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im-an-anxious-wreck · 9 months

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Hold Out Your Hand And I'll Reach For You Too

Chapter Two • Virgil

Word Count: 1,602

HOYHAIRFYT chapter collection

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Just One Of Many Visits

It was just a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day and it just made Virgil want to scream, cry, and then scream again.

Not only had G gotten onto him for not completing his chores fast enough, he'd also assigned even more stuff to make sure that Virgil was 'in good physical shape', which had only left Virgil weak and shaky.

And to top it all off everything having taken so much longer than normal meant that he was late to his visit with The Prince. What if he thought Virgil didn't want to see him and had already left? What if he was cross with Virgil for making him wait? What if he sneered at Virgil's appearance?

Unless G was showing Virgil off somewhere, he didn't look super great but today had been a bad day physically, even before he'd been forced to work out to the point of exhaustion.

Virgil's face wrinkled briefly as the heat from outside hit his already warm face but quickly schooled it just in case The Prince was still around somewhere. Virgil ran as fast as he could —even as pathetic as that was— across the field and wedged himself through the hedge to their meeting spot, all but collapsing in relief and exhaustion for having made it.

"You're alri—" The Prince cut himself off as his green eyes did a once, then a twice-over. "Are you alright?" He asked, a bit of alarm creeping in his tone.

"I—" Virgil tried to suppress his paints while still trying to actually breathe. "Yeah, I'm— good, just… forgot about some— some chores. Sorry I'm late."

"You don't need to apologize! It's not like we meet at an ultra specific time. I was just worried," Although the way The Prince said it though made it seemed like the worry wasn't entirely in the past, despite him using the past tense. "You seem pretty out of breath, are you okay?"

"Yeah, of course. Just, uh, guess I've been forgetting to keep up my handsome physique." Virgil laughed self-depreciatively.

The Prince frowned, "You are okay, though?"

"Yeah," Virgil finally admitted. "I'm okay."

The Prince seemed relieved, if not still a bit worried. "Good. You are handsome though."

Virgil felt his face flush despite not being sure how much The Prince really believed that. "Well, you're not so bad yourself. Though, what with you not being human and all, you've really put me at an unfair disadvantage."

"Hmm," The Prince hummed, sounding almost like a cat purring, leaning forward before he startled a bit and leaned back again. "Sorry! I— I uh, hope I haven't made you uncomfortable. I can be a bit… oh I don't know."

"No, you didn't! I'm— fine."

"You… don't sound fine?"

Virgil took a deep breath. Damn his anxious exterior, it probably made The Prince think he was lying or something. "I really am fine though. I just…"

"Get anxious?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Oh, no need to apologize! It's not your fault or something you do on purpose. I know that. I have a brother, I— uh, don't think I've ever mentioned him before." At Virgil head shake no, The Prince continued, "Well, he gets anxious too, so I guess you could say I'm not unfamiliar with it. Although, I will say it's— well, it's terrible you do have to have that feeling so often, that 'spiders in your gut', that feeling like something's wrong or going to happen…"

Virgil couldn't help raise one eyebrow in a bit of amusement. "Spiders in your gut?"

"Ah, my brother's words, not mine. I'm just quoting him. You see, well, I think it's a bit interesting how people can both think one way, and yet react and deal with it completely different. And of course not that either way is necessarily better or worse than the other, you're just two similar yet completely different people. But then again, I suppose that's what people say about me and my twin anyway."

"Oh, I see. Um, could— I mean…"

"Yes?"

"Do you think you say a bit more about how me and your brother, um, react to anxiety differently? I'm, I'm not really sure how else one even could react."

"Ah, well, I'm glad you asked! So— well, let's call my brother 'Duke'. So Duke tends to regulate his anxiety by being loud and brash. He curses and says whatever intrusive thoughts pop in his head, and, not in a mean way by any means, he thinks people's reactions to whatever gross thing he thought up is funny. So he just tends to distract himself, I suppose.

"I think, and correct me if I'm wrong, but you seem to like to prepare. Where he doesn't want to think about it at all, you tend to think about practically nothing else, and overplan if you can."

Maybe Virgil had underestimated how perceptive The Prince actually was. "I— well, I don't know about over planning. I don't think that there's really such a thing as too much planning. I mean, I like being as prepared as I can be."

"Fair, fair, and there's nothing wrong with that," The Prince said, seeming to be trying to assure Virgil.

"That's really interesting, though. I don't think I ever would've thought that someone who acted like that was really just trying to avoid their anxiety."

"Right! That's why I think it's fascinating how people can be so alike and yet completely different."

"Hmm… well, speaking of similarities and differences… So, um…" Virgil almost started to shy away when The Prince looked at him like that, soft and intrigued, like he actually cares about what Virgil had to say.

"Yes?" The Prince asked when Virgil still hesitated.

"Well, in the spirit of getting to know each other better, do you like art?"

"I do! I love art!"

"Oh? Have a favourite piece or like, artist?"

"Monet, most definitely. I don't pretend to know what, or maybe I never did but well, I know he isn't a human. And I'll probably never meet him but oh, whatever has him seeing such beautiful colours! And how skilled he is to be able to share them as he does!" He gazed at the sky, eyes unfocused, yet full of wonder and delight. "They're just so vivid!"

"They sound like it! What types of colours does he use?"

The Prince's eyes quickly found their way back to Virgil, his brow creasing. "You've never seen one of his paintings?! Not even a rendition in a book?"

Virgil smiled nervously. "Um, no… sorry?"

"Oh, don't be sorry! I'm just sorry you haven't gotten to experience one yet. They are truly something else."

"No doubt. They must be spectacular to make you this passionate."

"Yes. Someday I'm going to take you to see one. Especially his water lily one. You've never seen water like that until you've seen it."

Virgil sighed, laughing disbelievingly despite himself, like that would ever happen. He was never getting out of here. That's the problem when you make a deal with no end date… at least Janus had been smarter about it.

"Yeah, okay, Princey."

"No really! I— I promise I'll take you to see one someday!"

Virgil felt his stomach drop, not quite sure if it was in excitement, appreciation, or perhaps dread at the permanent promise that had just been made. "You, I mean… I know what that means, but you don't… I'm sure you weren't thinking. Let me release yo—"

"No! Wait, please don't. I don't want to be released from my vow. Please. I want to make good on it. I want to take you! I'll fr…" The Prince mumbled something Virgil couldn't hear. "...If I have to."

"Um, sorry, what'd you say?"

"Oh! Haha, don't worry about it. I don't… I don't know if… but I'll— er, well, don't worry about it. I will take you to see it though."

"I… "

"Oh, I'm sorry! I completely forgot to ask you if you even wanted to! You don't have to be polite to spare my feelings. Did you want to go? You can say no!"

"I do! I, uh, I really do want to go… with you, and everything, but just… let me know if you change your mind or whatever and need or like want to be released from your vow, okay? Don't feel like you have to just because you wanted to and said you would now."

"Alright," The Prince gently acquiesced. "I highly doubt I'll ever change my mind though. But yes, I know could ask you for that if for some frankly bizarre reason I couldn't or didn't want to take you."

"Okay. Good."

The Prince smiled, and Virgil gave an easy, lopsided smile back. "Well, I for one I'm quite excited, and looking forward to taking you someday! I hope it's not too long."

"Yeah," Virgil said, though trying not to get his hopes up, things just didn't work out for him, but even just getting to pretend they'd get an outing like this was like a painful and yet soothing balm to his cracked soul. "Yeah, I'm excited too."

Well, despite the bad start to the day, despite the horrible morning, despite anything and everything, his visit with The Prince cheered him up.

He always managed to, no matter if Virgil was anxious, sad, or stressed, no matter if he was exhausted, no matter if Virgil just needed a little bit or a lot of cheering up, The Prince always managed. And Virgil couldn't help but want to be around The Prince.

Even if it led to Virgil's downfall.

#sanders sides fics #ts virgil #tss virgil #ts roman #tss roman

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lazybarbarians · 7 years

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Star Wars: Aftermath by Chuck Wendig

Ragnell: A couple weeks ago I chose Star Wars: Aftermath by Chuck Wendig and predicted to Kal that this would be the first time I fail to read my own pick. Because as much as I’ve badly wanted to know what went on right after Return of the Jedi I have the hardest time being drawn into Star Wars material that doesn’t feature a Jedi or really any forceusers. I’m not a smuggler, or a politics of the Star Wars Galaxy type, I’m all in for the mystic order of space-monks and the various other factions of light and darksiders. But I do like the normal humans and the third book just came out with Lando in so I decided to give the first a try and see if I could get that far.

And wow, once I got a chance to sit down and read it I really got into this. I like most of the new characters, the new villains, the various things happening in the galaxy as a direct result of Return of the Jedi. I’m tearing up my apartment looking for the second book (I swear I picked it up somewhere) as a result.

So, to recap the first novel of this trilogy (reader beware there’s spoilers down there)...

We get to meet the characters thread by thread against interludes showing us what’s going on elsewhere in the galaxy. The main villain, Admiral Rae Sloane, is gathering the remaining Imperial leadership for a survival meeting on Akiva. Rae is alive because she was not at the Battle of Endor. The rest of the remaining Imperial leadership remained alive because they were also not at the Battle of Endor. Unfortunately for them someone--no, two someone.. No, three… Wait, Four. Four someones who were at the Battle of Endor converge on Akiva for various reasons.

