#I’m frankly the most earnest person I know and I’m still always a little embarrassed by it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hugespace · 3 years

Note

Therapy helps rhett realize that all of those "I'm dead" UFC moves were actually just a way to fulfill his need for physical intimacy at a time in his life where he didn't feel it was acceptable to ask for it, especially from another man. Now that they're both adults and completely different people than they were in college, rhett decides it's time to explain it all to link and let him know that he actually misses that physical contact with him.

It took me a really long while, but I finally finished this one! I really loved that prompt, so thank you so much for giving it to me, lovely Anon. I was initially going to write it as a platonic/romantic friendship kinda story, but it seems I'm determined to write a hundred different first kiss + feelings realisation scenarios, I simply enjoy those way too much.

*** 2,5K ***

Let me hold you

He’s done it again.

Not so long ago, Rhett promised himself not to bring it up in front of cameras or a microphone unless he talks it out with Link, privately.

Especially not as a joke.

And he’s failed already, he scolds himself short after the Ear Biscuits episode is recorded and they’re both out of the room, heading back towards their office.

He thinks he could have just omitted it, shouldn’t have mentioned anything. It simply wasn’t necessary to mull over it again, even with the topic of the episode revolving around their college experience. It wasn’t a big deal, he said it himself, countless times. Every time they talked about it on the show.

So, every time.

There’s never been a conversation in private about that incident or anything that preluded it, never in the absence of people to entertain, never not around at least one recording device. Because why would there be? It wasn’t a big deal. A funny story, s’all.

He’s also never been able to just let things go, though, and thanks to that inability, the lore of wrestling and the “I’m dead” move had to live on. It was an innocent story, a funny albeit embarrassing one – their unofficial brand after all, an easy misunderstanding and a fun little anecdote, not his carefully curated version of what happened, nor a watered-down one, not just a part of the entire story devoid of any feelings associated with it, not a big deal-! And most of all, not… true. Not true.

Rhett isn’t sure if Link has been consciously going along with that wordlessly agreed upon version of what their UFC phase looked like, repressing the truth behind it, or… simply never realised what it meant for Rhett and genuinely thought of it as a humorous yet insignificant part of their friendship in the past.

Most likely the third option, he has to assume. After all, why would Link attach any meaning to it? It’s not like anything actually ever happened, not outside of Rhett’s mind at least. Frankly, he himself went decades without understanding his own motivations, more than once confused by why the memories of wrestling with his friend and laying on top of him felt both shameful and deeply comforting. Why even long after they grew up, stopped being kids, and as a result retired all their UFC moves, the only way he could describe what he felt thinking about that time was longing.

Until therapy happened.

Just like with many different things in his life:

There was something in the darkness, and then therapy shone a light on it.

It was like there were countless situations he navigated solely on instinct, without paying much thought to the reasons behind why he acted a certain way, and once therapy equipped him with the ability to do so, he unearthed an entire deep layer of feelings and emotions that were always there. Just hidden, even from himself.

The wrestling being one of those things.

So, he thinks Link doesn’t know.

And he’s finally determined to change that.

Why now, when he’s had so many chances to talk to Link over the years ever since he started being more in touch with himself? He doesn’t really have an answer; it’s just that after talking about it with such levity again, after repeatedly making a joke out of it, it feels like he might explode if he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t confess to Link what it was really like. And most of all, it feels like the yearning has become stronger lately, and the conversation yet again playing it all off as them being young and silly only ignited it, made the flame inside of Rhett burn brighter, threatening to make his heart combust.

“I need to talk to you about something that’s been on my mind.” Rhett says easily once they’re in the office. It’s not an unsure statement or a nervous plea with words tumbling out of his mouth before he can lose his cool and change his mind. It would have been all that and more a couple of years ago, sure.

But he’s a different man now. He’s not afraid to tell the person who’s been with him for almost the entirety of his life what he feels.

Link, however. He does look unsure, a bit alarmed even, when he looks at Rhett and responds.

“Sure-? What is it? Do you wanna talk now?”

It’s just like him to worry. Run a hundred different scenarios in his head, most of them negative, trying to prepare himself for every possible outcome of a serious conversation before it even began. It’s an anxious survival instinct that makes Link resilient to even the worst that life has to offer and able to face it all head on. But right now, it’s nothing scary. Rhett doesn’t want his friend to be worried, so he quickly says as much.

“Don’t worry, s’not bad. Just something we talked about on the podcast today.” The blonde sits down on the couch and pats the cushion next to him, hoping he appears to be as calm as he truly feels inside and that it might dissolve some of Link’s concern, still written all over his face.

The other man takes his place on the sofa and looks at him expectingly.

“Right. So-“ Rhett’s calmness doesn’t completely evaporate once Link gives him his full attention, but it’s suddenly laced with some nerves. “About the wrestling. You know, in college. And before that. And- Especially about my ‘I’m dead’ move. I’ve been thinking about it, and-“

“Rhett, I swear, if you made me sit down for a talk only to tell me you’d like to make it a part of our conflict resolution again, then ha-ha. Very funny. I’d like to go get myself some coffee now.” Link cuts him off with an unamused look in his eyes and almost makes a move to stand up.

Rhett is quicker though and grabs the brunette’s arm before he can really move, effectively making him stay in place.

“What? No. That’s not what I’m saying. Like, at all. I-“ He realises he’s still holding onto Link’s arm and instinctively wants to retract his hand, but that same feeling that led him to initiating this conversation in the first place makes him reconsider. “I’ve been thinking about what it all meant and why I did that, especially when we fought or you were angry with me, and-“

“Because we were young.” Link quickly answers what wasn’t even a question. “We had too much energy and neither of us really wanted to hurt the other by punching him or- or fighting in earnest. What else would it mean.”

“Link can you let me talk? I’m trying to say something important.” Rhett squeezes Link’s forearm. “So, as I was saying. I mostly did it when you were angry or I was feeling unsure, and I didn’t realise it back then, but- But I know now, that I just… needed reassurance. You know, physical contact.” He explains, looking straight into Link’s eyes and trying to interpret his reaction before it comes.

When nothing happens, and the brunette just stares back at him with a furrowed brow, he feels compelled to continue and elaborate.

“Like when people… hug after an argument-?” His brain almost challenges him to make a different comparison, presenting a parallel between laying half-naked on top of your best friend and another activity people often partake in to make up after a fight. But that’s not- It’s not what he’s trying to say. It’s not like that.

The face in front of him frowns in confusion, blue eyes squinting and mouth opening and closing again, only letting out a puff of air and no sound at first.

When Link finally responds, his voice is unsure, like he suspects that he’s not understanding something right. “Are you trying to tell me you wanted to hug me when we bickered, so you pushed me to the floor and laid on me till I was even angrier, instead…?”

That’s not fully what Rhett meant, but it’s close enough, so he nods.

“What the crap, Rhett-? You're not making any sense.”

“Okay, listen…” He decides to go for a different approach. “We still don’t hug after arguments. We never hug hello. I think I could count on my fingers how many times we’ve actually hugged each other as adults, outside of the show!”

“Yeah! That’s just not what we do! We’ve never done those things, it’s just not a part of our relationship- I still don’t know what you wanna tell me here Rhett.” Link throws his hands in the air in a gesture of resignation.

“I want it to be a thing we do, okay?! I always did, but I was afraid to ask for it so I just took what you could give me without talking about it. Can’t have actual intimacy? Make up a UFC thing so I can be close to you! Can’t hold you when I’ve made you mad? Better lay on top of you till you give up and have no choice but stop!” Rhett pauses to finally take a breath.

“That time that guy saw us- I’m sure you remember I stormed off right after-? I panicked, it was like him seeing us and thinking there was something else happening almost made feel like it was something else, and since I started it, it also felt like I wanted it to be something else. I got so angry at myself for even trying and I never did it again. I’m sure you remember that, too!” Words flow out of Rhett in a hurried and increasingly loud cascade, while Link’s eyes grow bigger and comprehension dawns on his face.

“I know how stupid it sounds. But you know how I was. We were well into our thirties when I still refused to get close to you. And it’s not that I didn’t want to, it was the opposite – I wanted it a lot, man.”

„But I thought...?” Link seems to be turning a thought over in his head. “I thought you just never liked it. That the wrestling thing was about you… asserting dominance. That’s what it felt like at least. Like you trying to act like an older brother or somethin’.”

“No- It was me wanting to be close to you and not knowing how to ask for it. My very convoluted way of expressing love, you could call it. And I’m sorry it took me-“

“What changed-? I mean, what made you wanna talk about it?” There’s urgency in Link’s voice when he cuts Rhett off.

“I… I realised I miss it. I told you, we still don’t really hug or get intimate, however that sounds, and I’m not gonna just topple you and pin you to the ground again. We’re too old for that. For once, I don’t think either my back or your shoulders would survive if we started wrestling every time I wanted to be affectionate. But also- We’re over forty, Link. What does it say about me if I can’t just ask a person I love and have loved for almost four decades to hold me when I need it and would resort to, well, aggression-? That’s not how it should work.”

Link ponders Rhett’s words for a few beats before opening his mouth again, only to let three breathy words escape. “You love me-?”

It seems like the wrong thing to focus on, Rhett just opened up to say he not only craves physical intimacy now, but also struggled with that same need when they were younger so badly, he had to invent an entire intricate system allowing him to be closer, and Link questions the one thing he knows already. Because of course he knows, Rhett’s said as much dozens of times, of course he loves him. But it appears he has to say it anyway, judging from the weird look in Link’s eyes.

“I do, of course I lo-“ The blonde begins, yet he doesn’t get a chance to finish and ask whether Link heard the other part of his confession at all, because at once, his mouth isn’t free to keep talking and there’s no air left in his lungs as the man who was just sitting right next to him plunges forward and collides with him, lips first.

Oh. Rhett manages to form one more coherent thought despite being startled and entirely taken aback. Link misunderstood. That’s why he got hung up on the love confession. That’s not what Rhett meant, that’s not what he was trying to say, it’s not like that-

He feels like he should clear things up as quickly as possible. Logically, he should be panicking, racking his brain for a way to straighten things up, to explain to Link that it wasn’t what he was trying to say without making things worse, without ruining everything and making his best friend feel miserable and embarrassed, until…

Until Rhett realises his body went rogue and started responding without his conscious decision, his lips are moving against the other man’s, one of his hands is cupping Link’s face, while the other strayed away and is caressing his back. And it feels like his heart is trying to break out of the ribcage with how hard it’s pounding in his chest, along with his stomach doing wild summersaults. And he’s not panicking, not at all. And it’s not a misunderstanding, how could it, when he loves Link with his entire soul, with his whole being- And exactly like that, it hits him. Starting this conversation, he thought he already understood everything, but he didn’t– there was still that last puzzle piece missing.

They come up for air, panting from the intensity of that first kiss, foreheads flush with each other. Rhett finishes the sentence he began before Link’s move changed everything. “Of course I love you.” He means it now, he means it exactly like Link took it and can’t comprehend how he didn’t think of it before, but it’s perfectly obvious now.

So he hugs Link. He encircles the man’s body with his long arms, squeezes, and holds him, feels his friend snuggle into him, nuzzle his face into the crook of his neck and breathe deeply, holding Rhett's larger body in return.

All he needed was ask for the closeness.

He asked, and he got it.

He got all he wanted and so much more.

So, so much.

#rhink fic #anonymous prompt #my writing

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yeojaa · 3 years

Note

so maybe another devil in a new suit drabble 👉👈 maybe jk meeting oc parents or like more interactions w oc and jks parents/sister

[ read devil in a new suit ]

pairing. jjk x f!reader. rating. pg-13. tags. mentions of coconut!kook dancing (and the whole reason i wrote this tbh), cute banter, idk. just a lotta fluff, a lil bit of grinding, y’know. wc. 2.7k. beta reader. none other than @hobi-gif. i love you always! author note. oh look... it’s me... posting something... after sixteen hundred years. womp womp. this truthfully didn’t go the way i planned it to but i hope you enjoy regardless!

It really shouldn’t surprise you. Frankly, it doesn’t.

But it is a little funny.

There are about six girls gathered in a gaggle around your boyfriend, all desperately vying for his attention as he presents a neatly gathered bouquet to his little sister. Jisoo’s all smiles, completely over the moon with pride and riding that high as she rightfully should. (She’d done incredibly well, closed out the showcase with a fluidity you could never even dream of.) She doesn’t even notice her friends staring at her brother with hearts in their eyes, each one red in the face and not from exertion.

(That, or she doesn’t care. Maybe she’s grown used to it - the whole having-a-heartthrob-for-a-brother thing.)

It’s actually quite cute, if only because you know Jungkook doesn’t have eyes for anyone but you. Can feel it in how he keeps bouncing his gaze back towards you, dimple winking from deep within his cheek each time your eyes meet. He’s like a child going back to his favourite toy, momentarily distracted by tittering laughter and his sister’s sunny smile but always coming back to you. The knowledge warms you from the inside out, drags a satisfied smile across your lips.

You wonder whether he notices the attention or if it’s just another part of his life. (You think he must know. These college students don’t really hide it well, too handsy for their own good, years of growing up in semi-close proximity instilling a certain confidence in their motions. That, and because Jungkook is quite possibly the least intimidating person you’ve ever met.)

“Thank you for coming!” It’s Jisoo, flushed and excitable, round eyes as bright as her brother’s as she crosses to you. This had been her moment - her time to shine - but you appreciate the effort she makes to include you, finding you within the crowd. “I was a little nervous but…” A shrug rolls her narrow shoulders, shakes her dark hair from its loose coil.

You’d seen her practice before this - watched the long videos she’d regularly send to Jungkook - but seeing her in real life motion was an entire league of its own. Dancing was her calling, every bit of her made for it. There was just something lyrical about the way she moved, how her hips rolled, limbs seemingly guided by the rhythm of the music. A grace you’ve never had, even on your best day.

“You shouldn’t have been.” You’re beaming right back at her, sisterly reassurance on your tongue. “You were amazing.”

Whether she believes you or not - you think she does by how her cheeks grow ten sizes and her eyes are all but swallowed whole by the expression - she’s gracious, accepting the compliment with her blinding smile. (She really was like Jungkook like that.)

“You guys should come to a class one day.” By that, she means a class she helps teach every once in a while. You’ve heard about it on more than one occasion, seen the choreography posted on Instagram and YouTube.

Still, you don’t expect that, brows shooting high. Laughter filters past your teeth, springing off your tongue. “I am not a dancer and I doubt your brother—”

Now it’s Jisoo’s turn to wear surprise like a neon sign, expression splitting with giggles of her own. “Wait— have you not seen Kook dance?” The way she says it is incredulous, Bambi eyes sparkling with what looks like mischief.

“No?”

“Your sister told me something.”

You’ve never seen this particular brand of worry on his face, eyes even more comically wide than usual, whatever words he’d originally meant to speak dying on his tongue. He looks like a literal deer caught in the headlights, one of his nicknames suddenly very apt.

“What did she say? She likes to embarrass me.” True. Jisoo and Jungkook had a textbook sibling relationship, full of teasing and mockery and copious amounts of love. “Whatever she said, don’t believe—”

“She said you used to dance.”

“Oh.” Oh? You hadn’t expected Jungkook to deflate so easily, relief flooding his features. “Yeah, I did. In university.” He’s utterly unbothered by this knowledge, attention back on the soondubu jjigae he’d been shovelling into his mouth. “I had some friends who were dancers, so it was good exercise.”

“I want to see.”

His answer is immediate, despite the heaping bite of rice and stew in his mouth. “No.”

You whack him across the shoulder, startling him into clattering his spoon on the countertop. It leaves a messy red streak across marble but you’re dragging his attention back to you with a firm glare, fingers cradled under his jaw. “I want to see.”

Talent apparently runs in the family, you realise halfway through the third video. Jungkook moves with the same assured movements his sister does, with power and grace and a confidence that frankly baffles you. He treats the practice room like a stage, running through the motions so fluidly you almost have trouble believing it’s your man on the screen. (Not that he’s particularly ungraceful. It’s just surprising, like watching a dog walk on its hind legs.)

“So, what happened?” You say it so conversationally, innocently, with eyes that mimic his own. From the corner of your periphery, your boyfriend shifts, hand flexing over your knee. There’s the furrow between his brows, the subtle tension in his jaw. Worry.

“What do you mean?”

Your own hand waves toward the screen, where the image of Jungkook from over half a decade ago sits paused. “You were so…” You’re not sure what you mean. There are just so many options to describe the literal baby boy on the television. Young? Confident? Round? (You can’t get over his haircut, though you suppose you can’t hold it against him.)

Jungkook simply stares at you, waiting for you to find whatever words you want to use. Despite the uncertainty that swims somewhere in the depths of his eyes, he’s endlessly patient. Always so soft when it comes to you.

“You had a coconut head.”

Laughter explodes off his tongue, entire face screwing up with amusement. “Are you serious?”

“You did!” Admittedly, the cut had somehow worked on him but it’s so reminiscent of grade school haircuts you can’t help but focus on it, too distracted by the glossy sheen to offer much else. “I guess I get it, though.”

“What do you mean? Everyone had that haircut—”

“In first grade, maybe.” He sticks his tongue out at you then; you scowl in response.

“What do you get?” As always, he’s perceptive, immediately aware of your carefully knit brow, the thoughtfulness that fits itself around your teeth like gleaming white veneers and holds his attention hostage. He’s grown used to it over the months you’ve been together - knows you cling tight to things with an iron grip, turn them over and over until you’ve made sense of it in that brain of yours.

“The crushes.” You look affronted, almost appalled at the realisation. He bursts out laughing, broad palm coming down upon your bare leg in a smack. (He apologises profusely when you complain.)

“What’re you talking about?”

Your nose is wrinkled, velvet strands dislodged by the shake of your head. “All your sister’s friends. They’re in love with you.” Jisoo had even agreed, laughed about it when you’d commented on it at the recital. Something about them having grown up with Jungkook, obsessed with the image they’d retained of him since university. “But you were a coconut. You wore Timberlands and drop-crotch pants. You weren’t even that cute.” An exaggerated shudder slips over your shoulders.

“I was nineteen.” As if that makes it better. Your judgment doesn’t lessen, the lines running the bridge of your nose only deepening.

“Still. Embarrassing.”

Your boyfriend truly is the best sport, rolling his eyes at you in the same instance he reaches for you, tugs you closer with broad palms, affection searing into your skin. “Well, luckily, no more Timbs. No more bowl cut.” He nuzzles into the warmth of your neck, spreads your knees wide over his hips. The sound of his laughter melts into your throat, dresses it in heat deposited by your breath. “Are you jealous again?”

He doesn’t even get a verbal response to that. Just a heavy glare and two hands squishing his cheeks. “Absolutely not.”

It comes up again in bed, your head on his chest, his hands on your hips. He asks it quietly, conversationally, with a twinkle in his eye that makes you want to smother him with one of his many pillows.

“You’re sure you’re not jealous?”

“I’m not,” you grit, paired with a roll of your eyes and a little snort from your nose. You really aren’t. Those girls are inconsequential, irrelevant. They’ll never amount to what you are to him and that’s just a simple fact. He’s yours - something he reminds you of day in and day out, both verbally and in action.

(You love him for it, appreciate it more than you can possibly begin to explain. There’s a certain bliss to be found in the knowledge that you’re loved. A warmth that rivals even that of the sun on the summer’s hottest day.)

“Then why’re you pouting?” What he really means is why aren’t you smiling. You don’t pout often - at least not in the same ways he does.

“I’m not,” you repeat for what feels like the sixth time.

“Smile for me.”

You do the opposite - throwing your eyes in an exaggerated circle. It earns you a pinch to the side, a tender sting blooming beneath ink-strewn fingers.

“Really—“ When he looks this earnest, it’s hard to deny him, “you’re sure everything’s okay?”

At most, you can sigh perhaps overdramatically. Fold your awkward limbs upon his and bury your face into the crook of his neck. You’re not jealous of those girls, no.

You’re envious of his talent - the simple fact that Jeon Jungkook is, by all definitions, a golden boy. God’s favourite, with his heart wrenching smile and easygoing charm and grace that seems almost surreal. There’s not a single thing wrong with him - okay, except for his bad habit of never answering his phone and always messing up the top sheet and the fact that he absolutely never ever puts the cap back on the toothpaste tube - and it’s absurd. Utterly, absolutely unfair.

But you can’t say that.

“Baby,” he hums, threading the sound of his voice among your hair, tucking the soft syllables behind your ears. “Talk to me.”

You relent - a little. “You’re too good.”

“Too good?” The depth of his laughter rumbles your bones, tickling your insides when it vibrates out of his chest. “At what?”

A hand gesticulates wildly. You’re not sure what it looks like, how close it is to hitting Jungkook in the face. You’ve still got your face pressed to the warmth of his skin, greedily siphoning his sunny radiance with your cheek. “Everything.”

Despite how he laughs - cackles, really, so adorable and high pitched it’s breathy - you know he knows what you’re talking about. You’ve given him a hard time about it before.

“I’m not good at everything, ____.”

He’s somehow even good at making you believe you’re wrong. That’s a feat in and of itself.

“Are too.”

“Are not.”

“Whatever!” Whether he acknowledges it or not, he’s stupidly gifted. Everyone and their - even his - mom knows it. “Don’t believe me then. I don’t care.”

“Then why’re you making that face?” It’s almost comical that he’s calling you out for your expressions when he’s the king of funny faces, throwing his features into exaggerated (and adorable) masks. (Maybe he’d just rubbed off on you?)

“I’m not,” you huff, exasperated but not quite. Still soft over his skin, velvet on silk.

“You’re so cute.” Sometimes, you think he really is just a child - too happy with putting you on a pedestal and praying at your altar. Devoting himself to you when you’re nothing but a bag of flesh and bone, dressed in designer fashion and wrapped up with a satin ribbon made from sarcasm and candor. (Not that you mind. Who would argue if they were offered such love?) “I still think something’s wrong but…”

It’s a smart tactic. He doesn’t press you for an answer, opting to let it linger between you. Settle like bothersome lint until you offer it yourself.

When you relent - because you always do, unable to shut out the sunshine that practically pours out of him - you’re quieter. Not shy, but bashful. Uncertain in a way you very rarely are. “I’ve always wanted to dance.” So much so, you’d begged your parents to enroll you when you were younger. Demanded lessons upon lessons - only to fail at all of them. Rhythm simply didn’t exist anywhere in your body.

“Really?”

You’re pulled from your safe haven, shifted until your entire point of view is filled with Jungkook, his starry eyes and his fluffy fluffy hair. There’s that look he sometimes gets - full of wonder and adoration - when he learns something new about you. As if just the smallest tidbit of knowledge opens up a whole new world.

“Yes?” You’re half regretting the admission. He looks like he’s up to something, all the cogs in his head turning in perfect tandem.

“I’ll teach you.”

“Hard pass.”

Like a hot air balloon, he deflates, mouth rounding sweetly. (If you didn’t know better, you’d assume the man was made of cotton candy, semi-sweet chocolate heart where the real organ should be.) “Why not?”

“I do not dance.” It’s nothing but a statement of fact, firm and unyielding.

The pout evolves, swings down into a frown that drags his eyebrows with it. “You could dance.”

“No, baby—“ So you’re a little frustrated, all your childhood memories pricking beneath your skin. “I do not dance.”

