

When you can no longer stifle your yawns, you stand to refill your glass of water, speaking on your walk over to the sink.

“I’d love to keep talking but I honestly don’t think I can keep my eyes open much longer,” you tell him as you turn the tap off. “I can make up the couch for you, if you’d like.”

When he doesn’t immediately respond, you turn to look back at him. He’s staring at you from where he is seated, eyes dark with something that isn’t just from the low light of the living room.

“What?” You ask after a few more seconds of him not responding. He looks away from you, shaking his head.

“Yeah, that would be great.”

Your eyes search his for a moment, positive that that was not at all what he was turning over in his head during those few seconds of silence. You’re too tired to press, so you gather a spare set of sheets for him. He stands when you come back into the living room, holding out his arms to take them from you. You wave him away, setting up the pull-out bed yourself. You’d grown up sleeping on this thing, tucking the fitted sheet into the corners was always tricky, and he didn’t know where the bolts of the couch’s frame would cut the shit out of his hands if he wasn’t careful.

Throwing a pillow down, you turn back to Frankie. He’s standing closer to you, now. You have to tilt your head up slightly to meet his eyes.

“All set,” you tell him. He nods, eyes searching your face for a moment. Your brow furrows. “Frankie, you’re being weird. Stop it.”

His chuckle breaks the tension.

“Sorry—I’ve been saying that a lot tonight, haven’t I?” He takes a deep breath. You’re smiling again, about to agree with him, and without warning his hand is comes up to cup the side of your face. You still, lips parted in an unasked question. “Thank you, little flower,” his voice goes rough again, as it had when you were speaking to each other through the door. “I really mean it.”

Frankie’s hand drops when you nod, lips pressed together. He sits back down on the pull-out. You wish him goodnight quietly and return to your room.

Leaving your bedroom door cracked open, you climb back into bed. With everything in you, you hope he’s still there when you wake. He will be.

#francisco morales x reader #francisco morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #francisco catfish morales #reader insert #triple frontier #angst #hurt/comfort

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silverthetheorist · 3 years

Text

The Dream smp will have a bad ending (And why preparation beats improvisation)

So. I am back after a little while. And this is a topic that has been on my mind for a long time. But before we get to my main point we have to clear some things.

The medium where a story is told dramatically affects the story in many ways. A story cannot be the same in a book, or a film, or a tv show, or an anime, or a comicbooks. They are all different mediums that have their own positives and negatives when it comes to telling stories. A book can fit more information but a tv show can have music and good camera work, etc.

Now, the Dream Smp is a completely different thing. This is a medium that has (I think) never been used before (Or at least not at this extend). And as all mediums it has its positives and negatives. The positives are very clear, strong and interesting: You can watch multiple POVs, follow the storylines you care about, you can see events from different perspectives and see whoever your favourite streamer is as the main character. And all of these positives are amazing and unique. No other medium has something like it... but it also has negatives no other medium has. As I see the Dream Smp has three big flaws due to it’s medium:

First of all, real life sometimes gets in the way. In books, movies and tv shows you can just pretend life does not exists for the duration of the episode or movie. This is called escapism, the reason why storytelling is so attractive. The problem with the medium of the Dream SMP is that the storyline sometimes is affected by real life in ways other mediums aren’t. For example a streamer deciding not to do roleplay after a big event when we could use a nice view of the after-effects of said event, or a streamer missing an important event that they could have been a major part of. And this is not the streamer’s fault at all. Real life is inevitable. An example is when Wilbur missed the festival because he forgot to read the groupchat. But it is still an unfortunate negative of the medium.

Second, improvisation can be great. But it can also... not. It is a miracle, a truly testament of how good everyone’s improvisation skills are that the story has been so good for a long time (As I have said in prior post, the story is basically flawless until the manberg/pogtopia war. Then it all kind of went downhill). But I think it is starting to show that preparation beats improvisation 9 times out of 10. Improvisation only works when people have a small guideline, something that tells them point A and point B for them to connect. And I don’t think that is happening a lot nowadays. Furthermore, I don’t think the current writer are doing a good job of communicating the plot to other and including everyone. We can see this in many ways: Nicky not knowing about the festival until the day before because of her chat, Dream leaving Techno on read when he asked what the next plotline was, Tommy not reading the scripts, the story becoming more and more the “Tommy and other two people show” instead of the “Dream Smp show”, and many other examples. (I have many thoughts about how I feel like Tommy sometimes is grabbing all the story/clout of the SMP for himself, not on purpose probably, but... I just feel I bad vibe from that. It is not something I can really put into words. Just a feeling. Not accusing him of doing that or being evil or anything. Just an unfortunate side-effect of him being the center of attention all the time which can lead to fatigue from the viewers when the plot is always about one guy and his discs all the time)

And finally the main negative. The biggest problem and challenge the SMP will have. It’s ending: It is not a secret that the SMP is successful, popular and makes a ton of money. So of course they will continue the SMP. But the problem is that the smp has a story and stories can only go so far. For example, Tommy’s discs being a motivation for his character for one or two arcs is understandable. But when the discs are his motivation for several arcs (And counting), it kind hurts your suspension of disbelief (That is the amount of things you can take in a story before you say “This story is not believable at all”). I am not comparing the smp to Disney. But when they continue to stretch the story more than it should because it is successful... yikes. The manberg/pogtopia war could have been the finally if they changed around a couple of things. And I fully understand them wanting to continue the story after that arc (Which I agree was a good idea despite their not so successful attempt of replicating prior arcs). And the point where we are now although kind of weird, I can totally see the story continuing. But there will be a point where it just feels like everything should have ended long ago. You cannot have a character go through the same arcs, the story having the same events all the time. Writing a long story is hard and complicated, you have to justificate why there is more all the time.

And if they don’t start organizing better, including everyone, planning things out, and deciding on a satisfying ending... then the Dream Smp has a will have a boring repeated ending that few people will watch because it will happen when people start moving on from the smp. And I really don’t want that. They should quit when they are ahead, when they feel comfortable ending the story, when all arcs are resolved, before things start going even more downhill.

PS1: Again, english. Sorry if i’m a bit negative on my blog. But there are already thousands of people explaining an analysis all the amazing things from the smp that I would just be repeating what everyone says. Criticising something you love is not a bad thing. I see as your love for something is so big that even with flaws you can still love it... that sounds corny, jesus christs it is just minecraft roleplay. As always, I am never sending hate ever.

PS2: Something irks about Tommy and Tubbo not streaming together almost at all even though in the story they are friends again. That and Tubbo not being on any of Tommy’s videos but other are just... It is probably nothing... probably. Maybe it is just me projecting my own insecurities with my own friends. I am not saying they had a fight or they hate each other now or whatever. But... it’s still a bit sad and weird. Maybe it is because Tommy only wants to do content with like big youtubers and he is focused on always improving and stuff, while Tubbo is more about relaxing and streaming shit he enjoys. A shame. After months of no content from them, they are back but not really.

PS3: Nothing has happened story wise at all since Doomsday. Which is odd. Is Tommy moving on from the smp? He did say he is focusing on youtube at the moment (And unfortunate negative of the medium, real life gets in the way of the story as I said) so maybe it is that. Nothing major has really happened. Not even small things. Why is Tommy streaming less and less all the time? I don’t know. I also do not think there will be an event on the 16th because of the chess tournament and the lack of any plot developments at all since Doomsday. Many questions, few answers. I kinda feel like I am getting a bit tired/moving from the smp. And Tommy specifically, I am glad for him and happy that he is getting all this success but I think his persona made more sense/was more bearable when he was a relatively smaller streamer/youtuber. With the risk of sounding corny again... I feel like Tommy is too mainstream now (Tiktokers are commenting on his instagram posts and that is never a good sign) and has become more corporate (Only streaming and making videos with people who benefit his video’s/streams instead of HIS BEST FRIEND TUBBO. But that really could just be my anxiety talking. Don’t think to hard about it, I am no one to say what he should or should not do, and I do not know of his life to say things definitively. Just a hunch, a bad vibe I am getting from him.).

#dream smp #dream #tommyinnit #tubbo #wilbur #wilbur soot #jschaltt #nihachu #Nicky #fundy #eret #ranboo #philza #QUACKITY #badboyhalo #SapNap #georgenotfound #skeppy #antfrost #technoblade

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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

Note

77. a prophecy said that we’ll save the world together but I’ll be damned if I enjoy your company while we do because you insulted my best friend the first time we met

Ot4, sfw, please!

Here you go! I'm very pleased with this one

The drive hasn’t changed. The road into Kepler goes under the same covered bridges and winds up the same hills it always has. Even the views from driveway to the October House are the same one’s he watched through back windows with rising delight. He’d hoped to get here when the fall colors were still crisp and bright, but they droop from the branches like mourners from the weight of the grey rain.

No one batted an eye when he said he was moving North on Joe’s invitation; Joseph Stern inherited the ancestral home in Vermont, with its sprawling grounds and stately decay. It would make sense that he’d ask the friend who spent so many summers with him there to take up the role of groundskeeper.

Duck pulls his truck into the carport next to a languishing Chrysler Imperial. He runs his finger over the black curves, raindrops plinking on the tin roof as he wonders whether he could coax Joe into taking him for a ride.

He leaves his bags in the car for now. Letting his friend know he’s here is the top priority.

The house is just as tall and mismatched as he remembers, turrets and wide windows mixed with sloping eaves and a sun room. It’s patchwork quilt character extends to it’s color; some walls are red, others goldenrod, and the door is bright as a ripe pumpkin.

Joe christened it the October House the first summer he and Duck visited there. Joseph’s aunt, a proud spinster, suggested his transplant parents send him to the family farm for a few months of growth. When Joe showed his characteristic skepticism about spending his summer alone in Vermont, she offered to let him bring a friend. He chose Duck every year.

The October House was the last thing they spoke about the night before Duck left for basic training (and, soon after, Normandy). Joe was already slipping off the map, recruited for secret purposes by men who valued his intelligence over his humanity. He told Duck to remember the summer they were thirteen, to remember he was brave.

It wasn’t Duck Newton’s first war, but it was for damn sure his last.

He opens the door with the tarnished key Joe sent him. Anywhere else, he’d call out to find his host. But he knows where he’ll be.

One flight of creaking stairs, a left turn down the hallway of faded photos, a right into the room with the mural of Noah’s Ark on the wall, and there he is. Black hair slicked back, blue silk robe covering old scars and new, and eyes that are bluer still turning to take him in.

That’s Joe alright; immaculate even in his madness.

“You’re here.” He stands, dazzling smile reflecting the firelight.

“Told you I’d come. Can’t leave you here to get buried alive in books.” He opens his arms, unsure even as he commits to the movement. Joe hesitates, then steps across crumpled maps of stars and seas to hug him.

“I missed you.” He whispers. Duck doesn’t mention that Joe was the one to disappear once the war was over. They had one night in Huntington celebrating the boys who made it home; Joe’s smile stayed painted on the whole time, but Duck couldn’t get him alone to ask why. Then he fled north and didn’t respond to letters.

“Missed you too, Joe.” He peers over the taller man’s shoulder, takes in the mural and all the materials on the floor. Duck steps from the hug, paper crunching under his boots as he goes to trace the door of the ark, “you’re tryin to go back.”

“I want proof Sylvain was real. I, I want to see it again, to know we didn’t dream it.”

“Got a scar on belly that says we didn’t.” Duck turns, slips his hands into his pockets, “why are you really tryin to go back? They told us we couldn’t, said that if we came home the gate would shut for good.”

Joe doesn’t answer right away, runs his fingers over the badgers and bears fleeing the flood, “Do you ever wish we’d stayed?”

Duck thinks about bloody sand. Then about Jane getting married. His folks celebrating their twentieth anniversary.

“No. Christ, Joe, we were thirteen. It was fucked up to ask us to. Who the fuck asks two kids to rule a kingdom?”

A weak laugh, “and people say I’m the smart one.”

“You are.” Duck touches his shoulder, “now c’mon, smart guy, you don’t show me where my room is, I’m takin yours.”

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

“You sure this is the spot?” Barclay keeps a close eye on the gathering darkness for any bursts of sickly white.

“Yes. The maps align with the stories that they emerged near “a stone like that of a broken heart.” Indrid draws hurriedly in the dirt with his claws, his lower hands uncorking bottles as he does, “come closer, if this catalyzes before I expect, I do not want you to be left behind.”

Barclay sets a hand on his shoulder. Feels his feathers shudder as he inhales.

“It’s time. I, if this does not work, I am sorry.”

He bends, kisses Indrid between his antenna, “I trust you, little moth.”

Indrid hums as amber light fills the clearing, and then everything he knows and loves dissolves into heat and empty air.

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

It's the same static, the rush of heat like wind in a wildfire. The hairs on Duck’s arm snap to attention as Joe leaps from his chair. The door on the ark shimmers and glows with alien majesty. Then two figures fall face-first on the floor and the light is gone.

“Are you alright?” Joe bends to help the first, feathered shape but it stands in a flurry of down, the hairy figure following suit.

“Yesyes, we are fine.” The feathery one looks like a massive moth with some human features.

“Oh.” Joe grins, “I’ve never seen a Sylph like you before. This, this is incredible.”

“You know what we are?” The other asks hopefully.

“We do. We, I’m, I’m Joseph Stern, and this is Duck Newton-”

“Thank the stars.” The mothman bends one knee, his friend doing the same, “yes, we are humble emissaries of the kingdom of Sylvain. We have searched for months to find our way to you. You, who prophecy says will aid us, return and take your rightful place as kings, and save our home once more.”

“No. Nuh-uh, not a fuckin chance.” Duck steps back, spots conflict in Joe’s eyes.

“What do you mean?” The mothman stands, “you, the prophecy, my visions showed you-”

“Then they showed fuckin wrong. I just got my life into some kind of order, I’m not letting you and some giant fuckin ape-thing drag me into another mess.”

Red eyes narrow, “Do not speak of Barclay that way.”

“I’ll speak about him however I damn well please because this is my house!”

“Technically, it’s my house.” Joe sighs, “But Duck is right. We almost died saving Sylvain once before. As, as much as I miss it, I’m not sure I can go back if it means risking our lives again. I was sort of hoping for a middle ground between being stuck here and a near-death adventure.”

“Please-” Barclay steps towards Joe.

“Hey, he said no, so fuck off.” Duck growls. The Sylph growls back.

“Buddy, do you have any idea how much we risked to get here? How much energy Indrid just used to open the gate. Oh, and, by the way, without the stuff we came here for we can’t go home. We’ll be stuck here.”

“Then you shoulda had a back-up plan instead of assumin you could just say a few fancy words and get us to go back. Oughta get some brains to go with the brawn there, big fella.”

“Enough” Indrid hisses, glaring at Duck. “I do not care if you are a chosen one, nothing gives you the right to speak to him, or to me, so callously. We came to you, you who are--if I did not make it clear--our last hope, and you respond with cruelty. I ought to teach you manners, but I will restrain myself.”

“Like to see you try.” He turns to where Joe is carding a hand through his hair, expression lost, “it’s your place, so you decide how we get rid of ‘em. But I’m done here.” With that, he stomps down the stairs, already suspecting Joe will let the Sylphs stay. When it becomes clear that’s the plan, Duck heads into the garden to work and stays there until all the lights are off.

It’s just after midnight when he wakes from a dream, slicing at the air while weak cries die on his tongue. He sits up, then goes gravestone still as the door opens. Indrid’s eyes are warning lights in the dark hall.

“Are you hurt? It did not seem fair to leave your calls unanswered.”

“No. Just had a, uh, a bad dream.”

The Sylph steps through the door, turning on the small, standing lamp, “It is strange to be the only one not waking in terror for once. Well, I suppose Barclay doesn’t.”

Duck tosses off the blanket, “Fuck, is Joe-”

“He is fine now. Barclay was up looking at cookbooks when he started screaming and went to him. Your friend did not wish to wake you, but was so shaken Barclay offered to stay with him.” A little smile, “he is very comforting. Soft, too.”

“You’re sure he was just dreamin? Not sick or anythin?”

“Positive. He was yelling in some other language.” Indrid fiddles with the knick-knacks on a shelf.

Duck runs a hand across his face, “Probably German.”

Indrid cocks his head.

“He had to learn it when he was a, uh, a spy in the last war. The one here. He...he got caught, I only know that because everyone talked about how miraculous it was that he escaped. Joe never talks about it.”

“One can imagine why.” Indrid murmurs.

“Then ‘one’ can probably imagine why I don’t want either of us near a goddamn battlefield.” Duck snaps.

“Is...oh dear, you think that is what we’re asking of you? Nono, we came here for help in preventing a war, one that may destroy both our worlds.”

“You coulda led with that, y’know?”

“I suppose. I, I am, or was, the court seer. But as the evil spread across our kingdom, it disrupted my powers. Now they’re gone entirely. It’s as if I am navigating the woods with no compass and no stars.” His antenna droop. Duck turns the chair near his bed in invitation. The Sylph moves quietly across the worn boards, “The last vision I received before they disappeared was of you two helping us; I saw a new timeline of futures, bright and hopeful, unfurl before it was gone. When you said you would not help us, it was like ripping my wings from my body mid-flight. That is why I was angry. Well, that and how you spoke to Barclay.”

“Sorry about that.” Duck scratches the back of his neck, “I just...when y’all showed up, all I could think about was bein back in the middle of a fight. Of, of seein Joe die.”

“I am sorry too. I did not know you had suffered such things.” Indrid picks at the blanket with chipped claws, “I cannot promise there would not be danger if you aid us. But I give you my word that you shall hear no more of it from me. I only wish for you to accept this quest if you wish to.”

“Thanks. That already puts you ahead of the last time.”

Indrid hums, then peers at Duck’s arm where a tattoo peeks from his shirt, “What is that?”

Duck rolls up his sleeve to reveal the pine tree, “got it because it helped me think of home.”

“Yes but how? To wear art on one’s skin, that is amazing. Do you think they could do it on mine?” He holds out his upper right arm. Duck runs a finger up it, thinking of the polished cherrywood on the table downstairs.

“Might be tricky. You need skin for it to work.”

“Blast.” Wings flutter once, “do you have more I may see?”

Duck unbuttons his shirt as Indrid scoots closer; if he’s not going to sleep tonight, at the very least he can make someone happy.

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

“Gotta say, y’all bein’ here is doin’ wonders for him.” Duck hands Barclay a glass of water as he joins him on the porch. Joseph and Indrid are sitting on a sunny path of lawn, Indrid showing the human his wings and explaining them in detail so he can make notes.

“Seems to go both ways. Indrid hasn’t been this animated since we left to find you two. He’s even more talkative.”

“Joe’s always been good at that. He can get anyone talkin, and can make almost anythin sound interestin.”

Barclay sneaks a glance at the human; he’s much friendlier these last two weeks, but his protectiveness of Joseph hasn’t waned.

“I wouldn’t say him cheering up is all on us. From what he told me, the week you got here made him feel like his cares were washing away.”

“Really?”

Barclay nods.

Duck sips his water, rubs the condensation with his thumb, “In, uh, in Sylvain, am I rememberin right that men could marry men? Ain’t always easy to tell when there’s so many kinds of beings runnin’ around.”

“Why wouldn’t that be okay? Some kinds of Sylphs, like Indrid’s, don’t even have things like men and women. I mean, when they offered you and Joseph a chance to rule as kings, the records make it sound like the two of you would have gotten married.”

Duck chokes on his water, splutters as Barclay pats his back, “I, fuck, I’d never, we’d never, I, fuck, definitely never ever didn’t think about it.”

Barclay lets the horrible excuse for a lie slide, “It’s a way bigger deal that Indrid chose me for this; being a seer makes him noble and I’m just a cook. Going off into the wild with me? Trusting me? Thought some of the ministers were gonna faint.”

“Was it just you helpin him or are you two, uh, y’know?”

“Yeah, I do. Can you blame me? Look at him” he gestures to where Indrid is spreading his wings so Joseph can study them. Stars would he like to go down there and hold the human tight while he taught him how to make Indrid purr.

“He really is somethin.” By the look on his face, Duck wants to do the same thing, just in reverse. After a moment, he murmurs, “the night before we were supposed to face the Red Devourer Joe and I were in the tent by the battlefield. Curled back to front, my arms around him and I could feel his heart beating hard as mine. Shoulda been thinkin about strategy, or prayin, or somethin’ like that, but all I could think was that I oughta kiss him, just in case we didn’t survive. But I didn’t. There were chances after that. I never took ‘em.”

“It’s not too late.”

“If you found out Indrid wanted to kiss you for years and was too chicken to, even when he thought he was gonna die, would you really let him?”

Barclay thinks of claws in his fur, of Indrid huddled against him and chirping softly when Barclay asked to kiss him.

“Of course I would.”

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

“How long until the summer?” Indrid tosses the wool scarf Duck lent him over one wing.

“Months. Y’all got here in October, which means we ain’t even into the worst of the winter yet.”

An annoyed chirr, “We need more blankets.”

“Get you more when we’re in town tomorrow, fluffball. Hah, here’s some.” Duck kneels to cut some surviving leaves from a wild yarrow. They’re out in the woods because Indrid is running low on his feather oil, which keeps him from being miserable and itchy. He described what it did and let Duck smell some (it’s a bit like aloe and vanilla) so the human could reverse engineer what earth plants might do the trick.

Duck brushes off his pants, looks around, “Huh, we made it to the Maples. Joe’s aunt said she never got much from ‘em, but I don’t think she ever really tried.”

“What is special about them?”