Significantly, one of these someones is Wedge Antilles, who was scouting for Imperial supply lines and got captured by Rae. He manages to try and signal help, but only gets inside the system. Luckily, Norra Wexley who was in Gold Squadron, is there trying to pick up her son Temmin (and if you can identify Temmin from non-Aftermath Star Wars material give yourself a pat on the back), who is in trouble with the local mob boss and has managed to cross the sphere of the other two Endor vets, Jas Emari (bounty hunter who was there to assassinate Leia and changed her mind), and Sinjir Rath Velus (Imperial officer who saw the rag-tag band of rebels blow up the Death Star and the Ewoks decimate his unit and went “fuck this shit, I’m out”).

Kalinara: Confession, I didn’t actually recognize Temmin. :-) I’m usually pretty good at that kind of thing. But not this time. Ragnell defeated me.

R: This book is packed with action scenes, but ultimately the four of these guys team up to try and bust up the meeting. To do this, they incite rioting on Akiva and a little mini-rebellion. (well, planetwide but for Star Wars that’s mini.) Wedge manages to escape when they knock out the power and actually gets a message to the fleet, bringing Admiral Ackbar and some of the Alliance Navy to Akiva to help. They all end up captured and on a ship that crashes into the bay of Sloane’s flagship. Sloane escapes. The rest of the remaining Imperial leadership is captured or killed. Wedge has a really bad week. Jas gets a heart, Sinjir gets courage, Temmin gets a brain and Norra gets a sense of home. They form a team with some guy who was in the book for five pages to hunt Nazis who escaped the Hague Imperial war criminals and I want to read the next book now dammit!

*Ahem* I generally like the new characters. I was sad both times he faked out Norra’s death, which were both totally believable because honestly both Star Wars and Disney have this thing against mothers. I recognized Temmin so I knew he’d live but I was expecting this to be the story of how he was fully orphaned, instead it was a “How I learned to stop being a douche and love my mother” story for him.

Sinjar and Jas were great fun. I like the idea that simply being at Endor changed both their lives, for the same reason but in different ways. Both saw the way the wind was blowing and while Sinjir tried to hide away Jas tried to adjust her life to fit. Neither of them got it quite right then, but it looks like they’re on the right path now which was cool.

K: I have to admit, it took me a while to get into it. I’m very picky about original characters, especially ones who have no obvious connections to the characters I love. Norra drew me in first though. I liked her immediately. Temmin was a douchebag for most of the book, but I thought he had a really nice, not redemption arc precisely though certainly betraying the group was an issue, but just a general growth arc. As child characters go, he was pretty believable. Not always likeable, but believable.

I liked Jas and Sinjir a lot. And I particularly liked the reveal that Sinjur was gay. (I had suspected when he talked about having to interrogate a “beautiful” young man, but it’s always nice to have things addressed overtly.) As reveals go, I thought it struck the right balance. Jas was surprised, because she had misread some signals, but she wasn’t shocked or horrified. It felt like it was a fairly normal, accepted part of the setting. Additionally, Norra’s sister, who had been Temmin’s guardian, has a wife. This is presented in a very matter of fact way.

In a way, the Star Wars new canon reminds me a bit of Bioware games. I feel like they are genuinely trying to give us a more diverse and inclusive setting. They don’t always succeed and there are definitely missteps and missed opportunities (do we really need five white brunette protagonists??). But I do feel there is a general push to do more. And I’m reasonably hopeful that they’ll continue to make efforts to improve.

R: We saw a half-dozen interludes on different planets just establishing how much things have changed for people across the galaxy. I liked that. I don’t feel a particular need to revisit these people for full books but wouldn’t mind updates later, or just more situations that were changed by the actions of the main characters in the trilogy. I like that some of these established that the galaxy was still a complex mess, that some established a brighter future, and that some showed the seeds of darkness being sown.

Rae Sloane is now one of my favorite supplemental villains. I honestly prefer someone like her to Thrawn, someone who’s pretty badass but not without flaw or mistake. Her plans are sensible, not ridiculously far ahead, and she is good at working by the seat of her pants. Honestly, in the Star Wars universe you’re always better off as an improviser than a long-term planner. But she has the ability to scheme and layout plans.

K: I agree with you. There were one or two moments early on that felt a little Thrawn-ishly heavy handed. But for the most part, Sloane got to be a three dimensional villain. She made mistakes, she miscalculated, and she recovered. It made her far more effective to me. I’m looking forward to seeing how she regroups from this affair.

The other villains are a great cross-section of the type of non-force-user bad guys you see in the Star Wars universe. You have your mob boss, your rich asshole who is behaving criminally but keeps a legitimate front up, your Moff, your Admiral, and your weird religious dude. Of them I thought Tashu, the old Emperor’s Advisor who was WAAAAY into being a Sith Acolyte, was pretty interesting. He and one of the interludes established a cult worship of Sith that’s a good darkside counterpart for the reverence the Jedi get from the Church of the Force and the Guardians of the Whills. I’m glad he survived and someone can dig him up to a) vex Luke, and b) menace Wedge again.

And finally, I just wanted to say… poor Wedge. He really has bad luck when Luke isn’t around.

#The Secret Origin of Snap Wexley: Resistance Pilot 3 #How Anakin Skywalker screwed up other people's children #And of course the droid was Toto #Wedge and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day #Luke Skywalker has VANISHED #A Disney Prince(ss) in Space #Star Wars: Aftermath #Chuck Wendig #Ragnell's pick

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jennagrinsoverml · 3 years

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Do you have any Adrien-centric angst fics? Like, fics that will completely gut you emotionally and you have to lay down for an hour after you read it just to decompress?something like that?

I've recced angst fics before, but let's have some SADRIEN hours around here, shall we?

a fight that you were born to lose by @captainkirkk

When the prosecution starts throwing around the word victim in reference to Adrien, he has to stuff his hands under his thighs to keep himself from bolting out of the courtroom.

Adrien had felt unsafe during those last few weeks, but, until he had woken up and seen Father silhouetted in his bedroom doorway, that had only been paranoia. Father was controlling and cold, but he wasn’t hateful. Adrien was isolated. He was often hungry. And some weeks ago, when he had snuck out to visit Nino, sitting thigh-to-thigh on his bed while Adrien cried in that silent, crumbling way of his, he hadn’t argued when Nino put a hand on his shoulder and said, tentatively, That’s abuse.

But Adrien remembers being small and Father touching his hair after he’d aced another test; Father holding his scribbled drawings like they were something precious, and framing them around his office; Father, dressed as Hawkmoth, his eyes wild behind the mask, lashing his sword against Adrien’s baton; Father, collapsed against Mum, crying into her ashy hair.

Adrien finds out Gabriel is Hawkmoth, and Gabriel gets to bring his long-waited plan into action.

One-shot. (But a LONG one-shot--it's 18k.) This one really digs deep into the abuse that Adrien suffers at Gabriel's hands and the emotional fallout from that. Gabriel is really, really, really terrible here. Worse, I don't think it's OOC at all. This fic is gorgeous, but it's a hard read and it goes to some dark places.

Anhedonia/When Adrien Met Marinette... by @mikauzoran

Chat Noir hadn’t been lying when he told Ladybug he’d moved on. It was only when he found out that Ladybug was Marinette that he realized he was wrong. Meanwhile, Marinette thinks that she’s missed her chance when Adrien insists that he’s gotten over his feelings. Now, they’re roommates and making themselves miserable as they pine for one another, thinking the situation’s hopeless. Things finally come to a head, and they’re forced to sit down and have an honest conversation about their feelings.

One-shot. Adrien's just so sad and lonely and pining here, and I'm here for it. I really found myself getting swept away in his feelings as I was reading. This isn't dark and doesn't get into any heavy issues like some of the other fics on this list, but I found that it was very relatable and evoked a lot of emotion.

Adrien and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by @vickyvicarious

Chat Noir's used to bad luck - it kind of comes with the territory. But detransforming in the middle of a crowd of reporters is a little worse luck than he’s used to having.

And he hasn’t heard a thing from Ladybug since.

(AKA the "everyone finds out all at once" angst fic no one asked for.)

One-shot. Oof, does this one ever hurt. Adrien's painfully in-character, and the way he's trying so very hard to stay positive even as his life is completely falling apart and everyone keeps hurting him...it's so him and it packs a punch.

The Importance of the Black Cat by @chatonne-rousse

Plagg gets down almost two full wedges of cheese before Adrien sits down on the edge of his bed with a heavy sigh.

“Hey, Plagg?” His voice is quiet but doesn’t betray any emotion yet. That’s actually more worrying.

Steeling himself, Plagg swallows the last big bite of cheese and zips from the desk to perch on top of the globe, facing his holder. “What’s up?”

He heaves another sigh before looking up into Plagg’s eyes, emotions still unreadable.

“How important is the black cat?”

*****

Adrien has a lot on his mind - concerns, questions, doubts. And right now, he has only one being to confide in. There is not enough cheese in the world to make Plagg want to handle this situation, but his holder needs him, and he knows two things with certainty: his very important place in the world, and that no one hurts his kitten. Not if he has anything to say about it.

One-shot. You want some season 4 flavour Adrien angst? How about some post-Optigami wallowing? I love the portrayal of Adrien and Plagg's relationship with the mix of light and heavy. Pretty sure I still owe Rosie a sequel to this one because I wanted to see more resolution afterwards and made the mistake of sharing my thoughts on that 🙈 It's just very thought-provoking!!

Working Past It by Taitai83

Chat is deeply hurt by Ladybug's actions, and he needs to process those feelings. He finds that confiding in a friend is helpful in finding clarity.