“Why?” He’s upright now, tugging you with him as if you weigh nothing. His way of turning the conversation serious, pulling you from the warmth and comfort of the bedsheets to this. (He’s still holding you, hooking his big broad hands over your hips, so you don’t mind.)

“No rhythm.” Unable to keep a beat. Two left feet. The list could go on and on, according to your ballet instructor.

“Not true.”

Your brow quirks, mirrored by his as if in challenge. You almost swat at him - so close your hand twitches on his shoulder. “Very true.”

(Why does this conversation feel so familiar? It’s déjà vu.)

“Is not.” Your boyfriend seems insistent, as if he knows better than you. (He doesn’t.) Stares up at you with those pretty eyes and has the audacity to grin when you roll your own, ready to rebuff him.

Because you’re in bed, the one place where you defer to him whether you like it or not.

(You do like it, though. Love it, in fact. Just like you love him.)

“You’re graceful,” he hums, bridging the gap between you with a forward roll of his shoulders. “You’ve got rhythm.” The hand on your hip grows firm, guides your knees to spread wide on either side of him. With each brush of his lips - tender little brushes, endlessly sweet and reassuring - he pushes and pulls, dragging you across his lap. “You can do anything you want.”

You’ve almost forgotten the topic of conversation, preoccupied by how he guides you in languid circles. How the cotton of his boxer briefs feels against the sensitive inside of your thighs. The weight that grows between your legs and nudges indelicately against the soft fabric of your thong.

All part of his plan, of course.

“Your body’s the most beautiful thing in the world, ____.”

When he looks at you like this, you think he might be right. You’d believe it if he kept saying it, sparking desire through your limbs until they’re jellied and loose.

(How he sees right through you - cuts straight to the core of your insecurity - you’re not sure. It feels almost like a superpower, something unquantifiable, unbelievable. He’s too good for you, always. So kind and loving, pressing his belief in the form of his mouth, the tender edge of his teeth when he kisses you slow slow slow.)

“You’re perfect just the way you are.”

#anon.eml #incoming.eml #jungkook.doc #work.zip #drabble.zip #jungkook au #jungkook drabble #jungkook imagine #jungkook fluff #jungkook x reader #jungkook x oc #jungkook x you #devil.doc

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luminousbeansarewe · 4 years

Text

wandering stars

ch 11: begun

pairings: none || rating: teen || characters: original characters, anakin skywalker

tags: none

chapter list

tagged: @yourbitchystudentartist @lordimperius (message me or reply if you’d like to be tagged!)

*************************************************

Coruscant, Galactic City, Jedi Temple, 22BBY

Anakin still heard his mother’s weak cries in his nightmares, background music to his swiftly advancing fears about the war that had started under their noses. More death, and more loss. He wasn’t sleeping well, not even with Padme by his side; a risk he was willing to take in light of their recent, clandestine nuptials. But that night he’d been kept late devising strategies and planning the war effort, and was still inside the Jedi Temple in his private quarters when he awoke in a cold sweat.

Fear was licking at the back of his thoughts like flame, reaching further towards the front. He knew that calming his mind was his best option, so he dressed himself (mostly, at least) and made his way through the maze of hallways to the arboretum.

Here it was quiet, and full of the air only green things could make. He wasn’t often able to breathe it, with how frequently Jedi changed direction in their travels around the galaxy, so it was still something of a treat. Coruscant carried on its riotous way outside the transparisteel dome, but inside was an oasis of shadowy trees and ferns, night flowers blooming and small insects singing trill ballads. At once, the entire universe seemed smaller, less overwhelming. Being alone was occasionally something he enjoyed, in the right circumstances, and this was an ideal place for it.

So, when he heard soft footsteps, his hand flew to the saber at his side without drawing it.

“Oh, hello Anakin,” said a voice he knew by its plush curl of an accent he never had been able to place. Deep tan skin, gold eyes, and a long shock of white hair followed it.

“Sol,” he exhaled, relieved. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here in the middle of the night.”

“Jumpy, aren’t you?” She was smirking a little— teasing him. That was a first.

“Oh, and you’re not?” he asked, grinning. “You, who wore your blasters for the first two months that you lived here?”

“Of course I am, that’s why I see you,” she said with a near chuckle. “But, this place feels more… yaim. More like home, now.”

“Well that’s good. I’m glad to hear it.”

“You seem less at home, though.”

He glanced away from her. Of course he felt less at home in the temple, with Padme sleeping in the Senate District. But for her to see it, someone he was friendly with but not close to and someone who wasn’t supposed to be that strong with the Force anyway, unnerved him. “I’m just a little stressed.”

“I understand. I hear you’re a knight, now?” She smiled, and he was grateful for the change of subject.

“Yes, as of today. That’s why I was up late strategizing with Master Obi-Wan. Though, I suppose he’s not technically my master anymore.” Of course he was still a master, and Anakin still thought of Obi-Wan as his master in many ways. But the freedom he had been feeling since the moment he cut off his braid was exhilarating.

“Congratulations,” Sol offered, her face softening more than it usually did. “You have gained much responsibility.”

“I’m to be a commander under Obi-Wan until I’m ready to lead my own forces,” he said with a nod. “Have you been inducted into the Guard yet?”

“Ah, no.” Golden eyes found the pebbled path under her feet, seeming a little embarrassed. They hadn’t spoken in some time, after all. “I didn’t pass. I cannot become... detached enough.”

“I’m sorry, Sol.” He seemed to feel her pain in that moment, a familiar sense of inadequacy he’d only just managed to overcome himself. For the moment, at least.

“It’s alright. Master Windu doesn’t think it was the best path for me anyway.”

“Now what?”

Her gaze was shifty, as though she was debating her response. “I’m not meant to talk about it,” she said finally in a hushed voice. “But…”

“You secret’s safe with me,” he assured her with almost too charming of a grin. She eyed him for a moment before continuing.

“Well, after Geonosis… I’m being trained for the war as well. Though, I don’t think I’ll make the same rank as a Jedi. Maybe a commander, or something, at most.” For a moment, all he could do was blink, as though trying to keep a fine red Geonosian dust out of his eyes again. But then he was back in the Jedi Temple, and realized what she’d said.

“Does the council not know about that?” Anakin’s furtive glee did not get past his companion’s notice, but he didn’t really want it to. She never seemed to mind that he took issue with certain decisions, despite never openly contesting them herself.

“Not yet. Master Windu and Master Yoda do.” A smile lingered to betray that she did think he was amusing, at least. “I suppose as long as I do well—”

“Whose idea was this? Yours?” he cut her off rather artlessly. But it was exciting to think that, even in this small way, the Council’s wearisome bureaucracy was being forgone for the sake of something important. And frankly, he wouldn’t mind having Sol on his side in a war, from what he knew already.

“No, it was Master Windu’s.”

“But you want to do it, right?” Now his face fell. How many times had someone else— the Jedi, and Force knew who else— decided what this young woman was supposed to do with her life? How many times had she been involved in those choices?

“I mean, it feels like a good fit. Seems like it’d be nicer to have a platoon or something than to have just yourself, which is what I’m used to,” she replied with a shrug.

“I just mean that if you ever decided you wanted, really wanted to do something with your life… I hope you’d do it, and not just let the Council decide for you.” Anakin looked at her in earnest. Maybe it was his newfound independence, or the aftermath of the first battle in what promised to be a difficult war, but he hated the idea that she’d end up dead on a battlefield when that wasn’t even where she wanted to be.

“I like to use weapons, actually. I’ve always been good at it. I enjoy the idea of being able to do it for a reason other than to scrape up some money and not starve.” She was trying to be reassuring, he knew, but her voice rang hollow. There was no passion there, he thought, no spark. Which made no sense to him, coming from the only other person in this temple who still had something resembling a temper. Then again, maybe she just wasn’t angry about this.

“I believe you,” he told her. If this worked out, so much the better for her, and maybe the army too. If it didn’t, it would be just one more strike against the Jedi’s judgement.

“You don’t have to. It’s happening regardless. But vor’e, anyway,” she replied with another little grin, which did make him feel better. “I’m sure you’ll make a great general. Maybe we’ll even fight side by side, one day. Who can tell.” Watching her with passive curiosity, Anakin wondered.

“Might be fun,” he said, returning her grin.

#swtcw #sw tcw fanfic #prequels fic #anakin skywalker #star wars fanfic #my ocs #my fic #cronos squad

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claudes-therapy-center · 4 years

Note

Dimitri and Claude sharing a relaxing bath. (Lotta love for these two they've been through a lot)

In honor of Dimtiri’s birthday, I’ve finally wrapped up this prompt! Sorry it took so long, and also sorry if it’s not exactly what you wanted. Hope you enjoy! :)

---

The water’s warm- a sense of comfort after a long day after scouting. Claude feels his muscles relax the instant his dirty skin meets the inviting pool of water. Instinctively, he sighs, letting the steam fill his lungs. Now this hits the spot. For once, he can stop thinking about tactics and strategy and just let his mind rest.

However, his mind has other plans. In fact, it seems to run a mile a minute, fluttering from one thought to the next. Claude chuckles bitterly at himself- he should’ve known better. How could he just stop thinking when there were so many questions still to be answered? As he wades deeper into the pool, he thinks back on how the war is going. About their latest capture at Fort Merceus, the previously impregnable fortress. About the javelins of light that had pierced through the heavens, ripping apart the entire fort with terrifying ease. Just where had that sort of power come from? What kind of being could control such a thing? Had he been a different man, Claude would’ve thought of the goddess. But he held no such allegiances or reverences, especially not now.

With a hum, Claude runs his wet fingers through his hair, untangling the knots that came with riding a wyvern constantly. The water feels good against his scalp, and absentmindedly, he realizes his hair’s gotten much longer than he remembered. Not as long as Dimitri’s, mind you, but it was certainly due for a trim.

Claude frowns as he thinks about the thought-to-be-dead prince of Faerghus, Dimitri’s a very different person from last he saw him, five years ago. During his academy days, he had pegged Dimitri as one of those chivalrous types, the type of person to seek justice over everything else. And he was right, in a way. Now, justice seemed to be all Dimitri thought about. (Or really, revenge.) It had nearly killed him too. If he hadn’t seen the Imperial soldiers surround Dimitri as he fell, if Marianne hadn’t been by his side ready to heal, who knows what would’ve happened. (He’s lying to himself. Claude knows Dimitri would’ve been as good as dead, but his mind doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to think of living a life without Dimitri in it. Not again, not after he found him again after five whole years-)

Claude’s breath catches in his throat, and his hands fall to his side. The water splashes loudly at the contact, but Claude pays it no mind. All he can think about is the horrible possibilities, the what-ifs, the alternate timelines. What would he have done if Dimitri had died? How would he go on? The Alliance would still look to him, and he knew, for the sake of Fodlan, he couldn’t falter. He couldn’t take a second to grieve, because time was of the essence. How could he still be the strong leader everyone expected him to be, after losing the person he loved most?

Abruptly, he swallows, shaking himself out of those thoughts. There was no point dwelling on those types of things, it wasn’t like that happened. Regardless of what Dimitri had become, all that mattered was that he was alive, that there still was a chance.

The door slams open behind him, and Claude whirls around, inadvertently splashing water around him. Again. In the doorway, standing as stiff as a board, is Dimitri. Claude almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. “Speak of the devil, and he will come,” he mutters to himself, smirking.

Dimitri, to his credit, looks incredibly embarrassed. A blush dusts his cheeks, and Claude doesn’t think it’s from the steam. “I-I’m sorry,” he stutters out, averting his eyes. It reminds him so much of their Academy days, back when their worries were so much smaller. Back when Dimitri didn’t hold anything against him, when they would sneak into each other’s rooms when they felt the ghosts of their pasts haunted them. Nowadays, he felt those ghosts had a stronger grip on Dimitri than ever before. A pang of hurt drills its way into Claude’s heart as he remembers those simpler times, but he doesn’t let it show.

Instead, he smiles easily. “No harm done,” he says nonchalantly. A small desire worms its way into his brain, and Claude thinks about denying it. That would be the right thing to do, especially considering how fragile the relationship was between the two of them. But honestly, what was the harm? Dimitri couldn’t possibly hate him more than he did now. So he swallows his apprehension and proposes, “Come, join me! The pool’s big enough for the two of us.”

As he expected, Dimitri turns away. “T-That’s quite alright, I’ll just wait.” Claude’s surprised he’s still blushing. Perhaps he should get naked around him more often, if only to not see him in his normal angsty mode.

“Nonsense!” Claude still calls to him, filling away that information for later. “Could be ages for all the other soldiers to finish up. Plus, it’ll be more efficient for the two of us to bath together. Saving water and all that.” He blinks, frowning as another thought pops into his head. “I’m not going to try anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No!” Dimitri’s voice comes out quickly, almost taken aback. It startles both him and Claude, who tries to school his expression as best he can. He’s a little tired of taken by surprise. Dimitri clears his throat. “I don’t take you for that sort of man, Claude.”

Claude chuckles. “Heartwarming, Highness. Your faith means the world to me.” He turns away again, massaging his scalp. Despite his seemingly lighthearted demeanor, he’s accepted defeat at this point. Teasing was one thing, but he wouldn’t ever force Dimitri into something he wasn’t comfortable with. The door gently closes behind him, and Claude tries to ignore at the sadness that starts to gnaw at him once more. Bathing with each other had been a normal event back in their academy days, a rare time of tranquility amongst the busyness of life, and now it seemed like an impossibility. It was just another reminder about how much had changed. Though there were good things these five years had brought, often times Claude found himself wishing for the simplicity that he had lost.

He’s broken out of his thoughts by the sound of someone entering the pool behind him, and then a hiss. For far too many times today, he turns around. Looking uncomfortable in the hot water stands Dimitri, in all his nicely toned glory. Now it’s Claude’s turn to have his brain short-circuit for moment, unused to seeing the other in anything other than layers upon layers of clothing. He looks… really good. It was obvious that he’d been keeping up with his training during his five year absence, because his muscles were very nicely defined. Still, Claude’s eyes lingered on the scars roping around his chest- some old and fading, but many of them were newer, still red and loud against paler skin. It’s simply the reality of war, but it still hurts him, to know Dimitri was in pain.

Speaking of him, he clears his throat. “If you’re going to continue gawking, I will leave,” he speaks seriously, looking uncomfortable with Claude’s eyes on him.

It takes everything in his body not to act flustered. “It’s hard not to notice a hulking bear in the pool,” Claude musters out instead, trying desperate to mask his inward panic. He makes a point to wade the other side of the pool, grabbing a small bottle of shampoo. “Or a lion, in your case. Anyway, glad you could join me,” he makes sure to add, fiddling with the small bottle.

Dimitri wades deeper, more used to the temperature now. “We used to do this as kids, did we not? When the private bathrooms were full?”

“Yeah, back when no one wanted to use the communal baths.” Claude frowns, a thought popping into his head. “You know, I always found it odd Garreg Mach had communal baths in the first place. I’ve never seen them in Fodlan before coming here.”

“Perhaps they just found it was more efficient,” Dimitri supplies, echoing Claude’s words from earlier. Though, it doesn’t fully answer Claude’s question.

“I suppose.” Claude hums, pulling out the small cork on the bottle. He pours a generous dollop on his hand before massaging his scalp again, letting the shampoo set in his hair.

“I never knew what shampoo was until I saw you use it,” Dimitri reminisces, starting to relax against the edge of the pool. “I always wondered how your hair was able to look so nice.”

Claude hopes his blush isn’t visible above the steam. Normally, compliments were things he could just shrug off, but he never really could with Dimitri. He just had this way of saying things, an earnest air about him, that it was hard to think he was saying something just to say it. And the way he delivered it- the factual way he spoke, the honesty in his look- was just like how he did it five years ago.

Still… many things had changed since then. And, quite frankly, he couldn’t be sure of where his relationship with Dimitri stood now. He knew his own feelings of course, but Dimitri’s… No, he couldn’t risk it. This wasn’t just about him. If Claude ruined his relationship with Dimitri, then he would put all of the Alliance at stake. They needed Dimitri’s support, the morale that he brought with him. Losing him could mean losing the war, even if they were already this close. It would be selfish to risk such a thing just for Claude to get an answer.

So he chuckles, hollow to his own ears. “Well, I just found it off from some merchants in Goneril. Been using it ever since. I’m just glad they’re still around, so many of the trading has come to a halt because of the war.” Claude deliberately skips over the compliment, and instead, scoops some water and runs it through his hair.

Dimitri visibly darkens at the mention of the war. “Yes,” he growls out, and mentally, Claude kicks himself for bringing it up. Surprisingly though, Dimitri’s anger doesn’t seem to last long. Much to Claude’s amazement, he lets out a long sigh. “But soon, this war will come to an end,” he says, voice sounding more resigned than anything else. “And trading will resume as normal. Hopefully then, I’ll be able to buy shampoo for myself again.”

Claude wonders if the wonders today will ever cease. “...You don’t have any shampoo for yourself?” There’s a whole lot more Claude wants to ask (such as: You aren’t blinded by anger anymore?? You can just let things go now?? Who taught you this and when did Teach have the time to?) but all he can safely ask is about the shampoo.

If Dimitri sees his disbelief, he doesn’t comment on it. “No, the seller I usually go to has been missing for years. And I haven’t seen anyone else trading it.”

Claude doesn’t know which is more fantastical- the idea that Dimtri’s learned to deal with his emotions to some degree, or the fact that he’s been actively looking for a shampoo seller for the past five years. He pours more water over his head, feeling the soapy suds fall down his back. “Well, that won’t do!” He says, an idea rapidly forming. Just like the last time, the logical part of him screams to not do it, but more of him is saying to shoot his shot- Dimitri’s in a good mood, he didn’t freak out at the mention of war, he agreed to coming into the bath anyway, what was one more request? “You’ll just have to borrow mine in the meantime.”

Dimitri looks taken aback. “I couldn’t possibly…” he begins, but Claude swiftly interrupts.

“Nope! I insist.” The smile Claude wears is a little wicked in nature. “Think of it as a sign of good nature between our armies,” He speaks with a faux-authoritarian tone, before going back to his regular voice. “No but seriously, you can borrow mine until I talk to my seller again. Might as well, right?”

“If you’re certain…” Dimitri says slowly, probably recognizing that it’s pointless to argue.

“Oh, I am,” Claude says, his solemn tone clashing with his smirk. He rinses the last bit of shampoo out of his hair, ready for the next phase in his plan. Once his hair is free of it’s soapy prison, he makes his way out of the pool, bottle in hand. Dimitri looks surprised at his sudden exit, which is quickly replaced with disappointment. Claude chuckles to himself. Even after all these years, Dimitri was still terrible at masking his emotions.

“Don’t look so down, Highness! I just need to grab something, I’ll be back.” He reassures him with a wink, relishing the small sputter the other gives out. Dimitri’s good mood is really picking his own mood up, and he walks behind Dimitri with a slight spring in his step. Time to absolutely ruin everything, an evil piece of his mind crows. Claude ignores it.

He squirts a bit of shampoo in his hands as he sits on his knees behind Dimitri. The other man seems to be aware that he’s behind him, but he must not know how close Claude actually is, otherwise he would’ve certainly demanded to know what he was doing. As Claude rubs his hands, he recognizes that this was his last chance to scrap his entire idea. Once he did this next part, it was a point of no return.

Claude places his hands on Dimitri’s hair.

Instantly, Dimitri whirls around. “What are you doing?” he growls, looking rather annoyed and taken aback by Claude’s presence.

“Shampooing your hair,” he says with a confidence he doesn’t feel.

“I can see that!” Dimitri huffs, and Claude wonders if he’s pushed too far. Perhaps the sight of seeing Dimitri in such good spirits put him in a sort-of euphoria that clouded his vision? He couldn’t say for certain. (Or rather, he wouldn’t.) Still, it wasn’t his intention to make him uncomfortable, he just wanted to… relive some of the memories that floated around in his head sometimes.

Dimitri’s voice breaks him out of the beginning of his self-pity spiral. “Are you going to continue, or will you allow me to get soap in my eyes?” He asks petulantly, not deliberately not glancing at Claude. Which is a good thing, because his jaw is practically on the floor. Idly, he wonders if this whole day has been nothing but a fever dream.

Quickly, he shakes himself out of his stupor. “As you command, your Highness,” he intones, massaging his scalp with renewed vigor.

Dimitri hums, pleased. “Thank you,” he breathes, heartfelt. “For everything, I mean,” he quickly tacks on. “Thank you for being here.”

For a solid minute, Claude’s dumbfounded. This has to be a dream, he thinks to himself. But the feeling of Dimitri’s hair in his hands is solid and tangible, proving that thought false. In fact, he can feel Dimitri stiffen at his lack of response. So he swallows and replies, “You’re welcome,” unable to keep the emotion out of his voice.

Claude lets himself truly relax then. Outside, the world is cold and unpredictable. But in here, the warmth of the pool is pleasing, and Dimitri’s presence is a comfort. For once, he feels at ease. He had no way of knowing what the future would bring, but so long as he had Dimitri by his side, Claude was certain everything would turn out alright.

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#dimiclaude #claumitri #claude von riegan #dimitri blaiddyd

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thebeautyofdisorder · 4 years

Text

The Undone & The Divine (BBC Dracula) - Chapter 5

A/N: Okay...this took far longer than I expected it to, but to be fair for five minutes I was almost convinced to take a break and leave it at four. Five minutes is giving it too much credit, I think. But, either way - here it is. I hope you enjoy it. I labored over the last bits of this for far too long wondering if I was getting too ahead of myself, but... what the hell, right? Please reassure me with comments.

Rating: still T, for blood, language, and a bit of dubious consent/alluding to adult concepts

Pairing: Dracula & Zoe/Agatha Van Helsing

Chapters 1 & 2 Here - Chapter 3 Here - Chapter 4 Here

Can be found on AO3 - Right HERE -

Chapter 5

It was another two weeks before Zoe saw sunlight again. Not out of any kind of vampiric repulsion, but purely due to the epic workload she had set up for herself. She knew as much as she hated to admit it that Dracula was right. She had a limited amount of time to make good on her intentions and an expanse of scientific ground to break, more than she had ever envisioned for herself.

Worse, there was a level of occult knowledge that she needed to reacquaint herself with since she’d tossed it in the bin twenty years prior, but Agatha was at least useful in that respect. Granted 1897 was not the most ideal cut off, but it gave her a decent groundwork. What wasn’t useful was the obvious glee that overcame her in the presence of the monster Zoe had been taught from an early age was basically the devil incarnate. And it’s not as though the nun even disagreed with the assessment, save her belief in the literal devil causing a bit of a contextual conflict.

Zoe had always took pride in her stoicism, but Agatha was quite the opposite. She’d always found some sort of wicked, curious amusement in everything, even in the face of death – and vampires, apparently. Not that she didn’t have a very personal reason to be interested now. No, ignoring Dracula was no longer an option. Understanding him was the only way to fully understand herself, and whoever else the Count was no doubt soon to add to the ranks of the undead.

As much as she detested to admit it, she could feel herself changing – slowly, but surely evolving past the limits of what it had always meant to be human. Everything was different – the way things smelled, looked, tasted, felt… there wasn’t a sense unaffected. And with it had grown subtle, gnawing hunger that she was determined to repress – or, currently, find a safe way to sate. And she was close. So close. But without a few more key bits of information from the beast himself, there was no way to be sure.