“It’s how you get maple syrup. It’s in these trees.” Duck smirks, remembering Indrid licking the dregs from the bottle at the house with his long, long tongue.

Crunch

He whirls to his left, finds Indrid with both rows of teeth sunk into a maple branch. He giggles, then guffaws as the Sylph pulls off with an indignant chirp.

“You, you gotta, hee, you gotta tap the trunk, n-hee” he doubles over as Indrid bites the same branch while drumming his claws on the trunk, “not quite, need some other tools.”

“Perhaps lead with that?” Indrid grumbles, wiping bark from his face.

“S-sorry just, just didn’t expect you to go to town on it like that, heee”

Indrid grins, “It was worth it to hear you laugh like this.”

God, when was the last time he laughed this hard? The thought sobers him, his joy faltering like a bird in a storm. Then he cackles as four spindly arms hoist him into the air.

“ACKhey, put me down fluffball! Ahhno thatheee, that tickles.” He laughs louder as Indrid holds him to his chest and rubs his fuzzy face against his neck.

“I thought that might do the trick” Indrid purrs, nuzzles his cheek, “no more despair, Duck Newton. Not today.”

Duck turns his face so they’re eye to eye, pine green to ruby red, “Deal.”

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

“I found everything on the list.” Joseph crumples the note paper and tosses it away as Barclay gleefully unpacks the shopping bags.

“This is so fucking great, I can’t wait for you guys to try this, and Indrid is going to lose his mind when he sees what I made. This dessert is his favorite.” He tucks the heavy cream and pears into the fridge.

“I’m excited to try it. We definitely didn’t eat any tarts when we were in Sylvain. The badgers who hid us from the red mist were, I think, pretty poor.”

“Yeah, the borderlands were bad off in those days. I was just a kid too but I remember digging out roots to try and make some kind of soup.” The Sylph turns those endearing brown eyes on him, “up for being my kitchen assistant again?”

“Always.” Joseph tucks a dishcloth into his belt. He’s very proud of himself for finding earth equivalents to all the ingredients Barclay needed to make a fall dinner from home. Having the Sylphs living with them means he goes into Kepler more often for groceries or goods to fix up the house. Everyone in town thinks his childhood friend is a good influence, getting him out of the stuffy confines of the October House.

They’re not wrong. When Joseph saw Duck in the doorway, a little world-worn but just as kind, just as practical as he always was, he decided that if the other man didn’t want to return to Sylvain, Joseph would set the project aside. He’d focus on the world he was in, because with Duck there he might yet find things to marvel at, things to discover that weren’t mired in the mundanity of human evil. They’d make the October House into a home, live out their days as bachelors.

Then Barclay had come through, auburn-furred and so gentle Joseph wanted to make like butter in the sun and melt. And Indrid, magnificent and vulnerable (and very infatuated with Duck). When Duck announced he’d help them look for clues to stopping the war, Joseph felt buried bits of his mind rising to the light of the new challenge.

After dinner, they take a pot of coffee into the living room. Indrid is delighted by records, is already putting one on as Barclay puts wood on the fire. The seer lays on the rug, head in his lovers lap and purring low.

Love me like there's no tomorrow

kiss me like it's goin' out of style

“You know, I wonder how one dances to this. It is not fast, but the rhythm is not like the formal dances at court.”

“Here, I’ll show you.” Duck stands, offering Joseph his hand. Lord, he’s pictured this so many times but still has to coax his own hand to move, “Joe, you’re leadin.”

He settles his hand on Duck’s hip and holds the other, concentrates on swaying them to the beat.

Hold me like you're afraid I might get away

Love like I've been gone for quite a while

“You can come closer, Joe. I ain’t gonna bite. Not in front of company.”

“I’m holding you to that.” He presses closer, prays for Duck to rest his head on his shoulder.

Take and wrap me in the package

my future my presence and my past

And love me like there's no tomorrow

and each day might be our last

“Dearest, I am rather tired from that lovely meal you made. Shall we retire?”

“Good thinking, little moth.”

Love me like there's no tomorrow

Make each night one more remembered

we will let the heaven be our guide

“Seems they didn’t need much of a demonstration.”

“Not sure that was Indrid’s endgame.”

Just love me like there's no tomorrow

and keep me right by your side

Joseph tips his head down, whispering, “What was?”

Keep me right by your side

“Duck?”

In the crackle of silence between songs, Duck brings their lips together. Joseph forgoes their stance and pulls him against him, their hearts magnets that were finally turned the right way. Then his feet stumble on the rug, Duck pushing him back with a ferocity he didn’t know he possessed.

Joseph drops into the chair, Duck pouncing before as he breathes. Joseph growls, the hunger that’s been chained threatening to crack his chest from the inside, and nips Duck’s lower lip.

“I said no bitin.”

“You said you wouldn’t bite.”

“You're right, darlin’” Duck cups his cheek as Joseph grips his thighs, “I’m gonna do so much more than bite.”

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

It never gets easier, waking from these dreams steeped in shame, fear, and sweat. Except this time someone’s arms are around him.

“I’m right here Joe, we’re here, we’re safe.”

“Very safe.” Indrid stands behind Barclay in the doorway, “another dream?’

“Yes. I, um, I-” he reaches for Barclay without meaning to, is ready to apologize when the Sylph slides into bed beside him.

“Is this okay?” It’s directed at both the humans.

“Yes.”

“Uh huh.”

Barclay adjusts so Joseph can hide his face in his chest. He should ask Indrid if he wants to be on the bed as well, the poor Sylph might think he’s not wanted-

“C’mon fluffball, my back is gettin cold.”

A delighted chirp and then a wing, black with a grey and red eyespot, drapes across him and Duck.

“Mmmmmm, I knew you would be lovely to hold.”

“Aim to please, sugar.”

“What happens now?” Barclay murmurs.

“My vote is we all get some sleep and work out the particulars in the mornin’.”

“Seconded” Joseph mumbles.

“We will need a good night’s rest; tomorrow I make the disguises for myself and Barclay so that we may begin our wider search.”

“Hope you guys like them.”

Joseph squeezes Barclay, smiling as Duck wiggles closer and Indrid’s wing grows heavier, “We’ll love them no matter what, big guy.”

#OT4: Government men and their cryptid boyfriends #sternclay #indruck #inclay #agent stern/duck newton #meet ugly #taz amnesty #agent stern/ barclay

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goldenraeofsun · 4 years

Text

‘cause right now you're mine

set in this verse

THURSDAY, APRIL 2nd

Dean 12:01 You didn’t tell me you led Carver Prep’s quiz bowl team???

Castiel 12:15 It’s in the middle of the school day and you’re texting. What kind of example are you setting for your students?

Castiel 12:16 I didn’t tell you because it wasn’t relevant.

Dean 12:17 Haha smartass I’m having lunch in my office Youre texting me back so i see right through you And of course it’s freaking relevant

Castiel 12:20 How?

Dean 12:21 Because I got tapped to coach Edlund High's quiz bowl team this morning!

Castiel 12:21 Oh no.

Dean 12:30 Oh no is right buddy

Castiel 12:37 I thought you coached the softball team.

Dean 12:37 I can do both You’re dating a very talented man

Castiel 12:49 I know that. I just didn’t know it extended to quiz bowls and softball in addition to blow jobs and breaking and entering places to give blow jobs.

Dean 12:52 What the fuck is wrong with you I’m in school! My lunch hour is almost over I’ll have to get up from my desk very soon This is all your fault

Castiel 12:59 :)

Dean 1:00 Just for that No blow jobs for you tonight

Castiel 1:07 :(

MONDAY, APRIL 6th

Dean 11:55 I bet I can grade more midterms than you today

Castiel 11:58 I know better than to make bets with you, Dean Winchester.

Dean 12:03 It was just a kiss I bet you’re just pissed you lost

Castiel 12:04 I can’t engage in PDA in front of my niece and one of my students at a school event!

Dean 12:04 Youre such a prude

Castiel 12:06 Unlike some teachers, I maintain boundaries between my personal and professional life.

Dean 12:07 Prude.

Castiel 12:09 Did you text me on a Monday afternoon just to harass me about my reluctance to kiss my boyfriend in front of minors?

Dean 12:11 Huh Boyfriend

Castiel 12:20 Dean?

Dean 12:21 What?

Castiel 12:22 Is everything okay?

Dean 12:23 Other than *my boyfriend* refusing to even entertain the idea of a friendly wager?

Castiel 12:23 Yes, other than that.

Dean 12:23 No

Castiel 12:25 That’s good. You scared me for a second.

Dean 12:26 I did?

Castiel 12:26 Are you okay with being my boyfriend? The long gap between our messages made me realize we haven’t talked about it before.

Dean 12:27 I mean it’s a little weird My 16 year old students have boyfriends “boyfriend” seems a little I don’t know Juvenile We’re not 16 anymore, Cas Thank god.

Castiel 12:30 Would you prefer “partner”?

Castiel 12:31 It’s just whenever I hear someone call their significant other “partner” I can never tell if they are talking about their life partner, same-sex partner, police partner, or if they are cowboys. That was a joke! Ignore this. I remember how much you like Westerns. “Partners” is off the table.

Dean 12:31 HOWDY YALL THIS IS MY PARTNER CAS

Castiel 12:31 Please never introduce me to someone like this.

Dean 12:32 Only if you watch Tombstone with me tonight

Castiel 12:33 Can I still grade my midterms?

Dean 12:35 You’re killing me here Cas Yes

Castiel 12:40 I’m your huckleberry

SUNDAY, APRIL 12th

Castiel 2:19 Good luck with the softball game today!

Dean 2:21 You’d better make it up for me for missing this one Its the semifinals

Castiel 2:22 I will. Say “hi” to Claire for me.

Dean 2:27 What the hell? Why is she here? We’re not even playing Carver

Castiel 2:29 She has a crush on Kaia Nieves

Dean 2:30 Ohhhhh That explains a lot

Castiel 2:30 She thinks she’s being subtle.

Dean 2:37 I see that runs in the family Subtle as a brick wall. All of you.

Castiel 2:38 Excuse me, you had no idea about my feelings for you back in high school.

Dean 2:49 So? Charlie said you were obvious as fuck But it didn’t matter since I was a dumbass

Castiel 2:50 I prefer oblivious Less dumb Less ass

Dean 2:57 How dare you My ass is a goddamn gift. You take that back right now

Castiel 2:59 Of course. Don’t you have a game to coach?

Dean 3:01 Shit you’re right

TUESDAY, APRIL 14th

Castiel 11:18 I know how I can make up for missing that last softball game last weekend

Dean 12:01 Sorry The kids called me out for texting you 5 mins before the bell last time How the hell did i get stuck with a class full of narcs

Castiel 12:03 It’s probably karma For all the rule breaking you did in school

Dean 12:05 Hey I wasn’t that bad

Castiel 12:05 You frequently defaced school desks and returned library books after their due date.

Dean 12:06 I’m dating a narc too???

Castiel 12:07 You didn’t ask what I have planned.

Dean 12:07 OK i’ll bite What do you have planned babe? Please tell me it’s not another documentary on bees That was depressing The grand canyon one was cool though

Castiel 12:10 Speaking of narcs

Dean 12:10 This doesn’t sound good

Castiel 12:11 When I had to get my extra copy of Camus from my car, I stumbled on Miriam at the edge of the parking lot with a few more students. They were skipping class and smoking marijuana. Naturally, I reported them to the administration.

Dean 12:13 Not helping your not-a-narc case

Castiel 12:13 They received detention for skipping class.

Dean 12:13 And the drugs?

Castiel 12:13 I may have neglected to report the drug use.

Dean 12:14 Seriously?

Castiel 12:14 I still confiscated it. Research evidence shows marijuana has negative effects on the developing brain.

Dean 12:14 I guess that’s fair

Dean 12:15 Hang on Do you still have it? OUR brains are old as balls Seriously, are you telling me you have weed now?

Castiel 12:15 Surprise? I can throw it out if you’d prefer to do something else tonight.

Dean 12:15 Dont you dare!!! I’m going to get a six pack on the way home, download the last Star Wars, and we’re gonna do this right Your place or mine?

Castiel 12:16 I have been neglecting laundry lately. Yours?

Dean 12:16 You’re on This is going to be so awesome

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 15th

Dean 12:06 Did you really mean to invite me to dinner with your brother?

Castiel 12:09 I didn’t mean to bring it up when we were high, but the invitation still stands. Claire told him we were together. He wants to meet you.

Dean 12:11 Oh

Castiel 12:11 You do not have to say yes.

Dean 12:13 I’ll go It just took me by surprise

Castiel 12:13 I don’t want to pressure you.

Dean 12:14 Youre not pressuring me

Castiel 12:14 Are you sure?

Dean 12:16 Look, I just know your relationship with your brother is complicated And I don’t want to stick my foot in it By accident or some other way

Castiel 12:20 We’re in a better place than I’d like to admit. I spent a long time resenting Jimmy for the time he had with Father. But it wasn’t his fault Father was a bastard who had a second family he preferred to be with. Jimmy was barely in middle school when Father started going on his “business trips”

Dean 12:21 Jesus christ You told me bit about it back in high school But I didn’t realize it was a second family situation

Castiel 12:21 Mother kept it from us for years. I still haven’t forgiven her for it.

Dean 12:21 Are you OK?

Castiel 12:22 I’m fine. It was a long time ago.

Dean 12:22 That stuff takes a long time to get over.

Castiel 12:22 I suppose.

Dean 12:23 Is it okay if you stay at mine tonight?

Castiel 12:24 Our next date isn’t until Friday

Dean 12:24 I don’t want to wait until Friday to see you

Castiel 12:27 Can you pick me up at Carver at 4pm?

Dean 12:27 You got it More time with you and my baby Win-win!

FRIDAY, APRIL 24th

Dean 11:51 Are you sure what I usually wear to school is OK?

Castiel 11:53 You texted me nine minutes early?

Dean 11:53 Shut up I had to bribe my kids For NINE extra minutes Friggin tyrants

Castiel 11:54 What did they extort from you?

Dean 11:54 I promised to throw out their lowest pop quiz grade

Castiel 11:54 That isn’t too bad.

Dean 11:54 I was already planning on doing it

Castiel 11:55 Clever of you.

Dean 11:56 You’re not just dating a pretty face But getting back to dinner with your brother Is a regular button up OK? The tie hides most of the sloppy joe stain

Castiel 11:56 I’m sure you look very handsome

Dean 11:57 I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not

Castiel 11:57 I rarely manage sarcasm in-person. What makes you think I would attempt it over text?

Dean 11:58 Good point

Castiel 11:58 You’re a very good-looking man, Dean. I’ve known this since we were 15.

Dean 11:59 Stop it you’re making me blush

Castiel 12:01 It’s the truth.

Dean 12:04 Alright, alright I’m already sleeping with you No need to butter me up

Dean 12:05 It’s just I remember how you used to talk about him The perfect big brother

Castiel 12:07 More like the perfect student and perfect son. Jimmy was honestly too busy to be much of a brother. The 11 year age difference didn’t help. When I was in high school, he already had the perfect nuclear family on the way.

Dean 12:07 Exactly

Castiel 12:08 Exactly what?

Dean 12:08 You’re lucky I know you And I know you’re not drawing this out on purpose Look, i want to make a good impression, OK? he seems like a hard guy to please.

Castiel 12:09 I That’s very admirable of you, but it’s entirely unnecessary.

Dean 12:10 He’s your family

Castiel 12:11 And I understand family is very important to you, but it isn’t the same with me. It would be very nice if dinner goes well, but if it does not, I will not care in the slightest.

Dean 12:11 Really?

Castiel 12:11 Truly.

SATURDAY, APRIL 25th

11:16 I’m sorry for my dad.

Dean 11:17 Who is this?

11:20 Claire Novak

Dean 11:21 How did you get this number?

Claire 11:23 Alex Jones

Dean 11:24 How did Alex get my number???

Claire 11:24 It was on the softball permission forms How did you not know this Didn’t you draft them?

Dean 11:25 It’s been a while I’m a very busy man

Claire 11:25 Sure. Anyway, my dad was a dick. Totally out of line last night

Dean 11:26 Shouldn’t you be texting Cas about this?

Claire 11:26 I don’t have his number

Dean 11:26 Cas wasn’t kidding when he said you guys weren’t close

Claire 11:27 Nope.

Dean 11:27 Well I am very close with my brother He’s a lawyer out in California

Claire 11:27 Good for you???

Dean 11:29 It doesn’t sit right with me that Cas doesn't have a real relationship with his family

Claire 11:31 That seems like Uncle Castiels business

Dean 11:33 But Jimmy isn’t Cas’s only family SO if you ever need a place to crash, i’m always available

Claire 11:35 Maybe my dad was right And you’re secretly a perv I’m not staying with you you freak

Dean 11:35 Jesus christ, I’m trying to say, if ALEX isn’t the only girl on Edlund's softball team you’re getting buddy-buddy with, it’s fine You should get a chance to explore that part of being a teenager While STAYING SAFE But don’t let your parents stand in the way of that side of your life

Claire 11:41 Dad wouldn’t kick me out

Dean 11:42 Maybe not. But if you are at all uncomfortable, just give cas a call I’ll forward you his contact info now

“I might have told Claire she’s always welcome at my place if she comes out to her parents,” Dean says as he pockets his phone. He turns his back on the pile of sparkling clean dishes drying on the rack by Cas's sink. Dean adds, “Hopefully she’ll ask you before she goes to me.”

They hadn't really discussed the disaster of a dinner with Jimmy and Claire. A few tense words on the drive back to Cas's house, a tacit acknowledgement in the morning not to mention it until after coffee and breakfast. But then Cas brought out his homework for the weekend, even while last night's argument scratches at the back of his mind like a fly trapped in a windowless room. So Dean did the dishes and texted Claire.

Cas looks up from his juniors�� final exams. “You were talking to Claire?”

“She texted me first,” Dean says defensively.

Cas sighs and caps his pen. It’s blue, because red pen, according to Cas, is too traumatizing a grading implement. “I’m very sorry about last night.”

Dean waves his apology off. “You warned me it could go sideways.”

Cas’s brow furrows. “Still,” he says slowly, “I told my mother and Jimmy I was gay a few years ago. I think it was easy for them to ignore it as long as I didn’t have a boyfriend in the picture.”

Dean fiddles with a dishrag as he hovers by the sink. “Was Jimmy a jackass to your other boyfriends?”

“What others?” Cas asks wryly. “None of them were ever serious enough to pique Jimmy’s interest.”

“Really?”

Cas nods and gestures for Dean to take a seat at the kitchen table next to him. He holds out his hand, which Dean takes, bemused. “I don’t know why Jimmy thought religion was an appropriate introductory dinner topic. I could tell he was trying to genuinely understand our… lifestyle, to use his word, but-”

“I got angry,” Dean says looking down at their clasped hands.

“You didn’t say anything I wasn't thinking,” Cas says simply. “I’m glad you reached out to Claire.”

“It seems like she needed it.”

“She doesn’t have a lot of adults in her life she can rely on to be in her corner,” Cas says diplomatically. “I’ve tried, over the years, but I can’t relate to her at all.”

Dean laughs. “Of course not. Teenage rebellion wasn’t really your style.”

“Ah yes, of course,” Cas says, his voice dry as chalk, “you’d be the perfect person to talk to her. The cool kids speak their own language. How could I forget?”

Dean smirks. “It’s full of references you don’t get.”

“Don’t remind me,” Cas says darkly.

Dean leans in for a kiss. Eyes dancing, as he whispers, “Relax, babe. You were always the coolest kid in school to me."

#destiel #destiel fanfic #fanfic #teacher castiel #teacher dean #established relationship #fluff #text fic #the story of us verse #profoundnet #rae writes fic

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sunshine-shitposts · 3 years

Text

A day late, but here's the final part!

(Part 1) (Part 2)

(Tw: more mentions of past spousal abuse)

Dust in the Wind—Part 3

As Catherine and Jotaro exited through the sliding doors, Sunnie paused, heaved a heavy sigh, and walked back into the suite to see Dio lounging on the sofa, swirling a glass of red in his hand. He had dimmed the lights to his preference, the various candles lit around the room casting a warm, flickering glow.

Sunnie, however, seemed drained. Even with the small little flames dancing around her, her eyes were devoid of light, and her lips had settled into a somewhat grim line. Her shoulders had sunk down and she huffed as she moved back into their shared living room.

"That went better than expected," Dio purred, low and playful, "The Jotaro where I'm from is far more terrifying."

"I wouldn't know," she said simply, sinking back onto the deep seated sectional before grabbing her Switch out of her backpack.

"I must say, you did exceptionally well," he licked his lips and watched her, golden eyes glowing strangely in the low light and independently of the flickering candles, "Catherine was right to suggest demonstrating the difference between me and the Dio from here using your…" his eyes grazed over her covered arms and legs, "…situation. But you were a true natural, I must say," he said, lips sliding into a delighted smile, "I'm tempted to wonder if it was, in fact, an act."

"I don't half-ass things," she grunted as she curled up, focusing on the light of the screen in the now darker room and not his piercingly calculating glare.

"I know, my sweet," came a breathy reply as he set his glass down on the side table and slid up next to her, speaking directly into her ear as a large hand reached around to play with her hair, "I know full well that you don't 'half-ass' anything, but I can smell your feelings. Humans are entirely too easy to read." His nose then crinkled. "I also smell that Joestar boy on you, perhaps… too much."

"I actually found him in Dallas and drove him here. He was lost, so I offered him a ride." Her nose twitched, smelling velvety iron on his breath. It was blood tonight, rather than wine. Of course.