One-shot. Here, have some more season 4 angst! This one is shamefully overlooked. Go read it and help fix that!! Remember when Gang of Secrets came out and we all wondered how Chat would react when he found out Ladybug told someone her identity? This was an early stab at that, and I found the reactions and thought processes here to be so in character. Plus there's some nice marichat hurt/comfort, though purely platonic.

Timetagger 3 by rosebud1000

Years after Hawkmoth's defeat, Marinette and Adrien encounter Timetagger for the third time. And this battle hits closer to home than any other.

One-shot. Here we have some more of the fallout from Gabriel being a shitty parent, only we have an adult Adrien who is a father himself struggling to reconcile how his father acted with his own parental feelings. As a parent, I really felt this one.

Chat Noir's Family by fleurjaune

The thing is-

The thing is Adrien doesn’t actually mean to lie. Not at first anyway, but they have to keep their secret identities secret don’t they?

And his family, well, their tragedy is out there for the world to see and the world did see it.

One-shot. The more Chat lies about his life and his family, the more we learn about Adrien and see how he wishes his life was. And that chasm...really fucking hurts. I wish this sweet boy could have the kinds of relationships and family dynamics he lies about.

Partners by @karkalicious769

"Um." Alya fidgeted nervously as her earrings beeped their countdown. "Ask me a question that only Ladybug would know the answer to."

Chat Noir barred his teeth, and— Were they always that sharp? At least he wasn't growling again. "You are not Ladybug," he snapped.

"Just do it!"

It was all Alya had to go off of and she really needed to pull this partnership together before the akuma got any worse. She wasn't deluded enough to think that she could do this without Chat Noir.

One-shot. SPOILERS FOR HACK-SAN!!! And yet some more season 4 feels because let's be serious, this season is putting our kitty through the ringer. And this fic definitely does it, though by playing with the episode a little. Although we've got a tight Alya POV, Adrien's hurt and suffering is palpable, and made all the worse by how resigned he is. Read this and sufferrrrrr.

#miraculous ladybug #adrien agreste #ml fanfic #ml fic rec #adrienette #adrinette #ladynoir #marichat #angst #fic recs #jennarecsml

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wildernessuntothemselves · 3 years

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I'm Yours, You're Mine | 7

Word Count: 4k

Genre: Smut, angst

Warnings: yandere!felix, sub!felix, dom!felix, sub!reader, dom!reader, mentions of violence, character death, drugging, noncon, breeding kink, binding, doggy

GIF CREDIT @christopherbanq

You wake up in a warm embrace, surrounded by the sweet, vanilla scent of Felix. Opening your eyes, you’re met with the splatter of his freckles that seem to glow under the sunlight. Everything feels perfect. It feels right, and you wish you could stay in this moment forever, protected from all that has happened or will happen. But you can’t, the memories of last night’s darkness creep around the corners of the brightly lit room, seeping the warmth out of it until everything is plunged into darkness.

Felix opens his eyes, his bright sparkling eyes, unaware of the darkness surrounding him, his ignorance protecting him. But his light diminishes as his gaze focuses on you.

“Noona, why are you crying?” He asks, arms pulling you even closer to him to the point where you don’t know where your skin ends and his begins.

“Chan…” You sputter, little sobs rattling your chest now. Felix frowns sharply, “Did he do something to you?”

You shake your head, your tears now flowing down your cheeks. “He’s in the hospital. Someone attacked us while we were coming back from the cinema yesterday.”

Felix bolts upright, pushing you at an arm’s length and scrutinizing every inch of your body. “Are you hurt?”

“No, but Chan is.” You wail, throwing your arms around him and burying your face in his shoulder. “He’s hurt really bad.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” For the first time, Felix doesn’t comfort you, his body rigid in your embrace and you hesitantly pull back to look at him. He is completely still, a numb look on his face. And you suddenly realize how thoughtless you’ve been. Despite their fight, Felix and Chan have been best friends for years, way before you met either of them. You should’ve told him as soon as it happened.

“Is he going to be okay?” His lips quiver as he speaks, his eyes terrified and looking through yours for help, and you could smack yourself for being so selfish.

“Oh, baby.” You breathe, pulling him into your embrace again. “I’m sure he’ll be okay.”

_______________________

He wasn’t.

Chan hasn’t woken up by the time you both visit him in the hospital, and the doctors were giving you vague responses every time you tried to ask about his condition--if he’s going to be okay, if he’s even gonna make it--and that petrifies you.

“We’re doing the best we can, but I can’t say anything for certain. He’s in a really bad condition.” The doctor informs you after you’d asked for the millionth time. You nod heavily and he lets you know that he’ll be there if there is anything else you need before he leaves. Yeah, right. The doctors were basically running from you at this point. You weren’t stupid. You knew what it meant.

“Thank you, doctor.” You mumble. You feel guilty, like this is all your fault for wishing for Felix to come back, like somehow this had been a bargain by a cruel god, giving you Felix back but taking Chan away.

As soon as the doctor leaves, Felix falls to the floor beside the bed sobbing. You run to him and wrap your arms around him and he immediately leans into your touch. “I did this.” He wails and your body goes stiff, your breath stuck in your throat, choking you.

But then he continues, “I wished for this the night he threw me out. I was so angry at him, but I never wanted it to really happen.”

Your body turns to jelly, the fear that had gripped it was so intense that it left no energy in its wake, and you can’t even caress Felix’s back to comfort him.

_______________________

The police interview you over and over, asking you to remember if there is something about the man who mugged you that you’re forgetting that could help identify him. You don’t have to force yourself to remember, you see him in your dreams every night, and every night you wake up screaming, poor Felix having to comfort you and kiss you back to sleep, never once complaining.

Through it all, those few agonizing days, you held a terrible secret close to your chest. You felt wretched just thinking about it, but you couldn’t help it. You knew he was going to die anyway. You just wished it would happen sooner than later so you could properly grieve instead of being stuck in this fake limbo, pretending like you think he’s going to make it, even to Felix, so that he wouldn’t completely break down.

You go to visit him less and less until you stop completely, which doesn’t paint you in a very favorable light in front of law enforcement or the doctors, letting Felix go on his own to the hospital every day. But fuck them. What do they know about the pain you’re going through? The guilt?

When it finally happens, you can’t believe it. They say he coded in the night and they tried to do everything to save him, even brought him back a couple of times, but it was ultimately useless. He was gone.

You had to see him for yourself to believe it. You went alone. Felix couldn’t bear to look at his best friend’s now dead body. He begged you not to go but you needed to.

As you gaze across his face, you’re thrust back to that night. You had heard that dead people often have a peaceful look on their face, but Chan didn’t look peaceful. It almost looks angry, accusatory, asking you why you weren’t there for him.

He doesn’t forgive you, but it’s okay. You don’t forgive yourself either.

_______________

The case officially turned into a murder investigation following Chan’s death. His body was handed over to the coroner to do an autopsy and try to gather any forensic evidence left, but neither yielded much information, and the police had no leads.

Soon, the case turned cold.

As for you, you had moved in with Felix,, unable to step back into your apartment without Chan. Fearing that in doing so you’d be acknowledging that he’s gone, and then his spirit would remember to come back to haunt you.

Felix takes such good care of you, even though he’s the one who has the right to be hurt more. He stuck around you all the time, making you feel safe and comforting you. He also kept his distance as much as he could. You could tell he wanted to seek comfort in your body, to help each other through this pain, but you were selfish as always. You only let him comfort you. You never comforted him back.

As the months passed, Felix started getting more and more needy, making you feel even more wretched even though he never said anything. He loved you and you loved him, but Chan’s death had pushed a wedge between you. You couldn’t touch the younger boy without feeling guilty. It felt like you were cheating on Chan more than you ever did before, and so you kept Felix at a distance.

For his part, Felix never outright made an advance on you, respecting your need to grieve, but you could tell from the boner he’d get every time you kissed him even a sweet innocent little kiss or put your arms around him that he needed more, and it made you feel even more horrible. You couldn’t help Chan when he was alive and now you can’t help Felix. You felt like the most selfish fucking human being in the world.

So when you’re woken up from sleep one night, feeling hot and with something hard poking against your ass, you decide to finally give back.

“Noona...” Felix whimpers into your ear, nuzzling his face in the nape of your neck, making goosebumps erupt along your body. You weren’t ready to go all the way yet but at least you could give him some release.

Turning on your back, you guide him to straddle you and let yourself slip into the right headspace. "You dirty little thing, humping your noona in her sleep?"

His eyes light up when he realizes that for the first time in a long time, you’re reciprocating, and he sighs in relief, starting to grind his hips against yours. Tantalizing, you lower the straps of your nightgown, a delicate pink satin piece that Felix bought for you, to expose your tits for him. He hums appreciatively, reaching out to touch, but you slap his hand away. “Only look.”

He shudders, nodding, and humps against you faster. "Noona, please, fuck me. Fuck your dumb baby."

"No whining." You reprimand, lifting his shirt up to his mouth and he obediently bites on it, muffling his noises. With the shirt up, his boxers are exposed, and you watch as every time he thrusts forward, the tip of his dick pokes out from his boxers, red and leaking. “And I thought you’d thank me for being so nice to a pervert like you.”

Felix pants around the fabric in his mouth, his dick dripping over your panties. Placing your hand on his ass, you feel the muscle clench and relax as he ruts desperately against you. “Is this how you wanna fuck noona? You think your little dick can make me feel good?”

He pushes the shirt out of his mouth with his tongue and babbles. “I can noona. Just let me put it inside.” He grabs his dick and runs the head of it over your clothed slit, making you shiver at the stimulation. Then he pushes the head against your hole but is prevented from pushing in because of the underwear “Just let me put it in, noona.”