She had let him be for now, since she knew they at least had time in that regard. Dracula was many things, but a total idiot was not one of them, and no doubt he’d taken notice of the pattern just as easily as she did. The longer he spent with each victim, the more ideal the transformation after death. Instant kills were a 50/50 shot at best. If he was on the lookout for another ‘bride’ – even if he’d found one, there was no way he’d waste his newly renewed hope by getting overzealous. Zoe alone seemed to be the outlier of that unspoken rule, but ingesting so much of his blood (and also being on death’s doorstep already) seemed to have been the push.

It wasn’t like she didn’t know where he was. In fact, she found that if she let herself focus on him too long she couldn’t seem to avoid getting a sort of passing ‘update’ of his current actions – whether she wanted it or not. Just the person she wanted to be mentally connected to. Though whatever the connection was, it seemed to be a two-way street as opposed to the sort of controlling thrall that he had over certain others. At least she hadn’t caught herself doodling ‘Dracula is God’ in the corner of any of her notepads, thank fuck for that.

After a couple of weeks, however, the peaks at his consciousness were becoming more involuntary – either that, or he’d found out a way to push them at her deliberately, which wouldn’t surprise her in the least. An array of miscellaneous throats, mostly – with the occasional face to go with them even, but a strangely short order of corpses. Not too surprising given his renewed intent to procreate, but she expected the body count would be still reasonably…abundant.

Despite knowing she should be relieved, Zoe felt a creeping sense of dread. How many people did he intend to turn? To keep up with his usual appetite he’d have to be keeping a menagerie of donors. Willing donors. For a brief, mindless moment she wondered to herself how the hell he was managing that. Her own voice (more or less) answered in a clipped mocking laugh, echoing out loud in the silence of her office.

Tall, dark, handsome, well dressed, charming – in a snakey sort of way with no particular sexual preference, in a city full of jaded, power starved people longing to escape from their problems, with a cynical attitude toward life and death? Christ’s sake, they were in the age of the opioid epidemic and the man was walking heroin. Literally. The world was doomed.

Ready or not, it was about time she stopped making things so easy for him, Zoe decided, packing up her latest round of experiments and locking them away. Just because she couldn’t kill Dracula (yet) didn’t mean that she couldn’t distract him - a thought that she was well aware originated more with Agatha than herself, but the scientist in her was still fully willing to embrace.

The methodology was...negotiable, they'd settled on vaguely as Zoe found her way quickly home to her flat.

Once she decided to figure out his location, it didn't surprise her that the count was 'on the prowl', but she did have to roll her eyes at his choice of venue. Apparently he was going to make following him inconvenient. It definitely wasn't a club she could just waltz into dressed like a science professor and blend in.

But this is good, he won't be expecting your intrusion.

...Or he's expecting me to show up in a lab coat and give myself away Zoe countered internally, becoming arguably far too comfortable with disagreeing with her own inner voice as she yanked out a little black dress from the back of her wardrobe and tossed it on her bed, along with her far more lived in leather jacket.

Fine. This was fine. If she could keep randy 20-year-olds focused on studying science instead of each other on a regular basis, she could certainly handle putting a wrench in a 500 year old man-child’s seduction techniques.

------

Of the numerous intrigues and conundrums the 21st century had wrought upon the Count, the notion of the vampire being not only a cultural topic of admiration but practically a fetish was one he had never seen coming. He was actually embarrassed it had taken him this long to fully comprehend and, in turn, utilize this phenomenon. It was true none of his earlier victims had really been surprised when his teeth sank into their necks, but the full scope of it had never really ‘dawned’ on him until baring his fangs had inspired one too many bouts of earnest excitement. It was frankly hilarious, not to mention convenient, though truth be told he was beginning to miss the charms of inspiring unholy terror.

Not that the initial euphoria didn’t quickly evolve into proper panic once the reality of exsanguination occurred to them – if he allowed it to. He sometimes did, particularly since he was losing patience with being told it wasn’t Halloween just before ripping into their throats. He opted not to keep those idiots around, more often than not. The undead didn’t need any more denial in its ranks - Zoe was already proving to be so far immune to his influence in every way, he did not need any more deviance.

It luckily hadn’t taken Dracula long to finally hit the smorgasbord: an entire dark room, filled almost entirely with dozens of willing, believing victims. So many nocturnal souls, full of wickedness and naïve delight at the mere thought of a creature such as him walking amongst them. Many of them even liked to already call themselves vampires, some in jest and others in actual earnest - artificial fangs and all! It was downright adorable. Now why should he, of all people, ruin their fun?

It never took very long to capture someone’s attention, and that particular night was no different save for the fact that his potential prey had suddenly turned their attention away from him and was having some unknown words whispered in their ear by a woman he vaguely recognized as the bartender.

“I…um, I need to go. Emergency,” The young woman stated in the broken persistence easily identified as that of an unpracticed liar, and she dissolved hurriedly back into the darkness from whence she came.

Dracula’s head tilted briefly in confusion, but then in realization he sighed as his eyes scanned and locked in a glare on the slender figure at the far end of the bar who was smirking at him.

Striding over with exaggerated reluctance, he leant against the surface at her side.

“What did you tell her?”

Zoe shrugged, still clearly pleased with herself. “Just enough to make you sound revolting. Not exactly hard to do.”

“No one likes a cock block, Dr. Helsing,” he accused with a raise of his brows, looking down at her.

Zoe chuckled aloud. “I think we both know your cock isn’t something to worry about,” she replied, eyes rolling at his apparent need to show off his modern vocabulary.

“Ouch,” he rumbled, amusement still glinting in the black pools of his eyes despite his attempt at a pout. “Should I be offended?”

“Is there even anything to be offended about?” She found herself asking, and briefly cursed Agatha’s ever-greedy curiosity.

The Count’s brows shot upwards, in either genuine surprise or a good ploy of it as he turned his body to face hers. “Are you asking if I’m, as you say, ‘fully functional and anatomically correct’? Oh dear, now I am offended.” It didn’t falter his smile.

“I just assumed you saw everyone as little more than happy meals with legs,” she said in, granted, unnecessary explanation for the question. Never in anything she’d seen or heard of his attempts to seduce or charm did he seem to be in pursuit of anything but dinner.

“I’m a man of many appetites, some just supersede others,” he replied simply, at first, though quickly amended. “And certain aspects of being a vampire does make it difficult to find a partner who will remain conscious or even survive the experience through to its conclusion.”

“Sounds like a self-control problem to me, though...I wouldn’t have thought the killing part to be an issue for you,” she uttered in return, more of Agatha’s intrigue popping out without her consent.

His eyes narrowed knowingly, as they always seemed to do when he sensed Zoe’s words were not always her own, though it didn’t stop him from responding.

“I may be undead, but I am no necrophile. I told you I like the lively ones, and I meant that. Even if the vast majority are ‘happy meals with legs’ that’s no reason to ignore what’s between them. Where do you think all that blood flows to when you’re aroused?”

“Sorry I asked,” Zoe clipped, eyes rolling again in sheer avoidance of his probing gaze.

“Maybe I ought to try some restraints,” he mused thoughtfully, ignoring her comment entirely and refocusing on his current ‘conundrum’ she’d been so kind as to bring to the forefront of his thoughts. “I fed from an interesting little dominatrix the other night…”

“For them or for you?” Zoe found herself snarking back, beginning to wonder if it was a better or worse choice to let a nun have this conversation in her place.

“Oh, them. It would keep them conscious a bit at least. When your saliva is a sedative, over-eagerness just breeds trouble. I don’t even know if they make anything strong enough to restrain me. Silver…if you believe the stories, though I’ve never tried it.” His brow quirked upward lasciviously at her, an obvious lure. “Perhaps you would do the honors?”

“Perhaps I should try to stake you, just to be sure. You never know, I could get lucky.”

“Now, now. We both know you’re not going to do that. Come on Agatha – don’t think I don’t know when it’s you, you always were a curious cat - if things went your way I’d still be locked in a box to prod at for the rest of eternity, all for the sake of extending your morbid curiosity. I was extending a courtesy with that offer. It could be the closest you’d get to satisfaction in that regard. Or any regard," he drawled, punctuating his already not-so-subtle meaning by moving in closer still, deliberately intrusive. He lived to infuriate.

Agatha’s first instinct was to aim a slap at his absurdly smug face just for the audacity, regardless of Zoe’s opposing instinct to ignore him entirely. Apparently the nun won out, though the speed in which her hands zoomed forward was an impossible thing, and as Zoe feared, a grave mistake. The older vampire caught her hand in his massive fist before it came within an inch of his flesh, with a look of pure satisfaction. In the same gesture, his other hand shot to grasp her throat and by the force of the movement alone urged her back from the bar and into the shadows just beyond it. The music was melancholic, but loud and just chaotic enough to drown out the faint growl erupting from his throat.

“Ooh. Look at you go. I think my blood really did do the trick, didn’t it? None of my brides, before or after their full transformation, could even come close to my speed. And you’re already halfway there. Not to mention completely immune to my power of suggestion yet still able to locate me, it seems – very, very irritating, but impressive. Any fangs yet?”

Struggling briefly in his grasp, she bared her teeth at him spitefully, showing off her teeth’s lack of points.

“Aw. What a pity,” he sighed, letting go of her hand, but kept her neck in his grip – not squeezing, but present and unmoving, nonetheless lest she try to attack him again.

“Still trying to fight it, aren’t you? Zoe’s just a stubborn thing, she wants to prove me wrong. But you…you are trying to protect her. From me…herself, I don’t know, but it’s only going to end up driving her mad.”

“It’s completely feasible to resist the blood lust,” Agatha persisted, meeting his steely gaze with her own. “She’s figured out how it works, what the vampiric body needs to function.”

“And I suppose you’d be the expert at resisting lusts, wouldn’t you?” His fingers tightened minutely around the long column of her throat, and his words were a harsh whisper that’s effect on her body mocked the very virtue it was pretending to praise.

“For once, Dracula, stop flattering yourself,” she spat, turning her head as much to look away from him – at anything but him - as his hold would allow.

“I never flatter myself. You stop elevating yourself. You’re not a nun anymore, you’re just another wayward soul. You’ve died twice trying to rid the world of me and we’re both still here. Take a hint.”

“Perhaps I’m still here to stop you,” she suggested, finally turning back to face him with a challenging lift of her brow.

The Count met her challenge with a look of utter acceptance , his face leaning down to hers in what to anyone else would be a clear threat - and to anyone else, it was exactly that. To a normal, non corrupt human his kiss meant instant submission, the predator incapacitating his prey.

“Then, by all means, stop me.”

She stood stiff in the face of his intimate approach, for a moment able to ignore any further context and simply prod at him.

"Your delusions won't work on me anymore," Agatha reminded him blandly, pushing breath out with each word just because she could.

This gave him pause for all of a moment, but it was seemingly only to observe her stubborn face with faint amusement.

"Good," he uttered against her lips with mocking simplicity, but before she could take another breath he was kissing her hard and to his utter relief, didn't get limp, clouded acceptance in response.

She let out a frustrated growl of her own in protest, more human than beast, though her attempt at clamping her lips closed in protest came a moment too late. He'd captured her lower lip between his own and she felt the sharp scrape of his canines as he pulled, still prominent without the animalistic haze of hunger.

Her initial will to resist buckled to make way instead for an aggressive refusal to be dominated - whether those forces had names or were shared equally between the Van Helsing women, he couldn't say, but instead of allowing him to ravage her mouth unopposed, or even to attempt to fight or flee as the Count half expected, she'd responded with equal fervor - out of lust or spite or both. Her blunt teeth bit down hard where his had only nipped and her previously limp hand found its way to the back of his head and anchored itself in his locks to counter the tightening of his grip on her neck.

The snarl that reverberated from his throat and into her mouth was every bit as bestial as hers was human, and his grip tightened dangerously just before forcing her backwards and away from him like he was embracing an open flame. She barely caught herself before crashing into a wall, but still looked on with unadulterated satisfaction as Dracula looked twice as shaken as she did in the face of his first kiss in 500 years that didn't end in immediate surrender. Men - alive or dead - were all the same.

After a moment, he caught himself, letting out a wicked chuckle in the face of her smirk. "We'll make a monster of you yet, Van Helsing," he assured her raggedly, bluster gradually returning to his stance and the set of his jaw as he watched her.

Zoe - and fully Zoe at that moment righted herself from where she leaned against the wall, adjusting her jacket, the satisfied look still in her eyes.

"Happy hunting, Count Dracula. Just don't expect me to make it easy for you."

And without looking at him again, she walked passed where he stood and headed in a leisurely stroll towards the exit, forcing her heart rate back to its normal deathly calm.

----

I’m not even sure what to say to this other than either I’m sorry or your welcome. I’m just going to tag everyone who’s nerding has inspired me to continue, regardless if you’ve showed any interest in reading or not. If you want to be tagged, let me know

Tag List: @charlesdances @bellamortislife @carydorse @break-free-killer-queen @imagineandimagine @my-fanfic-library @punk-courtesan @ohveda @wannabebloodsucker @hoefordarkness @mymagicsuitcase @crazytxgradstudent @itendedbadly @theplumsoldier @gatissed @allfandoms-writings @littlemessyjessi @vampiregirl1797 @desperatefrenchwriter @iloveclaesbang @ss9slb @dreamerkim @mephdcosplay @violetmarkey @alhoyin @thozaarmitage @girlonfireice@cipherwheeldecoder @crowley-needs-a-hug @mr-kisskiss-bangbang @iloveclaesbang

#bbc dracula #dracula bbc #dracula 2020 #claes bang #agatha van helsing #zoe van helsing #my writing #the undone & the divine

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not-close-to-straight · 4 years

Text

Summer Nights (Three)

Ohhhh Drama Drama Drama mama-- Steve gets back together, Nat and Bucky break up, and then the dance! If you’ve seen the movie, you’ll definitely notice what I changed, but it’s still fun!

MASTERLIST HERE

************ Peter Quill and Steve Rogers became everyone’s favorite couple immediately.

Not only were they both big and blonde and all sorts of beautiful, but Peter was adorably earnest in absolutely everything and Steve was so nice that even the lunch ladies loved him. Scott Lang put up posters that very same day nominating Peter and Steve as Homecoming Kings and the yearbook photographer came by at least once a week to snap pictures of them eating lunch, holding hands down the hall, or just laughing together because both Peter and Steve had perfect smiles.

Peter loved the attention of course, and always had a mega watt grin turned towards the lens, and while Steve was a little more reserved, he had to admit it was nice to be with someone so uncomplicated, someone who didn’t mind showing him off.

Peter was a little bit goofy but he had a heart of gold and was charming in a cheesy sort of way. He pulled out Steve’s chair and held open doors and even though Steve was in advanced classes and had loads of books, Peter had loads of muscles so he carried all their books in one hand and kept his other arm right around Steve’s waist to walk him to class.

Steve liked wearing Peter’s jacket so everyone knew he was Peter’s fella, he liked the way Peter waved at him during games. He liked how Peter was always so excited to see him in the morning and how the big quarterback never wanted to hang up when they talked at night and most of all, Steve liked that Peter was always the same person whether they were in public or private, with the other jocks or sitting with Steve’s friends at lunch.

Peter was uncomplicated, sweet and honest and sure, maybe a little dumb but Steve sort of loved it. So when Peter stopped him one day and stammered through a frankly adorable, “You sure look pretty today-- I mean handsome today-- I mean wow, those pants on your butt-- I mean--” Steve just laughed and tipped his chin up for a kiss, and laughed again when Peter cheered in excitement before leaning in to give him a very gentle kiss.

It was a good kiss, if not a little clumsy. A good kiss, but there wasn’t a riot of butterflies in his stomach and Steve wasn’t weak kneed like he’d been when Tony used to--

Nope. Not thinking about that.

No. Steve put his arms around Peter’s neck and kissed him again, muffling the quarterbacks surprised noise with his mouth and pressing their bodies together. No he was not going to think about Tony when Peter was good and kind and sweet and everything Steve should be looking for in a boyfriend.

“Wow.” Peter’s eyes were blown wide when they finally parted, his smile stretching towards ridiculous. “What was that for?”

“I just like you is all.” Steve whispered, and Peter gave a quiet “Yay!” and squeezed at Steve’s hand.

Steve smiled over Peter’s goofiness, just like he smiled over all the good natured teasing from Thor and Carol, and the overly nosy but most likely well meaning questions from Pepper. Natasha only ever rolled her eyes over anything remotely relationship related, but Steve ignored her and ignored the lack of butterflies, determined not to let how much he still missed Tony ruin what was definitely a good thing with Peter.

Besides, Natasha didn’t do a whole lot of eye rolling these days anyway. She was far too busy hanging off Bucky’s arm and that was definitely not something anyone was allowed to tease her for.

Today Natasha lounged in the front seat of Bucky’s junker with her feet up on the dashboard as she watched her boyfriend-- nope, not saying that-- as she watched Bucky go back and forth between his tool box and the hood of the car. She fought a smile hearing the gorgeous brunette curse as he banged his head at least twice, and when Bucky yelped in pain over pinching his finger, Natasha finally sighed and wriggled her way out of the seat to see what was the matter.

“Everything alright?” Natasha planted both hands on the car and leaned over the hood as if she had any idea what she was looking at. “My god, this looks terrible under here, I’m practically embarrassed to be seen next to it.”

“If you weren’t so fuckin’ hot, I’d be mad about that.” Bucky huffed, sticking his finger in his mouth to clean the blood from it. “Ain’t right for a girl to insult a guy’s car.”

“This is barely a car, Buck.” Natasha countered and when Bucky growled in frustration, she wiped a smudge of grease from his cheek and smiled. “But I like the way those jeans sit on your ass.”

“Well I guess that counts for something.” Bucky pushed his hair out of his eyes and sighed down at the various pieces of engine. “Tony’s sposed to be helpin’ me with this shit, you know. This was gonna be our project, but I dunno where he even is most days and I’m never gonna get this done without help. You any good with a wrench, Tash?”

“What, like a real wrench?” Tasha glanced at one of the greasy tools and shook her head, going up on her toes to kiss Bucky instead, pushing her curves into his hard frame until Bucky cursed for an entirely different reason and spanned her waist with his big hands, yanking her close. “No. Not good at all. No idea what to do with one of them.”

“Well, are you any good with uh--” Bucky dragged one of her hands down to the front of his pants and when Natasha palmed over him, he moaned, low and messy. “Ah fuck, babydoll, you’re good with that, huh?”

“Well it’s not a wrench.” Natasha laughed under her breath when Bucky slammed the hood of the car and then lifted her right up onto it, pushing between her knees to crush their mouths together. “But I suppose I know my way around this sort of tool pretty damn well.”

Their version of flirting was far far from Steve and Peter’s nearly chaste teasing, but it made them so obviously happy that not even Clint and Sam had anything snarky to say about the unorthodox couple. Thor fully approved, Pepper and Carol were just relieved Natasha wasn’t quite as bitchy any more, and Valkyrie was too busy gaping over Natasha to give Bucky hell about being whipped.

Steve and Peter were happy, Bucky and Natasha were their own brand of happy, and the only person who would admit to being totally miserable was Tony.

Tony who walked through school every day and saw posters promoting Steve and Peter as Homecoming Kings and Couple of the Year.

Tony who had walked up to Bucky’s place wanting to distract himself with a couple hours of work on the car and had been treated to the misfortune of hearing Bucky and Tasha together in the back seat.

Carol and Pepper only gossiped when they saw him, and Thor had nothing but frosty glares for the way Tony had treated Steve at the bonfire. Sam whistled and hollered for Tony anytime he saw him, but Clint and Valkyrie were too busy clowning on each other and causing general mayhem to pay any attention to Tony’s moping.

And he was certainly moping. Tony been heartbroken when he’d called Steve and been told he had a wrong number. He’d been embarrassed to have Steve show up at school of all places acting as if nothing was wrong and then that embarrassment and heartbreak had turned to anger when Steve apparently moved right on to Peter.

But then the anger faded into a sort of determination that Tony didn’t completely understand, but knew he had to act on.

“He doesn’t miss me at all.” Tony muttered, pacing back and forth outside the gym. “Acts like I broke his heart? He broke my heart and then ran off to date that moron--” he kicked at a rock and then cursed when it about busted his toe. “I mean sure, I said some stupid things, maybe some mean things but I--I--”

Tony ran his hands through his hair and groaned out loud. “I didn’t know what to do! I was all messed up and shocked and he was just so pretty right there and I acted like a dumbass and--”

“Tony.” Gym teacher, athletic director and half past ancient Coach Stan Lee took the cigarette from Tony’s mouth and put it out with a sigh. “I came out here to smoke in peace, not to share my cigarettes with some punk and listen to him complain. What’r’ya doing out here?”

“I uh--” Tony shoved his hands into his jacket and sighed. “Coach I uh-- I want to join a team. Want to you know-- want to be a jock?”

“A jock.” Coach Lee was one of the most patient teachers in the school, had been coaching teenagers almost forty years now, had seen and heard all the bullshit kids came along with, but Tony Stark wanting to be a jock about shocked him speechless. “What?”

“I need to change.” Tony kept looking at the ground, kicking at the dirt. “And this should be a good start, right? Being a jock? Seems bout as different from me as I can get.”

“Son, what sort of problem are you trying to solve by becoming an athlete?”

“....a stupid one.” Tony muttered. “One I shouldn’t care about but I can’t seem to shake it.”

“Ah.” Coach Lee raised his eyebrows. “So it’s love, then.”

“Summer fling, don't mean a--” Tony pursed his lips and sighed again. “Yeah. It’s love.”

“Alright.” Stan clapped his hands together. “I can get on board with that. First things first though, you gotta change.”

“Well that’s why I’m here.” Tony deadpanned. “To change. Apparently this rebellious punk look isn’t working for me so I’m going to get a jacket, get a letter, change.”

“Yeah, no I mean you have to change.” The Coach motioned to Tony’s leather jacket, to the skinny jeans and high top converse. “I send you running in that get up and you’ll die of heat exhaustion or chafing and honestly son, I don’t know which of those is worse.”

“Oh man, I have to run?” Tony whined and the Coach only chuckled and waved him inside the gym. “Go on, go get in uniform and meet me by the mats.”

“Oh man, I gotta wear a uniform?” Tony started to complain, but then he caught sight of one of those Homecoming King posters with Steve and Peter’s names scrawled all over it, and his eyes narrowed. “Alright. If Steve needs a jock, I’ll be a jock. A uniform it is.”

********

The uniform was terrible, but Tony wore it anyway, and when Coach put him up against M’Baku as a wrestling partner Tony swallowed the instinct to scream, and worked at learning the positions and moves.

“Alright, wrestling isn’t your thing.” Coach Lee acknowledged when Tony barely made it out of a pin alive. “What about baseball?”

“What, like hitting people when they try to steal your base?”

“Nope, there is no hitting people in baseball. We’re gonna slide right past that suggestion and into track.” Coach raised his eyebrows. “How about track? No contact, limited interaction, you can just get out there and run all your angst out.”

“Run all my angst out.” Tony blew his hair off his forehead and put his hands on his hips. “That sounds okay. But isn’t the track right by the football practice field?”