"Ah," his response was short. She could tell he still didn't like the idea, didn't like Jotaro Kujo himself. "You're a bit more prickly than normal today, my Sunlight. Did something happen, perhaps?"

"Just some bullshit with him," she growled, sinking further into the plush sofa, his eyes following her movements closely. "He's threatening to tell people about, well, my powers. I know that he wouldn't because it'd probably just make him look crazy, but it's like, the principle of the thing, right? He's just making threats that he'll never follow through with again. He always fucking does this. And he made it clear that if he finds out I'm working with other men, he'll do everything he can to make this divorce as difficult as possible."

Dio scoffed. "I don't know how he thinks he can control that."

"I mean… he can't, really. But he's vindictive."

"Imagine if he found out you were living part-time with another man," he chuckled, and his vision was sharp enough to catch the barely-there upwards twitch of the corners of her mouth.

"He'd lose his fucking mind," she said softly.

There was a short silence, Sunnie playing on her Switch and Dio watching her carefully.

"...You're afraid of him," he said after a while.

She didn't respond.

"You know you don't have to fear him. He is weak, pathetic. A worm, a parasite–"

Sunnie huffed sharply, hands gripping the Switch tightly in her hands. "Listen, Dio, I know. I know I'm stronger than him, I know he's–that he's shit, but…" Her shoulders let loose tension she didn't realize they had. "It's…"

She failed to finish her sentence, her gaze distant and unfocused, and didn't react to a long finger tucking a loose, wispy strand of dark purple hair behind her ear.

"From what you've told me, that man tried to clip your wings for so long. Tried to convince you that you couldn't fly, tried to keep you grounded," he murmured, tilting her chin up and towards him so he could capture her cold eyes with his own, "I can't wait to see you soar, little bird. Because I know you will. You will make an utter fool out of him."

Sunnie inhaled softly, a faint blush dusting her cheeks, but cut her response short, hardening her gaze again.

"That's some sweet lip service, coming from a manipulative bastard like you," she muttered, causing him to laugh.

"Your assessment of me is not incorrect, but I am not without my sincerities," he said as he pulled away, leaning back against the plush arm of the sofa. "Perhaps I, too, wasn't putting on an act as much as you think I was."

"Bullshit," she laughed bitterly, "I think I have a pretty good idea of what kind of person you are."

"Hm." He watched her go back to her game, eyes narrowing in thought. "My father was abusive, you know."

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Not George Joestar, mind you–but the man before that. He took so much out on my mother that it outright killed her. She tried to protect me of course, but with her gone it was just beatings, verbal abuse, thrown bottles, the works. Believe you me, I am not entirely unfamiliar with your situation. We had different circumstances, different reactions, yes, but there are similarities to what we went through."

"You killed him, didn't you?" Her gaze had thawed, somewhat, and she was curious. Dio laughed again.

"Of course I did. Slowly, patiently. It was a poison, one I knew wouldn't be tracked. We were poor, my father was an alcoholic, no one looked twice! It was incredibly easy." He rolled his head back, stretching it out slightly, and Sunnie saw glimpses of the wicked scar around his neck peek out from his high-necked top. "Alas, I am aware there are procedures now. Autopsies and the like. Makes things more difficult for people who want to get things done."

"Theeere you go," she rolled her eyes, "Another reminder of exactly what you are."

He hummed in agreement and they sat in silence for a while, Sunnie turning back to her game and Dio reading while sipping from his glass. After a while, she shifted.

"...How old were you?" she asked, voice soft.

"Hm?"

"When you killed your dad. How old?"

"Twelve," came his simple answer. His gaze slid over to her to find her staring not at, but seemingly through the screen, her nose slightly scrunched in thought.

"...I'm sorry that happened to you," she said, not sparing a glance at the monster next to her. "No one deserves to go through that."

"No one?" He prodded, grinning like a snake.

"No one, not even you," she affirmed.

"Your own sentiment extends to you as well, my dear," he said, setting the finally-empty glass down on the side table and moving to her side, reaching his muscled arm over the back of the sofa and around her, "No matter what he made you believe, the fact still stands: you didn't deserve it." Sunnie felt a wave of anger—how dare he assume—and she whipped in his direction and opened her mouth to speak, but he raised a finger to her lips to stop her. "Ah-ah. I can tell you were being honest in front of the Joestar boy. You were not acting. Don't try to lie, not to me." Her brows were still furrowed, eyes still fiery, but she closed her mouth. "Don't try to weasel out of giving yourself the same kindness you afford others. Start small if you must, but you'd better start, or I'm going to get very, very annoying about it," he finished with a positively wicked grin, and she threw her arms up in defeat.

"Jesus fucking Christ, I get your point!!! Fine!!!" She huffed, "The last thing I want you to do is get more annoying than you already are." She was unsure if his grin could possibly be any more smug than it was at that very moment, and the victorious twinkle in his eyes began to fluster her, so she pulled away from him, standing and walking briskly away. "I'm gonna go get a drink."

"Would you like for me to make you one?" Dio asked, his innocent tone not at all matching his expression.

"Fuck no and fuck you, I'm not having a repeat of the blood wine like last time, you little shit," she spat, but there was no chance she could disguise the grin in her voice.

"I'm more than a foot taller than you, darling!" He called after her, picking a different book up off of the coffee table.

"Would you like to be a Big Shit? Is that better??"

"I suppose not," he laughed softly.

There was a strangely comfortable silence between them, various clinking and pouring noises coming from the bar before Sunnie went off to her room while Dio quietly ran his eyes across the pages in front of him. Sunnie returned, hair up in a messy bun and sporting a large, loose NASA shirt that draped off her frame and almost completely covered her shorts. Her legs were dappled with various fading bruises, a particularly cruel-looking one on her upper right thigh. Dio cast a glance at the glass in her hand and raised a brow.

"That smells like quite a bit of alcohol," he noted, turning a page with his clawed finger.

"Don't keep me from having my fun. It's a Friday night and my husband is making my life hell," she responded, sitting back down and taking a couple deep gulps of her drink.

"Oh I wouldn't dream of it, dear. I'm merely observing."

She stared at him for a second and sighed. "Sorry. I got defensive." She took another sip. "He just… he never lets me make decisions like this. Staying up late, getting my own drinks, choosing what I eat, stuff like that."

"He's controlling. I'm aware," he said lightly, looking at her again, "And I enjoy seeing you explore your newfound freedom from him. Do things you never thought you could before. In fact, Catherine has informed me that you've begun to truly test your Stand's abilities."

Sunnie looked at him, eyes owlishly wide. "D… did she say anything?"

"That she's quite impressed. You're creative and have incredible potential." He grinned as she flushed. "I would be honored to bear witness to your strength sometime."

There was a nearly child-like glimmer in her eyes, and a smile on her face that he hadn't quite seen before. It was wide, with a little tremble dancing on the corner of her lips. Her cheeks were rosy with excitement. If she were a little puppy, there was no doubt that her tail would be wagging happily.

"Oh? Such a small bit of praise, and you're glowing. How precious," he laughed softly, eyes narrowing in delight at the display, "I'll be sure to keep this in mind for the future."

She immediately looked away, turning her Switch back on, "Ah—w-well. It's just, I've never really been able to share Windy with other people. This is… this is cool."

But her blush was unmistakable.

They sat in silence for a while, Sunnie playing her game and Dio reading, before he heard her clear her throat.

"So, I have a question," she began, and though the way she said it made it sound conversational, Dio had a feeling that the topic she was about to bring up was not a throwaway one. "You know I read that file on this dimension's Dio, right? They found bodies in that Cairo mansion. Lots of them, all exsanguinated. And I was wondering…" She looked at him, green eyes flickering in the light of the candles, expression unreadable, "How many people have you killed?"

"Far, far more than I could ever count, my dear," he answered plainly, leaning against the back of the sofa, his smile soft, "I evaded the grasp of the Joestars for years, but I won't lie and claim that our battles were easy. Every time I managed to escape, I needed to restore myself. And to do that…"

"You needed blood," Sunnie finished, voice quiet. Dio hummed in confirmation.

"Does this bother you?" he asked, tone nearly teasing.

"I'm not the type to hate a predator for doing what it has to in order to survive, Dio," she said, eyes rolling, "You should have figured that out about me by now."

"Then does it frighten you, perhaps? Knowing that you share quarters with a bloodthirsty monster such as myself?" He inched closer to her, the soft smile turning into something far more sinister as his gaze slid down to her neck, "If I'm to be honest, that day when I first smelled your blood, that day when we found out what your husband had done to you…" He reached up and drew a line down the side of her neck with a sharp talon, chuckling as he felt her pulse hitch minutely, but otherwise stay steady, "You smell delicious, you know. And you were so vulnerable, so small… it would have been so easy for me to take."

Her eyes refused to leave his as his hand dropped back down, and he was mildly surprised when a dark smirk played at her lips.

"My favorite creatures," she responded matter-of-factly, "just so happen to be the dangerous ones."

And he threw his head back and belly-laughed, all the tension between them dissipating.

"Hey!! What's so funny??" She shouted over his jovial cackling, "I'm serious!! I'm being completely serious!!"

"It's not that I don't believe you, Sunshine! Because I do, I truly do," he answered, looking at her once more, "I just find it hard to believe my own fortune at times; that we found each other."

She tossed a pillow directly at his face.

A couple of hours later, she shut the door to her room and felt silence overtake her.

The room at the Speedwagon Foundation was a bigger room than she'd ever had, but it was quite empty. She figured that it made sense that it was sparsely decorated after only a couple of months working for them, but it still felt kind of lonely.

She hadn't asked for much. A low queen size bed that she had pushed against a corner, covered in fluffy, soft blankets and a decent amount of pillows, and a bedside table with decent storage space. There was a drawer for her clothes and a good ceiling fan—she hated stagnant air. The connected bathroom was also spacious, with a surprisingly large and wide alcove tub, larger than the bathtub she'd had at her first apartment with…

She looked down at her feet, saw the bruises littering her legs. Raised her palms up towards her gaze, traced the violence with her eyes.

Her first apartment had been with her husband, hadn't it.

Moving out was going to be difficult. The first time she'd gone back to pack some of her things, there was a moment during which both her parents were carrying boxes to her mom's car, and she was left alone in there with him, and all he'd done was lean against the wall, arms crossed, and pin her with the most loathsome stare she had ever seen from him. Those brown eyes she treasured were filled with nothing but seething hate, and the dimples in his cheeks peeked out not because of a warm smile but because of a firmly disgusted grimace. She'd tried to pay it no mind and kept packing her books but she'd nearly shattered under the weight of the feeling, her chest nearly heaving with the effort to breathe, the frigid coldness of panic beginning to seep in.

Dio was right. Her own husband terrified her.

She'd worn long sleeves and jeans despite the summer heat that day, keeping the bruises and cuts hidden from everyone. She didn't want to… didn't want him to see it? He knew what he'd done, he probably guessed that her body bore at least some marks from the fight they'd had the morning of that big fight. So why did she cover up? Maybe she didn't want him to get some sick sort of power trip. Maybe he reveled in the thought of being able to control someone who had supernatural powers, who had the ability to control wind itself through nothing but fear and her loyalty to him. Loyalty that, that fateful day, had finally snapped.

Her hands dropped to her sides and she looked at herself in her full length mirror.

Spotted all over in a horrible way. Dark circles under her eyes. Drawn brows. And a particular lifelessness that was rare in her.

Pathetic.

"How much does a person have to go through?" Sunnie asked no one in particular. She lifted her loose shirt, eyeing the long bruise on her side and clicking her tongue against her teeth. "You gotta go back, you know. There's more boxes for you. More of your life to reclaim."

Her voice, her eyes, were hollow. Tired.

"…You gotta face him again."

So, so tired.

Suddenly, her skin itched. She felt starved, like she wanted to reach out and grab for something she couldn't name. Her chest shuddered, and she choked on a sob.

Fuck.

She doubled over as the first tears slid down her cheeks, warm and wet and awful.

She'd been so insistent on keeping the pain hidden for so long. She knew she was stubborn—she was like an injured cat at times, in that she never let anyone know when she was hurting. It made moving through life easier. She hated to worry her loved ones and, more importantly, hated feeling weak.

But god, did it hurt. Like a vice crushing her chest, like she was drowning, like she'd never ever recover. She knew she had to get through this, but wondered if she'd be crushed by the weight of it all in the process. She felt it bubble out of her, despite her insistence that no, I have to keep this inside, I want to keep this inside, but her efforts were useless.

She didn't realize that she'd fallen to her knees until her hand shot out to brace against the ground. More tears came and fell to the hardwood floor and fuck she was desperate to stop them. She hated feeling things, she hated feeling this…

In her sharp peripheral vision she caught the quickest glimmer of gold, which disappeared the second she tried to look at it.

...He saw.

Goddammit, he saw.

Her body trembled, the concept of being known at such a vulnerable time in her life making a flash of freezing terror rip through her. Desperate to calm herself down, she forced herself to think, to just think for just a moment.

There it was again, glimmering warm and bright in her chest. That tug in her body, that cry for something, for anything, for…

...Oh.

Dio was still lounging on the large sofa when Sunnie emerged from her bedroom, her comforter wrapped around her and her pillow in tow. The head of her worn-out stuffed bear peeked out from her arms as well, its one-eyed state making it look like it was winking. Sunnie's eyes were red and puffy, but her expression was blank. She and Dio stared at each other for a minute or so before he spoke.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked, his smile sly but knowing.

"Cut the shit, I know he saw me crying," she responded, voice clipped as she referred to his Stand.

"He did," he hummed, thinking for a moment before elaborating, "That is to say, I did."

Another silence.

"I…" she gulped, shuffling her feet on the hardwood, "I don't want to be alone right now. …I can't."

He nodded. "That's understandable."

"Do… do you mind if…" Her gaze fell to the ground for a second before looking back up at him, "…Maybe…?"

There was something strangely soft in his eyes as he patted the space on the sofa next to him. She paused, then shuffled towards him and past the coffee table. She put the pillow down right next to him then crawled onto the cushions, laying down on her side, nuzzling her head into the pillow as per her habit. Dio turned back to his book, eyes skimming the words until he heard her voice, soft and unsure.

"You were right. I'm afraid of him. And I have been for… years."

He glanced at her, but she didn't elaborate. Sunnie just snuggled into her fluffy comforter some more, brows furrowed, before she looked back up at him.

"Dio? I… I wouldn't mind, y'know. If you, uh…"

A small hand peeked out from the comforter and patted her face in an attempt to ask without words.

He chuckled and reached his hand down, placing it, large and nearly overwhelming, on her head, ruffling her mussed up hair softly. She couldn't help the sigh and shiver that ran through her as he trailed the hand to her round cheek, delicately stroking the skin there.

She closed her eyes, curling her knees close to her chest and getting comfortable, letting out a quiet hum when she felt a sharp nail tuck some hair behind her ear before going back to dragging softly down her face.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"It's nothing, my dear."

"Not to me it isn't," she insisted, and he raised a brow, looking back down to her face as it sank into the plush pillow, "I mean, I know you're a bastard and all but… it means a lot."

"...I understand," he said, voice low and soft as he settled his long fingers across her neck and chin, his thumb trailing across the apple of her cheek.

They remained quiet for the rest of the night, and Sunnie eventually fell asleep to the feeling of his cool hand cradling her head and softly carding through her hair.

For the first time in a very long while, she didn't have nightmares.

#voila! first selfship story is UP #i woulda posted it all in one piece but tumblr has a limit sooooo #SunnieD #sunnie writes

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abarbaricyalp · 4 years

Text

In Any Version of Reality (i'd find you and i'd choose you)

@pynchpromptweek

Pynch // Prompt: Alternate Meeting // Rated: T for mature themes

Warnings: Discussion of canon typical abuse and night terror injuries several times, discussion of blood, death, and trauma

AO3 Link

In which: Adam and Ronan meet over and over again

It might’ve happened like this: 16

Ronan Lynch was quitting the tennis team but still had to go to practices for the semester. So he was particularly angry when he realized he was in pain and his nose was gushing blood during said practice.

“I’m going home,” he said, in the particular surly way sixteen year old boys, but particularly Ronan Lynch, had.

His coach grabbed him by the gym shirt and hauled him to the nurse’s office anyway. “Sit down, shut up, and behave,” the man ordered and disappeared around a corner to explain to the school nurse what had happened.

Ronan wasn’t paying attention because in front of him, the most beautiful boy he’d ever seen was organizing supplies and cross checking some log. He saw the boy look up at him and knew he was talking because his mouth was moving but Ronan didn’t hear any of it.

“I don’t know, a bandaid?” he ventured eventually.

The boy raised a fine eyebrow. “A bandaid did that to your face? Here.” He handed Ronan a gauze ball and showed him how to apply pressure properly without hurting himself too much. Ronan assumed there were verbal instructions too, but he couldn’t hear them over the roar of his heart.

“It’s Ronan, right?” the boy asked, familiar words breaking through Ronan’s stupor.

“Yeah. Ronan Lynch,” he answered. “Who are you?”

The boy grinned a little shyly and shrugged. “I’m new. I’m only a nurse aid until I can take my entrance exam for Latin II. I transferred over and they won’t just let me join my cohort.”

“You’re a sophomore?” Ronan asked, excitement bubbling in his chest because he was a sophomore in Latin II which meant he’d see a lot more of the new kid.

“Yeah, yeah, I transferred at the break. My name’s Adam. Adam Parrish,” he said, and held out a perfect hand.

Ronan shook it.

It might’ve happened like this: 15

Ronan was sitting in a hospital hallway, scratching at the thick bandages around his forearms while Declan filled out paperwork down the hall and Gansey tried to prove he wasn’t beside himself with worry by buying too much from the vending machine in the next wing.

He wasn’t expecting a boy his age to sit down next to him in the uncomfortable plastic chairs, a blue cast all the way to his elbow.

“Hey,” Ronan said.

“Hey,” the kid greeted. He had light hair and sad eyes and Ronan already wanted to take him home like he was some lost puppy.

Like Ronan wasn’t the lost puppy at the moment.

“Sitting over here feels like sitting at the kids table at holidays, huh?” Ronan said.

The kid shrugged. “Wouldn’t know. I don’t have a lot of extended family.”

“What happened to your arm?”

“What happened to yours?”

Ronan scowled but the kid didn’t seem like he was easily cowed. “I sleep walk. I hurt myself doing it.” Which wasn’t...a lie lie. It was...an untruth.

The kid glanced at a man at the receptionist’s desk and grimaced. “I fell down the stairs.” And Ronan knew that was a lie lie.

“Well, I hope you get less clumsy,” Ronan said anyway.

“Could say the same to you.”

“Yeah, it wouldn’t do either of us very much good, would it?” Ronan asked.

The kid looked at him, appraising and tired and then he shrugged. “Probably not.”

“My name’s Ronan,” Ronan said.

“Adam, let’s go,” the man from the receptionist’s desk barked, and Adam jumped up so fast he might’ve knocked over the bolted down chairs.

“I’ll see you around, Ronan,” Adam said.

But they didn’t.

It might’ve happened like this: 22

Gansey was having a field day with this whole scenario. Ronan hated him for it. But probably not as much as he hated himself for agreeing to it. Then again, the check sitting on his kitchen table--a down payment, no less--was enough for him to forgo hatred for a while.

He watched the studio trailers drive in like little white ants. They set up a perimeter where they wanted to work and Ronan watched horse trailers get unloaded and set up in old barns and cameras set up in empty fields.

The first person to approach him was a dusty man with dusty hair and dusty skin and bright eyes. “Hey, sir, sorry to bother you,” he greeted, all Virginia charm and hick. “But I was wonderin’ if I might be able to use a spare room. The talent don’t show up until tomorrow and we’re a bed short without our full camper caravan. Uh, they told me to remind you the house is part of the contract.”

Ronan scowled and the man grinned cheerily back. “You’re not an actor, right?” Ronan asked.

The man paused, head almost ticking to the side. “Like I said, sir, the talent’ll show up tomorrow.”

Ronan grumbled and turned around to let the man in, detouring to the kitchen to pour him coffee.

“Wow, you better not let anyone else know you make the good stuff,” the man said with a laugh, sipping at the drink even though it was hot and he cringed every time. “They’ll come raid your whole place for a good cup.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Ronan said drily. He sat down at his dining table and the man followed. “It’s Ronan.”

“Adam,” the man said.

Ronan eyed him suspiciously. “Isn’t the lead actor on this project Adam Parrish?”

Again, the man’s eyebrows rose a little and Ronan got the complete sense that he was being studied. “You don’t know what Adam Parrish looks like?”

“Does he look like you?” Ronan asked.

The man’s mouth quirked into a smirk and he leaned back in the chair. “Nah, Adam Parrish is a movie star,” he said, like Ronan hadn’t just said the same thing. “I’m just trailer trash.”

“Are you making a joke about your campers or divulging life information on me?”

The man shrugged. “Why not both? You really don’t know who Adam Parrish is?”

Ronan shook his head and took too large a swallow of his drink, making a face as it burned his throat. “I don’t have a TV. I prefer to read.” Every single one of his high school teachers would’ve begged to differ, but a lot could happen in five years. “And my friends aren’t big into movies either.”

“Yeah, but he’s on all the magazine covers,” the man tried.

“Do I look like a middle aged housewife? I ain’t reading People and US Weekly.”

Adam hummed and nodded. “He’s a good guy, people say. Don’t be too mean to him.”

“Who, Parrish?” Ronan asked. “Didn’t he win a bunch of Oscars the other year or something?”