“You’re a greedy little kitten aren’t you? Put your hands up to your chest, kitty.” You order, and he reluctantly obeys. “Now stick your tongue out and pant for me.”

He does so with a flush, looking like a cat in heat. Absolutely filthy.

“That’s it. That’s a good, boy. Putting on a show for noona.”

He nods happily, high off the praise you’re giving him. "I'm gonna cum for you noona. Watch me cum for you."

“I’m looking, little whore. Cum for me.” You purr, cupping handfuls of his ass as you encourage his now sloppy thrusts.

Felix cries out, cum spurting out of the tip of his cock and landing on your pretty silk nightgown. You tut disappointedly, “Look at the mess you made, kitten. You ruined my nightgown with your filthy cum.”

“I’m sorry, noona.” Felix pants, not looking sorry at all. In fact, he looks enraptured by the sight in front of him. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

He falls over your chest, suckling on your breasts gently as his breathing slows down and becomes deep as he falls asleep.

_____________________

That’s how things go for a long while. Just you helping Felix take the edge off without actually going all the way. You can tell he’s disappointed. He must’ve thought that this was the start of you reigniting your relationship, but you still can’t get yourself to be there for him in the way he needs you. And despite you acting romantically together and going on dates, you never officially acknowledged that you are in a relationship, and you can tell that this, more than anything, hurt him the most.

You feel pity and self-hate fill you up as you play with the boy’s hair, his head resting on your lap.

“How do you like the cocktail?” Felix asks lazily, taking you out of your thoughts.

You blink and take another sip of the drink he made you, appreciating the taste on your tongue. It’s actually pretty good, and you tell him exactly that. “But it seems quite strong. I’m a little lightheaded already. What’s in it, kitten?”

Felix giggles as he presses a finger to his mouth, making a shushing sound. “It's a secret.”

You smile fondly at him, soaking up his laughter along with the afternoon son, the calming rhythm of lix's breathing and the strong drink making you feel sleepy. You decide you’re gonna ask him if he’d like to take a nap with you, but before you can form your words, you abruptly get much sleepier, your eyelids turning to lead as they struggle to stay open to the world spinning around you.

You finally manage a little groan, attracting Felix’s attention. He looks up at you in question and his curious eyes are the last thing you see before it all goes black

_____________________

You wake up feeling hot and sticky. Groggily coming to, you blurrily see a mop of blonde hair over your exposed chest and feel wetness over your nipples. Despite your heavy head, you can immediately tell it’s Felix, and your thoughts trudge along as you try to think of what you were doing last but the memory is too fuzzy.

You’re easily distracted when you feel his moans against your skin as he kisses and suckles on your breasts, his hips dragging over your thigh needily. You try to move your hands to push him away, confused and mad that he is touching you without permission, but you only hear the sound of metal clanking as your hands stay above your head, and with a panic, you realize that you were shackled to the bed.

At the sound, Felix lifts his head up and smiles at you sweetly, as if nothing about this was weird. “Noona, you’re awake!”

You stare at him in bewilderment, and he finally realizes what’s wrong. Sheepishly, he explains, “I’m sorry. You were taking so long to wake up and I couldn’t help myself.”

His words don’t really make the situation much clearer. "What is happening? Why am I bound?"

He smiles, moving up your body so his nose is touching yours. "You've been bad noona, rejecting me for so long. I tried to wait. I tried to be good for you but you still kept rejecting me. So I decided to push things along a little."

"What?" You ask, throat dry.

"I put a sedative in your drink so you'd pass out and I can play with you." He explains cheerily, like that was a completely normal and benign thing to do.

"What the fuck, Felix?” You shout, pulling on your shackles in alarm. “You're crazy."

"Crazy over you." He giggles, pinning your hands to the bed so you wouldn’t struggle. “Now stop or you’ll hurt yourself.”

“You’re the one who is hurting me!”

He frowns. “Don’t say that, noona. I’ve been taking good care of you, haven’t I?”

“And you think that gives you the right to drug and assault me?”

His frown deepens at that, all air of playfulness gone from around him. “Stop. Saying. That.” He grits, “I can’t assault you when you’re mine.”

He leans back and palms at your breasts greedily, his thumbs brushing over your wet buds, and you struggle to not arch up into his touch, a fresh wave of arousal sticking your shorts to your pussy even more. “You’re so perfect, noona.”

"Let me go." You cry, gradually getting more and more panicked.

"I'll never let you go again." His voice is gruff and it sends a shiver down your spine as he rubs his fingers over your clit coarsely. “So stop this or you’ll make me really angry, noona.”

You still immediately, thinking back on what he did last time he got mad. You could still feel the suffocation gripping your throat.

“If you’re wet, noona. I’ll know you want me too.” He pulls back from your chest and slowly peels your shorts down your legs, a gasp escaping him when he is undoubtedly greeted by your underwear sticking to your slick, puffy lips in arousal. “I knew it. Fuck, you’re so sexy.”

He grabs the top of your panties, pulling them up so they’d rub over your pussy, teasing you and delighting in watching you involuntarily squirm. “You’re so sensitive, noona.”

“It’s okay. I’ll take care of you.” He slinks your panties down your legs then pulls your thighs up, spreading your legs wide for him, and moaning out in appreciation. “Ah, fuck, noona…so hot.”

His fingers slowly rub over your exposed, drenched pussy, driving you crazy with the deliberate, wide strokes. You have to fight hard to not close your legs around him. “Want more, noona?”

You bite down on your tongue. You won’t give him the satisfaction of admitting it out loud. Resolutely, his fingers trail down your pussy and into your warm, tight heat, and you can’t fight back the gasp that is ripped from you. You shake as his fingers ever so slowly pump in and out of you. And when he puts his mouth on you, your moans flow out, not caring anything for your ego.

Felix moans into your pussy, eating you out slowly too, maddening slow as if he was kissing you. The wet sounds of his lips and tongue on you make you burn in shame and arousal.

He stays between your legs a long time, driving you mad, his tongue deliberately moving along your folds and and his lips sucking on your sensitive skin, while his fingers stay inside your pussy and relentlessly but equally as slowly rub against that sweet spot inside you. You feel the burn gradually build in your body, it fries your brain and by the time you cum, your entire nervous system is on fire.

He climbs up your body, looking down at you with the most fucked out look on his pretty face, his eyes absolutely glazed over with lust as he bucks his crotch against you and kisses your mouth the same way he did your pussy. You taste yourself on him so clearly it feels like the taste is imprinted on his tongue forever.

Pulling away, a trail of saliva and cum connects your lips. “Need you to fuck me.”

“Let me go, baby.” You coax gently, hoping he won’t get upset if you’re sweet. “Let me go and I'll fuck you."

He shakes his head, "I know you're lying to me, noona. I know I have to break you in first before I let you go."

You pale, bile rising up your throat at the ominous words. "Break me in… how?"

"You’ll see." He giggles, craning your neck up and kissing your skin harshly, growling in between the sloppy kisses, "But when you're over those worthless boys, maybe you can fuck me again. I hate being a bad boy but this is the only way to make you see."

Pulling back from your stinging neck, he presses his dick to your entrance. Your pussy spasms around the tip of his dick, and he chuckles deeply. “Look how needy your pussy is for me. Noona was wasting time being a little slut and letting those bastards touch her when she could've had me." He says reproachfully, as if you were a misbehaving child, and it makes your anger flare up and overpower your fear.

"I don't want you, you freak." You spit out and he slaps you, hard, the force of it busting your lip open. Taking a deep break, he calms himself down and smiles again. "Now that's not very nice, noona. After all I've done for you." He leans down and licks at the drop of blood that sprung from your lip, moaning at the taste.

"You made me wait for so long, noona. I can't wait anymore." He shakes a little, as if it really was hurting him physically to hold back. Pushing into you, he lets out a shuddering cry. "I love you so much. You're finally mine."

You arch your back as he buries himself all the way inside of you, and he takes that opportunity to bend down and pluck one of your nipples into his mouth. You whimper against him, making him speed up his thrusts.

“I’m making you feel good, aren’t I, noona?” He grunts, keeping your legs wide open as he fucks into you but you don’t reply, angering him. Suddenly, you’re flipped onto your stomach, and he pushes himself between your spread legs so you can't close them, plunging his dick back inside you. “You will not ignore me, noona. I will not allow it.”

He steadies himself on both sides of you and leans over you, trapping you under him and fucking you hard and slow, trying to get as deep inside you as possible despite his size and making you shiver as his dick drags against your walls. He gradually speeds up, his dick gliding easily over the track it made, overwhelming your poor pussy.

He fucks you so well, and you’re entirely, completely ashamed of how good it feels. It seems like he is intent on humiliating you, his dick hitting the sweet spot inside of you perfectly with each thrust, and your pussy keeps clenching around him more and more as the sound of your flesh smacking together fills the room. You’re transfixed under him, eyes squeezed shut and mouth hanging open with your back perfectly arched to receive his thrusts, and soon, he grunts into your ear, "I'm so close."

Your eyes snap open urgently. “Pull out. I'm not on birth control. You can’t cum inside me." You explain hastily. You had stopped taking the pill ever since Chan had passed away. You weren’t fucking Felix so you felt no need to take it.

"I know, noona." He says and you almost sigh in relief, fully expecting Felix to whine but pull out. But to your horror, he continues, "Gonna breed you so you'll never leave me again."