“Sure is.” Coach said mildly. “Is that alright?”

Tony thought about how Steve sat and watched Peter at practice every single day and made an instant decision. “Yep. Yep, that’s alright. Track it is.

****************

“Look Sam, I don’t want to hang out with you anymore than you want to hang out with me.” Pepper tucked her hands into the pockets of her fur coat and shivered. “But since Tasha and Bucky are still hooking up, we have to deal with it.”

“Well I mean--” Sam stopped halfway to a sip of his hot chocolate. “Damn, Pep. I wanted to hang out with you. You don’t want to hang out with me?”

“Oh.” Pepper’s eyes widened as if she’d never even considered the possibility. “No?”

“Pep, you are ice cold.” Valkyrie chuckled. “Why are you so cranky?”

“Don’t mind her, she’s just put out cos all Tasha does these days is put on lipstick, hang out with Bucky and then reapply lipstick.” Carol hip checked Clint out of the way so she could get the next hot chocolate from the coffee stand. “Pep you can’t be too grown for high school boys and then be mad if your friends still want to, that’s not fair.”

“Whatever.” Pepper turned her nose up and sniffed. “Did you uys hear the Winter Formal is being hosted by Justin Hammer? There’s a boy I’d let boss me around. He’s on TV, drives a fancy car and he hosts one of the biggest talent shows in the country. I don’t know how he got convinced to come host a dance at Andover High, but I plan on taking full advantage of it.”

“What, you in to older men Pepper? Justin Hammer is like thirty.” Clint pulled a face. “That’s so old, I bet nothing on him even works right anymore.”

“I’m willing to overlook a lot of mistakes so long as there’s a lot of zeros in his bank account.” Pepper said blandly. “And it’s not like the choices around Andover are that great. Who am I supposed to go to the dance with? Oh and speaking of choices, Thor, how is beauty school going?”

Thor ran his hands over his newly bright pink hair and shrugged. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Thor's scary style choices aside, I’m going to the dance with Clint.” Carol hooked an arm around Clint’s neck and rumpled up his hair. “Guaranteed to be a grope free evening because I beat him in arm wrestling and that was a turn on for exactly no one.”

“And I’m going with Thor.” Valkyrie said matter of factly. “Again, guaranteed to be a grope free evening. No one with hot pink hair would risk a knuckle sandwich by tryna feel me up.”

“I’d risk it.” Clint said immediately. “I’d definitely risk it.” and Sam agreed, “Should I dye my hair pink now or later?”

“Change of plans.” Valkyrie said immediately. “I’ll be going with Carol while Clint and Sam dye their hair pink and play hide the pickle.”

Loud shouts of “Hey!” and “Oh!” and “What in the--” were quickly followed by appraising glances and vaguely agreeable shrugs, and Sam decided, “So what Pep, so you’re gonna go with Thor? Or with Tony, cos them’s the only two left.”

“An evening with me would be grope free.” Thor promised, holding up both hands. “Not because my hair is pink, but because I respect you enough not to try and get under your skirts.” Pepper raised her eyebrows and Thor amended, “Unless you gave me the go-ahead, of course.”

“Where the hell is Tony, anyway?” Valkyrie wanted to know. “Normally he’s at the ice cream shop or messin’ around working on Bucky’s car but I haven’t seen him in days.”

“We haven’t seen him in…” Carol thought about it for a minute. “Thor, when was the last time you saw Tony?”

“Haven’t really seen him since the bonfire.” Thor snagged Pepper’s compact from her purse and opened it, fussing at his hair. “He’s probably avoiding us since we spend time with Steve, but why isn’t he hanging out with you guys?”

“Cos all we do is give him hell about Steve.” Clint answered promptly. “I feel like I’d avoid us too, we’re sorta the worst.”

“Oh the worst.” Sam agreed, “Undoubtedly.”

“Well, the dance should be interesting then.” Pepper said mildly. “If we’re all paired up and Steve is going with Peter, do you think Tony will go stag?”

“He’ll come with someone, you’ll see.” Sam shook his head. “Tony Stark always has a date to the dance, he’d rather not show up than show up alone.”

On the track field on the other side of the school, the same thought was swirling around Tony’s head as he did lap after lap around the field. Almost two months he’d been on the track team now and even though the uniform was stupid and the practice was terrible, Tony suited up every day and went running and just like Coach Lee had promised, he had all but an out his angst over Steve was feeling better ever day.”

Not that he didn’t still miss Steve, damn it did Tony miss Steve. He hated every time he saw Steve and Peter holding hands in the hall and it was embarrassing, but every time Tony saw them kiss he always ducked down another hallway and every time he saw one of those stupid posters promoting them as Couple of the Year, he drew devil horns and stink lines over Peter’s name.

So alright, maybe Tony hadn’t ran all the angst out. Maybe he still dreamt about their summer and woke up reaching for Steve, maybe he’d let himself imagine taking Steve to the dance and wow-ing the pretty blond with all his dance moves and stealing a kiss under the stars. Maybe he’d written out a couple dozen apology letters and then thrown them all away, maybe Tony still wasn’t over Steve and maybe none of the running in the world would change--

Tony’s steady pace slowed and faltered when the football team started trickling onto the field. Usually he was done and gone by the time Peter and his goons showed up for practice. He must have ran too long today because usually he wasn’t here when

Oh damn.

Oh no no no.

“Are you going to break your record today?” Steve was stopped at the bottom bleacher, wiping a smudge from Peter’s helmet before handing it back. “How many yards have you thrown this season for practice?”

Tony missed whatever Peter answered, his attention held fast by the way Steve’s eyes lit up in excitement, the way he smiled like it was the most impressed he’d ever been. Damn he missed that look and damn he missed that smile. Missed the way Steve’s eyes shone with admiration and the way his hands had always been so eager to hold Tony’s and the way he--

Tony shook himself from the thoughts when he realized he’d stopped running altogether and had come to a stop right in front of Peter and Steve.

“...Tony?” Steve was leaning back into Peter’s arms, tipping his cheek back for a kiss, but he paused when he saw Tony. “What um-- what are you doing out here?”

Tony took off running again. He didn’t know what to say and he didn’t know what he wanted to say, so he just took off running, picking up speed until he was practically sprinting down the track towards the hurdles as if he could outrun just how much it sucked to see Peter kissing Steve.

“Huh.” Steve watched Tony run for a minute, and Peter asked, “What’s up, babe?”

“Oh nothing.” Steve tried to sound casual but knew he didn’t quite manage it when Peter frowned a little. “No, it’s nothing. I just didn’t know Tony joined the track team. Or ran long distance. Or did hurdles. Or exercised… like at all. He was never one to-- OH NO!”

Steve cried out when Tony took on a too high hurdle and face planted on the track, splatting hard before rolling a few feet and finally skidding to a stop, groaning loud enough to be heard clear in the bleachers.

“Oh no, I have to help him, I got to help him, give me a second--” Steve jumped the barrier of the bleachers and landed on the field, running towards Tony to check on him. “Tony? Tony are you okay?”

“M’fine.” Tony popped to his feet and dusted the gravel from his sweats, sniffing as he checked his nose for blood. “Go away. M’fine.” Hurt leeched into his words, hurt and embarrassment and Tony hated that just being close to Steve like this made his hands shaky. “Back off, Steve. Go back to your himbo.”

“Um--” Steve spread his hands helplessly. “My what? Go back to my what?”

“I said what I said.” Tony swallowed hard and paced a few steps down the track. “What do you want?”

“I just wanted to check on you.” Steve was even worse than Tony at hiding his feelings, and the look in his eyes was damn near heartbreaking. “I just-- are you sure you’re alright?”

Tony didn’t mean to snarl, but it came out anyway, “What do you care?”

“Well I-- I--” Steve folded his arms and chewed at his bottom lip anxiously. “Tony, I--”

Hope, flaring barely there and flickering as Tony asked, “You what, Steve?”

“I miss you, you know.” Steve said in a near whisper and Tony really thought his knees would give out.

“You... you miss me?”

“I miss the version of you I knew.” Steve amended in that same soft tone. “I miss you a lot. Like every day.”

“...I miss you too.” There, the most honest thing Tony said since the night at the bonfire. “Holy shit Steve, I miss you so much.”

“Yeah?” The beautiful blond’s eyes widened. “You do? Cos I miss you like crazy. I know I’m with Peter right now but Tony, I would--”

“Go to the dance with me!” Tony blurted and Steve’s mouth fell open. “Please? Please go to the dance with me. I know you’re with Peter and I’m sure he’s a way better boyfriend than I ever was and I’m sorry for everything but damn it sweetheart, it's killing me to be away from you.”

Tony wet his lips nervously and slowed down, forcing himself to breathe. “Can we try again? Will you give me another chance?”

“Oh.” Steve jolted forward like he was going in for a kiss, but stopped himself at the last minute, a nervous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Tony, I’d never want to go to that dance with anyone else. I mean, you need to let me break it off with Peter before I can say yes officially, cos that’s the right thing to do.”

The smile got a little brighter as Steve reached for Tony’s hand. “But you’re the only one I’d want to go to the Winter Formal with. I don’t care if the entire school thinks me and Peter are a perfect couple. I only ever want you.”

“Okay.” Tony’s throat closed up over what was definitely not tears, he was definitely not going to cry, he was not going to cry-- “Okay um-- that’s um--” he cleared his throat. “That’s great. Cool beans. Really. Nice. That’s-- that’s nice.”

“Tony.” Steve whispered. “Just tell me what you’re really feeling. Please? You don’t have to be cool or whatever, just be you.”

“I’m feeling like I’m going to do anything I can to make this up to you.” Tony pressed at Steve’s palm, linked their fingers and pulled Steve closer. “I was a real jerk to you and I’m sorry and one day I promise we can talk about all of it but for right now could we um-- could we--”

“I have to break up with Peter before you can kiss me.” Steve’s cheeks stained red and Tony bit back a curse as he leaned away again. Steve was right of course, break ups had to happen first but Tony was all of three seconds from combusting.

“Right.” he nodded quickly but held fast at Steve’s hand when he went to go back to Peter. “I should let go of your hand so you can go break up, huh?”

“Right.” Steve repeated. “Soooo let go?”

“I swear I’m trying, sweetheart.” Tony laughed sheepishly. “Dunno why my fingers aren’t listening.”

“Oh.” Steve blushed again and it was about the prettiest thing Tony had ever seen. “I do like when you call me sweetheart.”

“Sweetheart.” Tony stepped right back into Steve’s space and pressed their foreheads together, bumping noses teasingly. “Go break up with Goofy Gooberson over there so I can kiss you, alright?”

“Alright.” Steve said shyly. “I can’t wait.”

“Oh my god.” Tony breathed out shakily. “Yeah, I can’t wait either.”

*************

“I don’t want to go in there.” Natasha balked at the door to the ice cream shop and Bucky sent her a strange look. “Don’t look at me like that, Barnes. Take me to the movies or something instead.”

“I don’t want to go to the movies.” Bucky argued. “I wanna get some ice cream and see my friends. All we ever do is hang out alone, let’s hang out with the gang tonight.”

“It’s freezing outside, you don’t need ice cream.” Natasha crossed her arms stubbornly. “And we hang out by ourselves because the gang throws things at us if we do what we do in private, in public. Besides, I don’t want to--”

“Is that Steve and Tony?” Bucky pushed open the door of the shop to get a better look and then whooped out loud. “It is! Tony! You get your boy back?”

All the way across the diner, Tony looked up with a grin and a wave while Steve ducked his head and blushed, and Natasha hissed, “Look they’re on a date, they don’t want to be disturbed! Let’s just go!”

“Well we’re on a date too, right? Let’s just make it double.” Bucky grabbed Natasha’s hand and silenced her next protest with a quick kiss. “Come on baby doll, don’t be so difficult, I haven’t seen Tony in ages, come on.”

Natasha grumbled under her breath but let Bucky tow her across the diner and up to where Steve and Tony were sitting, sharing a milkshake and fries. “Hey kids.” she said with a falsely bright smile. “How’s tricks?”

“Tony.” Bucky clapped a hand down on Tony’s shoulder. “Bud, where the hell have ya been? What have you been doing?”

“So many important things.” Tony dipped a fry in the milkshake and fed it to Steve, his smile just this edge of absolutely stupid when Steve ate it right from his fingers. “This has been the best two days of my life. How’s it goin’ with you, Buck? Tasha?”

“Well we were going to--” Natasha was rudely interrupted when first Sam and then Clint barreled past her to drag some chairs up to the table, and then Thor simply walked through the crowd holding two chairs up above everyone else so Pepper would have some place to sit as she hurried along behind him. Carol climbed between the bars of the little balcony and shoved Valkyrie out of the way to get the last chair, and Valkyrie just huffed and flopped right onto Carol’s lap as revenge.

“--go to a movie.” Natasha finished. “But sure, hanging out with the entire gang is just as fun as a quiet movie, hm?”

“Sure it is.” Bucky ignored Natasha’s obvious irritation and spread a few menus around the table. “So what are we eating? Who’s got money?”

“Don’t look at me.” Pepper scolded when four different heads swiveled her way. “My parents are rich, not me! I don’t know where all my money goes! I bought hot chocolate the other day and paid for pizza last night-- someone else needs to pay!”

“You got money, baby doll?” Bucky asked and Natasha’s jaw dropped as she cried, “I’m not buying for the whole table!”

“Oh my god, chill out, I gave you money earlier to get lunch, don’t you have the rest of it?” Bucky scoffed and turned back to Tony. “So hey, we should start working on the car? I’m thinking she needs a name, like Lightning or Sonic or--”

Natasha tuned out the rest of the conversation as Tony and Bucky jumped into car babble and the rest of the group threw around stupid names for the vehicle. Steve looked entranced by the entire conversation, or at least entranced by Tony and for some reason that irritated the hell out of Natasha.

She dug her compact from her purse and scowled when she saw all the hickeys at her neck, dabbing at them furiously with her cover up until Bucky finally noticed what she was doing and reached out a hand to stop her. “Baby baby baby, what are you doing? You’re spreading powder all over the table, what’s wrong.”

“I’ve got so many hickeys, I’m starting to look like a leper.” Natasha complained and Bucky did one of those lazy shrugs and drawled, “Well damn sugar, you ride the Bronco and you’re gonna get bruised. Just the nature of the game.”

“The nature of the--” Natasha snapped her compact closed and curled her lip. “That is disgusting, you sound like an animal.”

“Oooh, talk dirty to me.” Bucky teased, but his pale eyes flashed in annoyance. “What’s with you tonight? I thought we were supposed to be having a good time and you’re just being a bitch. Is it PMS, you on the rag? Come off it, Tasha. That Ice Queen act gets real cold, real fast.”

“Ice Queen.” For reasons she wasn’t really ready to explore, the words cut Natasha right to her soul, bringing tears to her eyes. “Aright then, here’s something icy for you, you son of a bitch.”

She reached out and snatched Thor’s soda before he managed to get a drink and threw it right in Bucky’s face, then ripped Bucky’s jacket from around her shoulders and threw it at him too. “How’s that, Bronco?”

“Tasha!” Bucky howled when the ice hit his face and slid down his neck, the soda soaking his shirt and most likely staining into his jacket. “What the fuck--” Tasha turned on her heel and strode away, flipping him off over her shoulder and Bucky stared after her in shock. “What the fuck? Get back here! Where are you going!”

“Damn, Buck.” Tony opened his mouth when Steve swirled a fry through their milkshake, then licked Steve’s finger teasingly to get the last bit of ice cream away and smiled when Steve immediately turned bright red. “What the hell was that? What’s going on with you and Tasha?”

“Fuck if I know.” Bucky scowled and wiped at his shirt. “Gotta get to the bathroom and clean this shit off. “Oh and by the way. Carol? What in the fuck is going on with your hair?”

“What?” Carol ran her hand over her nearly shaven head, a tuft of blond hair still flopping long into her eyes. “I sorta like it. Thor says it looks great. Very in fashion right now.”

“Maybe on like... certain types of dogs...” Clint said slowly, and Sam patted Thor sympathetically, “Beauty school is just kicking your butt isn’t it?”

The still pink haired giant scowled, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“If it’s any consolation Thor, I think you look nice with pink hair.” Steve spoke up. “I think it suits you, makes your eyes look extra blue.”

Thor preened a little and Steve looked up in surprise when Tony kicked at his foot. “What?”

“Nothing, I just forgot how sweet you are.” Tony had a curious look in his eyes that Steve couldn’t quite read. “It's um-- it’s nice. Most of my friends are jerks, but you are just genuinely sweet.”

“You’re sweet too.” Steve leaned over the table and left a soft kiss on Tony’s cheek before going back to talking about pink hair and unfortunate styling, and Tony rubbed at his cheek a few times, frowning a little.

He really had forgotten how sweet Steve was. Sweet and a little naive and the sort of person that Tony wouldn’t ever look twice at on a normal day and yet somehow Steve was everything he wanted and it made no sense at all.

How was Steve going to fit into his life? What happened if Steve found out about the rest of Tony’s reputation, how he’d hooked up with all those people and flunked a few classes and how he skipped more often than not and smoked where he wasn’t supposed to. Would Steve run away?

Or would Tony have to leave everything about himself behind to fit into Steve’s world? No more leather jackets? No more smoking? Would he have to be an athlete forever and get good grades and have tea with parents on Sunday and--

“Honey?” Steve tapped at Tony’s hand. “Are you okay? You look like you’re panicking all the sudden.”

“I’m-- I’m fine.” Tony gulped and sternly reminded himself Steve is worth changing for. “I’m fine babe. Let’s talk about what we’re wearing to the dance.”

Steve lit up in excitement, and that was enough to make Tony put those other more distressing thoughts to rest as the conversation took a turn towards dresses and coordinating suits.

Outside the diner, Natasha finished her cigarette and tossed it aside, folding her arms against the night chill as she set off walking alone. She hadn’t expected Bucky to come after her, hell she probably would have laughed in his face if he had but all the same….

...all the same it would have been nice to think he cared she was upset.

Natasha didn’t even know what she upset about. It could have been her period, it might have been failing that test yesterday. Hell, it could be that Bucky had pulled her close and told she was beautiful and that he was damn lucky to know her. That sounded an awful lot like feelings and Natasha didn’t want to say she’d panicked but yeah, she’d panicked and now---

A car horn startled her, and Natasha took a step back from the road as a sleek black convertible slowed to a stop beside her, the window rolling down and a voice calling, “Natasha Romanov. I thought Tony Stark and that moron Bronco were trading you back and forth, how come you’re out walking alone on a Friday night?”

“Bruce Wayne.” Natasha said coolly, leaning down to look into the passenger side window. “What are you doing on our side of the bay? The rich girls at the Academy had enough of your bullshit so you gotta slum it in Andover?”

“Sure doesn’t feel like slumming when you’re the sorta beauty I get to find.” Bruce was all dark hair and darker eyes, expensive cologne and trust fund clothing, a smirk on his face that spoke of sheer arrogance and enough money in his wallet to get whatever he wanted. Usually he only came around to stir up trouble but tonight he looked more interested in company. “You up for a ride, babe?”

Natasha wasn’t up for a ride, but her options for the night were either hanging out with Bruce Wayne or sitting at home hating herself for crying over Bucky and honestly, Bruce was the lesser of those two evils.

So when Bruce opened the door of that fancy car and motioned for her, Natasha glanced back at the diner one more time and then slid right inside, leaning over and planting a kiss on Bruce’s cheek.

“See there, that’s better than wandering around in the cold, don’t you think?” Bruce’s hand was warm and heavy on her leg. “What say we go get lost for a while, you want to see a movie or something?”

“I’d love to see a movie.” Natasha settled back into the leather seats and closed her eyes. “I’d also like a new dress for the Winter Formal.”

“Gonna be like that, huh?” Bruce chuckled and rubbed at her thigh. “That’s alright. I’ll buy you a real pretty dress, baby doll. Let’s go.”

**********

It took less than twenty four hours for word to spread that Natasha and Bucky had broken up, and by the end of the next day, everyone knew that Natasha was bringing Bruce Wayne to the Winter Formal.

Bucky was so mad he was practically snarling, pacing in the garage and kicking at the cars fender until Tony finally peeled himself away from Steve and pushed Bucky away from the car. “Damn Buck. The car didn’t do nothing to you, calm the hell down.”

“Calm the hell down?” Bucky growled. “My girl is out there messin’ around with Bruce fuckin’ Wayne? That posh brat will use her and leave her when he goes back to the rich dames at the Academy and then what? Then I’m sposed to get back together with that asshole’s sloppy seconds--”

Steve gasped quietly over the vulgarity and Bucky held up a hand apologetically. “Sorry Steve, s’just-- it ain’t right!”

“You love Tasha, Bucky?” Tony asked, and then ducked when a bucket went flying towards the garage wall, Bucky bellowing, “THE HELL I DO! I don’t love that girl! I’ll show her! She’s gonna step out on me with Bruce fuckin’ Wayne, fuckin’ rich kid I can’t fuckin’ stand him---”

Bucky stormed into the house still swearing up a storm and Tony leaned up and kissed Steve’s horrified expression away. “Don't worry about him, sweetheart. He’s just cranky but he’ll be over it by the dance.”

“You think so?” Steve shivered when Tony came back for another kiss and jumped a little when Tony’s hands crept down over his rear. “Tony! What are you doing!”

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna grope you here in Bucky’s garage.” Tony winked. “And yeah, Bucky will be fine, you’ll see. This dance is gonna be real fun and super romantic and um--” the third kiss was even longer than the second, Tony slipping his tongue over the seam of Steve’s lips and letting his fingers dig into the big blond’s waist. “--maybe we can... you know...?”

“Oh.” Steve sucked in a quick breath, his heart pounding as Tony slid kisses down his throat and to his shoulder. “T-Tony. Wow.”

“Mmm.” Tony sighed into Steve’s skin and smiled when Steve broke out into goosebumps. “S’gonna be a good time together, I promise. We’re gonna--”

“DON’T DO THAT IN HERE!” Bucky sounded positively scandalized as he winged a greasy rag at the pair and Tony burst into laughter. “You are not gonna get down in my garage! Get out! What the hell!”

“Come on, babe.” Tony grabbed Steve’s hand and ran away still laughing. “He’ll be fine by the dance, I promise.”

**************

Bucky was not in fact fine by the dance, and when he swaggered through the doors of Andover High with his shirt unbuttoned to his navel and his arm around one Loki “Cha Cha” Laufeyson, everyone in the gym stopped and stared.

And Natasha who was snuggled into Bruce’s side wearing a rather low cut dress of her own didn’t know if she wanted to scream over the sight or burst into tears, so instead she just glared daggers at Loki as they leaned in and whispered something into Bucky’s ear.

“Oh, who’s that with Bucky?” Steve pinned a pink rose to his shirt, smiling when he saw how perfectly it matched Tony’s tie. “They’re pretty, look at their hair. And oh wow, that dress.”

“Eh, Bucky’s probably just trying to make Natasha jealous by bringing someone fancy.” Tony leaned down and wiped a spot from his shoes, then straightened up and dotted a kiss to Steve’s cheek. “I’m sure they aren’t half as pretty as you, though.”

“You didn’t even look at them.” Steve pointed out, straightening the lapels of Tony’s jacket. “So how do you know?”