“Well, there was only one solo award. The rest was ensemble awards. Best Movie and all that. Besides, even winning Best Actor means he had a good director and supporting cast, y’know.”

“You don’t sound like a fan,” Ronan said.

The man choked on a laugh and shrugged again. “Guess I just know how much teamwork goes into a movie, is all.”

“How come an Oscar winner wants to come do some campy western all the way out here?”

The man leaned forward conspiratorially. “I heard he’s always wanted to be a cowboy. Even took horse riding lessons with his first check. Besides, he’s from out here. This town I think.”

“There’s no way Henrietta made some movie star and I’ve never heard of him,” Ronan objected. There were many ways that he’d never heard of him, but that was besides the point.

The man shrugged. “Too many schools out here. Easy to miss someone.” Then, tripping over himself to explain, he said, “We did a lot of scouting of the region.”

Ronan shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. Is Parrish playing the werewolf? Is he a cowboy-werewolf?” he asked.

Adam laughed and shrugged. “Who’s to say. You might just have to go watch this movie.”

Ronan rolled his eyes and stood up. “Come on, let me show you to the spare room. The closet is stocked with blankets and pillows. Bathroom’s connected. It’s a Jack-And-Jill, but no one’s in the other room. And I guess if you don’t tell anyone, you can help yourself to the fridge.”

Adam grinned at him and held out his hand. “I think we’re gonna get along great, Ronan.”

Ronan rolled his eyes but shook Adam’s hand. He had a cowboy’s handshake, or at least what Ronan assumed a cowboy’s handshake would feel like, warm, firm, calloused. A lifetime of work behind it.

“Whatever, just let me know if you need help clearing property or something.”

The man grinned, crooked and beautiful. “Sure thing, sir.”

Ronan left him to do whatever he wanted and by the time he got downstairs, there were three more people at his door.

“Jesus Christ, what do you all want?” he snapped.

Someone with a clipboard blinked up at him. “Uh, we were told Parrish came over here? He’s got a light check in five minutes.”

Ronan frowned and shook his head. “No, I’ve just got one of you crew guys up here. I thought Parrish wasn’t coming in until tomorrow.”

Behind the guy with the clipboard, a woman smacked her palm into her forehead. “Jesus. Is this crew guy’s name Adam by any chance?”

“Wait,” said clipboard guy, “you don’t know who Adam Parrish is?”

Ronan’s stomach dropped out from under him. “Why are you asking me like that?”

“I told all of you I’d be there on time,” Adam said from behind them. He put his hand on the small of Ronan’s back to slip by him. “I know how to read a time schedule.”

“You really didn’t know this was Adam Parrish? And he introduced himself to you as Adam?” clipboard guy repeated, pointing up at Adam.

Adam smiled bashfully. “Sorry. It was just so nice to talk to someone who didn’t know who I was,” he said. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

Ronan blushed furiously as Adam Parrish was herded away.

As it turns out, he did go see the movie. At the premier, on Adam Parrish’s arm.

It might’ve happened like this: 18

It was the dead of night and Ronan had followed the only flicker of light across down in a truck that was wheezing its last breath. He’d (barely) graduated highschool and immediately decided to never take another class in his life and start a farm instead.

Only he hadn’t expected all the old trucks his father had owned to be on their last leg and completely useless for hauling wood and supplies. So here he was, half pushing the truck into Boyd’s garage. He’d driven past the old bays a thousand and one times but had never gone in. The BMW drove like a dream and so he’d never had reason to. Until now.

A tall man came out of the far bay, wiping his hands on a towel, and appraised the truck in the dark. “Sorry, I’m not gonna be able to get to it until the morning,” he said and Ronan’s toes curled at his voice.

“That’s alright. I just couldn’t leave it on the side of the road,” he said. “And risking the engine to get it here was better than calling a tow truck.”

“You need a ride home?” the guy asked. “I was just gettin’ ready to lock up.”

Ronan weighed his options, between calling Gansey and taking a ride from a stranger. A stranger with really nice hands.

“I could use a ride.”

The guy grinned at him and hooked something up to the front of the truck to finish pulling it into the bay. “Might not get to this one until tomorrow evening, if that’s alright. We’ve got a full garage right now. Lots of minivans getting ready for summer vacations.”

Ronan snorted and shrugged. “Guess I can’t argue. Ain’t like I can take it anywhere else.”

“That’s true. You’re a captive audience. I’m over here,” he said, nodding to a Franken-Car. “Just give me half a second to lock down the doors.” The guy ducked into a bay and pulled all the garage doors down until Boyd’s was just a black shape against the night sky, and then he came out of the front office, and locked the door.

“What name should I put down on the paperwork?” he asked as he piled into the ugly car. With a dubious look at the hood, Ronan followed.

“I’m Ronan.”

“Good to meet you, Ronan. I’m Adam. Where am I taking you?”

And if people saw movement in the yellow glow of Boyd’s second bay the next night, bodies tangling together and coming apart, it wasn’t any of their business.

It might’ve happened like this: 13

Ronan sat in an uncomfortable chair outside of a boring cubicle and tried not to think about how Delcan was curled around Matthew in a kid’s playroom of the foster agency building and Ronan would be more than welcome. Nothing about the past twenty four hours felt childlike. He didn’t feel childlike anymore.

The image of his father laying in the driveway and no one else around the pool of blood was imprinted on Ronan’s brain forever. He was never going to be okay again.

Shouting made Ronan lift his head. In the attached wing of the building, a man was shouting obscenities and a female social worker led a boy away from him, shielding the kid with her body as they waited for doors to unlock.

The boy was small, but Ronan’s age, he could tell by the way his hair hung in his eyes and the uneven knobs of his elbows. He was growing into his body the same way Ronan was. Puberty camaraderie was a thing. The woman came into the children’s wing, murmuring reassurances to the boy and petting his hair. The man who’d brought Ronan, Declan, and Matthew in had done nothing of the sort.

“Here, Mr. Adam. Sit here with Ronan for a little while while we get paperwork sorted out for you.”

Up close, Ronan could see the kid was bruised all to hell and he moved gingerly as he sat down beside Ronan. He hugged his arms against his chest and didn’t glance at Ronan until Ronan nudged his foot against the kid’s.

“Your name’s Adam?” he asked, and ignored how his voice wobbled a little bit.

The kid nodded. “And you’re Ronan. What kind of name is that?”

“It’s Irish,” Ronan said. Normally he had a whole spiel about his name, but just thinking about his dad made his throat seize up and he couldn’t give it.

“Who did that to you?” Ronan asked.

“Who do you think?” Adam asked, nodding at the name of the foster agency on the wall.

“What’s gonna happen to you?” Because they both seemed like sensible guys who knew what this building meant.

Adam shrugged. “I guess they’re trying to call my aunts and uncles, but I don’t think I have any.”

“I don’t either,” Ronan said. “They said they had to read my Dad’s will.”

Adam grimaced next to him. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“I am too. About your face.”

“Do you want to stay here?” Adam asked.

Ronan nodded quickly. “It’s home. I want to go home!” he said a little louder, to no reaction from the caseworker next to them. “What about you?” he asked, when he’d settled down. “Do you want to stay.”

Adam shook his head. “I hate this town.”

“Well,” Ronan said, sitting back. “I hope you get out.”

At the same time, the door opened and a wild haired woman--white hair, down to her waist--rushed in. “My name is Persephone. I’m here for Adam.”

Adam and Ronan looked at each other.

“Do you know here?” Ronan asked out of the corner of his mouth.

Adam shook his head. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

“That’s alright,” the woman said from across the way, no way she could’ve heard them. “I know you, Adam.”

“Ronan Lynch, we’ve got everything squared away with the school. They’ll have dorms for you and your brothers by this evening,” the caseworker next to them said with a cheery smile that belonged nowhere near the situation.

Ronan and Adam stood up together.

“Sounds like we’re both staying here,” Adam said.

“And neither of us is getting what we want,” Ronan replied.

The boys sighed and Adam held out an arm with a nasty friction burn on it, fingers curled in a fist. “Maybe we’ll see each other again,” he suggested.

Ronan knocked his knuckles against Adam’s. “Yeah, maybe.”

And they did.

It might’ve happened like this: 17

Ronan pulled up to the red light with a rev of his engine. The Mitsu revved back. For once, Kavinsky’s windows were tinted and he didn’t roll down the window to leer at Ronan, but he knew Kavinsky’s Mitsu, the spoiler and the decal and all the gaudy ugliness of it all.

The light changed and the cars were off.

But something was wrong. Kavinsky didn’t stall like he always did and he didn’t let up on the first turn, like he always did. He did tear through the next yellow light, making Ronan continue the chase. And another. And another, far longer than Kavinsky had ever raced before. The longer they drove, the less sure Ronan got of himself until he hesitated at a two-way and the Mitsu kept going, screeching to a halt in a cul-de-sac. The BMW sadly roared in a second later.

Ronan jumped out of the BMW, fuming and angry and embarrassed. He had to beat the shit out of Kavinsky so he’d think it was just a dream or something. Instead, though, he came up short when someone other than Kavinsky folded himself out of the Mitsu. And it wasn’t anyone else in the immediate Dream-Pack either. It was a tall kid with a blonde hair, tanned skin, a bruised cheek, and a taunting grin.

“I don’t know how K hasn’t done that to you before,” the guy gloated as he strode over to Ronan. “He made it seem like you were a racer and you’re not anything more than he is.”

Ronan fumed and stepped up to the guy. He had an inch or two on him, but it was nothing like the advantage he had on other guys he fought. As it was, before Ronan could lift a hand, the blond held up a finger, then pointed down the street where the rest of the Dream-Pack was turning.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” he said and climbed into the passenger side of the BMW.

Shocked, Ronan followed on autopilot, getting back into the driver’s seat. “If you win this one,” the guy said, “I’ll blow you on the drive back.”

“Who are you?” Ronan demanded, turning to look at the guy, a blush high on his cheeks.

The other man grinned at him. “You don’t recognize me, huh? Name’s Parrish. We have Bio together.”

Right, fuck. The scholarship kid with the grease on his hands.

“Did you rig the Mitsu to do that?” Ronan asked. “At the shop or whatever?”

Parrish laughed, head thrown back, mean and biting. “Hell no. Kavinsky doesn’t have a clue what to do with all the firepower under that hood. I do.”

“You do?” Ronan repeated.

“I’m good with my hands,” Parrish said and then nodded to the line of cars around them. “Drive and you’ll find out.”

Ronan drove.

It might’ve happened like this: 18

Matthew somehow had friends at Mountain View High and had begged Ronan to take him to see them play in their baseball game. Aglionby’s baseball team sucked. Mountain View, it turned out, did not. Most of their success, Ronan thought, could be contributed to the fact that Aglionby hadn’t managed to get a single hit off of MVH’s pitcher.

If Ronan managed to find a stray dog to play with near the bullpen while he was warming up, or happened to be chilling next to the home team dug out when he wasn’t batting, that was no one’s business. After the game, after Matthew had disappeared with his friends, after the stands had cleared, the boy emerged from the dugout, dragging equipment with him.

“Hey,” Ronan said, pretending like he hadn’t been waiting around. “Need help?”

“Why am I not surprised that you’re still around, Raven Boy?” the kid asked, a scowl coming to his pink mouth. “Need help finding the parking lot?”

Ronan rolled his eyes and reached for the base that was falling out of the kid’s arms. “No, told you I’m just trynna help.”

The pitcher glared at him but didn’t keep arguing. Instead, he walked off to a shed set away from the fields and fought a key free to unlock it.

“They always leave this job for one person?” Ronan asked.

“No, usually it’s two, but the guy who was supposed to stay with me got hurt and had to go to the med clinic,” Adam said.

Ronan remembered a kid taking a bad pitch to the ribs. He sucked in a breath in sympathy.

“Well, how about you help me with this shit and I’ll treat you to dinner,” Ronan suggested. It was brash and forward and dangerous, but he felt like it would work. He really wanted it to work.

The kid looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “It’s my job. Aren’t you supposed to be helping me and I’ll pay.”

Ronan shrugged. “Sure, I’m sure there’s a MVH discount at Nino’s.”

Adam snorted. “They’d lose half their money that way.”

“Well, they definitely don’t give a shit about giving us a discount.”

“Poor rich kids. How do you afford nine dollar pizzas?”

“Hey, some of us go often enough to keep the doors open,” Ronan laughed. “So… is that a yes to dinner?”

“What’s your name, Raven Boy?” the guy asked.

“It’s Lynch. Ronan Lynch.”

“I’m Adam. And you’re buying me dinner tonight.”

It might’ve happened like this: 16

Gansey caught Ronan staring at the boy with the bike and pulled over in front of him.

“Hey!” he called, waving like the kid wouldn’t be able to see him. “Need a ride?”

And the kid put his bike in the trunk and climbed into the car. “I’m Gansey,” Gansey said, turning the full effect of his charm on the new kid. “This is Ronan.”

The kid glanced between them warily, eyes lingering on Ronan’s like he could see the longing in them, before knocking his knuckles against Gansey’s. “I’m Adam Parrish.”

“Well, Adam, what do you know about dead Welsh kings?”

It might’ve happened like this: 16

Gansey sat down at the lunch table across from Ronan like all the troubles in the world were on his shoulders. Surprisingly, someone sat down next to him. It was the kid from the road, God damn Gansey.

“Ronan, this is Adam. Adam, this is Ronan. Ignore his snarl, he’s a decent guy,” Gansey introduced and then set off on swapping pieces of his sandwich for Ronan’s and taking one of the sweets Ronan had grabbed for an apple from Gansey’s plate. “It’s Adam’s first day. I’m his guide for the school.”

“Sucks for you,” Ronan said to Adam, teasing out a grin from Adam, which he hid very well.

Gansey kept chattering with Adam while he ate a sandwich. When it was gone, so was Gansey, off to talk to the row team or something.

“Um, so you play tennis right?” Adam said after a second of watching Ronan categorically destroy his own sandwich.

Ronan looked up at him with irritation but shrugged. “Sure. I used to.” He half expected Gansey to appear and remind them both that he had two junior titles and a state title behind him.

“I, uh, just saw your tattoo the other day. I was getting a tour. You musta been trying to take the cover off the ball, you were hitting it so hard.”

Ronan sneered, but it might have been an aborted smile. “They took you by the tennis courts?”

“I tried to tell them I wasn’t going to play a sport, but I guess your PE credit is required here.”

Ronan balked at the thought of watching Adam work out. “You’re a nerd then?” he asked, finally taking a bite of his sandwich.

Adam took a significantly smaller bite of a peanut butter sandwich. Ronan realized he didn’t have anything else and he flicked the apple at him. Adam looked at it and ignored it. “You mean I transferred in to learn and not to get recruited for a row scholarship?” he clarified.

“Yeah, something like that,” Ronan said. “You’re not so bad, nerd.”

Adam rolled his eyes.

But, really, it had to happen like this: 16

Two months after the scholarship kid showed up at the school, he walked through the door of Monmouth. Ronan turned down his music, curious but keeping his face schooled as anything but.

“Ronan, Adam just saved my life!” Gansey called. Ronan appeared in the mouth of the hallway connecting the living room and bedrooms and found Gansey, almost disheveled, and the scholarship student/bike kid standing in the the middle of Gansey’s ‘bedroom.’

“How’s that?” he asked. “He dig you out of whatever ditch your shitty car left you in?”

Adam was reading the spines of the books on Gansey’s desk and didn’t seem keen on answering.

“Yes, exactly. He actually got it up and running before I had to call a tow truck,” Gansey explained, shrugging out of his jacket and revealing grease and mud stains on the shirt under it.

“It sounds magical,” Ronan said, deadpan.

“And he knew about Glendower.”

Now Adam did turn, looking a little bashful. “Just that he’s a character in Henry IV,” he explained.

“That’s more than most people know,” Ronan said.

“You guys don’t read Henry IV in private school?”

“You read Henry IV freshman year?” Ronan asked.

Adam shrugged. “My teacher hated Romeo and Juliet.”

Gansey laughed, full chested and free, and pulled Adam towards a spread of journals. “So, here’s what we’ve figured so far…”

“Have you double checked French translations?” Adam asked, pointing to something in a journal.

Gansey beamed up at him and Ronan realized he was doomed.

(I know I’m so late with this! Forgive me!)

#pynch #adam parrish #ronan lynch #pynchpromptweek #fanfiction #meet cute #meet ugly #baseball au #street racing au #meet earlier au #meet later au #don't meet at school au #hollywood au #writing #otp: in more than his lips

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alexstorm · 4 years

Text

I don’t think Alex necessarily wants women to follow his lead and if they don’t… he leaves them. I do however think that he is extremely avoidant and when a relationship isn’t going well or is no longer satisfying he has a hard time breaking up when he should or in a healthy, functional way. When a partner of his starts doing stuff on her own I’m not sure he takes issue with that and dumps them, but rather uses that as a conflict and a justification to end things. That’s why Louise will be successful and has been in the relationship so far, or seemingly. She doesn’t seem to push back. She doesn’t insist on moving in, so she hasn’t. She comes and goes at his whim, it seems… she’s content in a dynamic that has never established roots because in avoiding outright conflict with him she hasn’t given someone with an avoidant attachment style just cause to end things. I can’t see how Al isn’t a little depressed right now, given the lack of real emotional attachment AND the state of the world. I don’t think he has motivation to even find a partner to stray with. Im sure LV is fun enough to pass time with. But Christ… part of what irritates me about all these Louise lovers is that I’m worried they actually think this is what a healthy relationship looks like from the outside. Sure, people want different things but I hope all of the anons defending her and the relationship want more from their partners in their personal lives. It’s annoying. Anyway. I’m sorry to have typed so much, I’m sad that I’m in America and watching so many people continually extending my quarantine. This blog helps me cope from time to time. Haha.

* * *

First of all, I’d like to say I love when you step by. I can always have a great conversation with you. I recognise you by the way you express yourself (well and the email address of course lol) and your mature approach.

I do agree with you there partly. He’s not only looking for someone who follows him but if he gets bored or sees it going nowhere he takes any conflict to break things off. Not in a mature way though as we’ve learned in the past. Which then again is a bit contradictory given he was the one doing the talking when they kicked out Andy. For someone who doesn’t like conflict that’s huge. And yes, I think he might be a bit depressed or at least melancholic. Hence him coming back to the UK and reaching out more to friends (e.g. Miles, Nick) to cheer him up. Clearly he isn’t getting it from Louise. How is she supposed to properly talk to him about his feelings right now? I’d really love to just sit down with him for an evening to pick his brain and see where he’s at. Is he aware of what’s going on in his life? Is he trying to change or too deep in the hole?

And, love, I recommend Marvin Gaye or Aretha! They were what got me through lockdown and I have a whole newfound appreciation for his discography. Etta James as well. Any good 60s music. Also my girl Janis is good for expressing any pain or suffering musically I feel. Sometimes you just need to scream it out and she does it so well. I send you hugs!

#submission #The Turner Girlfriends Club #anon love #music

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or-ng-c-ss-dy · 4 years

Text

winning is fun (losing is too)

i think the thing in this fandom is to post fics directly to tumblr. so im gonna try that out i guess...here you go.

you can also find it here on ao3, it’s member locked so fair warning.

another warning, this fic includes themes of internalized homophobia/biphobia. no other warnings apply tho.

some chuckie t/oc for your night, 18+ only, 4.6k words.

----

He had looked for Orange Cassidy everywhere, the little closet they had been hanging out in, the men’s locker room, even in The Elite’s private locker room. And then in stairwells, in the halls. And then he threw his hands over his eyes (he was a gentleman after all) and walked into the women's locker room to look for the unofficially-official third Best Friend, maybe was hanging out with Kris Statlander again.

Instead of finding him, Chuck got unceremoniously thrown out onto his ass by several of the women in there, and there was still no sign of Orange.

Which was unfortunate, Dynamite had long happened and people were finally starting to filter out to their hotel rooms or to catch a late dinner, and Chuck wanted to leave too. But not without Orange, although he was getting closer and closer to just leaving him there and letting him find his own way back to their room.

“Orange, c’mon, man. Did ya fall asleep somewhere, I know you’re all small and stuff so you can sneak into little places to sleep, but we have beds back at the hotel that are more comfy.” He tried, calling out to the empty hallway.

Trent had joined him for the search for a little while, but ended up giving up when he got too hungry. Chuck let him go, but he wasn’t going to leave Orange there. Not really, as tempting as it was to just go hit the bar and find the greasiest slice of pizza the city had to offer all by himself, it wouldn’t be the same without Orange.

He ended up rounding the corner and nearly running straight into Luchasaurus, who stopped him with huge hands on his shoulders. Jungle Boy peered down at him from his place up high on Luchasaurus’ shoulders.

“Shoot, sorry about that.” Chuck said. “Hey, it’s alright. You look worried about something, though, is everything alright.” “Yeah, I’m just looking for my pal, Orange Cassidy. You seen him?”

Luchasaurus thought about it for a second. When Jungle Boy started tapping on the top of his head, he pulled his hands off of Chuck’s shoulders and gave him an apologetic smile.

“No, sorry. But Jungle Boy here heard the showers still going, maybe he’s in there?” “Ah, thanks! I’ll go look.” Chuck said, patting Jungle Boy’s leg before scooting on past the pair.

Sure enough, he could hear the shower running from the hall. He had just been in the men’s locker room, but there were other people in there and he had just gotten out of the shower, so he didn’t think to look for Orange in there. But there he was, standing under the spray of the water in the otherwise empty shower room.