Your breath catches in your throat and your nerves go numb. You sob, “Felix, please no. Pull out, baby please. I won’t leave. I’ll stay.”

“You will.” He promises you, and doesn’t pull back. Instead, fucking you harder and spanking your ass as he grunts loudly, "Take it like a good noona."

He empties himself inside of you, his hot cum flooding your pussy, and to your great shame, that pushes you to cum too, your pussy milking him obediently. He praises you happily, "Good noona, taking all my cum. Your pussy knows you belong to me."

You think he’ll be done now, having fucked you and filled you up. But to your horror, he turns you on your side and embraces you from behind. Lifting one leg up in the air, he starts fucking you again. With how wet you were and his previous ejaculation, wet lewd sounds fill the room along with his low grunts and your breathless gasps.

He spends the whole night fucking you, taking you in every position conceivable and making sure to empty every little drop inside of you, apologizing for being a bad boy and promising you that he'll take any punishment you give him once you’re pregnant with his baby and he can be sure you'll stay.

The worst part is that he makes sure you cum too, seeming intent on not allowing you any space to later claim like you didn’t enjoy yourself, murmuring praises into your ear every time you orgasm. "Good noona, cumming around my cock. Kitty is so happy with you. You wanna cum again?"

You are almost passed out when he’s done fucking you. Leaving you used up and sprawled out on the bed, he gets up to retrieve something. When he gets back on the bed, you purposefully don’t look at him, expecting him to now try to suck up to you and get you to forgive him.

But he doesn’t say anything and you suddenly jolt at the sharp sting you feel along your inner thigh. You look down in horror to see felix carving something with a knife onto your skin. His own name.

You shout and begin to struggle, only to quickly realize that you shouldn't be moving around with a sharp knife so close to your genitals, and Felix is aware of that too. He ignores your tearful pleas and pained screams until he’s all done. Brandishing the now bloody knife, he whispers conspiratorially, “Wanna know something, noona?”

You don’t reply but he doesn’t care, smiling as he pushes the knife to your throat. “This is the knife I used to stab Jisung.” Your stomach drops and your blood beats frenziedly against the knife pressed to your skin. “It’s also the same knife I used to kill Chan.”

You stay frozen in place, not even breathing, not even blinking.

"I didn't want to kill him. I really loved him. He was the only one I was willing to share you with but he left me no choice.” He goes on, pouting slightly as if he was lamenting losing his favorite mug. “But it’s better this way. Now you’re all mine. And once you're broken in, I'll let you use this to mark me up too."

____________________

A/N: let me know what you think of the ending. I love to hear it!

#stray kids smut #felix smut #sub!felix #sub!idol #yandere!felix #dom!felix

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ghostwrit · 2 years

Photo

ESTEBAN OCHOA [ witch + pawnbroker ]

A green thumb with loam wedged beneath nails and the heir to his abuela’s shop, From Dusk Till Pawn. There is a price for everything. Esteban is equally loyal as the pit bulls he takes in, twice as willful, a fleeting glimpse of the son charged with sopping up the sins of his father. A second shadow is harder to shake when he’s asked for more ailments than remedies.

IN SEARCH OF

Witches to pawn trinkets and take orders under the table for potions and curses

Shop regulars buying his potions in lieu of seeking traditional health care because ‘Merica

Anyone in search of secondhand treasure, fast cash, or a hex to bestow a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Ghosts whose anchors landed on his shelves and don’t find his shop quite as charming as the antiques store

Natives who might remember his family’s connection to a missing person case around twenty years ago

A psychic to scry the truth about what happened

#ofunholythingsrp #hobbies include crosswords #and lighting up reviewers on yelp

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brutal-nemesis · 3 years

Text

Saltwater Day 2021: Dinner Date with an Eel 💕

Feel that ocean breeze, baby! Cries in lives in a very landlocked area I hope y’all are having some fun in the salty spray ✨Today we finally get to see a Castys misadventure that I’ve talked about in the tags before: the big boy drowning incident! So sit back, relax, and enjoy the agony <3

Castys Masterlist

Ingredients: drowning, animal attack, self harm to escape danger, sort of self amputation, gore, broken bones, suicide for convenience (immortal)

Castys had jumped off of higher cliffs before. Granted, he had done it because he was too lazy to walk to the bottom, and he’d landed on solid rock, and it had been very painful for all of two seconds, so this didn’t make him any less terrified of being shoved off of this one. And yes, that’s right, he was going to be shoved off of this one, into the crashing waves below, which was certainly how he’d planned on spending the morning. Nothing better to start the day than a pointless execution!

Oh, but why are you being executed, Castys, you’re so good and noble and also immortal so this isn’t going to work is it. No, no it’s not going to work. And Castys was being “executed” because, well...turns out people don’t take too kindly to finding out you’re the dreaded Pirate King Ragnarok. As usual, he’d fought and tried to get away, and as usual he’d failed miserably. So here he was, wrists chained together behind his back, ankles chained to a stupidly large rock, and a cloth tied tightly around his mouth.

He tried not to think about having to deal with this arrangement once he was underwater, which was something he was less than excited for. There was already quite a large crowd gathered so, hey, at least he was popular. Actually, scratch that, based on the looks he was getting, he was definitely unpopular. He shifted a bit, causing the men gripping his arms to tighten their grasp. He huffed, wishing he had the ability to tell them to chill the fuck out.

“People of Meruna, we are gathered her today for the execution of the notorious-“ oh my FUCK nevermind just push him off already this whole thing was already bad enough without a speech about all his crimes and whatever. Not that he didn’t love hearing about his exploits, because fuck if he regretted any of it, but the sun was hot and he was tired of standing. That water was going to feel so good...until it was filling his lungs ugh nope don’t think about it like that he was just going for a nice swim that’s all. He was going to be in the nice, cool water without any of these assholes glaring at him, and he’d get out of these chains somehow and come back in ten years and release all their goats and that would show them.

All of a sudden, the hands on him started to push him towards the edge of the cliff, a third guard rolling the rock he was chained to along using her foot. Fuck, fuck the speech was over they were doing it he was going over the edge he’d just been joking earlier he really didn’t want to even if the water would feel good he’d rather stand out here all day because that sure as hell was better than drowning over and over and over the edge the air was rushing by the top of the cliff was getting farther and farther away any second now he-

Castys screamed into the gag as he slammed into the cold water, wasting his last breath of air like an idiot before he started to sink beneath the crashing waves, pulled down by the boulder attached to his ankles. He could only squirm uselessly as he sank deeper and deeper, the soaked-through gag filling his mouth with the taste of saltwater, just to make things even more unpleasant. His arms were killing him, and, you know what, they took the brunt of the impact with the water, so they were probably fucking broken, weren’t they? At least they would heal after...after he drowned for the first time. Already his lungs were starting to burn, but thankfully the rock had finally hit the bottom, so he wouldn’t sink any further and therefore the painful pressure on his ears wasn’t going to get any worse, at the very least.

Positives, positives, since he was probably going to be here for a while...it wasn’t so stupidly hot anymore, instead it was stupidly cold, and already his fingers were starting to go numb-nope, nope, not a positive, let’s try again. It was rather pretty down here, despite the fact that black spots were starting to cloud his vision, and also things were starting to get kinda...woozy, a little bit, a little, hell-o and goodbye, wasn’t it time now? Yeah, yes, the burning was too much it hurt hurt hurt everything was black and black was good bec-

He didn’t bother counting how many times he drowned. Maybe it would have helped pass the time or something, but, let’s be real, there were better things to focus on than how many times he’d experienced the horrible burning in his lungs and that awful lightheadedness. His broken arms had healed up, so that was something, but they were still very much shackled behind his back. If they were free he could at least get that stupid gag out of his mouth and try to fuck with the chain connecting his ankles to that dumb rock. He settled for looking around the underwater landscape surrounding him, glad that sunset was still a ways off. As far as he could tell.

When he could see and think clearly, it was kind of cool to be down here, circumstances aside. All sorts of fish, many of them varieties that he knew what they tasted like, swam around between the wavy water plants. There was even a really big lookin’ boy off in the distance that he’d seen out of the corner of his eye a few times, though it was coming closer now, and he was just starting to be able to make out...wait-was that a-great. Absolutely fantastic, just what he needed. A fucking shreilian eel. How dare he drown over and over in peace, no, no let’s add a vicious man-eating monster to the mix! At least he wasn’t bleeding, so the creature wouldn’t be immediately drawn to him. He’d get to keep his limbs intact for a little longer-wait wait wait. Okay that was absolutely crazy and sounds entirely unfun, but...it might just work.

Castys mustered as much strength as he could, ignoring the ever-present burning of his lungs, and began to clumsily bash himself against the nearby wall of stone. It was coated in barnacles and the like, but their sharp edges were just what he was looking for. Soon enough, he felt the awful sting of saltwater in the many small cuts that were now littering his arm. Fuck, that was nowhere near enough blood to get that eel over here, and his vision was starting to go dark. If he didn’t get that damn thing over here now he’d die and heal and have to do this bullshit all over again no no no get over here you stupid thing fuck yeah that feels like a nice gash it burns to high hell but so does everything and look at all that bloody water or maybe it’s just getting too dark because it is dark and...so...hurt…

When he came back to life, there was a small cloud of blood swirling in the water around him, but it was dissipating more and more by the second. He couldn’t see the eel anywhere, and if that bastard disappeared on him after all that...Instinctively, he tried to take a deep breath and ended up sucking a bunch of water up his nose like an absolute idiot, his nostrils now burning just as much as his even more waterlogged lungs. His body tried to cough, but it was just painful and useless like everything else he’d done while stuck down here, and he just ended up thrashing around like an injured fish.