“Cos you’re the most gorgeous person in any room, ever.” Tony said confidently. “We’re gonna tear it up tonight, sweetheart. Then I’m gonna take you for a drive and kiss you beneath the stars, alright?”

“Tony.” Bucky came over then, cutting his eyes over at Natasha and letting his hand drop lower than was strictly necessary over his date’s lean frame. “What’s up, bud? You remember Loki, right?”

“Oh.” Tony’s eyes bugged out, any bit of color leaving his face as he dropped Steve’s hand. “That is um-- yep, I uh-- Lo--Loki. Uh. Hey.

Loki narrowed brilliantly green eyes in Steve’s direction and then parted glittered lips to practically purr, “Anthony. How nice to see you again. And wearing so many clothes this time! I hardly recognized you.”

Tony made a horrified sort of noise and Loki’s mouth tipped up into a near vicious smile as they looked Steve over. “You must be Steven, Bucky’s told me so much about you. My name is Loki, but they call me Cha Cha.”

“Why--” Steve wet his lips anxiously, watching out of the corner of his eye as Tony seemed to grow more and more agitated. “Why do they call you Cha Cha.”

“Cos I’m the best dancer this side of the bay.” Loki twitched the skirt of their dress out until it flared high around their shapely legs, baring a shocking amount of skin and a hint of lace far enough up their thigh to make Bucky whistle. “Or hasn’t Anthony told you?”

“Anthony?” Steve repeated. “You call him--Tony, they call you Anthony?”

“It’s um-- it’s an old nickname.” Tony muttered and grabbed at Steve’s hand to lead him away. “C’mon babe, let’s get out of here. We can dance on this side of the gym, way the hell away from Loki and Buck, come on.”

“Wait wait wait, Bucky brought Cha Cha?” Carol and Valkyrie joined them before Tony could make an escape, both girls with arms full of snacks and effectively blocking their route. “That seems bold, right? Are you okay Tony?”

“Why-why-why--” Tony loosened the collar on his shirt and swore. “Fuck it’s hot in here. Um, why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“Um.” Valkyrie made a gesture towards Loki. “Because they showed up wearing the same dress they wore when you and the Bronco--”

“Enough.” Thor clapped a huge hand over Valkyrie’s mouth, effectively shutting her up. “Don’t worry Steven. Loki might be the best dancer on this side of the bay, but they have the worst reputation and it is well earned, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t think I know what you mean.” Steve shot an uncomfortable look at Tony. “Tony, what does that mean?”

“We should get some punch.” Tony said quickly. “Who’s thirsty?”

“We talking about Cha Cha?” Clint came up holding a thermos that was certainly not full of punch. “Tony, isn’t that the same dress they were wearing when you and Bronco--glmph!”

“Enough, Clint.” Thor covered Clint’s mouth with his other hand and sent a pained smile towards Sam as he wandered over with Pepper. “Let’s not talk about Cha Cha, hm?”

“Who wants to talk about Cha Cha?” Pepper snorted, craning her neck every which way to try and catch a glimpse of televisions favorite host, Justin Hammer. “Even if they are wearing that stupid, slutty dress. Poor Tasha, I bet Bruce spent a bunch of money on her dress and then Bucky brings Loki along looking like they did the night Bucky and Tony--”

“I don’t have enough hands to shut you up too!” Thor cried and when Pepper wrinkled her pretty nose in confusion, Thor tilted his head towards Steve. “Shut up, Pepper!”

“Oh. Oh Steve.” Pepper audibly gulped when she saw how upset Steve was and how increasingly nervous Tony looked. “Oh, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. Cha Cha is-- I mean Loki is-- well they are--oh! Oh my god, there’s Justin!”

Just that fast Pepper was gone in a whirl of perfume, balancing on her high heels and holding up the length of her gown as she hurried to meet the celebrity, and Carol snorted, “All she’s talked about all damn day was how grown up she wants to look so Justin will want to put her on the talent show. She can’t sing worth a damn but maybe the padded bra is enough to get her on TV.”

Everyone except for Tony and Steve laughed. Tony was busy stealing looks at Bucky and Loki over his shoulder, and Steve was just staring at Tony in confusion and maybe even a little bit of fear.

Loki was gorgeous, all long limbs and porcelain skin, knowing smiles and flashing eyes and there was something about their voice that spoke of private moments and long nights and the sort of kisses Steve had no idea how to give.

If they were who Tony usually spent his time with, what the hell did Tony see in Steve? How long would it be before he got tired of being with a goody two shoes and went back?

“Can I talk to you?” Steve finally asked and when Tony didn’t turn around, Steve tugged at his sleeve impatiently. “Tony! Can I talk to you?”

“Yeah sweetheart.” Tony’s head snapped around and he attempted a smile up at Steve. “What is it? What’s on your mind?”

“Come here.” Steve laced their fingers together and pulled Tony towards a quieter part of the gym, ducking behind the row of bleachers that had been pulled out for extra seating. “Tony, did you and Cha Cha-- Tony!”

He raised his voice when he noticed Tony still wasn’t looking at him. “Tony! Stop staring at them for two seconds and listen to me!”

“I’m sorry.” Tony said quickly, forcing his attention off the distracting brunette and on to Steve. “What’s wrong Steve, what’s going on? You aren’t having a good time?”

“How could I be having a good time?” Steve asked blankly. “You’ve spent the last few minutes staring after Loki and they keep smiling at you like they know something I never will. Did you and Loki go out?”

“Oh god, no we didn’t go out.” Tony shook his head adamantly. “No it wasn’t like that, we definitely did not date or anything like that. What um-- what we did? Not dating.”

“Well then what’s going on?” Steve pressed. “And what’s the story with the dress? Why did Thor keep trying to shut everyone up?”

“Hey.” Tony squeezed at Steve’s hand. “Hey it’s-- it’s nothing. It’s nothing, Steve. It was just one time with Loki. Okay, I mean it was a few times with Loki, but we never went out, we just sorta-- we just sort hung out, you know?”

“That’s the same thing.” Steve protested and Tony insisted, “It’s really not. You and I are going together, we’re dating. But what happened with Loki is-- I mean it was--” he stole a quick look around the bleachers to where Bucky was spinning Loki across the floor, the damnable skirt flying up around Loki’s hips. “It was uh--just don’t worry about it, okay?”

“Oh.” Realization and something else awful flickered across Steve’s face, his heart sinking as he suddenly knew. “I see.”

“What?” Tony stepped closer and lowered his voice. “No no, you’re looking at me all crazy, Steve. It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“No?” Steve pulled away from Tony and put his hands in his pocket, hunching his shoulders. “I’m thinking that how you acted at the bonfire makes a lot more sense now that I know Loki is the type of person you usually date.”

“Wait.” Tony blinked. “What?”

“Obviously you and Loki did all the things together that you and I don’t.” Steve said helplessly. “You said that I had a ten o clock curfew and you had a whole other life after that and no one else was even surprised. It’s because of this, isn’t it?”

He motioned to the dance floor. “You and Loki together, and I know about you and Natasha.” he nodded when Tony’s eyes widened. “I know about Natasha. Do you and Bucky--” Steve sounded like he could barely get the words out. “You did something together with Loki, did you do that sort of thing with Tasha? Were you planning on sharing me with Bucky too?”

“It’s not like that!” Tony snapped, and Steve snapped right back, “Stop lying, Tony! Obviously there’s this whole other side to you that I have no clue about!”

“It’s not lying just because I haven’t told you everything!” Tony nearly shouted. “Do you really want to know about all the people I’ve slept with? Why does it even matter! It’s just sex! Sex and there was alcohol and things got crazy but none of it mattered the next day!”

“That’s awful.” Steve’s face went very white. “It’s awful if you think se--if you think you can do that with someone and it wouldn’t matter.” and then sounding as if he wanted to cry, “If we would have done it this summer, it wouldn’t have mattered? I’d be someone you avoided at dances and that all your friends laughed about? Everyone knows what happened with you and Loki, would that be me? Would I be the person gossiped about and laughed at because I was stupid enough to-- to do that with you?”

“If you and I would have--” Tony clenched his jaw and prayed for patience. “It would have mattered Steve. It still does. It will be different with you, not just sex. I promise. You mean so much to me. It could never just be sex. Not with you, not between us.”

“I don’t believe you.” Steve whispered, and Tony felt the words like a physical slap. “Because every time I learn more about you, you get further and further away from who I thought you were. I could handle you wearing leather jackets and I didn’t know you smoked but I sort of like the way cloves taste. I can handle that but I can’t handle--”

He motioned towards the dance floor. “You fooled around with Natasha and never called her back, left her alone cos you were hanging out with me. Carol told me all about it. And then with Loki, or Cha Cha or whoever the hell they are, it was you and Bucky? What’s the story with the dress? Do I even want to know?”

“...no.” Tony admitted and Steve’s face crumpled. “But I’m not like that anymore, Steve. That was just stupid stuff, but I promise, I promise being with you made me not want that anymore.”

“...I don’t believe you.” Steve said again, and it hurt just as bad as the first time. “Because it hasn’t been all that long, has it? Nobody changes from doing that sort of thing to being fine with just a few kisses. You can’t go from this person, to being who you were at the beach and then back to this person again all that fast. Somewhere along the line you are lying about who you are.”

“Steve--”

“This was a mistake.” A tear slipped down Steve’s cheek, blotting onto his new shirt. “I don't want to be someone everyone gossips about because I went with Tony Stark. I don’t want to be laughed about over ice cream or avoided at dances or pitied because I thought I knew you and everyone else knew who you really were.”

“Steve.”

“Who are you, Tony? I don’t know this version of you.” Another tear and Steve didn’t wipe it away. “And I don’t really like it.”

“Well what if this is the only version of me?” Tony thought he could be sick watching the heartbreak in Steve’s beautiful eyes. “What if this is just me? Yeah, I went with Loki and yeah me and Tasha had some fun. No, I never called them and sure, it was just sex, it didn’t matter at all, didn’t matter one bit but that doesn’t mean what you and I have doesn��t matter. So what if I wear leather jackets now, it doesn’t change who I am underneath, does it? I’m still me, Steve. I’m still Tony and I still love you. You’re telling me you can’t look past all that to see who we were this summer?”

Steve stayed quiet and Tony nearly pleaded, “I’m not real proud of how I acted before, but it was all before, alright? Underneath all this and all the rumours or whatever-- Steve, I’m still me. The clothes and school and how I acted at the bonfire, I was an asshole and I’m sorry. But that doesn’t matter in the long run, I’m still me. Can’t you see that?”

“I feel like you tricked me into loving you.” Steve swallowed back what might have been a sob and shook his head. “Because I never would have loved this Tony Stark at all.”

Steve turned and fled from the gym and Tony made it two steps into chasing him before slim fingers closed around his arm and Loki pulled him back. “Leaving so soon, Tony?” they asked with a wicked smile. “Why so serious? Come and dance with me.”

“Lo, you look amazing tonight.” Tony sort of hated that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the length of leg showing beneath the split in Loki’s skirt. “But I gotta go after Steve. I have to. He’s all freaked out about--”

“--about who you are?” Loki interrupted smoothly. “If he can’t handle you then maybe you should spend time with people who can.”

“...I’m willing to change, though.” Tony stared at the gym doors. “I could change for him.”

“Maybe he should change for you.” They pointed out, and Tony frowned. “If he wants to keep you, I mean. But it sure doesn’t seem like he wants to keep you, if he can’t handle being in the same room as someone who’s seen you naked.”

Loki winked to ease the sting of the words. They didn’t mean anything awful by it, not really. Loki didn’t go to the school and ignored all sorts of social conventions and had the unnerving habit of speaking their mind constantly, but they were rarely mean and they weren’t trying to be mean right now, so Tony softened a little under their smile.

“So what, you pretended to be a good boy to get into his pants and it didn’t work? It’s time to stop pretending and just dance with me.”

“...I should go after him.” Tony said quietly. “I should--”

I never would have loved this Tony Stark.

“Actually, you know what?” Tony was just hurt enough, just brittle enough to take Loki’s hand. “We should dance. Wanna show these kids how we can burn up a dance floor?”

“Always.” Loki twirled their skirts and Tony snatched them up against their body, moving them in a slow grind to the music pounding over the speakers. “Mmmm, see I like this Tony Stark just fine. No reason to change at all.”

“Yeah.” Tony skated his hands down Loki’s back and tried to smile when the gorgeous brunette only sashayed closer. “No reason to change. This is fine.”

“This is not fine.” Bucky disagreed, watching in distaste as Loki and Tony danced. “M’not just sayin’ it cos Loki came as my date, hell I don’t care if Tony dances with them, fuckin’ free game. But this is not fine. Tony belongs with Steve, not with Cha Cha. And Pepper’s off there trying to get up with Justin Hammer and--”

Screeching laughter suddenly erupted across the gym, and they all turned in time to see Pepper nearly falling over her heels as she stumbled back towards them, her hands over her mouth to try and quiet her laughter.

“Oh my god!” she gasped as she finally made it to the group. “Oh my god you are never going to believe-- I can’t even-- okay seriously, you guys--”

“Pep?” Clint held the pretty redhead steady as she collapsed into giggles again. “What’s up?”

“He’s shorter than me!” Pepper practically screamed. “Justin Hammer is shorter than me! He had to look up at me and then tried to tell me--” she finally kicked off her heels and settled barefoot on the floor. “Oh my god, he looked up at me and said ‘well from down here, your talent sure is obvious’ and I--”

This time when she laughed the entire group joined in. “I can’t-- he said-- oh my god--from down here! What in the hell?”

“Hey you know what we should do?” Valkyrie took the thermos from Clint and sloshed the contents around. “To get back at Hammer for being fucking creepy and weirdly short, we should all moon the camera when it goes around the gym, get our butts broadcast on national television.”

“Oh, I’d have to be very drunk for that.” Pepper decided and Sam whooped, “CHALLENGE ACCEPTED!”

Across the gym, Bruce hugged Natasha a little closer to his side and commented, “Your friends are a little wild.”

“Yep.” Natasha watched them all laughing, and swallowed back a jolt of misery when she saw Bucky grin down at Pepper. “Yeah, they sort of are.”

“If you want--”

“Let’s get out of here.” Natasha interrupted and pushed Bruce towards the door. “Let’s just.. let’s just go. I don’t want to be here.”

***************

SAY SOMETHING ABOUT THE CHAPTER!

***************

@ships-galore @ceealaina @izziebladez @cwar1864 @hausoffro @lookuplaughing @tonystarkisanangel @multishippinglife @girlnic @iam93percentstardust @water-colouredmemories @paranormalmoonlight5 @igotloki @moosette05 @wayward-student-philosopher @kaz-brekkers-gloves @atomicfandombomb @desitonystark @1fuckingshitup69 @agentlokii @here-for-your-bullshit @livewire28 @flowers-and-honey @bluedreamdino @blackreaders-assemble @pidgist @im-not-an-armrest-im-short @lronfrost @aisu-hawk @gabtheflowercat

#ncts fics #stony #steve rogers #tony stark #winterwidow #bucky barnes #natasha romanov #grease au #highschool au

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calumcest · 4 years

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Sit 3, sentence 37 for malum?? hope ur having a good day :-D

i have had a good day thank u anon!! it is actually over now rip tuesday but i hope u are having a good day too xo

3 - The aftermath of a bad fight / 37 - “You’re stuck with me, like it or not.”

Sometimes, Calum wishes technology didn’t exist.

Sometimes it’s because he wants to be able to disconnect, hates the anxiety that builds up at the fact that he knows people think he’s always reachable, that he can’t ever truly detach himself from the world. Sometimes, it’s because he thinks it’s bad for him, bad for his mental health, seeing all the comments and feeling the pressure to keep up interacting with people and posting on a regular basis.

Mostly, though, it’s because Michael’s eyes have been glued to a screen since 2005.

“Mike,” he says, for about the twentieth time. “Are you nearly done?”

“Yeah,” Michael says, in that absent-minded tone that means he didn’t listen to what Calum said at all.

“How long are you going to be?”

“Like, five minutes, Cal, chill,” Michael says, staring intently at the screen.

“You said that fifteen minutes ago,” Calum says pointedly.

“Well, I mean it this time,” Michael says. Calum feels a flare of annoyance rise in his chest at the fucking nonchalance with which Michael’s treating this situation.

“Michael, I-” he starts, but Michael cuts him off.

“Jesus Christ, Cal, I said I’d be five minutes,” he says irritably, and the flare of annoyance turns into embarrassment and anger.

“What the fuck?” Calum demands. “Michael, it’s our date night, in case you’ve fucking forgotten. We have a reservation at a restaurant in twenty minutes.”

“It takes ten to drive there,” Michael says, sounding irked, like he’d rather be sat at home playing fucking Valorant than going out with Calum. Knowing Michael, Calum thinks acidly, he probably would.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Calum says angrily. “Mike, I got all dressed up to go out, and I’ve just been sat here watching you play Valorant for half an hour.”

“Well, go sit in the fucking bedroom, then you won’t have to watch me,” Michael snipes.

“I’m being fucking serious, Michael,” Calum snaps. “Is our relationship just a massive fucking joke to you?”

“What, because I want to play the last five minutes of my game I suddenly don’t love you?” Michael asks, finally spinning around in his chair to face Calum. “Is that what this is? Your fucking ego needs a stroke?” Calum stands up so fast his vision swims.

“Fuck you,” he says, calm and cool, grabs his coat, and walks out of the room.

Fuck Michael, he thinks darkly, as he grabs his car keys off the table. He fires off a quick text to Ashton that just says the address of the restaurant and to get there now, and Ashton responds within seconds with a thumbs up emoji.

Yeah. Fuck Michael.

Calum spends most of the dinner with Ashton seething silently, but Ashton lets him, and he loves him for it. He only makes one comment, when Ashton gives him a look as his phone lights up and both of them see Michael’s name flashing on the screen, and Calum turns it off.

“What?” he says defensively, seeing the look on Ashton’s face.

“Nothing,” Ashton says, but The Look doesn’t go away.

“It’s date night,” Calum says, “and he’s playing Valorant.” The Look turns into one of sympathy, and Ashton nods, but he doesn’t say anything, because he knows Calum will share more if he wants to. He doesn’t, so Ashton moves the conversation along, telling him how he broke his snare the other day and what a fucking pain it is trying to get another one, and Calum sends him a small smile, hoping he knows what it means.

Calum feels a lot calmer by the time he actually gets home at around ten, after a few hours with Ashton. He’s still pissed off, but more tiredly so, and he just wants to ignore Michael for the rest of the evening and go to bed. He’s not up for having a massive fight about it all over again.

The house is dark when he pushes the door open, and he thinks bitterly for a moment that Michael’s probably still in the office playing fucking Valorant. Then, however, he notices flickering on the walls of the kitchen, and immediately panics, thinking Michael’s tried to cook himself dinner and set the fucking house on fire. He kicks the door shut behind him and rushes through to the kitchen, ready to - actually, he doesn’t really know what he’s ready to do, spit on the fucking fire? - and skids to a halt as soon as he makes it into the room.

There are, like, seventy fucking candles arranged in a slightly wonky heart on the table, which is what’s causing the flickering light on the walls, and there’s a plate in the middle with what looks like the world’s biggest chocolate brownie on it.

“What the-” Calum starts, staring at the sight in front of him, and then cuts himself off as he hears a shuffling to his right.

“Hi,” Michael says, sounding nervous, and looking like he might cry.

“What is this?” Calum says, halfway between confused and tired. Michael is not really the person he wants to see right now.

“Uh,” Michael says, shifting from foot to foot. “I’m. I’m really sorry. About earlier, I mean.” Calum closes his eyes and sighs deeply.

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it tonight,” he says, because frankly, he’s still kind of hurt and upset and he’s not sure he can make it through that whole conversation without yelling or crying.

“I know,” Michael says. “I just.” He shrugs, and pulls the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“And that’s what this is?” Calum says, eyeing the table warily. “Setting fire to the fucking house and buying me a brownie?”

“No, I-” Michael looks embarrassed, and Calum kind of feels bad. That was uncalled for. “I baked it.”

And, okay, what?

“You what?” Calum says, not entirely sure he heard that right. Maybe he said he faked it, like, bought it from a shop and took it out of the packet to pretend he made it himself.

“I baked it,” Michael repeats. “I figured you’d gone out to eat anyway and I know you never order dessert in restaurants because they’re never chocolatey enough for you.”

Calum tries not to let his heart thaw a little at that, but honestly, it’s difficult. Michael standing there, looking nervous but earnest, having baked Calum a fucking brownie because he knows exactly how Calum likes them and also that Calum never eats dessert in restaurants for that specific reason, hits Calum like a fucking metric ton of bricks.

“Christ, Mikey,” he says, and it comes out softer than he’d intended. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I did,” Michael says, “because I was a dick. Worse than a dick. I got caught up in my game, and I was being selfish. I didn’t think about what picking Valorant over date night might mean to you.” Calum can’t help but huff out a laugh at that, a little melancholy, a little amused.

“You’re a dick,” he agrees sadly.

“I know,” Michael mumbles. “It’s not because I don’t love you. I love you more than I could ever fucking tell you. If you want me to stop playing, I’ll stop playing.”

“No, you won’t,” Calum says wearily.

“I will,” Michael says earnestly. “It’s just a game, Cal. It’s just a bit of fun. You’re everything else.” Calum’s lips quirk up in a small smile, despite himself.

“I don’t want you to give up things you enjoy,” he says. “I just don’t want you to choose them over me on date night.”

“I know,” Michael says, and he sounds guilty. “I- fuck. I really am sorry. I know I fucked up. You’re more important to me than anything, and I never want you to feel like you’re second place to anything again.” Calum’s smiling properly now, heart almost fully softened.

“So you baked me a brownie?” he says. Michael nods.

“It took me three tries,” he says. “I had to make sure it was just right.”

That’s it. Calum’s heart is officially back in Michael’s hands.

“C’mere,” Calum says, and it’s what Michael’s been waiting for, almost breaking into a jog in his haste to cross the room and fling himself at Calum. Calum stumbles backwards a little before steadying himself, burying his face in Michael’s shoulder and breathing him in.

“‘M sorry,” Michael says, muffled by Calum’s shoulder.

“Good,” Calum says. “I can’t believe you baked me a fucking brownie, Jesus Christ.”

“Three,” Michael reminds him. “But the other two weren’t perfect.” Calum pulls Michael closer, as close as he can get without, like, melding into Calum.

“You’re a fucking romantic when you want to be,” he murmurs. “I’m lucky to have you.”

“Good,” Michael says, and he sounds a little wobbly, “because you’re stuck with me, like it or not.” Calum smiles, and presses a kiss to Michael’s shoulder.

They stand like that for a moment, holding each other tight and both trying not to cry, until Calum remembers something.

“Where’d you get all the fucking candles?” he asks, and Michael laughs, but it comes out as a sob.

“I’d do fucking anything for you, Cal,” Michael says, sincere and a little choked. He pauses for a moment, then adds, “Including but not limited to blackmailing our neighbours for all of their candles.”

Calum laughs too, and pretends the dampness on Michael’s shoulder was there all along.