Orange was naked other than his sunglasses and a pair of shower shoes that he instantly recognized as the pair that he had brought, far too big for Orange’s feet. And he was leaning against the wall, his usual blank look on his face. Chuck couldn’t help but feel relief wash over him, he hadn’t realized that he was nervous over Orange until he had finally found him.

He didn’t think that PAC would try anything outside of the ring, but the man was pretty much like a wild animal those days. Maybe he would try to get to his newly found rival when people weren’t looking. Luckily, it just appeared as if Orange had fallen asleep while standing up in the shower again, this time in the locker room instead of in their home bathroom.

“Christ, buddy, there you are. You worried me sick.” Chuck said, approaching Orange.

Orange shifted slightly, head tilting in Chuck’s general direction. Other than that, he didn’t really move or react, although Chuck knew him well enough to see the slight tilt of his lips.

“Sorry.” He said after a moment.

It took until that point to register that Orange was naked. He had seen his friend naked before, of course he had, through shared locker rooms and showers with no stalls, but it was different when other people were there alongside them. He had even carried on mostly-one sided conversations with Orange while they were naked, but it was different to be alone with him while he was naked.

Chuck was suddenly very aware of the fact that his dick was right there, soft between short, blond curls, and that his chest was perfectly toned and glistening with droplets from the shower. His skin was a soft, pretty pink, steam curling around his body, and it was information that his brain supplied to him before he could stop himself.

It didn’t mean anything, Orange was just objectively attractive. Just because he was thinking it, it didn’t mean that he was attracted to his friend, it was just a fact of life. It was easy to write the thoughts off as that, he had been doing it for years after all. He wasn’t into men, of course he wasn’t. Gay people were perfectly cool with him, something that had taken him an embarassingly long time to realize after growing up in Kentucky, but he was straight and that was that.

After all, he liked girls. So that was what he could focus on.

It took a grunt from Orange to pull him out of his thoughts, flushing from being caught so far off guard.

“Oh, uh. It’s okay, man. Just hurry up, I’m hungry.”

Chuck went to leave Orange to it, figuring that he should probably get out of there before his mind wanders any further. Instead, he stayed looking for just long enough to see Orange start to move at a snail’s pace, hand raising from its place at his side to slowly rub as his chest.

It was ridiculous. Chuck scoffed and crossed his arms, moving in closer to Orange before he could stop himself.

“Really, dude?” “Yeah.” “Do you need help with that or something?” Chuck said, rolling his eyes.

It was meant to be a joke, he thought it came out sounding like a joke. But Orange just nodded, letting his hands fall back to his side and...well, presenting his body to Chuck. Chuck just stood there, staring at him, eyes wide.

“Seriously?” “Yeah. Help me out.” Orange said, a twist forming at his lips. “Absolutely not, wash your own damn body. What do you take me for, your boyfriend?” Chuck said, a little too harsh for his own liking.

He flinched at the sound of his own voice, a little too harsh, a little too revealing. Orange seemed to take it in stride though, pouting and trying not to laugh. He lifts his hands up and does that stupid thing he does in the ring, loose hands gesturing in the vaguest ‘come on” signal of all times.

“C’mon.” “Don’t you start that crap, OC.”

Chuck knew that he couldn’t resist Orange when he made that face, but that usually extended to doing something stupid like jumping down a flight of stairs just for the hell of it or taking another shot, not...not getting his hands on his naked, perfect body.

Christ, he was in deeper than he thought.

“Please, Chuck.” He said, wry smile crossing over his usual look of indifference. “Ugh,” Chuck groaned obnoxiously, “fine. But you’re buying the first round...no, the first three rounds as payment for me having to touch your gross, sweaty bod. And I’m getting top shelf stuff in my diet coke.”

He hoped that would deter Orange, that he wouldn’t agree to the terms set by Chuck. But Orange simply gave him another lazy smile and a soft huff that might’ve been a laugh.

“Fine by me.” “Huh, seriously?” Chuck said, completely struck. “Yeah. Bathe me, Chuck.” Orange said, deadpan voice not matching the smirk on his face.

Was Orange just playing? Maybe he wasn’t expecting Chuck to actually do it, maybe they were both playing this strange game of bluffing. Gay chicken with higher stakes, because he wasn’t sure if Orange was just trying to fake him out or not, but he defintely wasn’t trying to fake Orange out. Not when the thought of touching him like that had his mouth dry, swallowing hard, made him want to say all the words that he wasn’t allowed to say.

If he touched him, would Orange push him away? Orange was looking at him through his sunglasses, expression turning unreadable. Was he waiting in horror or anticipation over the idea of Chuck actually touching him? They had touched before, obviously, wrestling was all about contact between two sweaty, half-naked people, but it was different when there wasn’t the sport and the crowd and the ref.

It was just them. Chuck shook slightly as he stepped up, hand extending slowly until it finally landed flat on Orange’s chest, laying there. He could feel the slick heat from the water, giving way to the radiating heat of Orange’s body. He had taken a few good chops that day, skin bruised and broken under Chuck’s fingers.

Chuck looked up at Orange’s face, looking for any disgust in his face. Instead, Orange’s pink lips were gaped open slightly, chest heaving slightly. Chuck wanted to ask if it was okay, but the words got stuck in his throat and he worried that, if they managed to free themselves, that they might shatter the moment between them. That the spell would be broken and they’d spring back like they had been doing something wrong.

Instead, he reached over Orange’s shoulder, the motion bringing him just a little bit closer into his space, grabbing for the shampoo on the shelf behind him. Chuck looked at the label, suppressing a laugh as a huff when he realized that it was orange-scented. He had seen it in their shared bathroom at home, in hotel rooms, but it was funnier when he was the one about to rub it into Orange’s hair and he almost wanted to make some joke about it. Instead, he popped the top and poured some in his hands, rubbing them together to lather the soap up.

He was thankful that Orange was a good deal shorter than him. It made it so he didn’t have to stand on his toes or...or have Orange kneel down to be able to wash his hair. Instead, he turned him around with a firm press on his shoulder and got his soapy fingers into that water-darkened blond hair. Chuck rubbed at his scalp gently, careful not to press too hard as PAC had also been fond of using his hair to lead him around the ring.

Orange let out a contented sigh, a soft huff of sound that had Chuck’s face flushing slightly. It had been an involuntary little sound that he had coaxed out of Orange, and he couldn’t help but want to get more noises out of him. Just another thought that he couldn’t control.

He was glad that he hadn’t put his shirt back on yet, too busy looking for Orange to finish getting dressed. Because Orange tilted his head back, soaking wet against his bare chest as Chuck massaged shampoo into his temples for a little too long. From that angle, he could see the way Orange’s eyes closed contentedly behind the sunglasses that he was still wearing. It made him feel warm and itchy in ways that he couldn’t even begin to describe, in a way that was both pleasant and deeply unpleasant, but all together unbearable.

Chuck forced himself to gently guide Orange under the spray, forced himself to not grab him close or to shove him away entirely with both hands on his back. Washing his hair was the easy part and, yet, he was already spiraling, already looking for ways of self preservation.

Instead, he reached back over for the bottle of body wash on the shelf as Orange washed the shampoo out of his hair. His body wash was orange-scented too but it wasn’t as funny anymore, the faint scent of oranges that usually hung around him amplified in the hot, damp shower air in ways that had him fighting to catch his breath.

He worked the body wash between the palms of his hands, readying himself for the fact that he was about to become more acquainted with the body of his friend than he’d ever thought he would. Than he ever thought he’d be allowed.

Chuck started at Orange’s shoulders and arms, the safest places he could think of, rubbing the soap over him in circles. His muscles were firm under his hands, God, he had worked hard on those things. Chuck knew that from his appearance, but it was different when he was touching as opposed to just looking.

He scrubbed up and down his arms and shoulders until he couldn’t put his chest off any longer. It was an odd angle, hands pressed against his chest, nothing like washing himself and nothing like the playful showers he had with various ex-girlfriends. The washing hadn’t been the point of those, just a pretense to some rather-mediocre sex that would’ve been better in a bed anyway. Chuck figured that it’d probably be easier if Orange was facing away from him, a more familiar angle, but that would mean being crotch-to-ass and...well. There were a lot of reasons why he didn’t want to do that.

Mainly a rather...pressing issue that was starting to strain against the front of his sweatpants. Chuck couldn’t adjust himself without leaving a wet, soapy hand print that would’ve made it obvious as to what he was doing, so he just hoped that Orange hadn’t noticed it.

He hadn’t checked if Orange was into it though. He could’ve, easily, considering that there was nothing covering him. Chuck was almost too afraid to look, to figure out what it meant to Orange. If he was into it, opening a door that neither of them would be able to close. Or if he wasn’t into it like Chuck was, making him the creep that was looking too far into things.

So he kept his eyes cast on Orange’s perfect chest as he washed him, arms moving around him to wash his back as well. God, they were too close, he could feel the even exhale of Orange’s breath fanning over his neck, making him shiver despite the heat of the shower, of the body pressed so close to him.

It was all making him confront the parts of himself that he hadn’t let himself ever confront, all in vivid color. The pink of Orange’s skin, of his lips, the ghostly white of his own knuckles and the soap that he was lathering him up with, and the deep blue of the eyes that were boring into his own. He hadn’t even realized that Orange had taken his sunglasses off until he was nearly choking on his own breath.

Chuck caught sight of his own reflection in the glasses, put up on the shelf next to Orange’s soaps, and he could only see a man that was so far out of his element, so desperate to understand the desperation that was clawing up from the pit of his stomach. Thrust into some part of himself that he didn’t understand, throwing away the walls they had built between each other without even knowing, all for the sake of something that had started as a joke.

Maybe it had never been a joke. But he had done enough analysing for one day and he really had to do Orange’s legs next.

...Oh. He hadn’t realized what would mean until he slid his hands towards those legs and moved over cut hip bones, far too close to the place that he hadn’t dared look. He couldn’t wash Orange without moving closer to his...well. His crotch region.

Chuck figured that he should probably back off, should tell Orange to do the rest of his own damn washing. Play it off as a joke that had gotten a little too awkward for his liking, gotten a little too gay.

He’d need to crouch down to get to his lower half and that would mean that he’d have to be face to face with Orange’s dick. It was time for the joke to end, but maybe it was never a joke. Maybe he had been completely serious, maybe it had all been to get his hands on his body. A manifestation of the deepest parts of himself.

He wasn’t drunk enough to be philosophizing like that, and he certainly wasn’t drunk enough to be touching Orange at all. He usually kept his distance until he was a few drinks in, and then he could reason with himself as to why he was touching Orange. Instead he was blindingly, obviously sober.

Instead of pushing back or finding a way to end the strange thing that was happening between them, Chuck found himself being carried away by all of it. By the ragged sound of Orange’s breathing and the steam that was curling around them like the ghosts of fingers. His pants were damp from the water and from the sweat that had broken out on his body, and they were far tighter than sweatpants were supposed to be, and he couldn’t hold back any longer.

Chuck found himself wanting whatever was building between them. He sucked in a breath and crouched down at Orange’s front to wash his legs, letting himself be confronted by the evidence of what was happening between them.

Because Orange was hard, hanging heavy and blood-flushed between his thighs. Chuck’s hands rubbed slowly over his thighs and he let himself look up into the face of his friend, into those lust darkened blue eyes that were staring down at him. Orange’s hands hadn’t really moved from his side but they were hovering over Chuck’s head like he was about to grab for him, to pull him close and...and…

Would he let him? Would he open his mouth for Orange, let him slide in, let him fuck into his face? Or was that too much, too far, because, if they broke that damn, what other barriers would they push past, what other lines would they cross? Would he do the same, fuck his pretty mouth and maybe even his perfect little ass? A few handjobs in the shower, that could be written off as something that happened in some strange heated moment, but anything else had more intent.

Something that they couldn’t just write off.

Orange’s indecisive fingers finally landed, curling around the line of his jaw and guiding him up until he was standing. He was taller than Orange, it was obvious really, but it hadn’t felt like it mattered until he was pretty much looming over him, casting a shadow over his features.

They both looked lost, he knew that much was true, and it felt strange to have Orange’s hands on his skin despite how much he’d touched him while washing him. But his fingers hadn’t moved from Chuck’s jaw, and Chuck’s hands found his hips, gripping him tight enough that he worried he’d leave more bruises on his sensitive, easily marked skin, and the thought made him want to mark him up even more.

“Chuck.” Orange said, voice broken as it shattered the illusion between them.

But it had never been about a friendly shower, had it?

Chuck’s hands pulled Orange against him, the hot line of his body soaking his sweatpants and, God, he didn’t care because it felt so good. He thought about kissing him, kissing that confused look right off of his face. Instead, he leaned down and brushed his lips down the side of his neck, the first real sign of his intentions.

Orange gasped, a soft sound that whistled past his ears, and Chuck gave his own groan in return. It made him feel bolder, gripping Orange tighter and canting his hips forward to let him feel just how into their weird moment he had gotten.

He was suddenly very aware of the fact that they weren’t exactly in a private setting. Anyone could walk right in, walk around a small wall, and find them there. Hell, anyone with a camera could get them on video, the Bucks seemed fond of walking around and filming everything about backstage.

Did he even care? He had Orange’s lithe little body pressed up against him and that was the only thing he could bring himself to focus on, the rest of it just faded away. The Young Bucks, Cody Rhodes, Kenny Omega, and Adam Page could all stroll in to film something for their show, and he’d yell at them like they were the ones in the wrong, all so he could keep grinding against that tight, pliant body in his arms.

Chuck let his tongue drag up the side of his neck, lapping a droplet of water off of his skin. Emboldened by the soft sigh that dropped from Orange’s lips, he let himself nip at the patch of pale skin that was right under his ear. Leaving hickies was some high school crap, but he just wanted to see his marks on Orange’s pale skin. He had seen the way that his skin was lit up after a match, blindingly bright red, and he wanted to be the one to mark Orange up.

“C’mon, Chuck.” Orange panted out, pretty pink lips parted invitingly.

Fingers wound into the short hairs at the back of his neck, Orange had to push up on his toes to press their lips together and kiss him in earnest. It was a good fucking kiss, something that he didn’t know how much he wanted until it was actually happening. Orange’s tongue slid across his bottom lip and Chuck responded in kind. He felt Orange’s lips quirk up and couldn’t help but break the kiss to laugh, tilting their foreheads together.

“This is ridiculous.” He murmured, stroking over Orange’s face fondly. “Yeah.” “My pants are getting soaked, dude.”

Orange huffed out a laugh at that, a soft sound that made Chuck lean in just to kiss him again. God, he was cute. He always knew it in the back of his mind, but it was being dragged out to the forefront just from a few kisses and some light grinding.

“Take them off, then.”

Hands found the waist of his sweatpants, tugging them down. His erection bobbed between them and Orange angled his hips to rub them together, catching them both in his smaller fist. Chuck let out a groan, tipping forward to muffle his sounds in Orange’s wet skin.

“Christ, that feels good.” He said and Orange hummed in agreement.

A part of him was still worried that someone else would walk in, a part of him thought that the possibility made it even better. Orange seemed to get that they had to move quick, but Chuck thought that he might not mind someone walking in. They’d see that Orange was his now, and that thought had him moaning.

“C’mon, OC, faster. You don’t want anyone walkin’ in on us, do ya?” He groaned, and Orange let out a soft moan in return, hand moving a little faster.

The water didn’t really alleviate any of the friction, but Chuck was too wrapped up in the moment to give a shit. After all, Orange was moaning prettily, blue eyes locked on his own brown ones. Chuck tilted his head up, brushing their lips together as he thrust into Orange’s fist.

“Don’t want anyone seeing you moan like a little slut for me, this is all for me, baby.” Chuck said, grin turning a little wild as Orange let out a louder moan.

His cheeks flushed prettily and Chuck wondered what else he could make flush with just a little bit of pressure. His mind was moving at a thousand miles a minute, the image of fucking into Orange right then and there flooding his mind. It was a little sleazy if he was being honest, and completely ungentlemanly, but the thought of bending him over and taking him from behind had him getting closer and closer to orgasm.

Chuck cradled the hand circled around them, encouraging Orange to stroke a little faster and a little tighter. A part of him did want it to last, wanted to stay in that moment forever, but he knew that they had to get it over with.

Orange was jacked, that much was true. He worked out hard for the muscles that he rarely used, but he still felt small in Chuck’s arms. It drove him a little wild, he could probably pick him up and drive right into him.

“Gonna take you back to our room after this, we’re skipping dinner. Gonna bend you over every fucking surface, get my dick in your perfect little ass, OC.” Chuck panted out, bending over to say the words right into Orange’s ear. “Chuck…” He panted, sounding strained, and Chuck nipped at the shell of his ear. “Yeah? You like hearing what I’m gonna do to you, baby?”

Orange nodded quickly and Chuck let out another huffed laugh, tilting his face down to press their mouths together in something that might’ve been a kiss if they weren’t otherwise distracted by trying to get off. Instead of a kiss, it was more or less something to muffle the soft noises coming from Orange’s mouth.

Who knew that he’d be so loud? Maybe he wasn’t even loud, maybe it was just the fact that they were in a semi-public place, but every soft moan and gasp sounded like a scream in the otherwise quiet air. And Chuck wasn’t exactly quiet either, biting back his own moans.

“We ain’t gonna leave that hotel room for nothing, Orange. Now that I’ve got my hands on you, I’m not gonna stop until we pass out, and then I’m gonna start the moment we wake back up.” “At home?” “You know it, baby.” Chuck said, groaning when Orange shuddered against him.

Despite the noises that he had been making, it took a few seconds to realize that Orange had cum. He painted Chuck’s chest with white, shaking in his arms and jerking himself through it. The realization had Chuck cumming as well, spurting hot cum in the place where their bodies connected.

“Holy shit.” He groaned, tilting to press their foreheads together as they panted together in the afterglow of their shared orgasm.

And then Orange was laughing, a soft huff, and Chuck was worried that he did something wrong. Or that Orange just thought of what had happened between them as some sort of joke, that it didn’t mean the same to him.

But Orange leaned forward, kissing him again, a soft brush of lips against lips.

“You said the s-word.” He murmured and Chuck had to laugh too, cupping his face. “What can I say, OC, you just bring it out of me,” Chuck said, “now, c’mon, we both need to shower. I made some promises to you that I intend to keep.”

He figured that they couldn’t shower together if they actually wanted to get out of there, not to mention the very pressing issue of someone walking in. But he couldn’t resist slapping Orange’s ass before walking away, grin spreading over his face as he went over to his own shower and started the water.

When he chanced a glance over at Orange, he saw him washing himself quickly, desire to leave overriding his laziness. Chuck moved quickly as well because he absolutely intended to keep all of those promises.

As his stomach grumbled and Orange’s practically called back in response, he figured that they could break one of those promises.

After all, they’d need the energy.

#my writing #otp: gentleman's club #let's go with that for a shipname #nsfw/#long post/

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settle-down-frohike · 5 years

Note

fic trope mashup: 38, 56

Spoilers: Redux II

Rating: R for language

38. Grief Fic 56. Awful first meeting, fill in the blanks fic

Part 2 of this (sort of a fleshing out of this) Sorry this one took me so long!! Tagging @today-in-fic and @edierone

Two nurses and a very insistent Maggie help him from the floor, huddling and fussing over him appropriately, his ears vaguely registering Scully’s voice in the background insisting that he go down to the ER to get checked out. Christ, but it was good to hear her scolding. He wished he could faint every day of his life from now on if only to hear her bark, “Mulder!!” over and over again. Voice meant breath and breath meant she yet lived. She lived. She was going to live. Isn’t that what she had meant?

They finally all agreed on allowing him a cup of juice and a cookie to bring his blood sugar to an acceptable level, provided he stay put in a chair keeping his head between his legs, which suited him just fine being that he couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes. He had no intention of making a sobbing spectacle of himself with Bill glowering in the corner like a petulant teenager.

What passed for a cookie was bland and dry but downed easily enough with the “juice” that tasted more like a melted popsicle than an actual orange. Slowly his racing heart began to recede to an acceptable rate and the sweat coating his body began to dry, leaving him sticky and chilled. Daring a glance up, he found Maggie at Scully’s bedside, kissing her daughter’s knuckles and thanking God, oblivious to Scully’s sobering definitions of what remission really meant, that the cancer was not gone in fact but dormant. The Devil would not be defeated, only smothered for the time being. According to their faith, Satan could only truly lose his hold on this world when a Savior had been born and sacrificed to one day resurrect from the dead, eventually claiming the victory in the Last and Holy war on evil. He knew of no such savior. Not yet, not in this story.

Time had been bought nonetheless, and as for Mulder, he could only thank whomever had been listening to his offer of sacrifice in the chapel. He would meet his end in exchange for this charity, of that he was sure. If it be tomorrow, he was ready. Samantha was alive, albeit a stranger to him, and Scully’s beautiful heart was still beating. He could be done with this life in a moment knowing those two things. Til death do we part…his left ring finger faintly tingled, sympathetic nervous system recalling Maggie’s thinly veiled hint at her understanding of the order of things.

He shook his head against maudlin thoughts, reaching desperately within himself to try and find a smile or at least a joke that Bill might find inappropriate given the circumstances. Finding none and feeling suddenly claustrophobic, he mumbled an excuse to use the men’s room, feeling rather than seeing Scully’s attempts to make eye contact. He felt her reaching for him, and he wasn’t yet strong enough to be any sort of tether, so he ran. Ever selfish, and wasn’t that just like him. Maggie was joyously sobbing on her phone to their priest it seemed, blubbering something about miracles and answered prayers. Bill continued to play the part of sullen watchdog, and though he would never admit it to the towering Irishman, Mulder was grateful. However misguided his actions, he loved his sister. And maybe he was right to protect her from this ominous, looming form dressed in a suit. This fallen angel who seemed to have ushered in a good portion of their family’s sufferings.