Just what the eel had been waiting for.

It felt like he’d suddenly been hit by a mace, slamming him into the rocks, his arm lighting up with the pain of a thousand hot spikes, almost too intense for him to even process, the salty water magnifying every little agony tenfold. Castys was certain he would have been screaming if he had the air, and as much as this was absolutely fucking terrible, he hoped the eel would do it again. It had bitten off a good chunk of his arm as far as he could tell, but not enough to completely sever it and free him from the restraints. And for once, his horrid luck regarding avoiding pain paid off. The eel rammed into him again, ripping off more of his arm with its razor-sharp teeth and causing the bones of his forearm to crack.

Sensing his chance, Castys grabbed the manacled wrist of his shredded arm with his good hand, bit down on the gag, and pulled. He couldn’t give up, couldn’t stop, not after enduring this much, he could feel his flesh tearing, sending out sparks of agony unlike anything he’d ever known, and he had to keep pulling, pulling and jerking and tearing and twisting and praying, praying that he could rip it off before he drowned again, which, hey, kind of a weird thing to want, not that he hadn’t had to amputate his own limbs before, but weird that it was happening again, and honestly, this hurt way more than the other times, but wasn’t that always the case-and fuck there was no way he was going to be able to just snap his bones like this, and he needed it to be completely severed, and there was no time, wedge it against the rocks and pull pull pull until there was a snap and a burst of unholy agony, so intense it almost smothered the relief, so fierce it made him forget he was drowning up until the moment his oxygen-starved brain lost consciousness.

Castys’s arms were free. Well, one was free, and the other one was still manacled, attached to...what was left over after all that. He ripped the gag out of his mouth, resisting the urge to suck in mouthfuls of air that were absolutely not there. Looking down at his ankles, he wasn’t sure if-his body exploded with pain as the eel rammed into him again, taking a chunk of flesh from his side, which was definitely not where he wanted to be bitten. Gritting his teeth against the anguish that almost consumed him, he grabbed the wrist of his severed arm and clumsily smeared blood around his ankles, hoping it would entice the monster to attack them and help set him free.

It worked, and it didn’t. The eel attacked him again and again, no longer pausing in between bites to circle him. Castys wasn’t even sure where it was biting him anymore, he just knew that everything hurt, the saltwater in his wounds magnifying the pain so much that there was no discernible source. He didn’t try to fight the eel off, hoping it would just do enough damage to his legs that he could get free, but he wasn’t sure if he could have even tried to get it away from him if he wanted to. Things were getting so dizzy so fast, all of a sudden, there was nothing to do but wait and die and hurt…

When he came back to life, Castys was disappointed to find that he was not floating to the surface. In fact, one of his ankles felt kind of weird, like it wasn’t shackled anymore, but still...for fuck’s sake. One of his ankles had been freed, torn enough to shreds before he’d died that the manacle had come off, but the other one was...well the manacle wasn’t around his ankle so much as it was…in his ankle. How the fuck that had happened, he had no clue. He just knew he had to deal with it. Looking around, the eel wasn’t anywhere to be seen, probably full to bursting after its meal, and though his heart sank a little at the thought that he couldn’t rely on it anymore, he was also slightly relieved, because that thing had been vicious. It had, however, left a parting gift. He swam downwards and grabbed the smooth fang off of the sandy ocean bottom, gripping it tightly. Just a little bit more.

He had endured so much already, felt pain more intense, experienced sensations more gruesome, but this...this was more active than everything else that had happened down here. More visible. He had to make every stab and slice deliberately, had to watch the tooth do its damage, it wasn’t mindless bashing or praying he’d get bitten in the right places, but an active choice to cut his flesh away, inviting burning seawater into a wound once again, and it was difficult. Part of him wanted to stop, take a break, please, I don’t want to have to do this anymore, I want to let go, just for a little bit, please, but he knew he couldn’t, because he had to get this done before he drowned again or he’d have to start the whole damn thing over.

Relief like he’d never known washed over him as he finally managed to worm the manacle out of his shredded ankle and he felt himself start to rise. The lightheadedness was getting worse, and he wasn’t sure if he’d make it in time, so he wormed his finger into the pouch around his neck and let the death stone’s magic take him before the lack of air could. He was still rising when he came back to, and he propelled himself towards the surface with renewed strength, despite the pain of his ears popping and the odd ache in his joints.

Finally, blessedly, he made it to the surface, and air had never tasted so fucking good. Not that it wasn’t salty, but it wasn’t as salty as saltwater, and he sucked as much of it as he could into his waterlogged lungs. He looked up at the cliff towering over him, now painted with the orange of sunset instead of the gold of sunrise. He...he had been down there all day just...downing. And getting eaten. Kinda fucked. Seeing a nearby rock, he swam over to it and scampered on top, collapsing on its damp surface as he coughed up far too much fucking seawater. Fuck, his head was spinning and his joints hurt, like they probably would have if he could grow old. Well, nothing that one last death can’t fix, now that he was finally on land again.

Castys opened his eyes and sat up, feeling perfectly fine besides the awful, salty taste in his mouth. He looked over at the cliff smugly. Those bastards had tried to get rid of him for good, and they’d failed miserably. He folded down his middle fingers and placed his thumbs over them, a rude gesture in this part of the world. Seeing the remnant of his arm dangling from the manacle still attached to his left wrist, he had a devilishly gruesome idea.

The next morning, the whole town was awoken by the screams of a young couple who had gone out for a stroll.

Right there, in the middle of the town square, was part of a crudely severed arm, its fingers frozen in an obscene gesture, its skin slimy and already starting to slip off. A manacle was clamped around its wrist, attached by a short chain to the other one, which had been broken open.

The execution had failed, and that heinous pirate had escaped.

Castys Cult: @as-a-matter-of-whump @blackrosesandwhump @fanmanga1357-blog @thehopelessopus @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @hearse-song @muddy-swamp-bitch @whumpasaurus101 @yet-another-heathen @galaxywhump @starnight-whump @his-unspoken-words

#i wrote something #castys #animal attack cw #drowning cw #self amputation #self harm to escape danger #suicide for convenience #gore #hooray yall finally get his big drowning incident #sorry that it's not super drowning focused i still am not a drowning fan #it's not gory and the application of the pain is more indirect so thats why im indifferent to it #actually writing this has made me realize both how fucking batshit castys is and also that he's really determined #i was always aware that getting a sea monster to bite off his limbs so he could get out of the chains was nuts but like damn. it's very nuts #and when he was ripping off his arm like holy shit dude #you might be a rat bastard but you don't give up. stubborn stubborn man #he's like a fucking weed #castys calls kelp a plant but it's not a plant he does not have access to our biological classification scheme #that's his excuse but i will not support the spread of misinformation #yes the eel is based off the shrieking eels from princess bride #aka one of the greatest movies of all time #i dont accept criticism on this #i didnt want to use a real animal because then i would have to research behavior and shit #and i dont want people showing up like ''ACTUALLY that shark doesn't behave that way uwu''#im just very lazy and i want to bitey monster to do what i want it to do without spening hours reading behavorial articles #not that this didnt make me look at eel life cycles because EEL LARVA ARE SO FUNNY LOOKING LOOK THEM UP #THEYRE JUST BIG FLAT GLASS WIGGLES THAT GO :v #that said i did try to base the eel off of shark hunting behaviors i vaguely remember from shark week #he gets decompression sickness a bit there at the end that's why his joints hurt #saltwater day #saltwater day 2021

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amaranthinecanicular · 3 years

Text

and the name for your order is

The guy snarls his order, and Kirishima is glad because clearly he's an unrepentant dick to everyone, not just Amajiki. It's easier to come to terms with than he thought it would be. “And your name?” he says, plucking a cup from the stack and uncapping the marker with his teeth.

“Who the fuck wants to know?” says the customer.

“Oh no,” says Kirishima, because oh no, he likes this guy. It's one of those sudden revelations that takes him by the throat and shakes him down. Who wants to know, he says, as though it wasn't obvious. Who wants to know. So absurdly aggressive it ends up amusing instead of intimidating. Endearing, even.

[My belated @fyeahbnha secret santa gift for @pointy-hat-witch! Please enjoy, and happy holidays!!!]

[Alternatively read on ao3.]

OCTOBER

Fat Gum’s Café has a new customer.

Well. Not new, exactly. He's been showing up for the last two weeks or so but only on days Kirishima wasn’t working. The news shared by his coworkers more closely resemble war stories than work gossip, ranging exclusively from horrible to terrible.

“He’s the scariest person I’ve ever met in my life,” says Amajiki.

“He’s like a sentient piece of crap rolled up in a garbage can and set on fire,” says Kaminari.

“He makes Give me a mocha double espresso sound like an order of execution,” says Amajiki.

“He’s rude and violent and he has no honor,” says Tetsutetsu.

“If he’s not actually a demon sent from the depths of hell to torture me specifically I would be very surprised,” says Amajiki. Most of the stories are from Amajiki.

Kirishima is dying to meet him, in part to defend his friends’ honor and in part to put a face to the legend. Luckily, the start of the new quarter means new classes at new times, and that means new work hours. What was originally a Tuesday-Thursday-Friday-Sunday schedule shifts to a Monday-Wednesday-Saturday schedule. Kirishima feels bad about that. He likes the coffee shop, likes his coworkers, likes his boss. If he could ace his tests and help out at Fat Gum’s every day he would, but he can't. His grades are dragging.