#malum #drabbles #ok this ended up quite long 1.5k YET AGAIN i cannot write a drabble everything turns into short fics #this was written entirely listening to bleed american on repeat #while my housemate spammed the house gc with images and videos of different sloths from the national geographic livestream #there is a lot going on #also trump halting funding to the who #LMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMFAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOO kill me now #anyway someone write a fic about calum listening to bleed american please #unrelated but thinking about it #Anonymous

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icarus-imagines · 5 years

Text

Alois Trancy X Male!Gay!Reader

May I request an Alois Trancy X Male (Gay) Reader? I would appreciate one so much! I want Alois and the gay male to be bedmates for the old man. Thank you.

Word Count: 2,131

Category: Black Butler/Kuroshitsuji

~Eternity~

"Are you cold?"

"Hmm?" Your head snaps up at the sudden voice that sliced the earlier silence enveloping the big cells which held you and several boys who were also held captive.

Your eyes raise from the female maidservants passing through who you were watching earlier, washing some of the boys off with buckets full of water, to a boy to your right realizing it was Alois. A smile graces your features as you stare over at him. He wasn't one to talk much ever since you two had met, frankly that had been the first thing he had ever said to you in quite a long time. You shook your head your (H/c) locks swishing a bit at the gesture. "Īe, I'm alright."

You hug your knees tighter to your chest, knowing it was a lie. The floors made of cold hard stone was beyond freezing underneath your mostly naked body that only had a towel like a skirt wrapped around your hip like everybody else, not helping you were quite a modest due to your upraising in life unlike most of the others. Water dumped from the buckets nearby seeped into the stone cracks, some making its way into your shared area. Thankfully you had both snagged a corner where it was the driest and was shadowed for more privacy.

A gasp almost leaves your mouth as an arm wraps around you from behind your back, then your shoulder, dragging you close into a chest. You freeze but realize it was only Alois. It shocked you due to the fact he had never shown 'affection' before. You slowly relaxed relishing in the warmth brought on by his body.

Stealing a glance towards his face his usually cold lifeless eyes had softened making them look 'normal'. Though you could still see a hint of a secret rage similar to that of an ocean storm occurring. Likely from his past. His hair, though a bit grimy, was shiny and looked soft with the light blond color adorning it. But what surprised you the most was his lips. He seemed to be smiling. Or more evidently smirking, to better suit him. It was small and would only be seen if you knew what to look for closely.

"You liar," Aloi's murmurs, "you could have just told me you were... "

His voice trails off his tone almost emitting dissatisfaction and disgust towards the receiver. But you just continued grinning knowing he didn't really mean what he had said towards you.

"Whatever you say," you whisper softly as your hand reaches up swiftly, to the small singular cowlick protruding from his head angled to the left, and flicking it nonchalantly before bringing your hand back down. "Jim. "

You momentarily feel him tense, before it disappears as if nothing happened. Though against your normal nature you liked teasing him whenever you two were alone and in private together. But you always knew when it went too far. And knowing Alois's past you had to be extra careful where you prodded into for the enjoyment of joking around with him. Thankfully you had not gone too far and had gotten him to smile slightly.

Thinking for a few moments you snuggle further into his chest sadness overtaking your form remembering once again the situation you two were still in. Being sold to a boy-loving rich elderly man was something you had not thought yourself being capable of. But unfortunately, it had happened when you had run away from your family after you had confessed dear things about yourself. You, not being able to wait for an answer, escaped to only be caught by small-town villagers that sold you quickly. All of them clearly happy they had gotten pieces of gold for your body. Quite selfish, you thought to yourself

You bat away the sad thoughts with an imaginary hand flick, even though you knew they would never truly go away. Fiddling with your fingers you ask Alois a small question, almost cringing as you hear your voice crack a bit. "Do you think we will ever escape? Or be free...?"

It unsettled you the way the air hung heavy after those words, but you ignored it desperate for an answer from the closest person you considered a friend in this hell hole.

"Yes, " he simply states, his voice completely steady unlike yours had been. (E/c) eyes widening the slightest at the casual response you lift your head, looking through your (H/c) hair, to see his expression. He seemed to be smirking again though something in his eyes scared you, never before seen such a look from him before. He turns to you a little too slow for your liking but nevertheless smiles. "No matter what we will escape the grasp of this horrid 'Queen's Spider'. And after that, we will have all the time in the world. "

You relax returning his facial expression feeling lighter than air. Nodding enthusiastically you agree without a hint of regret. Alois keeps the smile on his face as he gazes at you. He lays his head on your shoulder entirely.

"Go to sleep, we will have a lot to do tomorrow... "

You would both get out of here...

No matter the cost...

Unfortunately, if you had known the cost beforehand you would have never agreed...

~*~*~*~

~Not Too Long Ago~

"Oh, they must be the new ones... "

You lift up your head, new to a sound other than muffled crying from other boys, horseshoes, and the creak of the wagon. To be greeted by two middle-aged men talking as the wagons containing not only you but about twenty or so other boys passed by.

"No wonder he's called the Queen's Spider. Even the way he eats is spider-like. "

You lean closer trying to continue hearing the conversation.

"Unfortunately the prey caught in his web... He consumes their noble purity to the last drop. "

"How horrible... "

You mentally nod agreeing but stop short as you silently bump into the person next to you due to your earnest attempt to listen to their conversation. Frantically embarrassed you offer a quick apology.

"Gomenesai! " you start. "I wasn't watching myse-" you cut off your own blabbering nervously looking up at the person.

Revealing it to be a person with platinum blond hair and cool blue eyes. He stared at you without any words, and though he wasn't intending it seemed as if he was piercing you simply with his small gaze.

Deciding to ease the tension you introduce yourself to him hoping you would succeed. "M-my name is (Y/n) (L/n). And you are? "

He stares a bit longer, it looks as if he was thinking for a bit.

Did he forget his own name?

"A-Alois," he begins, but his voice grows steadier with each word. "Alois Trancy."

You nod giving him a small smile. But frown a bit at his semi-surprised expression. He answers your question as he speaks.

"You don't seem like the rest of us... "

You shrug not sure how were set apart, though it did appear you were different. "I guess they haven't broken my spirit yet. And I won't let them. "

He offers the faintest of smiles to you before watching the scenery go by before saying, "Well, I hope they don't... "

~*~*~*~

~Present Time~

Your eyelids crack open, (E/c) eyes traveling this way and that remembering where you are. Recalling the events that had happened until now. Along with how your relationship with Alois had progressed from strangers to something complicated and special.

Yet another day in hell. You bring the thin blanket over yourself, in the wooden cubicle like a box, thankful your were warm enough to still be surfing in these unliveable conditions.

Just as your about to doze you are startled by loud gasps and breaths for air. Peering up you see Alois, his golden hair more disheveled than normal, his eyes slightly shaking. And for some odd reason, you could almost seem to hear him say 'A demon'. But it must have just been your head messing with you. Beside that fact, you arise from the small bed and reach out an (S/c) hand on his shoulder.

He turns around quickly easily startled, but his expression and breaths soften realizing it's just you. "Are you alright? " you ask still groggy from being woken up late. Alois merely nods, but still looks unnerved.

Turning to you he seems shy and reluctant, but he confronts you. "Is it alright if I sleep with you tonight...

Without a second thought, you nod scooting over to make room for him. He slid in easily overlapping his own blanket with your (F/c) one. Both of you laying back down once more you stare at him, transfixed at his beautiful features.

It had unnerved you earlier when the old man had said Alois's eyes were the color of rust stuck to the bottom of a drain pipe. You, on the contrary, thought his eyes reminded you of the outside sky. Though cliché it was due to the fact you nor most of the other boys had seen the outside world in such a long time. So peering into his eyes reminded you what the day used to look like.

Snapping out of your thoughts you looked worriedly at Alois still unnerved by the way he had woken up earlier. "Did you have a nightmare? "

Alert from your voice he stares down at you since he was still taller even in a bed with you, he nods ashamed he could get scared of such a small thing. Since he was supposed to be the person scared of nothing out of the two you.

"Y-yes, but... Now that I am here with you I'll be alright..., " he remarks intertwining his fingers with yours. Using his other hand he cups your (slim/chubby/ round/oval/etc) cheek. Your eyes widen perplexed at his statement.

Cheeks heating a fiery red, which you are sure he can feel by now, you merely tighten your grip on his fingers in yours, not wanting to let go anytime soon. "No matter what, we'll be together forever right? "

Removing the hand from your cheek he wraps it around your (Body/type) waist, his forehead touching yours.

"Of course we will. That perverted old man won't be able to keep us apart no matter what we go through."

Grinning you yawn still sleep deprived. Alois takes note of this and impishly smiles. "Sorry, for waking you up. But you can sleep now. I'll be here in the morning and we'll run away together... "

~*~*~*~

~Extra Ending~

True to his word Alois had gotten you both out of that cruel place with the help of a butler clad in black, that to your knowledge was actually a demon. Though you didn't like him, finding him very suspicious from the moment you set your sight on him for the first time, you still put up with him due to how much you cared for Alois.

(You never forgot that Alois had to be touched by the pervert after everything had happened. You had to scold him, yet his response was if you had wanted to be his first instead. To which you couldn't answer from severe blushing and stuttering.)

It was true not long after escaping you had confessed to liking him more than just a friend and even a brother. Expecting to be rejected you were surprised when Alois shared exactly the same view. Making you both even more joyful than you both had already been. Even more so when Alois had unexpectedly told you he could still become the heir to the Trancy Manor. (How it happened you didn't know, but did you really care?)

The events leading up to everything occurring with the Earl Ciel Phantomhive and his demon Butler Sebastian Michaelis hadn't driven you away from Alois. But had brought you closer, even with Alois's personality reopening.

Being devoured by Hannah, yet another demon Alois had encountered (Not including the triplets), made you happy. You could 'live' for eternity by Alois's side along with Hannah and Alois's cute younger brother Luka, who quickly took a special liking to you. 'Life' had never been better.

The future you had built with Alois...

Would last for an eternity...

That you were absolutely sure of...

#x reader #male reader #male!reader #gay reader #gay!reader #black butler #kuroshitsuji #oneshot #imagine #drabble #alois trancy #alois trancy x reader #alois trancy x gay!reader #alois trancy x male!reader #alois trancy x male!gay!reader #request #wattpad #anime

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an-otome-cally-correct · 5 years

Text

Sating Curiosity

Going to hell for writing it, going to hell for sharing it. If you wanna read more of my stuff, then check here. Note: Spice

Shakespeare knew full well what it meant to be curious. He always had been, after all. Maybe not in the way most people would be - seldom did he find people who shared his interests, unfortunately - but he was curious all the same.

Curious as to what circumstances could lead a man to break character, to break routine, to break expectations - to break, break, break.

And right now?

“...Would you let me bite you?”

Shakespeare was curious as to what could have possibly made Vincent, of all people, make such a… peculiar request.

In his long existence, Shakespeare had come to understand that if one wished to know, one had to ask. And so, he asked - asked what had spurred the other man to ask him of such a thing, and Vincent graciously explained, the pale skin of his cheeks gradually flushing red as he did so.

It was always a pleasant sight to see the painter so flustered. Frankly, Shakespeare wanted to watch him for just a bit longer, but when he found out that his dear friend’s curiosity had been brought about by a certain, shameless flirt of a writer who just so happened to drop a few questionable comments- Needless to say, the playwright wasn’t surprised.

That said, he respected Arthur Conan Doyle as a peer. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said the other way around. If Shakespeare was to say anything about him though, it would be that the way he hung around Theodorus had piqued his interest. But that was for another time.

For now, he still had to resolve the matter at hand.

Vincent was patiently waiting for a response, his eyebrows furrowed and his gaze pointedly turned to somewhere else. As embarrassed as the painter was, Shakespeare could not see any sign of him taking his words back, and so he thought over the request.

Would he let Vincent bite him?

He could see no repercussion that he deemed too unpleasant. Then again, some would argue that his standards were a tad bit skewed, but that was beside the point. After some consideration, he couldn’t come up with a substantial enough reason to turn Vincent down - not that he needed any. If he decided to say ‘no’ he doubted Vincent would press the topic, but now that he had begun to mull over it, Shakespeare would be a liar if he was to say that he wasn’t curious as well.

Shakespeare had bitten others before. Granted, they were human, and not fellow vampire. Maybe one of these days, he would have Vincent return the favor in kind, but to be bitten? Aside from when the Count had turned him - that moment of his life was regrettably all a blur to him now - he had never been bitten again. Of course he knew what a vampire’s bite could do to its victim, but he had never known how it felt exactly.

And since it was Vincent…

Shakespeare decided it was high time he found out.

“I see...” he hummed, leaning back against his seat. Vincent’s gaze snapped back to him, his posture stuff and his face an endearing red, and Shakespeare allowed himself a moment to appreciate the wonderful expression he wore before continuing. “And you thought I was the most appropriate person to turn to?”

Vincent didn’t answer immediately. “There was no one else I’d rather ask, except you.”

Shakespeare arched an eyebrow. It was an interesting response, and he would have loved to pick apart his words, but that would hardly change the nature of his answer.

“Very well then.”

It took Vincent a moment to process what he had said, and when it finally dawned him, his eyes grew wide and his jaw went slack. It took him another second to compose himself, suddenly wary. “...You would really let me bite you?”

“Didn’t you come here, expecting that I would?” A guilty expression crossed Vincent’s face, and Shakespeare couldn’t help but chuckle. “Frankly, I’m curious as well, Vincent. So.. how would you suggest we go about this?” Already, he had a finger hooked onto his scarf to undo it - it would no doubt get in the way - but to his surprise, Vincent stopped him.

“I’ll… Please allow me to do it.”

This time, Shakespeare couldn’t help but comment. “Well aren’t you full of surprises today.” Vincent froze, a certain kind of fear evident in his eyes - a fear of rejection. Briefly, he considered the advantages and disadvantages, and when he found no difference, he let go of his scarf. “Then I’ll leave you to it.”

With his approval gained, Vincent got up from his seat and settled beside him on the couch, his movement still stiff, but carrying an unprecedented determination. It was an intriguing thing to watch, his mismatched eyes never drifting away from those brilliant eyes, up until the point when the painter lightly took hold of the lapels of his coat.

Right then, Shakespeare felt his heart trip on its rhythm.

“Are you sure about this, Will?” Vincent asked, his voice laced with genuine concern and his face far too close for Shakespeare to doubt otherwise. “If this is in any way uncomfortable for you, then-”

“It makes no difference,” he cut in, shrugging.

It truly didn’t.

Even if the warm breath gently sweeping across his skin was enough to singe him. Even if the soothing voice in which he called his name did nothing to quell the ever increasing beat of his heart. Even if the scent, his scent…

Had Vincent always smelled so… sweet?

Shakespeare caught himself before his mind could wander any further, and schooled his features before the other man could figure out his thoughts.

“It makes no difference,” he repeated, but in the back of his mind, Shakespeare could hear a small voice asking whether it for Vincent’s sake- or his own. “It’s just but a simple bite.”

“A simple bite,” Vincent echoed, nodding, before he began to push away the coat from his shoulders. Slowly, Shakespeare eased himself out of it, and once the piece of clothing was safely put on the coffee table, Vincent turned his attention to the vest and scarf.

With every button Vincent undid, with every piece of clothing he peeled off, Shakespeare found it more and more difficult to remain composed as he anticipated the other man’s every move. It was far, far too seldom that he see the painter in such a state, and the unusual situation they had found themselves in brought about an unexpected thrill. Even more, he couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit smug, knowing that all of this, only he would get to see - only him.

Before long, he could feel Vincent’s breath against his neck, scorching every inch of skin possible and drowning him in that sweet, sweet scent of his.

“Please be gentle,” he chuckled, as a joke.

Vincent didn’t think it was.

“I will,” he promised, earnest, before pressing his lips against his neck in a kiss - soft, sweet, and most of all, unexpected. Before Shakespeare could ask - what that was for, what that meant, what that was - he felt a sharp pain, and instead of words, a quiet gasp slipped past his parted lips.

His whole body tensed as Vincent sank his fangs into his skin and began to suck his blood. The pain was hardly anything he couldn’t handle, but whatever illusion Shakespeare had of being in control was completely shattered when the sting gradually faded away, replaced by an overwhelming heat that flooded his veins, setting aflame every part of his body until he was raw and trembling. Shakespeare realized just how quickly he was coming undone, and in an effort to hold onto what little was left of his composure, he took a deep breath-

Only for it to come out as a heady moan.

Both he and Vincent stilled at the sound that escaped him, neither one entirely sure what to do. For what seemed like an eternity, all Shakespeare could hear was his own thundering heart, his own ragged breathing, his own swirling thoughts that wanted more, more, more.

But then, Vincent pulled away and met his gaze, and Shakespeare found himself looking at eyes that were the most brilliant shade of blue he had ever seen, burning with a fire that he wanted to keep all to himself.

“I… I think we should stop here, Will,” Vincent breathed, his voice thick and heavy with a hunger much more carnal than a vampire’s thirst for blood.

Shakespeare couldn’t help but smile.

This was proving to be a very interesting turn of events.

Shakespeare reached out a hand, wiping away the blood that stained Vincent’s lips with his thumb, the other man’s eyes growing wide and his face flushing a deeper shade of red. “But do you want to stop?” With a quiet chuckle, he licked away the red liquid from his finger. “Has your curiosity been satisfied?”

In the span of a few seconds, a myriad of emotions flashed across Vincent’s face before he answered in a shy, quiet voice. “...No.”

Pleased with his answer, a smile settled on Shakespeare’s features as he gently drew Vincent’s face closer to his, until the distance between their lips barely existed. Were it any other person, he wouldn’t have let any of this happen, but since it was Vincent-

“Then have me any way you will, until you are.”

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #fanfiction #william shakespeare #vincent van gogh #uhhhhh what do I tag this #romance #spice #not sure #I'm sorry Vincent bby

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hotforsarek · 5 years

Text

So, I got my hands on some old TOS paperbacks and am slowly making my way through them. I most recently read The Vulcan Academy Murders by Jean Lorrah and oh boy, I did not enjoy it. Since this book enjoys quite a bit of good will amongst the fandom I felt compelled to write a review to spell out exactly why I hated it so much. I originally posted this review on my goodreads, which you are more than welcome to follow or friend me on to track my progress/reviews on other Star Trek novels (as well as my regular reading, of course.) I thought I’d cross post it to my Star Trek blog, because... well... it’s my Star Trek blog. Anyway, feel free to let me know your thoughts, review is below the cut. :^)

Jean Lorrah’s Original Series novel The Vulcan Academy Murders promises a murder mystery, a family drama and a nuanced exploration of Vulcan society and culture, but fails to deliver on all fronts.

Kirk et al. land on Vulcan to seek out an experimental medical treatment for a wounded Ensign in critical condition. Spock’s mother Amanda also happens to be undergoing the same treatment and Kirk is quickly drawn into the complex web of Spock’s familial drama. Soon enough, patients start dying – the cause is written down to a catastrophic equipment failure, but Kirk suspects foul-play. With no official law-enforcement body on the virtually crimeless Vulcan, Kirk must take the investigation into his own hands and until the killer is caught, Amanda’s life is imperilled.

As other reviewers have said, the mystery itself is laughable. I was able to correctly guess the murderer and their motive within the first 20 pages. The remaining 250 pages are insulting not only to the reader but also to the characters, who are meant to represent Starfleet and The Vulcan Academy’s best and brightest and yet are too dense to figure out who the obvious culprit is. Kirk’s investigation is so inept, it’s almost embarrassing. “You work on the ‘how,’” he orders Spock and Sarek, “and I’ll work on the ‘who.’” This apparently absolves him of the need to collect forensic evidence, establish a timeline, chase up suspect’s alibis, or do any work at all really, except speculate wildly and make accusations based on nothing but his own personal grudges.

Given Kirk’s enthusiasm in playing parts in episodes such as A Piece of the Action, it seems a real missed opportunity to not have him lean in fully into the Private Eye role – I probably could have forgiven the weakly-constructed mystery had Lorrah thought to throw in a couple of pulpy Noir-isms. Philip Marlowe seems like the kind of figure that Kirk would admire – street smart, can hold his own in a fight, but still appreciates chess and poetry. And can’t you just imagine a Captain’s Log told in the style of a hardboiled detective monologue? Alas, despite the boast on the cover (Captain Kirk becomes an interplanetary homicide detective!) it feels all very half-hearted and in name only.

The family drama portion of the book has two components, the first being the relationship between Sarek and Spock after their 18 year-long estrangement. There are a few scenes where Sarek regretfully reflects on Spock’s upbringing and his many failings as a father. Throughout the book he endeavours in earnest to make amends and eventually comes to accept his son without judgement or pity, but pride. These scenes are genuinely very affecting and unfortunately far too few – Sarek and Spock’s reconciliation is eclipsed by the second family drama aspect of the book, the romance between the two original characters, Corrigan and T’Mir.

I’m surprised and a little concerned to read so many positive reactions to Corrigan and T’Mir’s relationship because to me it came off as utterly repulsive. One is a 73 year old human man, the other a Vulcan girl who has just reached “sexual maturity.” (Yuck) If that’s not bad enough, T’Mir is the daughter of Corrigan’s colleague and close friend, and he has apparently being lusting after her since her childhood! T’Mir says: “I have known since childhood why you turned down every opportunity for marriage: you were waiting for me to grow up.” It comes across less as May-December romance and far more as “creepy incestuous uncle.” I kept hoping that my initial prediction at the killer’s true identity was wrong, that perhaps T’Mir would turn out to be a femme fatale seducing this love-starved old man for some nefarious purpose but no! Truly stomach-turning stuff.

Corrigan and T’Mir’s relationship also serves as a window into the politics of Vulcan courtship and bonding, and more critically, the “Vulcan” understanding of gender and sexuality. I write “Vulcan” in quotations, because the views depicted are quite transparently the author’s own personal beliefs that read as bizarrely out of place in this futuristic alien society. Lorrah’s repeated comments about the inherent and immutable differences between men and women are exhausting, especially because they are almost always used to the effect of “Women, am I right guys?” Sarek comments archly to Spock: “The differences your mother and I rejoice in have much more to do with being male and female than with being Vulcan and human.” Women: they’re practically another species! Moreover, Lorrah’s worship of the perfect, inviolate sanctity of the heterosexual union is, frankly, nauseating. The bonding between Corrigan and T’Mir is described as a meeting between “the exquisite awareness of male and female, opposites drawn to one another deeply and strongly in the eternal plan of nature.” If I rolled my eyes any harder I’d be looking at my own grey matter.

I want to make it clear that I’m not particularly oversensitive towards this sort of thing. My tolerance for heterosexual bullshit is actually pretty high - but sentences like this happened every other page! I was constantly being battered with it. It almost felt like Lorrah was shoving her heterosexuality down my throat. (Ha!)

My personal objections to gender essentialism and heterosexism aside, it’s lazy, uninspired, and just plain bad writing. I outright reject the notion that extra-terrestrials some hundreds of years in the future would uncritically subscribe to notions of gender and sexuality that were outdated and regressive on Earth even at the time of this book’s publication. Within the context of Vulcan, it makes zero sense. Surely a culture in which “Infinite diversity in infinite combinations” is a central philosophy would be able to conceive of innumerable gender expressions and sexual orientations?

TL;DR: this book is yucky, don’t read it.