His legs still felt limp and toneless as he searched the hallway for any sign of a restroom, which mercifully ended up being just past the nurse’s station. Before he could truly embarrass himself once again he made it to the sink and began to splash generous amounts of icy tap over his cheeks and around his neck. His heart had begun to thud again suspiciously and he had hoped he could ward off another attack of the vapors. A look into the mirror revealed glassy eyes and ashen skin, and he chastised himself inwardly for his inability to pull it the fuck together. His heart continued to pick up its pace, and yet he could not physically draw in enough oxygen to pacify its need. A sudden painful, unrelenting tension in his chest began to build until he could only collapse back against the outside of a stall, desperately tearing at his collar and tie in search of freedom from a sense of helplessness and terror that had rapidly begun to consume him, making his vision swim and the floor seem to tilt on its axis.

A hand on his shoulder made him flail out reflexively, “DON’T TOUCH ME!!” he yelled at the beige blur hovering over him.

“Dude are you ok?” he could hear it say, barely able to make out shaggy brown hair and a stout form in what looked like a uniform.

“I’m fine…” he gasped, “I just can’t breathe. My chest—“

“I’m gonna get a nurse man hold on—“

“NO! No nurse…” Oh God he was dizzy. He was going to be sick. This oaf was probably going to have the calvary with a crash cart in here at any second and Scully had seen enough of his antics for one day. God please, just give her 24 hours of respite. He could die tomorrow he promised but give her today.

“My chest…I just need to breathe. I can’t….my chest hurts…I just need to breathe…” he pulled futilely on the reigns of his galloping, runaway pulse, unable to command the beast that continued to carry him to a sure and humiliating death.

“I can’t do this..I can’t do this…I can’t…’ the words tumbled from his mouth, unbidden. The grip on his shoulder tightened, and he swatted weakly at the offending gesture.

“Hey man I think it’s a panic attack. I get’m all the time. Listen to me you gotta breathe in your nose, dude. Breathe big. Big breaths. Focus on the floor, man. Look at the tiles. Focus on the still stuff.”

Infinitesimally, the grout, then the grid like pattern of the floor came into focus, as did the owner of the west coast valley-guy accent. A janitor. Name tag: Todd…Young. No… Not young… Thirties…Flunky..Another wave of nausea washed over him as he watched the other man rise and swing the door open, then closed.

“I put my sign on the door. Just take a minute man. It’s cool.”

As the room around him expanded and stilled, the hysteria began to abate. His throat began to close around a heavy lump and stung behind his jaw, his mouth watering. He clenched his teeth and refused to cry on the grimy floor of a public restroom in front of an equally grimy guy who just so happened to have missed his calling as a therapist. With some effort, he swallowed the tears down along with his insulting first impressions. Todd sat cross-legged next to him, and remained otherwise silent for a time, allowing Mulder to finally reach some form of stasis.

“You ok dude? Man I thought you were having a heart attack. Guess I made the right call, he chuckled soberly, “Shit. I’da lost my job. You aren’t gonna die on me anyway are you?”

Mulder chuffed, “Not today.” He’d managed finally not to gulp down air. Todd nodded and added distantly, “Cancer ward, man. It happens a lot here.”

Now Mulder was truly remorseful for his earlier aggression. This guy had probably seen a lot of grief in these halls. He wondered about this Good Samaritan. Probably tossed aside by most, and yet a blessing to the injured who happened along his path. Todd. He would not forget his name.

Feeling sufficiently contrite and knowing his extended absence from Scully’s room would not go unnoticed, he gathered himself from the floor and picked up his tie to tuck in his pocket. Whatever words of thanks he could have formed during another moment when his wits were about him, they weren’t forthcoming right now. Todd heaved himself up as well, and went to retrieve his cart. One job finished, another to start. Mulder understood the feeling. It never really does end. He strode slowly from the restroom, leaving Todd to his duties, and the festering source of his malaise bubbled up like a bratty child, refusing to be ignored.

Samantha. The feel of her snatching her hand from his had been akin to a slice to his palm. Quickly over and done, leaving a gaping wound destined to scar. He had failed and yet he hadn’t. She was returned to him and yet rejected their reunion. He had her back and yet had lost her all over again.

Scully. Alive and warm and…incomprehensibly lovely… and doctoring him from a hospital bed. He was so sure that call had meant the end. And yet they had been granted, by some deity or malevolent force, another chance. A life to live or to barter for some future price, he had still to know. Why can’t he smile? Why can’t he be happy? He’d gotten what he wanted, hadn’t he? The questions presented themselves in his mind in Scully’s voice, not tauntin exactly, but coaxing him into focus on the here and now, on the what is, and not what might be. And wouldn’t that be just like her…Is just like her…because… she’s okay. Today, right now. She’s okay and in the next room to his left. The idea seemed so ridiculously improbable at that moment that he began to giggle, manically at first, then fitfully, finally collapsing into full blown sobs on the bench just outside her door. Hands hiding his face, head between his knees, just as he’d been instructed. For a moment, he had release.

#myfic #prompts #asks #fic trope mashup #i dont know why but i pictured jack black as todd lol #maybe oneday i will finish this series #i think part 1 was like a year ago

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lihikainanea · 5 years

Note

How did tiger react the first time she saw his sex scenes?

“Is that your ass?”

He nearly choked when he unlocked the door to your apartment. The sounds of moaning—moaning that sounded a lot like…no, it couldn’t be—followed him up from your porch. He maneuvered your steps as he carried a bulging brown bag filled with your favourite Chinese food, another plastic bag in his other hand full of candy, a licorice stick already half chewed in his mouth.

You pointed to the television as he stood stunned your entry way, the licorice stick falling to the floor as his mouth gaped open.

“That,” you paused the screen right as a plump backside—his backside—was mid-thrust.

“Is that your ass?” You asked, innocently. “Or do you have like…an ass double?”

“Tiger what the fuck,” he blinked, his head on a swivel looking rapidly between you and the TV screen. He set the bags down, running to snatch the remote from your hand but you leaped off the couch and evaded his grab.

“Turn around, let me see. I feel like it could be your ass,” you laughed, spinning around him as he spun in the opposite direction with his hands on the backs of his jeans, trying to avoid letting you get behind him.

“What is wrong with you?”

“What? I’m just curious,” you exclaimed.

“Why are you even watching this movie, you don’t speak Swedish!” He gestured a long arm out, pointing at the TV and recoiling slightly when he saw the image of his ass still paused on your giant screen.

“Jesus christ, could you turn that shit off? At least unpause it,” his cheeks were rapidly turning pink, and you rolled your eyes. Granting his wish, you unpaused it—only for the screen to come to life again with the sound of his moans, the images of his hips thrusting back and forth as a woman writhed and moaned beneath him.

His eyes widening even more, he lunged for you and grabbed the remote as you tried to hold it away from him. He slammed the “off” button and held the remote high over his head. You jumped for it but it was futile, and his hand splayed high on your chest, gently pushing you away with each jump.

“You’ve got some explaining to do young lady,” he pointed a finger at you. “Why are you watching my sex scenes?”

“Oh come on, you prude,” you said, “I was curious.”

He raised his eyebrows, skeptical, the remote still held high above his head.

“Curious about what?” He moved his arm when you jumped again, even though there was no need. You weren’t even close.

“I don’t know. I’m curious about all of this. I bore you to death with all the details of my boring job and I feel like I don’t know anything about the intricacies of yours. I have questions.”

He lowered his extended arm, crossing them in front as he pinched the bridge of his nose with his hand.

“First of all, you don’t bore me with the details of your job,” he pointed the remote at you, accusingly, “Sheila in accounting is all of us and she deserves to find love.”

You quirked a brow at him, but let him continue.

“Second of all, as much as I may regret this…” he sighed, heavily, and looked at you, “what are your questions?”

“I don’t know. Just…how does it all work?” You shrugged.

“How does what work, tiger?”

“The sex stuff,” You flopped back on the couch, resting an elbow on your knee as you looked up at him, “like, are you fully naked?”

He pinched his eyes closed, his arms still crossed, as he stood in front of you. He’d be angry if you didn’t genuinely look so curious.

“No, we don’t get fully naked. More for the comfort of our costars, than anything else,” he explained, “I wore a sock.”

You guffawed, and slapped a hand over your mouth when he glared at you.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. A sock?” You asked, “Like a….like a cock sock?”

He rolled his eyes skyward.

“It’s not called a cock sock you idiot,” he huffed. You bit your cheek to keep from laughing again.

“What is it called?”

“A modesty pouch.”

You barely contained the snicker, as you nodded in interest, curling your legs up under you.

“Okay. But what happens if you get….you know….”

“If I get what, kid?” It was his turn to quirk a brow at you, daring you to ask the question on the tip of your tongue. You paused, trying to figure out a way to word it.

“You’re an adult male, bud,” you said and he nodded once, “you work with beautiful actresses and you have to make out with them and grind up on them and fake having sex. Don’t you ever get…kinda…turned on?” You were surprised that your own cheeks went red. Bill’s face was blank and he blinked at you slowly, purposely letting the silence get uncomfortable before he spoke.

“There’s nothing sexy about shooting those scenes tiger, believe me. You’re surrounded by a crew of twenty people, there are bright lights everywhere, microphones shoved everywhere else, and they’re shot in like 5-second increments. It’s a role. Acting turned on doesn’t make me turned on,” he explained.

“Oh. Okay,” you said, and nodded. He turned, walking back towards the door.

“Now if you’re done with the questions, you weirdo, the lo mein is getting cold,” he grabbed the bag and set off down the hallway.

“Besides,” he called over his shoulder as you stood, “They tie it to your thigh so it can’t do anything, anyway.”

“Wait, WHAT?”

#Leilani answers #BFF!Bill #BFF Bill #BBF!Bill drabble #bill skarsgard drabble

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writerkenna · 5 years

Text

The Lights of Stars and The Glitter in Your Eyes Chp 4

I am SO sorry for how long this took. I went from ear infection to cold to stomach flu one right after another and could hardly do more than lay in bed and watch Schitt's Creek.

I will try to be more consistent with updates from now on.

But y'all, this shit is cute. Really cute. FLUFF WARNING

Enjoy!

(songs that I liked while writing this: Mine by Bazzi, Somethin Stupid by Frank Sinatra, Chelsea Dagger by the Fratellis and the ramblings of my own mind by me)

“That system is one of the most massive in the universe. Over thirty planets. You see how big the star is?” Thor said as Bruce leaned over to where his finger was pointing at. Bruce jotted down a scribble of something.

“What’s the name? And, uh, um, what are our coordinates right now? Do you know that? Is it inhabited?” Bruce rambled, eyes darting in bright flashes between Thor, the twinkle of the Galbacus system, and his notepad. The side of Thor’s lips ticked up into a pleased smile, and gave all the details he could.

Stargazing, though not as frequent an occurrence as their other rituals, was becoming part of their shared traditions. Bruce was the push behind every extended trip to the window. Thor had learned that his seven PhDs were in Nuclear Physics, Computer Science, Biochemistry, Radiobiology, Medicine, Particle Physics, and, apparently, Astronomy, which he had explained to Thor he had pursued due to his intense and undying love of the stars. Bruce approached space with a mix of the analytical and passion, coming in with a million questions of metrics as well as younger eyes than Thor had ever seen on him. Thor always tried to answer, to the best of his abilities, the questions that Bruce sped-spoke to him. He hoped that maybe one day this could go into another one of Bruce’s papers and he would have helped with that and done a service to Midgardian science as a whole, though, secretly, he knew, as he watched Bruce’s teeth tug in a corner of lip while he gave him the details of Galbacus’s fourth planet from its star, that he did not really love star charting for any educational purpose.

“How do you know all this, by the way? All the systems?” Bruce asked.

“Asgardian education is very broad, Bruce. I know much about astronomy, as well as other sciences.” Thor’s grin inched out further as a warmth spread under Bruce’s cheeks along with a steady glow permeating from under his irises.

“Asgard has science? That’s . . . like, sorry this is kinda lame, but can you explain it to me, how that works? This sorta stuff is, well, my thing,” Bruce beamed and his mouth pulled open a smidge to show a glint of white teeth. He was genuinely excited about this, almost to the point of wonder, and the smile Bruce was sending his way, a real, true, indulgent smile, hit Thor in his core, melting that solid ball of grit inside him to some moldable mush.

“I, yes, I’m realizing that it is,” he replied. He went on, expanding on the manners of Asgardian science, the overlap of magic with the technical, and followed the motions of Bruce’s speedy fingers flicking around his notepad.

He wrote with a fire that sprung from the tip of his pencil and resulted in half-readable scratches across his page. Note taking and research were the only times Bruce, outside of Hulk form, moved with speed. His hands, which were normally kept braced around each other at his midsection in a silent state of waiting, moves rare and planned, woke themselves when the notion of science floated by them. They ignited first, those hands, though the rest of the body always followed close behind, alive with the idea of gaining knowledge. Thor didn’t think he should be blamed for staring.

Thor did stop his eyes from locking, though, when he caught himself stuck on the twitch of Bruce’s pinky as it tapped its own secret code on the notepad. Thor’s chest went hot, like an ember pushing its way through him from his back, and he had to actually shake himself to remove the tension of it. As he did, the hand which seemed to be causing the trouble moved up towards Bruce’s face and pressed against his temple.

“Agh, Christ, the big guy’s aggressive today.”

Thor’s everything fell, because Bruce had been saying that too often, because Thor knew why.

“Oh,” Thor was plummeting. He could see Hulk, see all the pain and fury spiking right under Bruce’s eyes and he hated himself for it, “What does it feel like? With him, trying to get out?”

Bruce dropped his hands down, connecting them together at his waist, and his mouth fell open at its center. His face became hard for Thor to interpret, changing too much too quickly, but Thor could see one thing for certain, two voices in one mind.

“It’s . . . ah, sort of like. Um, brainfreeze?” Bruce tried, but shook that off, “No, not like that, actually. More like, I can hear this noise, this mumble or . . . fuzz sort of thing, at the back of my head. And sometimes, like, um, right now, it’s super loud and . . . I, it’s hard to think, you know?”

“I . . . yes,” Thor said through his teeth. He paused, eyes not on Bruce but down on himself and the toes of his boots, and then raised both hands up to the sides of his head. He shoved against himself till he felt static at the corners of his sight. This felt necessary, somewhat, an atonement for his sins against Bruce, to feel the pressure he inflicted, but he couldn’t get a good traction with his knuckles, and he was sure, just from the fight that radiated out from under Bruce’s skin, that whatever Thor was trying was nothing compared to that.

“Hey, geez, don’t do that,” Bruce’s hand covered one of Thor’s and slipped it down. Thor allowed himself one curl around Bruce’s pinky with his index finger and uncoiled it as soon as he saw Bruce’s eyes drift to it.

“I . . . wanted to know how it felt for you.”

Bruce went into a wide eyed silence and took a pace away from Thor, left foot catching on his right.

“No, you-you shouldn’t want that,” Bruce said to the floor and Thor’s shoulders squared around his ears. He was certain, that if he was making Bruce’s head shake with rumbles, that if Bruce couldn’t meet his eyes, he must be truly awful.

“I-uh, Loki, I have to go meet Loki,” Thor shot at Bruce, turning as he spoke to the door and just missing seeing what Bruce’s eyes would have looked like when they returned to him.

His lunch with Loki was actually not for another thirty minutes or so but he really couldn’t look at Bruce right now, and he was fairly certain his presence was giving Bruce crippling migraines, so he took himself over to the cafeteria, flicked dirt out from under his nails, and waited.

“Why are you all twitchy, and stuff? What’s happening?” Loki settled across from Thor with a cup of something steaming. His brow was dipping into the skin of his eyelid as he scanned over the stretch of Thor, vaguely judgemental, as per usual.

“Ah, am I?” Thor checked himself. There was a tremble shimmying from his shoulder and through his thigh to his foot. He stopped, but the tension was still there, transmitting from his head in rolling waves as he thought about the situation he had screwed himself into.

“Yes, you are. Is it the politics overwhelming your very blond head?”

“No!” Thor replied, overly defensive, but, well, his head was a bit too blond for politics and he didn’t want to be reminded of the fact. He corrected his tone, “No, it is not-well, I do have a political query for you of sorts.”

“You can’t change your official title to Thor: King, Strongest Avenger, and National Asskicker,” Loki drawled, a smirk growing around his spoon as he ate his soup.

“Um, I am the only king so I think I can-wait, no, not what I was asking. I want you to be my foreign minister,” Thor whipped out a big grin on issuing on what he had hoped would be a joyous announcement. He was met with Loki’s smirk working away into a scathing frown.

“You are truly an idiot.”

“Excuse me?” Thor balked. Loki tossed his head back with a pull of a grimace across his face.

“I will absolutely not be doing that.” Loki was starting to look near disgusted and it was making Thor wonder if he had somehow insulted him. Maybe foreign minister hadn’t been big enough. Probably that.

“Now, I know foreign minister might not seem so grand, brother, but it’s perfect for you. All, ah, the cunning and strategy and being mean to other dignitaries,” Thor explained. Loki didn’t soften.

“No one here on this ship wants me anywhere near government,” he huffed back. Thor pulled his lips taut and shook his head.

“Uh, I do? Why aren’t you happy? You should be happy.” He sort of hated this act Loki put on of self pity, digging himself so firmly into the place of social pariah, which, well, maybe he was now after all he’d done. It was a chicken and egg deal with that, though, because Thor couldn’t remember when Loki was ever not whining about acceptance and lamenting his lot in life.

“I, wow, I can’t believe you’re actually this naive. You’re going to piss off all your councils, and, of course, Heimdall, if you make me anything. I mean, for Odin’s sake, you’ve already elected the beast as-”

“Do not,” Thor bellowed, a determined finger swinging out and attracting the attention of a couple two tables behind them, “call Bruce a beast.”

“Ah,” Loki said and his smirk returned with a fervor, like he had solved it. Thor groaned, because Loki had somehow turned this into a display of Thor’s complicated hang ups.

“What would you do if, in a theoretical situation, you really enjoyed someone’s company very much, but your company caused them pain?” Thor asked after he had decided he had been manipulated. Loki stared for a long moment, vacant face, before he spoke.

“Could you, theoretically, be caught for this?”

“Yes,” Thor answered, sweat brimming on the brink of his neck. He wasn’t sure exactly what the extent of Hulk and Bruce’s communication was, and his secret felt like it was wafting closer to the surface every day.

“Then I’d leave them the fuck alone,” Loki said, and Thor deflated.

Avoiding Bruce became easier as Thor went on with it. The ship had many areas to escape to, like the gym, that had bags and people to punch, the cafeteria, with meat to feast upon and people who were not Bruce to converse with, and occasionally, Loki’s quarters, which mostly resulted in both him and Thor becoming increasingly aggravated and was consequently low on Thor’s list of visiting spots. And though Bruce was up late most nights with his work on his paper, Thor could feign sleep well enough and their talking was minimalized.

Thor didn’t know if he liked the ease with which he was able to avoid Bruce.

He couldn’t, however, avoid Bruce in the council meetings. Bruce, as direct chancellor to the king, was at every one of them, sitting right next to Thor over piles of haphazard notes.

“No, no, we are going with Ariagana’s policy, not Haldier’s,” Bruce mumbled, only for Thor, slipping a page out from the others. Thor skimmed the lines on trade laws.

“We want the one with . . . ah, more safety checks on imported goods.” His eyes wandered over Bruce’s way, who gave him a small nod. Thor warmed as a curl stumbled over onto Bruce forehead with the motion. He brought his mind back to the meeting.

Bruce was a mighty distraction, though. This was the only long stretch Thor allowed himself to have of Bruce and it was hard not to fall down the coiled trap of watching all the quirks and fidgets Bruce was prone to. At that moment, Thor was getting a side-eyed view of how Bruce looped his pencil over and under his fingers in idle seconds. This, he supposed, creepily observing his private movements and ministrations, would have to fill the gaps left by their star charting and movie marathons and late night talks.

The meeting ended when a debate between two members of the agriculture committee got violent, where Thor decided with Bruce he was very clearly on Einar’s side.

“Hey.” Bruce grabbed Thor in the rush of people exiting the meeting room. Thor couldn’t help but notice that Bruce’s eyes were ghosted with the dull gray of stress.

“Hi, uh, hey, Banner,” Thor said, with an edge, with a border. Bruce’s lip ticked down, but he didn’t correct it, “Thanks for . . . you’re really good with the notes, thanks.”

“Course, bud,” Bruce said with a sigh and Thor could feel the sense of more underneath it. Despite himself, Thor didn’t leave. It had been four days without real conversation between the two. He had been craving.

“Can I ask you a question?” Thor offered. Bruce lit up.

“Sure.”

“With that film we watched, the one about the mean alien and the really badass lady warrior, is that cat okay in the end? I know the xenomorph doesn’t eat him but-” Bruce’s laugh bustled in and Thor’s brow bunched up, “What?”

“You are so precious,” Bruce said, face going soft in the edges of his mouth and the wrinkles of his eyes. Somewhere in between the muscles of Thor’s abs and his gut, a match was lit and as it sparked, his lungs burned. He took in two large gulps of air.

Bruce broke the fuzz, though, as he groaned and pressed fingertips to his temple. Thor caught himself, and guilt dredged out the fire.

“Have to go,” he shot before Bruce could say anymore. And Thor ran, fast, fast, fast.