On the bright side, he meets their local celebrity, like, immediately.

It’s his first Saturday on the job. He knows it’s about to go down when he finds Amajiki attempting to assimilate himself into the storage closet.

“He's back,” says Amajiki, doing an excellent impression of coffee grounds quaking in fear. “If I have to deal with him again I'll die, I'll just die. Tell Mirio and Hadou I said goodbye. I'm sorry, Kirishima-kun, I can't do it.”

Poor guy. Amajiki is convinced this dude is terrorizing him deliberately, which Kirishima sincerely hopes isn't true. Anyone who would go out of their way to frighten serious, hardworking, anxious Amajiki must be a monster.

As if to punctuate this point, someone out at the front begins to brutalize the counter bell. To be fair, they really shouldn't leave it unmanned.

“Don't sweat it, senpai,” Kirishima says. He doesn't give Amajiki the manly clap to the shoulder that he wants to—Amajiki isn't so good with physical contact from anyone other than Togata or Hadou. “I'll handle the problem customer.”

Amajiki peeks at Kirishima through coffee filters and the dark wedge of his fringe. “You—you mean it?”

“Sure do. I like a challenge.”

He flashes his brightest smile. Amajiki squints a little at the force of it.

Kirishima is honestly surprised that the poor bell isn’t dented by the time he comes to its rescue.

“About fucking time,” says the problem customer. He's got riotous blond hair and a scowl on his face like it's been carved there. There's a grenade logo sprayed on his baggy black tee, which makes sense, because one look at this guy brings to mind the word explosive.

“How may I help you, sir?” says Kirishima, with deliberate pep. Impossibly, impressively, the scowl cuts deeper. Like an attack—like he's never not on the offensive. That's fine. Kirishima’s smile will be his armor.

“Who the fuck wants to know?” says the customer.

Kirishima spits the cap out of his mouth. “I want to know. For your order, man.”

The problem customer narrows his eyes as though to peer through Kirishima’s question to the ulterior motives behind it, which is insane, since there are no ulterior motives to be found in the absolutely routine procedure of a coffee shop. Cheerfully oblivious seems to be getting under his skin, so Kirishima leans into it. “What if I forget who asked for the mocha double espresso?”

The customer rolls his eyes. He rolls his eyes violently. “Right, because I'm real fucking forgettable.”

“You could be.” The look he gets for that is entirely worth breaking the Customer Is Always Right creed. “We get a lot of traffic, man, it’s nothing personal.”

The customer braces himself on the counter and leans into Kirishima’s space. Instinct hooks in his spine and tries to reel him back a step or two, but he hardens his resolve into stone and ties it to his feet, weighs himself down, refuses to budge.

“You'll remember me,” the customer says. A promise like a threat, and for the first time in the duration of this exchange Kirishima feels seen by him. Acknowledged. It's the same feeling as scoring well on a test, or making a sad friend laugh. Hard-won and worth it. Kirishima can't stop the grin from breaking onto his face so he doesn't try to.

“Sure I will. I like you.”

And the look he gets for that, well, that's priceless.

“So that name?”

“Fuck off.”

The guy recovers fast, that's for sure. Kirishima watches him skulk to the serving counter where he roots himself like a particularly irritable tree and barks at anyone who gets too close. The next customer gets an extra punch in her punch card for the wait, and when the guy's order is up, Kirishima is ready with a sharpie in hand. Amajiki has ventured back out to help with orders, steadfastly avoiding anything problem-customer-related, but he blanches when he sees what Kirishima is scribbling on the cup. “Are you insane? Do you have a death wish? Should I be getting you help?”

“Trust me,” Kirishima says. He caps the coffee and walks it to its rightful owner. “One mocha double espresso for Mr. Unforgettable.”

The guy snatches the cup. He stomps off without another word.

Thirty seconds later he stomps right back.

“Blasty McSplode?”

Amajiki ducks under the counter. Kirishima, in the process of taking another order, smiles wide enough to cramp his cheeks.

“Hey! Back already?”

“Blasty Mc-Fucking-Splode?”

“You wouldn't give me your name. I had to take a stab at it myself. Was I close?”

“I'll show you taking a stab—”

Blasty rants and raves for a full minute, splashing mocha just about everywhere, until finally Fat Gum himself ambles out of his office to gently shoo him from the shop. Kirishima waves at him around Fat Gum’s bulk. Blasty waves his middle finger in response. When Fat Gum comes back in he raises an eyebrow at Kirishima, which, yeah, he definitely deserves, but he also passes a heavy hand through his carefully gelled hair to show that he's not really mad. Kirishima fixes his hair as best he can while Amajiki climbs out from under the counter.

“I can't believe he didn't kill you for that,” he says, his voice buffed by awe.

Kirishima gives the next customer's punch card an extra punch too. Hell, he gives her two extra punches. Why not? He's in a great mood.

Two days later Blasty stalks in and Kirishima can't believe his good fortune. He calls out a greeting from across the cafe and gets a glare in response, but that glare holds, a few seconds of extended eye contact, long enough to stay in Kirishima’s belly after it's ended and flutter there.

Blasty growls his order. Kirishima asks for his name. Blasty tells him to go die and Kirishima scribbles Lord Explosion Murder on the cup. He's rewarded with a snort of amusement.

“Did you see that?” he gushes to Kaminari, after Blasty has left. “He totally laughed! He liked it!”

“I saw it I saw it ow stop hitting me!” Kaminari rubs the place on his shoulder that Kirishima had been slapping repeatedly. “I dunno, man. That sounded more like a scoff to me.”

Nah, he's pretty sure he was amused.

The next time he comes in, after the requisite exchange (“Your name for the order?” “Eat a dick,” “Cool cool I think I'd get fired if I wrote that but cool,”) Kirishima writes King Explosion Murder on the side of the cup.

“Better,” Blasty huffs.

Kirishima feels like cloud-walking for the rest of the day. Kaminari isn’t on shift, but when Kirishima texts him, he texts back: “I stand corrected. When are you asking him out?”

“All in due time,” Kirishima promises his phone.

NOVEMBER

Blasty’s schedule:

He shows up Monday mornings, rumpled by sleep and grouchier than usual, before he heads off to class. Wednesday evenings he drinks and studies until closing time. Saturday afternoons he sits at the window with a bento. Coincidentally these are the three days and times that Kirishima is on duty. And it must be coincidental, because if it's not then that means that Blasty memorized his schedule and molded his life accordingly, learned to fit him in, looks forward to seeing him three days out of the week. Kirishima may be an optimist, but he's not delusional. He knows how dangerous a daydream like that can be.

He’s probably just here because it’s a good place to study. And there must be an exam coming up, because lately he’s been showing up with even more books than usual, and suitcases under his eyes instead of bags. He’s crabbier, too, which Kirishima didn’t think was possible and is honestly impressed by. By this point he has unofficially become the only one willing to serve him, but this wild-eyed evolution of Problem Customer into Demon Customer From Hell just clinches it.

“Maybe you should take a break,” Kirishima says, when he brings over Blasty’s third espresso in as many hours. It’s Saturday, usually Blasty’s day to sit and gaze out the window with one of his more pensive death glares, but today he’s entombed himself in a mountain of notes and textbooks. Kirishima nudges aside a few notebooks to make room for the cup.

“Maybe you should go fuck yourself with a rake,” says Blasty, without looking up from the violent strokes of his pen. “Touch my stuff again and I’ll kill you myself, shitty hair.”

Watching from behind the counter, Amajiki wheezes with secondhand horror. Kirishima peers at the crowded table. “Hey, where’s your bento?”

Blasty slams his pen down. “Was I not clear enough, you moron? Fuck off! Leave me alone!”

Kirishima raises his hands in surrender. Blasty’s mouth opens as if to say something else, but nothing comes out. Maybe he’s realized he’s gone a step too far. They stare at each other for a beat, and then his jaw snaps shut. He jerks his head back to his books and Kirishima retreats to the counter.

“He can’t speak to you like that,” Amajiki says, suddenly stern. He’s always braver on someone else’s account. “I’ll tell Fat Gum, he’ll understand. We don’t have to serve him. You don’t have to take his abuse.”

“The guy’s under a lot of stress,” Kirishima says. It’s overindulgent even for him, but when he glances over his shoulder he sees Blasty wrench his gaze away. “And I think he feels bad.”

Amajiki obviously doesn’t think so, but he says nothing more, which Kirishima appreciates. By closing time Blasty is the only customer left in the shop, still hunched over his books and writing furiously. Kirishima has given him his space, and he hasn’t asked for another coffee. Amajiki is still angry enough to go tell him they’re closing—he’ll even be properly intimidating about it—but Kirishima stops him.

“I’ll lock up,” he offers. Amajiki’s look of disapproval is a blow to Kirishima’s pride, but he stands firm. So Fatgum leaves, and Amajiki leaves, with a sigh and a firm promise that he’ll be on standby if Kirishima needs anything, and then the place is empty and it’s just him, Blasty, and the scritching sound of his pen.

Kirishima takes his time. He cleans up and Blasty keeps studying. He locks the doors and Blasty keeps studying. He sits down at a table across the cafe and gets some of his own homework done, and Blasty keeps studying. Then he goes back to the machines, knowing he’ll have to clean them again, and whips up a special drink. When he’s done, he writes FIGHT ON! where the name should go.

“I don't want your fucking charity,” Blasty says as he sets it down.

“You’ve accepted it so far,” Kirishima points out blandly, gesturing to the very obviously closed cafe. Before Blasty can bite his head off, he continues, “Anyway, don't think of it as charity. Think of it as…an investment.”