#star trek #star trek tos #the vulcan academy murders

14 notes · View notes

missmungoe · 6 years

Note

How would Ace handle the news of a child named after his father? Ah! So much cute bonding potential right there

(I love the two completely different suggestions for this scenario)

WHAT MAKES US // Shanks x Makino // an addendum to The Things We Owe and Stranger Families Than This

“You did what?”

The look Shanks shot him brimmed with amusement, taking in his incredulous expression, sharp features brightened with sudden offence and his brows furrowed deep, and the whole ensemble offset by the happy, red-haired baby cooing over the string of beads around his neck, although Ace seemed suddenly oblivious to the small, delighted attentions.

“We named him,” Shanks repeated, with insufferable patience. “It’s common to give them names—your kids. Calling them ‘you’ seems so impersonal, you know?”

Clearly unappreciative of his questionably appropriate glibness (although to be fair, most people in Shanks’ acquaintance were), Ace just stared at him, before he turned his gaze to Makino. “Roger?” he asked, as though for extra clarification, in case he’d somehow misheard. Shanks had a thought to ask if he wasn’t hoping that was the case, even as Ace added, disbelieving, “Why?”

“Because all my other suggestions were brutally shot down,” Shanks answered, tossing Makino a meaningful glance, although he only feigned his offence; Ace’s was entirely in earnest. “A crime, if you ask me. Some of them were really good.”

“You went through my entire shelf of whiskeys,” Makino countered, and to Ace, said, “And hard as it might be to believe, I’m not being literal when I say that.”

“Hey, Jameson could have worked,” Shanks told her. “Johnnie, too.”

She raised a delicate brow. “And if it had been a girl?”

He didn’t miss a single beat, and chirped with a cheerful grin, “Talisker. Tali for short.”

She shook her head, but before she could say anything—no doubt to contest the notion that she’d ever consider naming their child after a brand of whiskey—“Either of those would have been better,” Ace told them both, looking between them, the gurgling baby still in his arms. “Seriously. Roger?”

A sharp note lanced through the name, something harder than disbelief colouring his voice now; it had come to settle in his brow, and the tight press of his mouth.

As though sensing his rising agitation, the baby made a sound of distress; a tiny, bubbling noise that quickly swelled to a wail, before cresting in a startled shriek. Ace winced, and reached over to hand him back to Shanks, who accepted the exchange with practiced ease, despite his lone arm, and the now screaming baby grasping his cloak for purchase.

Luffy had his hands pressed over his ears. “It’s loud.”

“You think this is loud?” Shanks asked, voice raised to reach over his son’s wailing. “He’s got nothing on me.” And with a lewd wink at Makino, quipped, “Just ask my wife.”

From the common room at their backs, several groans rose to accompany the remark, although Roger’s screaming didn’t pause for breath, even as Shanks rocked him.

“What?” he asked, at the enduring look Makino gave him. He nodded at their son. “He’s too young to understand.”

“I’m not!” Luffy shouted, hands still over his ears, although seemingly for a different reason now, and Shanks laughed.

It took a few attempts of soothing to still the cries—and one impromptu rendition of a favoured shanty, loudly accompanied by the whole bar while the long-suffering subject of the song demonstrated her mortification by making a strategic retreat into the storeroom, before all that remained were the lingering sniffles muffled into the collar of his cloak, the humming dregs of the last chorus murmured against his son’s hair, and to the backdrop of their laughter, soft and breathless by the time Makino reluctantly emerged from her hiding place.

Ace was watching the baby, a pensive weight across his brow that was acutely familiar, although Shanks doubted it was a good time to point out that he looked his father’s spitting image with that expression.

Beside him, Sabo was frowning. “You okay, Ace?”

“Ace?” Luffy asked, when their brother made to slide off his barstool.

“I need some air,” Ace said, and before either of his brothers could ask anything else, he was making for the doors, his steps unhurried but a curious urgency thrumming in the tense line of his shoulders.

The soft whine of the doors left swinging in his wake lingered amidst the conversation, having descended to a manageable level.

Shanks looked to Makino. “And here I was hoping there’d be a few more years before we had to deal with our kids walking off in a huff of adolescent disagreement,” he mused, although he was already rising from his chair as he said it. And when he moved to hand their son over, she was there to meet him, pressing a kiss to his hair when a noise of distress left him at the prospect of separation, before she reached to gently pry loose the little fingers gripping the collar of his father’s cloak.

“You know,” Shanks told her, hand resting over their son’s back where she’d wrapped her arms around him, “you might have better luck with this conversation. He actually likes you.” Then, one brow arched, added, “Potentially a bit too much, from what I’m hearing, but I’m choosing to let that slide.”

The look she gave him was fond, and wholly knowing. “I think you know who needs to have this conversation.”

Shanks sighed. “Yeah.” He tucked a kiss to her brow, before reaching down to run his fingers over the baby’s head where he’d buried it in her throat. “At least you can’t walk out in a huff yet. Or walk, for that matter.” He looked at Makino. “If he pushes me off the docks and the sea king finally gets the rest of me, please know that I love you both. And that you wilfully sent me to my fate.”

She gave him a gentle shove towards the doors. “Stop teasing, or I’ll be the one pushing you off the docks.”

“Do I hear an implied offer to go skinny dipping? Because you know I’m always game.”

“Cap!” Yasopp called from across the room, before gesturing in the direction of the bar, where Luffy was making an impressive show of trying to physically melt into the bar-top. Sabo gave his brother a sympathetic pat on the back, as Yasopp laughed, “Have some mercy on the kid, jeez.”

Grinning, Shanks stuck his tongue out. “Fat chance.” And to Luffy as he walked out, “Welcome to the family, Anchor. Rest assured, there’s more where that came from. I haven’t even started embarrassing you yet.”

Then with a loud laugh drifting behind him, he pushed through the doors, and went to look for Ace.

It didn’t take long to track him down; he hadn’t gone further than the wharf, and sat with his legs over the side, watching the sea beyond the port, and the languid descent of the evening sun, dripping honey into the water. Shanks didn’t doubt that he’d felt him approaching, but said nothing to announce himself. And he had no problem talking enough to fill both sides of a conversation, but he also knew to recognise the times silence was the better alternative. It had been a long time since he’d been twenty and indignant, and frankly, pretty damn full of himself, but that was part of being young, and it was part of being old to respect that.

Of course, another part of being old was giving the young grief for their exaggerated dramatics.

“This is a good place to sulk,” Shanks mused, coming to a stop beside him, although he made no move to sit down. He allowed his gaze to sweep across the bay. There was no sign of the sea king. “Nice view. An appropriately melodramatic setting. Personally, I prefer somewhere a bit more public, where everyone can share my grievances whether they like it or not. Ben can attest to that, as can my lovely wife. I am nothing if not an excellent sulker. You are subpar at best, although I don’t doubt that you’ll get there with a little practice.”

“I’m not sulking,” Ace said.

“Of course you’re not,” Shanks agreed. “Although the first step of sulking is to vehemently deny the fact that you’re doing it. It really is a fine art.”

Ace cut him a look, which Shanks countered with an innocent lift of his brows. “What?”

He just shook his head, but the breath he let loose held a note of resignation, and, “Was there really no other name you could have chosen?” Ace asked.

Shanks shrugged. “Sure there was. Aside from Makino’s extensive liquor collection, we had a whole ledger full of options.” He cocked his head, his look meaningful. “But people are more than their names.”

“That doesn’t mean you had to force that one on him,” Ace snapped, and when Shanks only raised a brow, seemed to realise he’d let his temper slip. His expression contorted, and he turned his eyes back to the water.

Shanks said nothing, just watched him; his hunched shoulders, and the tattoo across his back, the ink distorted by a large burn scar, still pink even after nearly three years. But then he knew better than most that some scars took time to heal, and sometimes, even that wasn’t enough; regrets cut deeper than flesh, after all. He might have survived his own execution, but Shanks didn’t doubt that it had stayed with him; the charges that had been laid against him more than anything else.

Dragging a breath through his nose, Ace took his time letting it back out. “There are better legacies to honour,” he said at length.

“That may be,” Shanks conceded, “but we chose to honour this one.”

“It’s a burden.”

“Only if you make it one.”

Ace scoffed. “That’s easy for you to say.”

“No,” Shanks refuted calmly, frowning. “It’s not. It’s actually the opposite of easy, but I have to believe my kid has some power over his own fate, and that it’s not decided by the blood in his veins or the name we gave him. Otherwise, it would mean believing that I doomed my son just by fathering him, and that there’s nothing he can do about it.”

When Ace frowned, Shanks sighed. “You want to talk burdens? Look no further. A name is only that, but there are worse things my son might have to endure in his life that he’s gotten from me. And I’m not just talking about the hair.” He tried for a smile, although it felt forced; the breezy quip hadn’t come as easily as he’d hoped.

“I’m not much different from Captain Roger,” Shanks said then, and before Ace could open his mouth to protest, cut him off. “I may not be the Pirate King, but the Government doesn’t really care about distinctions when it comes down to it. A pirate is a pirate. And I’ve got no fans in Marineford, as much as it pains me to say it. I’m a likeable guy, but you can’t charm everyone. Believe me, I’ve tried. Old Tsuru has a soft spot for me, but I’m pretty sure if given the chance, Akainu would see me executed in a heartbeat. He wouldn’t bother with a public event. A shame, really—I’d put on one hell of a show.”

His second attempt at levity came a little easier, but it still didn’t budge the expression on Ace’s face, and Shanks’ smile softened. “You were ready to disagree when I said I wasn’t that much different from Roger,” he told him then, head cocked in consideration. “Why?”

Ace gave a shrug, as though to say the answer was self-evident, even as he offered it. “You’re not my old man. You’ve done good things, and Luffy likes you.” Then, this time with a wry, half-smile, “Makino-san does, too.”

“Hmm,” Shanks agreed, smile curving. “Yeah, I’ve been suspecting that for a while now. She did marry me, and she’s the mother of my child. I think there might be some affection there. Could be wrong, though.”

Ace rolled his eyes, and Shanks grinned over a laugh. “What?”

He shook his head. “You’re just different than what I thought you’d be, back when I was really eager to meet you,” Ace said.

“Gee, thanks?”

He sighed a laugh. “From Luffy’s stories, and Makino-san’s. I always imagined you being cooler.”

“…and once more I reiterate: gee, thanks?”

When Ace gave him a look, Shanks just grinned, before letting it soften. “I’m glad to hear there’s someone who thinks I’ve got a modicum of coolness, but Luffy’s experience doesn’t have to be yours,” he said. “Like my experience of your old man is my own. You’re entitled to your opinion, and your feelings, but it doesn’t change mine.”

Ace said nothing to that, but there was something like acceptance in the slight forward hunch of his shoulders, however reluctant that acceptance was in truth. But then, Roger had never conceded to anything without putting up a fight, not even petty arguments, and least of all reason. The blatant obstinacy was familiar, and a curious comfort—to see some things remain of the captain he remembered, in the son he’d left. This small, wholly human thing; a trait that didn’t have anything to do with the Pirate King, just the man who’d held the title.

Shanks wondered idly if anyone had ever pointed out that similarity to Ace, or if the legacy he dragged behind him like a cross was all from the pirate.

“Are you really that upset about it?” Shanks asked then, considering him where he sat on the wharf, the sinking sun bleeding the red from his hair. And Roger’s hair had been all black, Shanks remembered; the red tones had to be from his mother. It was a kinder legacy than his father’s memory, and one he carried without conscious thought, the weight of it unnoticed. Not unlike the stubborn press of his brow, or the calculating cleverness that sometimes entered his eyes; the little remnants of Roger that Shanks doubted Ace was even aware he possessed.

“Not upset,” Ace said, and when Shanks quirked a brow, amended, “Just…a little weirded out, I guess.” He looked up at him where he stood. “But you’re right. You have a different experience of him.”

“Well, yeah,” Shanks said. “I knew him, for one.”

“I don’t think knowing him would have changed how I feel.”

Shanks shrugged. “Maybe not.” A pause, and then, “Tell me something,” he said, and when Ace glanced up, asked, “Who told you about him? Roger. I imagine you asked, growing up.”

Ace didn’t answer immediately, his gaze far away, perhaps looking back to said childhood, forever a part of the island sprawling behind him, the opposite direction of the sea before him; the one he’d claimed as his own.

“Gramps,” he said then, after a pause. “And folks around the island. Oyaji told me some stories.”

Shanks hummed. “So, all fairly biased opinions, then.”

Ace raised a brow. “Like yours isn’t?”

“I didn’t say that,” Shanks was quick to counter. “But it’s a different perspective.”

“Still the same guy.”

Shanks grinned. “Yeah. And he was one hell of a guy, your father.” His smile eased a bit; sat a little gentler on his mouth. “And a better father than the one I was born to, anyhow.” At Ace’s dubious look, he lifted one shoulder. “That ship was home to me. That crew was my family. Still is, although Buggy would probably eat his own hat rather than admit it.”

Ace looked back in the direction of Party’s. “You’ve got another family now.”

“You say that like I can’t have both,” Shanks said. “Which you know isn’t true. You choose your families.”

“Not the one you’re born into,” Ace murmured.

“No,” Shanks agreed. “You can’t choose who you’re related to, but loving them as family is a choice.” When Ace’s look of reluctant consideration persisted, he sighed. “Look,” he said. “I’m not guaranteed that my son will grow up loving me. I can’t make that decision for him. I can only do my best to be a good father. The rest is up to him.”

“At least you’re trying,” Ace said.

“Roger would have tried,” Shanks told him, not half a beat missed. “If he’d had the chance. And you can ask both your grandfather and your captain and they’d probably tell you the same thing, whatever their personal feelings about him. I can’t guarantee that he would have been a good father, but he would have tried to be. Whatever that’s worth.”

A pause, before he added, “And my son will be his own person, regardless of the blood in his veins, and the name we gave him. He won’t be me, and he won’t be your father. Just like you’re not.”

Shanks allowed the silence to fill the space left behind his words, seeming to remain between them, as though imprinted on the air. The sea breeze cut with a tender chill, carrying the ocean with it, the lazy, steady push of the water against the wharf like a slow heartbeat.

Ace was quiet, considering the water, and the ships moored to the port. Shanks saw as he lifted his eyes, taking in Red Force’s considerable bulk, and the little lion nestled in her shadow. A curious convergence of fates, in such a small, seemingly insignificant port, but its importance was greater than its outwards appearance suggested. But then, greatness grew out of all kinds of soil, and under all conditions; it wasn’t measured in grandeur or fame. The most important things in his life had little to do with power or influence, or the name he’d made for himself. No, his legacy was more than that; was the kind, gentle heart of the girl he’d married, and the son that had come of it.

As though his thoughts had followed the same path, Ace looked up at Shanks then, the corner of his mouth lifting, along with the pensive weight across his brow, and, “She seems happy,” he said. “Makino-san.” He paused, before he added quietly, “Your kid, too.”

“Careful,” Shanks laughed, the sound too soft for his usual volume. “Someone might take that as approval.”

Smiling, Ace said nothing, but pushed to his feet. When he turned to walk back, Shanks fell into step beside him, an implicit offer and acceptance in the silent exchange. Not everything needed forgiveness, and not all forgiveness needed to be spoken.

“You know what is a good name?” Ace said then, as they set off towards the bar, the sinking sun and the sea at their backs, the island ahead. “Ace.”

Shanks’ grin was quicker than his laugh. “Wow. The shameless narcissism is noted, and admired.” He made a noise of consideration. “In another universe, maybe we’d name him that. One where he’s not named after a whiskey, at least.”

Ace hummed. “Jameson would have been a cool name,” he agreed, and Shanks laughed, delighted.

“Right?”

—It took a little while for him to get used to it, but all new things become old, given enough time, and as the years passed, the novelty eased into familiarity, until there was little left of the initial weirdness, or of old, personal grievances.

He shored his vessel to the Fuschia docks one late afternoon, the last remnants of a spring shower having left the streets muddy and the air damp, and he breathed it all in as he stepped into the village proper, happy to leave the sea behind him for a little while, to seek the kinder heart of a familiar port; one of his many homes, although like families, Ace had long since learned that there was no limit to the number you could claim for yourself.

Striding across the porch, the soles of his boots muddying the planks, already bearing signs of a busy day with many patrons, a rap on the doorframe announced his arrival, and, “Hey,” Ace called, stepping through the bat-wing doors into Party’s common room. “Am I late?”

The man standing behind the bar looked up from the list he’d been reading, plucking the wire-rimmed glasses off his nose, a smile stretching along his mouth. Ace caught the gleam of silver in his hair, the veins thicker than when he’d been home last, although his shoulders were loose, an ease having come to settle that had taken years to get comfortable. But then leaving the sea was a process; Ace knew that as well as any pirate, and Red-Hair had been a pirate longer than he’d been alive.

“Depends on what you were hoping to reach in time,” Shanks said, inclining his head towards the storeroom, and Makino as she stepped through the door, pregnant stomach teeming under her apron.

“Ace!” she greeted warmly, brushing her hands over the considerable curve, and he had to blink his eyes at the sight. The last time he’d seen her, she’d barely been showing. “Welcome home.”

The greeting found a chorusing echo, rising up from the crowded common room, and Ace grinned, hand lifted in an answering salute. For all that he’d once associated Fuschia with quiet and slow, staggering boredom, things had changed, and it was rarely a quiet homecoming that greeted him, with the crew that had settled down with their captain.

On the subject of certain retirees. Ace eyed the apron hanging off Red-Hair’s hips. “You look ridiculous.”

Shanks stuck his tongue out. “Say whatever you want—the tips I’m making in this speak for themselves.”

Ace looked to Makino. “You miss his pirating days or what?”

Her laughter was soft, creasing her eyes at the corners. She’d braided her hair, pale threads of silver woven through the dark, along with a bright red scarf. Motherhood suited her; it brought out a strange sort of brightness, tempered to something soft and gentle by the way she held herself, like the sun breaking through the surface of the sea, the glare calmed by the water. And she’d always been soft, and gentle, but there was something almost of another world about it now.

Ace often wondered if his mother had looked the same, when she’d been pregnant with him.

“Oh, no,” Makino said, flicking her eyes to her husband. “I actually like the apron.”

“See?” Shanks asked, pleased and making no point to hide it, but then Ace had never known him to try. He slipped her a wink, his arm snaking around her waist, to spread his fingers over the curve of her stomach. “Can’t take her eyes off me. Or her hands. It’s a miracle anything gets done around here. Well, other than me, anyway.”

Ace just shook his head, looking between them. Had he been younger, he might have made more of an effort to look sufficiently disgusted, but his smile had come to stay, even as he said, “I’m glad to see some things haven’t changed. Or disturbed. I never know which it is with you two.”

He swept his gaze across the room, and the people gathered; pirates turned farmers and fishermen and an assortment of curious souls between them. He saw his little brother’s crew, and a handful of former revolutionaries scattered among the tables, the common room filled to bursting. But one thing was missing.

“Where’s the birthday boy?” he asked the two behind the counter, forever caught in a bubble of their own make; the living heart of a bar that sat at the junction of so many different fates.

“He’s playing out in the fields,” Makino said, gently slapping her husband’s reaching fingers away, her grin too quick for her to hide her delight in the small attentions, although she’d always been terrible at hiding much of anything. But her eyes were warm, and her words earnest when she told him, “He’ll be happy to see you. He’s been waiting all day for you to arrive.”

Ace smiled. “Then I guess I shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

“Feel free to keep him distracted for a while,” Shanks called after him as he made to leave. “We’ve got inventory that needs doing. In the storeroom. In private. Wait, did I say inventory? I meant I have a wife to ravish. What?” he asked Makino, catching her gaping. “They’re not home that often, I’ve got to take whatever chance I get to mortify them! Roger isn’t old enough to get it yet, it all goes over his head. Not that Luffy’s much better—twenty-five years old, and he thought I was actually talking about inventory. Gives my barkeeping too much credit, that kid. You’re familiar with my particular work ethic—the only inventory I’ll do without complaint is cataloguing what’s under your skirts.”

Makino suffocated a helpless laugh with her palm, and Ace cheerfully flipped him off as he made for the doors, shaking his head, Red-Hair’s laughter chasing at his heels all the way off the porch and down the street.

It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for, his hair easy to single out amidst the open fields, the red lit bright by the sun creeping through the clouds stretched like gauze across the sky.

“Roger,” he called, the name sitting easy on his tongue after six years. It didn’t feel like his father’s anymore; didn’t immediately invoke his memory upon speaking. Now all he associated with it was the bookish, red-haired little boy with a smile too big for his face—the same smile that widened now, as Ace raised his hand in a wave.

“Ace!”

His own name reached towards him, sounding shrill with excitement, before the boy followed, sprinting across the field towards the fence where Ace had climbed across it, to drop down on the other side.

He was out of breath by the time he reached him, pausing with his hands on his knees, heaving for air. Ace laughed, and was about to tell him to take it easy when his eyes caught on something familiar.

“I see Luffy already beat me to it,” he said, flicking the brim of the old straw hat resting against Roger’s back, the worn string pulled tight across his throat. “That’s some birthday present.”

Roger’s smile widened, bright and full of teeth. It curved his cheeks, round with youthful pudge and smattered with freckles. His father’s spitting image, but there was no resentment at the thought; the words that had so often been offered to Ace, although without kindness, and the echo of them found within himself whenever he’d looked in the mirror. “I know! Isn’t it cool?”

“I saw Sunny docked in the port, but he wasn’t at the tavern with the others,” Ace said. “You know where he went?”

An eager nod; his hair bounced around his face, cheerfully unruly. Ace picked out a rogue leaf stuck in it, as Roger said, “He went to see grams with Sabo-nii. I was gonna go with them, but I wanted to wait for you.”

Ace smiled. “Well, I’m honoured. And I’ll have to catch up with them later, but first,” he said, reaching up to lift his own hat off his head. He watched as Roger’s gaze tracked the movement, sitting wide and dark in his face. His mother’s eyes, full of the same, easily invited rapture.

Those same eyes widened even further as Ace plucked the strings loose, the ones holding the bone medallion, before he reached down to place it into the small awaiting hands, cupped to accept the sudden offering. “I bet your mom could sew this into the brim, if you asked,” Ace said. “She’s good with a needle.”

Roger stared at the medallion, little mouth agape, and Ace’s smile stretched into a grin. “It’s not the Pirate King’s straw hat, but that thing is getting really old. It could use a touch-up, if you ask me. A little extra flair.”

His delight was so intense, he looked at a complete loss for words, and Ace laughed. As much as he resembled his father in looks, he had a lot of his mother in him. And something that was uniquely his, weaving the two together.

“Happy birthday,” Ace said, reaching up to ruffle his hair, and got a startled grin in return, and a small, stuttered thank-you that spoke even louder than the telling brightness in his eyes.

“So,” Ace asked then, sitting back on his heels, “what else have you gotten? Was this year’s haul better than last year’s?”

His head bounced with an eager nod. “Uncle Ben got me a ship in a bottle. And Sabo-nii brought me firecrackers from the New World.” He lowered his voice, his whisper conspiring and his look full of familiar mischief, one that spelled Sabo with bright, bold letters. “Dad was excited. Mom was not.”

Ace laughed. “I bet.”

Roger considered the bone medallion nestled between his palms; Ace watched as he fiddled with it, his excitement softening, although it was no less earnest. “I was hoping I’d get a baby sister, but mom says it’s not time yet.”