He landed in the gym by riding his foggy wave of remorse and worry. The punching bag in the far left of the room became his venting for his anger at himself and the sparks that glinted across him when Bruce’s lips split open across his teeth. As fists flew and Thor’s vision blurred, time sped and dragged in equal portions, and Thor wasn’t sure, when someone pulled him off the crumbling bag, if he had been there for thirty minutes or five hours.

“Shit, that bag owe you money?” Valkyrie asked as Thor stumbled away from the bag. He huffed at it, then looked back over to Valkyrie, who looked like a solution.

“Spar with me?” he asked. Valkyrie’s mouth quirked up fast.

“Yeah,” she replied, followed closely by a fist zooming for Thor’s head. Thor ducked it and hooked Valkyrie’s waist until she was dipping with him.

“You’re upsetting Bruce,” Valkyrie said from under Thor’s hold. Thor gave her a long look and a puff of a ‘huh’. Valkyrie took the moment to loop her thighs around Thor’s neck and tumble them both back.

“How . . . do . . . you know?” stumbled Thor. Valkyrie laughed, but with a sigh, loosened her legs.

“He told me. Cause I talk to Bruce, unlike you, apparently?” she explained, and the legs fell. She leaned on her elbows on the rubber-ish mat below them, “Why is that?”

Thor flipped her forward as an objection to replying. She hissed out as her back slammed the floor with a might. Thor winced for her.

“Sorry.” Thor looked away as Valkyrie rolled her eyes. She started up and took a run towards him. Thor tossed his arms up as a counter.

“So what’s up?” Valkyrie asked around swings.

“What’s what?”

“You and Bruce? Are you, like, obsessed, or something? Because you are very, very freaky about him, whether or not you’re flirting with him.”

“Flirting? I, no, no, you-” Thor staggered. His hands were antsy with the allegation and they found traction in careful placement on Valkyrie’s shoulder and hip. His leg got a hit in at her gut, “I-look, flirting, no, and obsession, no. I’m not. I don’t get obsessed, please. That’s below me.”

“Ha! Okay, King, excuse me. Forgot how excellent and above us all you are,” Valkyrie said with an elbow to Thor’s chin. He took a stumble back, finishing it with a spit of whatever she had hit out of him. With a step forward and a toss of a fist, they were crashing blows again.

“Okay, so, well, I’m not saying I’m above you. I just, not obsessed. Bruce is-he . . . just, I just enjoy conversation with him because he is funny and a genius at Midgard science and has good Midgardian films to watch and listens to me and turns into a really cool green guy and makes jokes about things I don’t get but I’m trying to and-and . . . oh, oh. Oh.”

Thor was huffing hot air out into the room and on Valkyrie at that point, the fight only half to blame.

The air room in his head was being sucked out. He was dumb, very dumb. He was made a fool by Bruce in shirts that were too big, with his damned curls and wrinkles and smiles and olive skin. Thor didn’t know how he could only find this from pain and utter Bruce Banner starvation. Despite this, despite being a giant idiot who couldn’t even understand the workings of his own self, Thor felt a smile bubble up on his red face. He didn’t fully snap out of it when a foot knocked him in the chest and he fell to the floor. Instead, warm with electricity and blood rushing everywhere at once, Thor rolled his head up to Valkyrie.

“Oh Gods, I’m in love with Bruce.”

Okay so if you're wondering why they watch so many 80's movies, Bruce Banner, if going based on Mark Ruffallo, should be like 48 or 49, so, a total 80's baby. He also loves Sixteen Candles, Queen, and the Cure.

#thorbruce #thurce #gammahammer #thunderscience #Thor Odinson #Bruce Banner #Loki #valkyrie #MCU #thor ragnarok #mcu fanfiction

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snowfall-fanfictions · 4 years

Text

Beware the Frozen Heart Chapter 9- The Poisoning

Previous Chapter

Ao3 link

FF.net link

Eryn gets down to some dirty business while Elsa seeks guidance from Gerda. Enjoy!

"And you're sure this is the stuff?"

Eryn looked down at the small sack his contact, a fat man with a face that looked like he was stung by bees, gave him. The man had infiltrated the castle staff and had been supplying Eryn any… illicit supplies to help in the assassination. The two men met in an empty room in the east wing of the castle, as to not draw attention to themselves. Eryn reached into the sack and pulled out a small black berry, about the size of his fingernail.

"Yup," the contact said in a hushed tone, "Freshly picked Nightshade berries, just like you asked for."

"Amazing how such tiny berries can cause so much suffering…" Eryn sneered.

"My wife said the same thing."

Eryn wasn't sure how to respond as he delicately put the sack in his jacket. "Uh... rrright… Look, when you infiltrate the dining staff, I need you to locate the wine cellar and report to me. Can you do that without fucking it up?"

"Yes, sir." "Good. Now, make sure no one sees you leave this room." Eryn walked over to the door and opened it slightly ajar. Carefully observing the hallway, he nonchalantly strolled out of the room, down towards the kitchen.

Eryn still couldn't believe that was the best he could find. He had spent years forming a tight-knit group of reliable contacts to help in these jobs, but he wasn't expecting to recruit a stupid clown like that jackass. If Eryn remembered correctly, he was the one who got caught in Avalor during the job to kill some local gang leader. It was a miracle that they were able to get out of there with that mouth-breathing tub of lard slowing them down. It didn't matter at this point. Once the queen was dead, he'd never see that infernal moron ever again.

Once she was dead… Eryn's heart grew heavy at the thought of Elsa's death. It was clear to him now more than ever that the mystery man who hired him was exaggerating the reasons he wanted the queen dead. Exaggerating, Eryn thought, More like lying through his damn teeth! For some reason, Eryn felt a surge of anger overtake his body. He quickly shook this rage from his head. It didn't matter at this point. He couldn't pass up an opportunity like this, not only to get back at Arendelle, but to solidify his legacy as a legendary killer. His stroll turned into a frustrated march as he silently grumbled to himself.

As he approached the kitchens, he paused at the sound of someone yelling. Except it wasn't like the head chef berating some hapless fool for overcooking the duck, instead it was more of an "GET THAT THING OUT OF HERE!" Eryn was immediately taken off guard when a large reindeer was shoved out of the large doors and into the hallway. At least we know the food's fresh, he thought as a large stocky blond man rushed up to the animal.

"Sven, how many times do you need to be told not to go in the kitchen?" he said sternly.

"BuT iT AlL SmElLeD So gOoD," The man replied in a more goofy tone. Was he… talking for the reindeer?

"Well, that's just people food, and this," the man pulled out a bag and retrieved a carrot from it, "Is people and reindeer food."

It was at that point Eryn realized who this was. The man in the square the day he arrived in Arendelle. Eryn recoiled in horror as the man let the reindeer take a bite out of the carrot, then ate the rest.

"Oh, what the hell?!" Eryn shouted, his stomach churning. The man and reindeer looked up at him with confused expressions.

"You must be Derrik," the man said as he extended his hand, "I don't think we've properly met before. I'm Kristoff, Anna's fiancé."

What in the FUCK does she see in you? He thought, shaking Kristoff's hand reluctantly. "Er- I guess that makes you the Royal Ice Master, then?"

"Yep! Sven and I oversee all of Arendelle's ice harvesting and shipping, isn't that right buddy?" Kristoff leaned over to the reindeer and scratched the underside of the beast's neck. Sven let out a satisfied grunt as his hooves stomped on the floor.

"I- uh… wasn't aware that they allowed animals in this part of the castle."

"Sven's more like family than anything else," Kristoff placed his hands on his hips and playfully glared at the reindeer, "But sometimes he forgets that not everyone thinks the same way." Sven gave his friend a small pout.

"How exactly did someone like you earn the princess's hand?"

"What do you mean 'someone like me?'"

"Well… you don't seem like a lot of other people around here. Not as uptight."

"I helped Anna find Elsa and fix the eternal winter, that's how," Kristoff leaned over to Sven, "I HeLpEd ToO, yA KnOw," he said, speaking for the reindeer.

Oh sweet fucking Christ, Eryn thought. It was tempting to kill this oaf along with the queen, but his standards forbade him from killing the mentally challenged.

"Hmmm, well, if you don't mind, I need to get into the kitchens. I have to make sure no one's tainted the food yet."

Kristoff cocked his head with a raised eyebrow. "Uh… the dignitaries haven't even shown up yet. Don't you think it's a little early to be checking on the food?"

"An assassin wouldn't wait until the moment the food is being served to poison the meal. Now would be an opportune time to taint anything, whilst there are few eyes."

"And how exactly would you know about that?" "I was the son of a noble, my father fretted over such things constantly…" Eryn seemed to get lost in thought as he said "my father," as if some internal force scolded him for dragging his father through this shameful charade. "Look," Eryn said after a few moments, "Elsa asked me to do this, so if you have a problem with it, talk to her about it. Now if you will excuse me..." With that, Eryn forced his way between Kristoff and Sven and entered the kitchens, ignoring the scowl the ice harvester gave him. The kitchen was incredibly cramped, filled with chefs and servants scrambling around to make sure everything was in its proper place. Eryn could barely hear himself think through the sounds of clinking dinnerware, sizzling meats, and general commotion from the people inside. It looked and sounded like an insane asylum where the inmates were given free reign. Scanning the room, he noticed that his inside contact was busy getting yelled at by the head chef over clumsily dropping some potatoes. He marched over to the two of them and grasped the contact's arm.

"I need to see this one for a second," Eryn said, trying to sound cheery. He dragged the contact to one of the only secluded areas behind a few large sacks of flour. "What in the hell are you doing?!" Eryn whispered angrily through gritted teeth, "If you get thrown out of here this whole operation is a bust!"

"I'm sorry, boss," the contact said panicking, "I was just trying to blend in and-"

"I don't need your sob story, where is the wine cellar?"

"R-right over there," the man sputtered, pointing to a large oak door.

"Alright, now get back to work, and don't act suspicious." Eryn threw the man out of the corner, watching as he fumbled about like a one legged chicken. Casually strolling over to the wine cellar, avoiding the sea of bodies, he was approached by a minor staff member.

"I'm sorry, but that area's off li-," She began.

"The queen herself asked me to overlook all aspects of this event, including the drink. You wouldn't want to upset the queen, now would you?"

The servant's eyes grew wide as she scurried off. Eryn discreetly opened the wine cellar door and slipped inside. Allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he scanned over the racks of wine bottles, looking for one specific bottle. Red Burgundy, Clos de Vougeot, Eryn reminded himself, running his hand across each bottle. He pulled each one out of its hole until finally reaching the one he was looking for. Eryn grinned in a sinister manner as he unsheathed his blade. The knife lay silent, denying Eryn any of its gifts. Overdramatic bastard, he thought as he jabbed the tip into the cork.

With one swift motion, Eryn pulled the cork out with a satisfying *pop*. He then took out the sack of berries from his jacket, pulled out five of them, and split them with the knife. As he hovered his hand over the wine bottle, he hesitated slightly. Once he did this, there would be no turning back. She would be dead, he'd be long gone, and everyone else would be left to deal with the aftermath of the assassination. His mind fell onto Anna, how she trusted him, how he would force her to live her life with no family, again. The idea of putting such a kind and warm person through that caused his heart to ache. Should he call it all off-

NO! Eryn thought, infuriated with himself, Not when I'm this close. If I had to live with no family… then so will she. With that, Eryn crushed the berries in his hand, the juices dripping into the wine below.

XXXXXX

"Oh, dear! I'm so happy for you!"

Gerda took Elsa's hands in her own. The queen sat in her study explaining to the head maid her situation regarding her feelings towards Derrik. For the past fifteen years, Gerda was the closest thing Elsa had to a mother figure, someone whom she felt she could talk to about anything. Despite Gerda's elation, Elsa still felt a pang of guilt and embarrassment in her soul as she hunched her back, cradling herself in her arms.

"T-thank you, Gerda," Elsa said weakly, her cheeks burning bright, "I'm just not sure if… nevermind."

"Dear, you shouldn't keep these things bottled up. You remember what happened last time?"

"It's just… Arendelle is in a state of chaos! There are bandits in the north, we appear weaker than ever before, and here I am fantasizing about some man. I just don't know if this is truly right for the kingdom."

Gerda silently processed the queen's words. "Dear," Gerda took Elsa's hands in her own, "Sometimes you just need to take a step back from it all and think about yourself for a change. Why, I remember when your father had the same dilemma about his feelings for your mother."

Elsa was taken aback by Gerda's story. "Really?"

"Of course," Gerda chuckled, "He was in the same position you were in. I'm afraid that's the case when a regent dies suddenly. People lose their faith in the monarchy, alliances have to be reformed, it's a complete mess. He would confide to Kai and myself constantly over his situation." Hearing that made Elsa feel a little better as she untangled herself from her arms. "Magic or not, you're still human, dear," Gerda continued, "Arendelle isn't going to collapse if you fall in love."

Elsa smiled warmly as a knock came to the door. Kai entered the room, a look of seriousness on his face.

"Sorry to interrupt, your majesty," he said, "But the dignitaries from France have arrived."

"Ah, yes," Elsa said, rising from her seat, "I'm coming." As she left the room, she could overhear the conversation between Gerda and Kai.

"HA! I told you she's got it bad! Pay up!"

"Hmph! Fine!" Elsa heard the jangling of coins being pulled out of a bag. She couldn't help but chuckle to herself. Talking to Gerda made it feel like a massive weight was lifted off of Elsa's shoulders. In time, she would need to talk to Derrik about this, but for now she put all of her focus on the visiting dignitaries. A powerful ally like France would help bolster Arendelle's reputation on the world stage. It was an opportunity the kingdom couldn't refuse.

For the first time since the assassination attempt, she felt calm.

#frozen fanfiction #disney frozen #OC #queen elsa #princess anna #olaf #kristoff #Eryn Odrikson #blood tw #gore tw #mature

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bladekindeyewear · 5 years

Text

Boots Reads Homestuck Epilogue(s) Part 10 - Candy Part 1 again

I was told that finishing the epilogue MAY make me feel better by some with opinions, with some vague hints that the ridiculous start of Candy may have underlying reasons, so now that I’m awake again (though my stomach is roiling a bit again) I’m gonna take another crack at it.

Alright, so I was also hinted that this Candy part ends with a different cliffhanger, so maybe those two will cancel out? That’s my hope anyway.

Reading page 1 again since I didn’t finish the very tail end of it... alright, so WHY IS ROXY CRYING again???? Was she just PRETENDING that she didn’t know it might turn out bad for John if he went at the end of the last one? Was there some weird mind-rewriting going on? Is the crying a symptom of this whole thing potentially being an our!Callie fanfic and she knows what’s being dodged?? Don’t know.

Alright, let’s have him save Gamzee and... is Vriska going to get saved in this version? Or is that descent into the black hole without seeing what happens her well-deserved comeuppance while only the ghost version of Vriska truly figured out how to be happy?

==>

Dirk acknowledges him when he zaps back, but it’s YOUNG Dirk so hopefully there isn’t any stupid Meat stuff going on.

...Yeah, Gamzee immediately being repentant is weird as shit. Maybe he Chucklevoodoo’d Callie into escaping him into this whole candied mess so he could start shit, I dunno. That or this isn’t really Gamzee or someone’s manipulating him or etc etc etc. The hint I got earlier was that if I thought Calliope wanting to bring Gamzee back and everyone just rolling with it was a little out of character, there are “reasons”, so I’m just going through all of this under the assumption that some emotion-manipulating weirdness is going on regardless.

Oh shit, Gamzee’s going to start recounting his character reasons for doing bad stuff in a surface-hope of justification and understanding. All the characters immediately recognize how painfully groanworthy this is going to be.

GAMZEE: AnD sUcH iS wHy I’m GrAbBiNg HoLd Of My RePeNtAnCe As FiRm AnD sErIoUs As I wOuLd A wHoRe’S tItTy!

Yeah, that really encapsulates how “serious” all of this is. And of course, John’s not having any of it.

Yeah, Terezi wouldn’t have any of it either, remotely.

Something feels different, but he can’t put his finger on it.

Hm. The aforementioned manipulation-weirdness?

==>

Okay, so it’s kind of Dirk who notices something different and is cancelling his stupid villain plans, got it.

Volatility of causality, huh?

(I’m going to be going through these parts a little faster than the Meat section, unsurprisingly.)

==>

Okay, Rose and Kanaya, are we gonna cure her substance abuse or--

With all the distance between them lately,

God damnit, have Dirk’s manipulations extended that far OFFSCREEN or is this legitimate character distancing???? Because either is BAD. >:(

Right, now that the plot and “relevance” has been sidelined over to a different timeline, Rose can now breathe easy free of her condition. And whichever parts of her condition were, perhaps, IMPOSED on her. Fuck.

I’m going to try my fucking best to cling to this, hope I can carry on a memory after this is over that DOESN’T imagine Rose trapped in a fucking existential dying villain coma with a hard fucking cutoff that promises nothing is ever coming to resolve it ever. (Or Jade in a somewhat-similar sidelined situation, or Jane doomed to fuck herself over and everyone else too, or...)

What’s slipping away instead is the feeling that any of it mattered at all. Was she insane to be so consumed by such lofty concerns, and is she only beginning to experience clarity today, for the first time in ages?

Yeah, you’re no longer in a timeline of Light and relevance. And that’s not so bad, which is something you never expected to be true given your derision of the concept. Void is pretty goddamn alright.

--Oh right, the illness and substance abuse probably caused plenty of distance between them.

KANAYA: There Was A Feeling I Couldnt Shake That Something Terrible Was Going To Happen To Us KANAYA: Something That Neither Of Us Could Stop KANAYA: A Powerful Outside Force That Would Take You Away From Me KANAYA: And I Couldnt Stop Myself From Thinking That Maybe KANAYA: Maybe That It Would Be For The Best ROSE: Kanaya... KANAYA: I Can Now See That This Is Completely Ridiculous

For some reason, this doesn’t settle my stomach much? It’s clear Andrew wove this in here so that if you read Meat first, you’d be able to acknowledge readily how this diverged in a way the characters kind of recognize, and... I’m not sure what I’m even saying. It’s like there’s hope that this is TRYING to take the bad taste out of my mouth, but I don’t believe it overly much.

ROSE: What a relief, considering that we are both going to be young and magically fit literally forever.

Wait, so they DID find a way to extend their non-ascended friends’ lifespans to practical immortality? Jane’s Life powers? Something else?

==>

yay jade. more extended dave metaphors. calm down stomach.

JADE: i never thought id be thinking of you as my weird nerd friend by the time we were in our twenties

Heheheh.

DAVE: yeah well i never thought youd be like the premiere woo girl on the planet

Had to look up what a “woo girl” was.

Yes Jade go flirt them to death

What she’s planning isn’t a seduction. It’s a public service.

Pff

(And yeah, she’s being pushy but at least she doesn’t go DIRK FAR about it.)

DAVE: its incredible hes driven at least ten people off the site by creating thinly veiled parody accounts of their usernames

Oh my gosh, Karkat’s good enough to ANDREW HUSSIE them?!??? :D

That’s incredible.

Karkat knows damned well what a husband is. He’s been force-fed enough bad movies from Dave to pick up any human euphemism you could name. He still plays dumb sometimes, for comedic effect, to irritate his friends, or simply to avoid a topic of conversation altogether.

Yeah, it was always pretty clear that about HALF of the trolls pretended not to understand something human that they knew about just for comedic effect and they knew it. :)

It would be pretty easy to mistake his reaction for arousal, so it’s understandable that Jade is extremely surprised when Karkat snaps his jaw shut and chomps down on her hand.

PFFFFHahahahah :D

And yep, Jane cancelled her run at Dirk’s direction.

DAVE: lets all just thank whichever christ was responsible for making whatever decision resulted in her deciding not to do that

*nod nod*

JADE: well i hope she gets a better hobby JADE: there are a lot of less ominous things she could do with her time KARKAT: WHAT, LIKE FUCKING HER WAY THROUGH HALF THE POPULATION OF EARTH C?

Jade pinches his ear and twists hard, smiling pleasantly.

JADE: get fucked karkat

Yeah, this is about the level of violence/threat I’d expect from Jade when anyone slut-shames her for perfectly acceptable behavior.

==>

There is almost no crime on Earth C, and so almost no one locks their door.

Huh. I guess post-scarcity might do that.

Alright, we get to see Jane being less of a fuckass.

Dirk was the one person on Earth C who took the state of the locksmith industry with the seriousness it deserved.

Pffff

JAKE: Thats my theory at least. Maybe its tommyrot but i have faith that dirk will be back. After all where is he going to go?

Good question that wasn’t answered in Meat, so of course Jake says it here obliviously.

JAKE: I must admit i am rather half rats at the moment. JANE: You’re what? JAKE: Haha sorry that was a pretty obtuse way of putting it wasnt it. JAKE: What i mean to say is that ive been powdering my hair quite a bit today.

Andrew is SO good at making Jake sound completely incomprehensible.

...Ouch, Jane, don’t drink so hard! D:

The “morbs”??

JAKE: Dirk has that manner about him does he not? JAKE: A way about him that makes you feel like whatever you do as long as it does not involve him it doesnt count for dick.

Yeah, fuck Dirk.

Hm... is the absence of relevance affecting them, or some other manipulation? It’s not just the LACK of Dirk’s manipulation.

JAKE: Except of course for that time when you were under mind control and had me trussed up in your lair as you pontificated villainously about using me as a breeding stud to create a blood lineage for your incumbent corporate space empire.

A fate Dirk seems to agree with, judging by Meat. Let’s sidestep that fucking entirely, thank you.

...yeah, I didn’t expect Jake’s response to be any less oblivious than exactly that.

==>

So why DID Callie bring Gamzee back, anyway? Is there some secret use for him in mind? Was she manipulated into it? Maybe BY Gamzee? Hm.

...alright, priestly with followings. That ain’t good. Is he aiming for Clown President MK2?

Everything Callie and Roxy have done and said in this Candy section so far seems creepily contrived, possibly by design.

...okay did they have some kind of weird agreement? Like, “okay John is gonna make his choice, and if he chooses to stay i try dating him instead of you, Callie”??? That’s... no that can’t be it. Roxy’s NEVER acted THIS oblivious before. What’s she playing at?

GAMZEE: mY fUcKiN *gUy*. :o) JOHN: ... GAMZEE: My DuDe AnD mY nInJa AlIkE. GAMZEE: mY *hOrN* dOoOoG. JOHN: ... GAMZEE: mY hOrN tO tHa MoThErFuCkIn DoG. ;o) JOHN: waiter! help!

I’m imagining Gamzee now as a sweaty and homeless, unkempt Guy Fieri.

Yeah, this doesn’t look like it’ll be fun.

==>

...Swifer Eggmop. ¬_¬”

There’s a third member of their social group who definitely hasn’t arrived at the conclusion that his power and influence should be meted out responsibly either. Neither of them speak his name, however. For some reason, it feels like a shadow passing over the sun. A brief spike of pain flickers through Rose’s head, a bolt that strikes between her eyes and splinters out. There is color and light behind it. A vision that tears through the material reality in front of her and gives her a brief glimpse into a parallel reality where things are very different.

Yeah, fuck Dirk.

...Pff. Yeah, Rose WOULD mimic the record-scratch gesture.

Don’t invoke “never seeing Vriska again” like that, you’re really tempting fate.

Heh, Rose is finding some Light in the darkness, wanting to do something that’s meaningful on an expressive level with this Vriskgrub business.

Hm... why is my stomach a little less uneasy?

I sure hope it stays that way.

==>

KARKAT: OH MY GOD, ARE THE MECHANICAL GLUTES ON THAT BILLBOARD ACTUALLY PADDED WITH PLUSH TO MAKE THEM MORE LIFELIKE?

Heck Yes

...Yes, touch the butt, Karkat.

Jade, pouting a bit, glides in between them and uses her Space powers to teleport Dave’s phone out from the center of his traumatized palm and into the pocket of her sweater.

Hm! So she still has teleportation abilities over a limited range even without her Green Sun boost, that’s nice. :D

After all, where would these two pitiful beta boys be without her?

Oh my fucking god stop being Dirk, Jade. And never use that narrative language again, even in your head. Heck, even if Dirk’s the one WRITING this still, don’t even think CLOSE enough to think those words.

...yeah this sounds like an Active player class taking things slightly too far.

Thank you, Karkat, for drawing the consent-line in the sand. Looks like Jade’s backing off a little.

--hold on, wait, Dave kissed him? He did, so why is-- let me read back up--

Dave doesn’t answer. She answers for him by leaning down and planting a dry, affectionate kiss on Karkat’s cheek.

Okay I misread this line earlier. Jade kissed Karkat when neither of them were looking and is BLAMING Dave. Hmm.

Alright, Dave ollies outie. Karkat tumbles down some hillstairs.

Jade could probably catch him. Actually, she could easily do it, but it doesn’t seem like the kind of favor you should do in a fledgling kismesissitude.

Thaaaat’s a little presumptuous??

JADE: well i guess im eating grub spaghetti alone JADE: *again*!!!

I’d be sadder if you didn’t bring it down hard upon yourself but

==>

Yeah, John, better clear up this Callie business because it’s muddy as heck why Roxy would just drop everything to try things out with you.

Ah, we’re bringing up the gender identity thing on this side too, hm?

More serious talk, this is good, reading reading...

The glasses clink together clumsily, and water gets all over the complimentary breadsticks.

Oh no. This had better not be Olive Garden.

ROXY: no one else has ever made me feel like this

--not Calliope???

What the heck is even going on.

Dave’s coming for some bro help it looks like.

==>

It’s hilarious how much Dave is freaking out about this, and how completely in-character it is.

JOHN: holy fucking shit. JOHN: there’s a gay snooze button? DAVE: yeah man theres a gay snooze button JOHN: wow.

I love these two’s conversations

......wait, Dave’s been holding off on kissing Karkat because of what he thinks JADE might think???? D:

JOHN: i almost managed to forget that she was trying to fuck you and karkat.

Pfffffffff :D

Yep. I love it being put so bluntly.

Reading on... yeah, for some reason I also always figured that the end result of a nice three-way relationship between those three people would be Jade and Dave essentially both just glomming onto Karkat more than each other? Hm.

JOHN: i mean... it doesn’t sound... JOHN: *canon*?

...I hope you’re just talking about his coin flip explanation and not DaveKatJade. >:(

John wonders when talking to Dirk has fixed anything for anyone.

Nod nod.

She grins up at John with shimmering, adoring eyes. They’re reflecting every star in the sky, all for him.

Seriously, what the hell. Is Roxy hypnotized? Putting on an act? A voidy act??

I’m not doubting that Roxy COULD feel that way about John, I’m doubting the suddenness and the way Calliope is being deliberately ignored in the situation, which is so goddamn obvious that JOHN is uncomfortable about it. There’s something seriously strange going on.

It itches at the back of his head, the idea that he might have just fucked up Dave’s entire life.

Alright next post after a bit of breakfast.

#Homestuck #Homestuck Epilogue #Upd8 #Homestuck Liveblog #bladekindeyewear #BlastYoBoots

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lanasaved · 5 years

Text

gibson 1959 | self

“I think that’s everything, chicken. Yeah? You got everything, Caleb?”

Eyes dim on a patch of grey linoleum, it took a gentle tug of the larger hand Lana had clasped in hers for her brother to dawn back to reality.

“Hm? Oh... Yeah. Yeah, think so.”

Down by his side, a clear plastic rubbish bag dangled limp from a loose fist, contents occasionally rustling whenever he so much as cleared his throat.

“He does,” Lana interjected, face soaked in the kind of sunshine bright optimism you’d expect from a Labrador puppy anticipating its lunch bowl. “I checked and, like… folded everything, so. Yeah! We’re good. He’s good.”

She wouldn’t have been able to hide the pride in that statement if she’d been trying to, eyes skimming his features with her dimples so pronounced, you could have stashed an entire football trophy cabinet in them.

“Yeah,” he repeated, gaze flitting over after a pregnant pause to find the nurse’s, regurgitating her polite smile in the seamless way he’d learned he had to. “I’m good.”

He’d been in the hospital for a grand total of two hundred and eighty four days, six hours and twelve minutes.

It seemed like years since she’d seen him outdoors, at all -- he’d been offered trips outside of the facility, if he wanted to, but he’d always declined under the grounds that he wasn’t ready yet.

It was strange, unlocking their front door after an Uber ride home in which she blabbered endlessly and he merely nodded and listened, occasionally resisting a smile when she got her tongue tied and mispronounced something because she was too excited to talk any slower than supersonic.

She felt kind of like a child that had smuggled a candy bar off the corner shop counter, fingers continuously sifting the crinkles of wrapper inside her pocket just to check that she’d actually had the guts, that she hadn’t just dreamt it.

“Welcome back to the lurv shack, bay-bee,” Lana enunciated with a lame kick of one leg in halfhearted cancan, forgetting to finish the routine and turning back, instead, to make sure he’d made it through the door okay.

After such an extended period of bed rest -- due to many contributing factors, he’d had to have restraints that sporadically forced him to be mattress bound for days and nights at a time -- his joints were somewhat stiff. He’d joked in monotone on the front steps that he was the Wizard of Oz’s Tin Man in dire need of oiling, and while Lana had returned his small smile, she’d also made sure to squeeze his hand as a wordless encouragement.

“Come on, Ol’ McCreaky.” Flashing him a grin, it was with a lone nod down the corridor that she started shrugging off one sleeve of her faux fur jacket, black and white star print slipping another three inches to reveal a narrow shoulder. Even then, schlepping down the hall with her hair in a barely combed tangle around her cheeks, she looked like a burlesque girl intent on providing a show, framed photos on the walls practically blushing over every glimpse of skin they managed to reflect back.

“I got those dinosaur shaped pancakes you say you hate. So juvenile, those pancakes!” she impersonated, laughter bubbling up from her throat like caramel brought to boil. Twisting around so she could face him as she walked backwards, she quickly reviewed the shuffle of his feet as she continued speaking, monitoring for any lulls in pace. “Honestly, you’re such a fake. I saw you gobble a pterodactyl off my plate, once, when you thought I was peeing. Jokes on you, hombre! She’s a urine scammer. I didn’t even have to go, I totally just spied on you from the banister.”

“That’s a lie.”

Grin only doubling, she started prancing from foot to foot like an evil little hobgoblin delighting in a wicked scheme, red cowboy boots echoing a wild patter around the walls.

Lips tweaking in a lame attempt to match hers, he rolled his eyes as he continued to follow her towards the kitchen. “Alright, stop that.”

Regardless, she continued, drenched with so much giddy energy that she felt like a jack-in-the-box wound one time too many, rocking around its mechanism in a dangerous frenzy that threatened to break the spring.

“Fucking hell,” he exhaled, unable to help but let out a short laugh, for once. She wasn’t half ridiculous. “I hate this, Lana. That looks horrible.”

Finally ceasing, it was with a breathless swipe at her skirt to right the fluttering pleats that she spun back to yank at the next door handle, jacket still dangling off just one shoulder since she’d forgotten to finish removing it.

“That was my Niall Horan on bath salts impression, actually. If you knew your Irish jigs, that would’ve been obvious. Point deducted, yer wee cunty!”

She felt like she had a firefly jarred inside her chest for the entire duration of their back and forth banter, body of it bumping and glowing against the confines of her rib cage as she clattered into the kitchen.

In fact, she’d been so wrapped up in the fact that Caleb was finally home -- her Caleb, her entire world -- that she hadn’t even noticed the murmur of voices drifting in from the large conservatory, the room their parents reserved for dinner parties given the long table and the view overlooking the garden.

It was only once she’d turned back from rustling within her shopping bag to produce a carton of eggs that she noticed how tense Caleb’s shoulders were, eyes stuck on something past the wall, staring further into the heart of the house -- if you could even call it that.

A heart implied life. Warmth.

“They’re here.”

“Fucking hell, is that Caleb Jameson? Fuck me. Just take a look at him! There’s nothing of him!”

Screeching back from his chair to get to his feet once they’d entered the room, Jensen Peters lumbered sideways over the leg he’d somehow managed to position as an obstacle, clearly already drunk at a mere three in the afternoon.

Shirt unbuttoned to just above his belly button, chest hair rampant and just a lone middle finger flecked with black nail polish, he looked like a long lost rock oracle washed ashore on a desert island, eyes red rimmed from salt water and the terror of a stormy shipwreck.

He had a raven’s face, long and thin -- all beak and peck and black, somehow, despite his pale eyes and sandy hair to match.

Next to Caleb, Lana shrank like an under watered tulip, immediately fascinated by the panels of the hardwood.

“Hi. Teeth still unbrushed as ever, I see,” Caleb commented, eyes moving from the hand that Jensen extended to shake his to the face of his father. He made no effort to reach out and complete the greeting, ignoring him completely. “I’m home, Robert. Are you shitting yourself with excitement, yet? Or did you already wipe yourself down so you wouldn’t stink out the dinner table? Incontinence woes.”

Unimpressed, their father merely took a sip from his glass and exchanged an apologetic look with another member of company.

Gnawing on her bottom lip, Lana held Caleb’s hand a fraction tighter as she shuffled slightly forwards to glance around the occupants of the table, shooting them all a brief smile.

“Hi. Sorry, Caleb has a migraine. We were just, um... I mean, we’ll get out of your hair and stuff. Nice to see you all, though. Caleb? Should w--”

“Lana, Lana, Laaaaa-naaaa. Lana!” Enamel of his teeth blotted with plaque stains from chain smoking and gargling whiskey for breakfast in the place of Listerine, Jensen thrust his hands out in exclamation, acting as if he’d just been bestowed with a vision of Christ to inform him about his immaculate conception. “Look at you! A fuckin’... tiny thing. Could pick you up and put you in my pocket, couldn’t I?!”

Heart thumping inside her throat, she peeled back her lips to reveal her teeth, a take on a grin that looked more like an animal baring its fangs after it’d been backed against a wall.

“C’mere,” he enthused, fingers waggling her in. “You gonna give me a fuckin’ hug, or what?”

“Um... Yeah, of course. Yeah, sorry,” she forced out after a stuttered delay, about to take a step forwards when Caleb yanked her back by the hand she’d forgotten she was still holding, startled yelp parting her lips.

“I don’t think she feels like it,” he interrupted, shoulders tense and eyes burning so intently into Jensen’s that it was as if he was willing them to sear black holes through the sockets. “Feel free to sit down and stop talking. Robert,” came as his chin flinched sideways, focus returning to their father as he sat wordlessly at the head of the table, observing the situation in the odd glance before he resumed his thumbing at his phone screen. “We’re gonna go. Just wanted to say hi.”

For as long as Lana could remember, Caleb had never referred to their father by name.

“Mhm?” He barely lifted his eyes from his phone.

Stomaching a scoff, Caleb shook his head and stared briefly at the floor by his shoes.

Lana could sense the frustration unfurling inside his stomach like a fighter’s fist, knuckles twitching every time Jensen dared to so much as look at her.

“Dad,” she started softly, gently letting go of Caleb’s hand so that she could take a step forwards and rest both on the back of a stately designed dining chair, easily priced within three figures to buy just one. “Caleb got discharged today, remember? I, um... I called you, about it. We spoke on the phone. Remember?”

Lie. She’d circled it thrice in red on the calendar, texted him seven times over the past month, and tried to ring eighteen only to be put through to voicemail. But it was better, this way, for Caleb to have a pitiful scrap of compassion for him to gnaw on to keep the starvation at bay, to think that their father had actually been invested at all in his recovery, enough to check in.

“Ah... Yeah,” came as he clicked his lock screen shut, lips a thin line that quivered into action like it took him a great exertion of effort to do so -- the smile he produced was condescendingly pitiful, easily the equivalent of a kindergarten doodle submitted to a university grade portfolio. “Yeah, of course.”

“Fuckin’ right! Yeah, yeah. Fresh out the loony bin, isn’t he? Fuck me,” Jensen got out with a snort, clapping a hand down onto Caleb’s shoulder after closing into his personal space once more. With it, he shook him gently, a carnival guest rapping at the bars of a tiger’s cage to incite a snarl. “Our own resident Girl, Interrupted. Forgot about the whole... slittarooski. Damn. Not quite got the tits for Jolie, though, do you? Then again,” he chided, voice lowering as he shot Caleb a wink, “neither do any of the Jameson’s.”

“That’s enough,” Robert nipped in the bud after his eyes drifted to observe the way Lana’s expression faltered, voice surprisingly apathetic given the derogatory observations of his own wife and daughter. Holding his hands up in mock surrender, Jensen backed up and took a seat at the table once more, immediately tracking a thumb down one of the strings of his 1959 Gibson. Attention back on Caleb, it was as if, to Robert, Jensen had never said anything at all. “That’s great. Well done.”

Dull twangs reverberating whenever Jensen’s rings clacked against the neck of his Gibson, Lana could physically feel Caleb’s rage stilling the air around them, almost suffocated by the dead silence that came with standing in the heart of a hurricane.

“Yeah, um... Anyway, yeah,” she attempted to brush it off, apples of her cheeks so flushed that they almost looked darker than the mahogany tabletop her father propped his elbows against. “It is great. He did really good. And he’s basically, um... You know. Like, all better, now, kind of. So... yeah. Won’t keep you, or anything. Just wanted to... let you know -- that he’s home, I mean.”

“Yeah, great.” He barely cared enough to keep his eyes away from the table. “Cool stuff. I’ll call Stella, in a bit.” Their mother. “She’ll be happy to know.”

“Yeah, ‘cause she’ll take the time out of sunning topless in Monaco to take that call,” Jensen joked with his back turned, shoulders quivering slightly with the effort it took to subdue a laugh. “Fucking drag.” Still dusting down his strings with a soft, mottled cloth, he craned his neck slightly in order to throw a distracted question back over his shoulder, eyes straining to remain on his handiwork all the while. “Say, Lana? About this, uh... facility. You happen to volunteer there, at all? Get about in a little pinstripe thing, give any sponge baths to the rest of the cabbages?”

“Um...” trailed off as her eyes flit to watch Caleb, three casual steps seeing him moving to reach Jensen’s side. “No,” she admitted, hands clasped together like she was front row in a local church choir, fingers clutching one another until they glowed red from the amount of pressure. “No, nothing like that. I don’t think they do, um... a pinstripe, like, thing on--... Caleb, what’re you doing?”

Blinking up at Caleb as Lana’s question prompted him to, Jensen furrowed his eyebrows.

Above him, Caleb loomed like a pillar about to topple down any second and crush someone.

Unblinking, he simply stared.

“Yeah, Caleb,” he began, delightfully curious at the fact he’d managed to rile enough life out of him at all. On his face, a shit eating grin began to creep into view as he echoed her same sentiment. “What’re you doing?”

It was only when Caleb reached down and wrenched the guitar from his hands that he lost his smugness.

“Wait,” Jensen quickly objected, but Caleb was already gripping the neck in both fists and marching towards the conservatory door, unlocked and looking out over the rest of the garden. “I said fucking-- Rob, stop him. Rob, fucking stop him, that’s my Gibson. That’s my fucking Gibson!”

“Caleb,” Robert warned, chair legs scraping as he rose to his feet, finally paying attention. “That’s enough.”

Racing after him with hands outstretched, Lana almost managed to trip and fall three times in the length it took to reach the patio Caleb had just strode across, chill of the air outside enough to coax goosebumps from her forearms.

“Yeah? Is it your fucking Gibson, is it? It’s your fucking Gibson?” Caleb shouted back, military issue boots clunking hard against power washed stone. “Not the fucking Gibson.”

“Caleb--”

“--Anything but the fucking Gibson, am I right? The Gibson!”

Wrenching the vintage model up and above his head, it was with a sky splitting yell from Jensen that Caleb smashed it down as forcefully as he could against the ground, wood immediately erupting into a catastrophic splinter.

Within another deafening whack, a dial pinged off and landed in the pool.

“Fuck, there goes the fucking Gibson, Jensen!” came heaved breathlessly from a tired chest, arms trembling as he did it again and again, over and over, buttons and strings scattering. In front of Lana, Robert gripped hard at Jensen’s arm in order to keep him from racing forwards and killing him, too wary of the potential newspaper headlines should he have to ring an ambulance. “Whatever will you do without the fucking Gibson, Jensen? Form an actual personality? Brush your fucking teeth with all the extra free time, maybe? Did you a fucking favour, you ugly fucking cunt.”

Tossing the last of the mess into the pool, Caleb wrenched his eyes to review Lana’s wide pair that were merely blinking back at him, completely stunned.

All her life, she’d never dared to stand up to any of them.

She’d only ever managed to cower with her tail between her legs in the face of those men with their oily palms and dirty fingernails, a kicked puppy still intent on nuzzling at your ankles, afterwards, to try and earn its favour back.

As much as Caleb hated him personally, she knew this was for her.

Guilt welled up in her chest like a helium balloon.

“Jesus,” Robert whispered, disbelief reducing his face to a blank and gaping slate. Hand up to clasp his forehead, he dropped the one checking Jensen as another of his associates tread forwards to take over the responsibility. “You’re a fucking... disgrace.”

“Yeah?” came out ragged, eyes wilder than a caged fox as Caleb stared down his father in the face, ignoring the blathering expletives that Jensen was still barking in the background like an Alsatian that just heard the house alarm. “Take a look at who you fucking keep around you, Robert. You’re the disgrace.” Tossing the last bit of jagged wood he held clutched in a trembling fist, it landed gracelessly by their father’s feet. “You’re the fucking disgrace.”

Silence settled like a wet blanket to smother the stove fire, pieces of guitar still bobbing about the pool’s surface like the shrapnel pieces Caleb had to have plucked out of his right leg after his abrupt discharge from duty, nerves salvageable enough that he was only left with a slight limp.

The association had something dark fluttering across his face, although Lana had already hurried forwards to take his hand, again, a panicked glance tossed back between Caleb and their father to assess the potential damage.

“Get out,” Robert breathed after a significant delay, barely able to look either of them in the face as his voice was reduced to a mere whisper.

“Both of you, get out,” he repeated, eyes complete devoid of warmth as they flit between the both of them. “I mean it.”

“But dad, he didn’t me--”

Holding up a hand to cut Lana off, he used the same one to point at her, jaw completely tense.

“Lana, get him the fuck out of here before I call the cops.”

#self para #hospitalisation tw #mental illness tw #suicide attempt tw #ptsd tw #abuse tw #all of these things r..... only rly rly vaguely touched upon/implied/interpreted from the way ppl act around each other bt #better safe than sry am i right ladies #anyway this jst explains where lanas been basically #her brother gt discharged frm hospital n then. this happened #so they had to go stay at one of calebs friends n she wanted to stay w him fr a while to make sure he was on his feet so she #took a semester off #after this para took place i feel like. their dad probably cut them off so #thts a whole other...... realm of chaos tht im gna develop nw shes back #ANYWAYS! this isnt my best bt jst explains things so. hits post

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