Smiling, Ace let a hum sit on his tongue. “I don’t think it’ll be very long, from the look of her.”

He got a grin for that, the quick curve of it holding a small secret, as Roger confessed, “Dad’s nervous. He pretends he’s not, but I can tell.” He frowned then, seeming to consider the thought. “I dunno why he is, though.”

Ace didn’t comment on that, and carefully kept his smile from faltering. He knew perfectly well why Red-Hair had concerns; his own mother hadn’t survived having him, after all. And the thought that the same fate might befall Makino—

Forcibly redirecting his thoughts, and the subject of conversation, although not so much that it would raise his suspicions, “Have you thought of a name for her yet?” he asked. “If it’s a girl.”

Roger nodded, his frown slipping right off his face, leaving his smile bright. Wholly unconcerned, the way it should be. “Mom wants to name her Emmy, after my grandma.”

“Yeah?” Ace mused. He only had vague memories of Makino’s mother. She’d been stern, he remembered, although not unkind. “What do you think?”

Roger shrugged his shoulders, mouth pursed with consideration. “I don’t know. Names are hard.”

Ace felt as his smile softened. “They are that.”

Roger’s grin showed all his teeth. “I really like mine,” he said. “I’m named after the Pirate King!” Then, correcting himself, as though Ace needed it, “The first one, not Luffy-nii.”

Ace reached out to lift the straw hat onto his head. It was still too big, the wide brim coarse where it slipped down over his brow and the straw worn, but the red ribbon was new, he saw. “That’s a pretty cool legacy,” he said, nudging the brim a little higher, like he’d done so many times with Luffy, growing up. It had been too big for him once, too. The king of the world.

Roger was still holding the bone medallion, clutched between his fingers with a child’s wordless reverence. And they were legacies in their own right, the hat and the medallion; a small patchwork of inheritance, but their combination making something entirely new. A little boy, red hair bright and his mother’s eyes ever-spellbound, and his name invoking an old, dead king, and a glorious age.

And there were better legacies to pass on, Ace knew, but what had come of the ones he’d been given—that easily-ignited wonder, and an innocence the world could afford now—there was nothing better than that.

“Hey,” Ace said, lifting back to his feet. “I want to stop by Dadan’s before dinner. Want to come with me?”

Grinning, Roger nodded. “Yeah!”

Reaching down, Ace took the medallion from his hands, to tie the strings together behind his neck, until it dangled down over the front of his shirt. “There,” he said. “So you don’t lose it.”

Small hands palmed the medallion, and he remembered suddenly the baby he’d held, years ago now, so easily delighted. And that delight was the same, Ace found, even if his first instinct wasn’t to shove it in his mouth. He’d grown up, his own person, regardless of what they’d left him; the things he carried with him, too light to call burdens, but none of them insignificant.

And children grew up. Tides changed, and governments, and it was a different world he’d grown up in than the one Ace remembered from his own childhood. A different sea, and a different Pirate King ruling it, but then that was their legacy; the ones who’d fought and died for it. Including his father.

“You know, you’re lucky your parents gave you that name,” Ace said, reaching down to adjust the straw hat on his head as they set off down the path towards the forest, and Dadan’s cabin, the mud drying under a cold spring sun.

“Oh yeah?” Roger asked, nudging the brim up a bit to look at him.

Ace grinned. “Yeah. After all,” he said, tone musing, “you could have been named after a whiskey.”

There was a pause; a single, breathless beat. Then—

“What?!”

#Shanks x Makino #One Piece #ASL brothers #Portgas D. Ace #Shanks #Red-Haired Shanks #Akagami no Shanks #Makino (One Piece)#Monkey D. Luffy #Sabo the Revolutionary #Red-Haired Shanks x Makino #Shanks/Makino #otp: sing me sea shanties #Ace Lives AU #opfanfic #One Piece fanfiction #mungoe writes

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imaginemycroftholmes · 6 years

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Whenever you care to answer this. Imagine talking Mycroft into doing a mud mask with you, and he enjoys them so much that you catch him doing them on his own.

“Come on sweetheart, just do this just once with me? Please,” you wheedle holding a pair of face masks you’ve just received from Amazon, “They’ve got the highest rating ever on the site and approved by 9 out of 10 dermatologists to leave your skin feeling rejuvenated.”

Mycroft does that thing with his eyebrow; the same eyebrow that Sherlock uses when Molly is trying to sell him on getting his own cat so that way he’ll stop “stealing” Toby away from her and the one mimicked by John when Rosie begs him to do some princess stuff with him.

It was an eyebrow you rarely saw directed at you personally but man oh man did it speak volumes.

Like the kind of volumes that are combined between the Harry Potter series and Lemony Snicket and then some.

“And why, pray tell, would you want me to try these face sheets when you could more for yourself if they’re so highly appraised?”

Trying to really sell it you turn coy. “Well, Cosmo and Good Housekeeping said it would be a good way to bond with one another while relaxing in each other’s presence.”

“Darling, I am always relaxed around you.”

“You weren’t when I was driving that Mazda when we were visiting your parents,” you snipe remembering just how tense the whole affair had been.

It was hardly your fault that the pair of you were running behind because Mycroft couldn’t let the blasted phone voicemail alone for another day but you had swore you would get them there in ample time if he let you take the wheel and you kept your word.

Got there right on the dot just in time for Violet to light the candles on Siger’s cake and none of the gifts were rumpled. Hardly what you had called a tense affair but Mycroft required some Tylenol and a quick “lie down” before he rejoined the festiveness.

.”That was a one time affair,” Mycroft argued.

“And so will this if you just do it with me once,” you pleaded in earnest.

“Promise?”

“Of course Darling. When have I ever lied to you,” you ask in mock hurt.

“Do you want to go Chronologically or Alphabetically because if we’re talking about recent events telling me that “the water is fine and jump in” to be one of them followed by “Don’t worry, this position is easy.”

Rolling your eyes and waving his complaints you reply, “Fine. I get it. But this time I mean it. Just this once and I’ll never make you do it again.”

Then with little much fuss you were able to get the face mask on Mycroft and yourself while just enjoying the fading afternoon rays on the screened patio.

It was one and done just as you had promised however, you were beginning to find a lot of those face masks in the bathroom weeks after the last time you used them with your husband and you know you didn’t buy them all.

Maybe he bought them for me, you think as you go through the selection to see if there was one you’d want to try.

Caught between tearing off the seal to the latest Korean face mask with honeydew melon extracts Mycroft makes an entrance into the room with the most horrified look on his face begging you to “WAIT!”

“I’m sorry” you say confused stopping the motion short of truly opening the package, “were these not supposed to be used?”

“Ah yes, but,” Mycroft pauses to take a breath looking very embarrassed before continuing at a quieter tone “those were actually for me.”

“You?”

Now he looks even more red as he tries to explain himself. “Its just that that mask you had me try on was very soothing so I wanted to try out other brands to see if they had the same effect.”

Smiling at your bashful husband you get up from the counter’s side and hug him. “Honey, there’s no reason to be embarrassed, lots of guys do stuff like this,” you say trying to comfort him, “Hell, I know for a fact that Sherlock does hair masks with Molly and John’s routinely let’s Rosie paint his toenails.”

Mycroft pulls himself away from you to look at you, “Truly?”

“Yes, babe,” you confirm, “This face mask thing is hardly something you need to be ashamed about and quite frankly I’m happy you’re into it.”

“You are?”

“Well, yeah. Why wouldn’t I want to try out face sheets with my one best friend and husband of two years? It’s fun, easy and cheap to get,” you say with a beaming smile until you notice Mycroft avoid eye contact.

“These were the cheap ones weren’t they Mycroft,” you ask suspiciously.

The two of you already had a talk about not spending money on frivolous things as you guys were hoping to start a family soon and purchasing a box full of face sheets, especially the more expensive brands would definitely put a dent in your baby bank money.

Still avoid your eyes Mycroft expresses, “I may have dabbled with purchasing the higher end brand of face sheets…”

“Mycroft!”

“It was only for the melon brand I swear!”

#mycroft x reader #vintagevalentinexx #mycroft holmes #mycroft #sherlock #sherlolly #rosie watson #john watson #reader insert #ask

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wordsaremymirror · 6 years

Text

when your favorite celebrity commits suicide

My favorite celebrity killed himself. He didn’t overdose on drugs like some others do, or smoke and drink himself to death, or even put a bullet through the back of his head. No, those things would’ve been too predictable for a person who prided himself on being just the opposite — and believe me, there was nothing “predictable” about this. Instead he did it the old-fashioned way, with a rope clenching his neck, gravity slowly sucking out whatever it is inside a person like that, his limp body floating there while his friends wondered why he wasn’t at dinner, or breakfast the next morning. Some poor employee at this obscure hotel in the countryside was the first one forced to cope with what I can only describe as the most shocking inversion of life in recent memory. There appears to have been no note.

This isn’t the first time my favorite celebrity has committed suicide, and frankly I’m confident it won’t be the last.

Some years ago my favorite writer killed himself. With him the suggestion of it was long in the making. When he spoke it was neurotic and his writing never escaped a degree of self-loathing. Not to mention he covered the topic of suicide and depression so extensively that it’s well-described as a primary motif in his work. In fact to this day I feel that most people know my favorite writer for his suicide (also by hanging), which they’ve deemed emblematic of his commitment to expressing the naturalness of suffering and depression for middle-class white people. There is a pop-culture fetishization of that suffering. We like it because it affirms that we’re not wrong to feel the lows that we do, or at the very least not alone in it. None of this is to say that it didn’t hurt when he did it, it hurt a lot, but it felt equally unsurprising - the fulfillment of some sort of prophecy that had exposed itself over decades of writing. In fact many have gone so far as to suggest the suicide was a deliberate attempt to validate his life’s work, to demonstrate that depression wasn’t just an aesthetic. Of course these aren’t the type of people who know what it’s really like to want to end your own life. Nor do any of these people know, nor do I know, what having the pressure of being a celebrity, in whatever capacity, is like.

My favorite rockstar killed himself as well. Much of what can be said about my favorite writer can be applied to my favorite rockstar, right down to the suggestion that he did it to “solidify his legacy.” And just as with my favorite writer, my favorite rockstar gained a reputation for his commitment to expressing the pain he was feeling. He was known around the world for it. And although it may seem crass to say, he made millions of dollars, played sold-out mega arenas, slept with the most beautiful women in the world, and had unlimited freedom to express, seemingly without judgement, granted to him by his millions of devoted fans. But he still chose to end his life (self inflicted gunshot wound). His depression, again, wasn’t an aesthetic. The world mourned his suicide but, again, few were surprised.

My favorite actor and comedian killed himself. It was shocking until the details came out. He had been recently diagnosed with Parkinson’s, he’d had a history of mental health issues (his performances suddenly made more sense), and anyone who looked closely found that he’d had an infatuation with masks. He was, behind the scenes, slowly crushed by the dread of constant performance, of the expectations that were placed on him to be that guy. And as much as he may have come to hate those expectations, he hated even more the thought of disappointing fans, friends, and family. Once he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s there was no way for him to continue to perform, and therefore no way, at least in his mind, to continue being anything other than a disappointment. So he too hanged himself.

Almost none of the things that characterized the lives of these people can be said for my favorite celebrity who killed himself recently. His work was not characterized by depression. He didn’t appear to be haunted by fame. He never seemed uncomfortable with his personality. But ultimately he too ended up pale, alone, hanged. A shocking inversion of life. The qualities that drew me, and many like me, to people like the celebrities I have described, would not have been possible without a degree of mental illness, their chronic depression offered them insights, their earnestness about it made you root for them. But those were not the qualities that drew me, and many like me, to my favorite celebrity who recently committed suicide. Sure, he was a writer, a public personality, and yes even a rock star, but his life, uniquely amongst all other celebrities, seemed to represent purity in just that, life. He did not wallow, or seem to feel sorry for himself. He moved, and then when he was done moving he kept moving. He sought human connection, and he demonstrated human connection. He found it with dinner and a beer night after night, episode after episode, country after country, continent after continent. He inspired people to be fearless and curious, to try things they wouldn’t, to think about things they never had. He showed us that appreciating people and places can make us all a the more happy with our own. I have never travelled without the thought of him accompanying me, and this will always be true.

But it will also always be true that every episode I watch of his show from now on will feature a blip in the back of my head that says, “I know how this story ends.” Because the most alive person I’ve ever seen, or thought I’d ever see, killed himself.

When that happens you try your hardest not to believe it. You read every article on every website, you read the conspiracy theories, you create your own conspiracy theories. (Why wasn’t there a note?) When that happens you lose a little, nay, a lot, of hope. You get angry at him, this deceased man you thought you knew, for the fact that he must have known how this would affect you and those like you and yet he did it anyways. When that happens you wonder if anyone is what they seem to be, including yourself. When that happens you can’t help but think that if he didn’t make it, where does that leave the rest of us.

Eating, drinking, conversating. These are the universals my favorite celebrity who recently killed himself showed us. They weren’t tinged with sadness, or anger, or embarrassment. They weren’t his aesthetic. But in the end he showed us another universal, one that doesn’t require an album or a tell-all interview. One that is almost impossible to put on a TV show: sadness.

It has been said that there are two types of sufferers in this world, those who suffer from a lack of life, and those who suffer from an excess of it. When your favorite celebrity, a person who you admired because he reminded you to focus on the simple pleasures that makes life worth living, commits suicide, you begin to wonder if there is any in between.

-je h ‘18

#anthony bourdain #david foster wallace #robin williams #kurt cobain #suicide #essay

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hopeymchope · 6 years

Text

Taking Stock - Naegiri Week 2017, Day 2

Welcome to Day 2! The prompt for today is “Melt,” which inspired this one-shot... uh, obviously, I guess.

Be sure to click “Keep Reading” at the bottom, or follow one of the links below to see the whole story!

Links:

Taking Stock on An Archive of Our Own

Taking Stock on FanFiction.Net

Kyoko Kirigiri pointed her flashlight between the double doors into the Entrance Hall of Hope's Peak Academy before she stepped through herself. The halls were dark save for a few emergency lights running on backup power, but the Entrance Hall only had two red lights on both sides of the enormous vault door that were still working. Those lights combined with her flashlight were enough to show her that Makoto Naegi was in the room. Even with his back turned to her, his hairstyle and hoodie made his identity obvious. Oddly, he was seated on the floor and facing towards the large door.

The glimmer of a new light source combined with the sound of her boots on the hard tile surface caused him to turn around out of curiosity, revealing that he had a spoon sticking out of his mouth. He smiled somewhat guiltily at her. Kyoko froze in place as the door to the hall swung closed behind her. "What are you doing?" she asked him.

"Uuhhh... " he responded.

"I thought my father asked you to check on the food reserves," Kyoko continued, her voice turning stern. "I believe you're supposed to be attempting to preserve the frozen items?"

Makoto pulled the spoon from his mouth and smiled confidently. "Done and done!" he proclaimed as he lifted his spoon into the air triumphantly. "I surrounded everything I could with dry ice. Maizono-san helped me determine how much to use for each pallet of food and where to place it all, so it went nice and quick. We didn't have quite enough to keep everything frozen, but we came close."

Kyoko walked closer, stepping around Makoto's side before she shined her flashlight into his lap. Resting there, she saw an open one-liter container in the shape of a small cylinder. She smirked. "And I suppose this ice cream is one of the leftover items?"

"Gelato, actually," Makoto corrected her as he shoved his spoon back into the carton. "We managed to keep the ice cream frozen. When we got to this stuff, I decided that gelato is kind of a luxury item. Less necessary to keep in reserve, right?" He scooped another spoonful into his mouth.

Kyoko smiled subtly. "Hence why you're eating it," she stated.

"Welw yuuh," Makoto mumbled back with a shrug, his mouth still full of the stuff. He swallowed it before continuing, "It was gonna melt. No sense in letting it go to waste, right?"

Kyoko fought the urge to giggle at how cute he looked with his legs curled up underneath him as he continued to scoop a melting dessert into his mouth. "Surely there was more than one carton... " she suggested.

Makoto nodded and swallowed again. "Ah, of course," he agreed. "Maizano-san took the Mint Chip, Hagakure-kun dropped by just long enough to grab the Hazelnut and Tiramisu flavors. Um, but I saw him later when Maizono-san and I were finished with our work in the freezer, and apparently Ludenberg-san got the Tiramisu away from him in some kind of bet? Then Yamada-kun saw us and-"

"I get the picture," Kyoko said, raising one hand in order to cut him off. She switched her flashlight off at last, allowing the room to be swallowed by dim red light.

Makoto lifted up the carton in one hand and raised his eyebrows. "So, you want some?"

Kyoko brought her right hand to her chin, considering. "What flavor is it?" she inquired.

"Double chocolaaaaate," Makoto answered in a sing-song voice as he attempted to rock the carton back and forth in a tantalizing manner.

She closed her eyes and smiled. "Very well," Kyoko said back. "Let me go get a spoon."

"You can use mine!" Makoto replied quickly.

"What?" Kyoko shot back in surprise.

"I-I mean, if you'd like to," Makoto hastened to add. He looked down at the carton in his lap, averting his eyes. "I mean... I promise I'm not sick, and I don't have cooties or anything," he explained with an awkward titter.

"Oh," Kyoko said simply. She was suddenly grateful that the room was awash in red light, given that she could feel the blush on her cheeks. "Okay then." She lowered herself to the floor carefully, making sure to use one hand to keep her skirt down.

As she rested her rear on the floor just centimeters away from Makoto, she let out a small grunt. "To review," she began, "Fujisaki-kun and I connected a small, portable generator to our wi-fi router. Then Fujisaki-kun traced the source of the power outage, and we alerted my father. He soon let me know that Ikusaba-san had volunteered to head outside so as to determine more about the issue, and he then requested that I make my way to the entrance hall to await her report. I take it you're waiting for her to return as well?"

Makoto nodded as he scooped more gelato onto the spoon. "Right as usual," he said cheerily.

He held the spoon out towards Kyoko's mouth, but she jerked her head backwards instinctively. "I-I can... feed myself," she said softly.

He looked down at his lap and chuckled as he simultaneously lowered the spoon towards her hand. "I know. Just kidding," he assured her.

Kyoko took the spoon from his hand gingerly and slipped the gelato into her mouth, rolling it around her tongue a bit. "Wow," she said softly.

"Really good, right?" he asked.

She nodded a couple of times. "Thanks for offering to share." Despite the situation their "shelter" was facing, she felt a smile start to form on her face.

"Of course," Makoto said. He tossed off a half-shrug before taking the spoon back from her. "So, from what Ikusaba-san said, the blackout looks like it caused by someone on the outside? Like... on purpose?"

"That's how it appears," Kyoko agreed. "The electrical drain tracks back to a transformer on campus. It's re-routing the power to a subterranean area that doesn't seem to contain any structure — or at least, not one that appears on any of my father's maps of Hope's Peak. It's up to Ikusaba-san to radio us and tell us what she sees when she arrives at the transformer. She should be able to get us back to status quo once we talk her through the repairs. Maybe she can even identify what the electricity is being siphoned off for. Let's just hope the one responsible isn't lying in wait when she gets there."

Having loaded another spoonful of gelato up for her, Makoto extended the spoon back to Kyoko. "Well, I'm not too worried. Ikusaba-san can definitely handle herself out there - probably better than anyone else here, except maybe Ogami-san."

Kyoko took the spoon with a nod of gratitude. "You've talked to Ikusaba a few times, haven't you?" she asked before slipping the melty gelato into her mouth.

Makoto nodded back. "We've had a handful of conversations. Only when she's managed to slip away from her sister, honestly. Enoshima-san really likes to be the center her world, y'know? She's always trying to dominate the attention of her 'big sis.' Outside of her influence, though, Ikusaba-san is... quiet, but nice." He took the spoon back from her again.

"She's never been willing to talk to me," Kyoko noted, sounding a little bit sad. "She seems... difficult to get to know. She can come off a bit coldly."

Makoto smirked at her as he handed her another spoon of the gelato. "Oh?" His voice was laced with sarcasm as he added, "You think she's a little standoffish, then? Quiet, likes to keep her business to herself? Man... that must be tough to deal with. I can't imagi-"

"Okay, shut up," Kyoko said back with a giggle. She waved the spoon near his face in a mock-threatening manner. "We can't all be as comfortable with socializing as you are."

"I promise, I'm far from comfortable with it," Makoto said with laugh, waving his hands in protest. "I just do it anyway. I force it, frankly." He lowered his hands and smiled at her. "I mean, it's worth it. How else would I get to know someone as cool as you?"

Kyoko's head and upper body jerked a fraction — enough to cause the spoon to shake and drop the dripping glob of gelato onto the floor.

"Aw," Makoto said. "I think we lost one."

"I'm not... cool," Kyoko protested awkwardly. Even saying the word outside of a reference to temperature felt odd to her mouth. "Just ask the rest of our class. I'm sure most of them find me inscrutable more than anything. Which, okay - I am calm and collected, I grant you that. But in the common sense of the word 'cool', I'm-"

"You're the coolest person I know," Makoto blurted. He felt instantly embarrassed and stared downward quickly, focusing his eyes on his lap. "By which I mean, you're my favorite — that is, you're one of my favorite-"

"I admire you," Kyoko said softly.

It was Makoto's turn to jolt in shock. "What?" he asked.

Kyoko's hand lowered as she placed the spoon back into Makoto's lap. "You're earnest," she said. "People open up to you naturally, and you always see the best in them no matter what. You're optimistic in the darkest times... you see the world in a way I just can't. I was born into a role and talent that shows me the worst of humanity on a regular basis. That's part of what made me who I am. But you? Not even the Biggest, Most Awful, Most Tragic Event in Human History stopped you from putting your faith in others and expecting the best possible outcome. It's not like you're even doing it for their benefit. You're... genuine."

Makoto glanced sideways, unable to look her in the eye even as he made no attempt to hide his beaming smile. "You know, some people just think I'm naive," he said back. "So I'm really glad you see my outlook as... as the way that you do. As a good thing."

Her eyes squinted up a little as she told him. "It's more than good. It's inspirational. You bring others hope. Or at least... the truth is... you've brought hope to me."

He returned his eyes to hers, and they locked with one another. "Kiri... " Makoto began tentatively.

"What is it?" Kyoko said quietly. She leaned forward a bit.

Makoto swallowed, trying to calm his nerves. "I think you're-"

FSSSHSHHZZZT.

The sound of audio static emerged from within Kyoko's jacket. She frowned and reached outside, pulling out a small radio. Depressing the button on the side, Kyoko brought it to her mouth and demanded, "Say again?"

"Come in base," the voice Mukuro Ikusaba responded. "I'm at the transformer."

Instantly, Kyoko was all business. She stood upright and began to pace back and forth. "What do you see?" she asked.

Makoto stopped paying attention to their conversation as he exhaled raggedly, releasing the tension from his body. He looked down at the growing puddle of gelato within the carton on his lap. With a wry smile, he picked up his spoon and tried to scoop up some of the remaining soup.

#naegiri week #naegiri #naegiri week 2017 #makoto naegi #kyoko kirigiri #kyouko kirigiri #naegi #kirigiri #danganronpa fanfic #danganronpa fan fiction #danganronpa fanfiction #danganronpa #danganronpa fic #naegiri one-shot

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