“Investment in what?” His eyes are narrowed and very red, both in the iris and the bloodshot sclera.

Kirishima weighs the pros and cons of his next move and decides to go for it. He hazards a wink. “In my future best customer.”

Blasty is unimpressed. Like, fatally unimpressed. Like, it's impressive how unimpressed he looks. Aggressively deadpan. He has to practice that look in the mirror.

But he takes the cup, and when Kirishima peeks at him later, he's smirking at the sharpie message.

Monday morning sees Blasty quiet and terse, but civil. Civil for him, anyway. Kaminari is disturbed.

“What did you do?” he hisses once Blasty bulls out of the shop.

“Nothing.” Even if he barely met Kirishima’s eyes. Not promising.

“Did you fight?”

“No.”

“Did he turn you down?”

“No. Dude, nothing happened.”

Kaminari raises his hands. For a minute they work in silence.

“So if you didn’t get turned down, are you gonna ask him out soon?”

Kirishima hands off an order, and then lets his customer service smile drop. “Now isn’t a good time. I’ve got to give him some space.”

“Okay, but what about all your fortune favors the manly stuff? Isn’t that the reason you got this far in the first place?”

“How far is that? I still don’t know his name.” He can feel Kaminari’s eyes on him, and he tries to rally. Picks up his smile and pastes it back on. “Hey, enough about me. How’s it going with you and Shinsou?”

Kaminari lights up. For the next twenty minutes he regales Kirishima—and the whole cafe—with his loud and maudlin romantic woes, all he’s so hot the bags under his eyes should not be so hot and his dry sense of humor is so hard to read and I think he’s flirting with me but I thought that with Jirou and she and Momo still won’t let me live it down.

Kirishima listens and laughs and offers advice, and he does his job, and he doesn’t think about his grumpy favorite customer even once. Really he doesn’t.

When Blasty comes in on Wednesday, he looks well rested. Kirishima waves before getting back to orders. This is apparently not good enough for Blasty, because he scowls at the people in line and then stalks over to the serving counter and proceeds to glare daggers, like he expects Kirishima to just up and abandon his work to attend to him. Like, yeah, he wants to, but it wouldn’t be right. Even if Blasty scares other customers away from the counter. And even if Kirishima is getting steadily more distracted the longer he stares.

On the third order he messes up, Tetsutetsu intervenes.

“Go on,” he sighs, nudging Kirishima aside as the next customer steps up. “Make it fast, bro.”

Kirishima promises him a meat bun after work and hurries over. “Hey. You’re looking better. Did you ace the test?”

“Obviously.”

“That’s great. Congratulations.”

There’s a stalled moment. Kirishima taps his fingers on the counter. Blasty is visibly grinding his molars.

“Cool, so I’m gonna get back to work, I’ll make you your regular—”

“Last week,” Blasty starts. He bites out each word. “Last week, I was.” He stops, lips pressed tight and bloodless.

“An asshole,” Kirishima supplies.

Blasty hums low in his throat. Or he growls. Either way it’s as close to an admission as Kirishima is going to get, and it clearly took a hilarious amount of self restraint for even that much.

Blasty clears his throat and says, “That drink you made. What was in it?”

Kirishima is a little thrown by the shift. “Xoaxacl chocolate, a little chili powder. I thought you might like an extra kick.”

“It wasn’t half bad.” There’s color along the bridge of his nose. “I’ll take one of those.”

Maybe Kirishima had been more upset by Blasty’s behavior on Saturday than he thought, because now he feels loads lighter, any old hurts dissipating like clouds under the sun. He smiles, and Blasty blinks a lot, the color spreading to his cheeks and his ears and down his throat.

“One special order, comin’ right up!”

Kirishima turns around and reaches for a cup and marker. And then, behind him: “Bakugou Katsuki.”

He pauses. “Sorry?”

Blasty is rubbing roughly at his mouth. His whole face is glowing. “You heard me.”

“Bakugou,” says Kirishima, trying the taste on his tongue. Bakugou, full of plosives and hard consonants. “I love it. It suits you.”

Bakugou’s eyes snap wide, then narrow just as fast. “Why the fuck should I care what you think of my name? It doesn't need your approval, dipshit.”

When Kirishima is finished making his drink, Bakugou snatches it from his hand and whirls on his heel, a dramatic spray of foam following him out. Kirishima tingles where their fingers touched.

Then he watches Bakugou take a deep pull, and he has to go clean the latte machine before he’s murdered by the lethal and lovely line of Bakugou’s throat.

DECEMBER

“Y’know, I still don’t know what you study.”

“Probably because it’s none of your business.”

“Right. Except how it kind of is literally my business, since I let you study here, in my place of work, after we’ve closed.”

This has become their ritual. On Saturdays Bakugou stay past closing, sometimes doing schoolwork, sometimes helping clean up, sometimes just chatting. He never stays past nine thirty—Kirishima has learned that he likes to turn in before ten every night, which is bizarrely adorable—but it doesn’t matter. Any amount of time with him is always going to feel like a blessing, and it’s never going to feel like enough.

“You’re not doing me any favors, shitty hair, get that thought out of your empty skull this instant.”

“Sure, sure.”

Kirishima finishes cleaning up. Once the last table is wiped down he sits heavily across from Bakugou, happy to finally be off his feet. His eyes feel swollen, too big for his skull. His grades have yet to pick up despite the extra hours of studying he’s been putting in. He presses his knuckles into his eyes for a moment of relief.

“I’m a med student.”

He blinks the colorless starbursts from his eyes. Bakugou, across from him, comes into focus: his head is still down, his gaze still fixed on his book. Sometimes he wears glasses, thick dark frames that Kirishima loves, and today is one of those days. He grins.

“No shit! You’re going to be a doctor?”

“A surgeon.” Some color rises in his ears; he looks pleased. Maybe because of how awed Kirishima sounds. But why wouldn’t he? Anyone working to help people is worthy of admiration, and manly as hell.

“Dude, that’s awesome. I’m studying to be a nurse.”

The corner of Bakugou’s mouth twitches upward. “Nurses are badass.”

“I think so. You a doctor, me a nurse. I bet we’d make a good team.”

Bakugou scoffs, even as pink starts to pool in his collarbones. Kirishima still doesn’t get why certain things make him flush, but he’s happy to learn. He rests his cheek in his hand and tries not to smile too dopily. “Y’know, for a med student you sure drink a lot of coffee. You know too much of this stuff is terrible for you, right?”

“I’m going to tell your boss you said that and get you fired.”

“That’s really not how it works.”

Bakugou’s glare is magnified by the glasses. He takes a long, aggressive sip of his drink—the strength it takes Kirishima not to burst out laughing is Herculean, truly, with the slurping and the deliberate eye contact and all, because only Bakugou could turn coffee into an intimidation tactic. Then he says, “Whatever. I'm invincible.”

Kirishima bursts out laughing. Bakugou grumbles beneath his breath, but his threats delight Kirishima more than they intimidate; Kirishima’s laughter seems to confound Bakugou more than it enrages. They're good for each other, is his sudden thought, and it thrills him.

He’s a little teary and a little breathless by the time he gets himself under control. Through the blurry smudge of his eyelashes he sees Bakugou. Then he’s breathless all over again.

Bakugou’s face—Kirishima wouldn’t say it softens. But there is a softness there, in his unsmiling mouth, in his brow, stern but smooth. He’s just—watching him, steadily. Intent.

“Hey,” Kirishima says, and it’s easy, it’s so easy. “Make sure you come in on Christmas, alright? I get out early, and I want to ask you something.”

And maybe he expects Bakugou to fluster, or to scowl, or to demand to hear his question then and there. He doesn’t.

“Fine,” he says, and he just keeps watching. Like he wouldn’t mind watching Kirishima forever.

Maybe Kirishima’s projecting a little.

Bakugou would probably tear him a new one for spreading the news around, but Kirishima is too excited to keep it to himself.

“I’m happy for you,” says Amajiki, sounding worried but sincere.

“Congrats, man,” says Tetsutetsu, and then they have a celebratory arm wrestling match.

Kaminari is a little more suspicious. “So you haven’t asked him out yet?”

He’s standing on a stepladder, hanging Christmas decorations while Kirishima mans the counter. Bakugou has already stopped by for his morning coffee, and it’s been a slow morning since. The few people trickling in have been couples, sharing hot chocolate and slices of cake. Kirishima has spent an inordinate amount of time daydreaming about similar situations. In his head it’s usually a little less cozy and a little more explosive, but he likes it better that way.

“Technically no.” He tops the latte he’s working on with extra foam. “I asked him to come by on Christmas, and I’m going to ask him out then. I’ve got a plan.”

Kaminari doesn’t need to know how nebulous said plan is. At the moment it includes things like Step One: Bribe With Spicy Food (Addendum: Can Christmas Cake Be Spicy?), Step Two: Sweep Bakugou Off His Feet, Step C: Profess Manly Adoration, Step N: Kiss Just Like, Wow, A Whole Bunch. The truth is he’s always been more of an in the moment kind of guy. But he likes Bakugou—he really, really likes Bakugou. He doesn’t want to screw everything up with an impulsive word or action. And if that means taking precautions he wouldn’t usually bother with, he’ll take them.

“I dunno, man,” says Kaminari. “Midoriya and Momo are all about plans. You…not so much.”

Kirishima decides Kaminari knows him too well. “Any progress with Shinsou?”

That does the trick. Kaminari brightens like the bunch of LED Christmas lights in his arms. He practically swoons, the stepladder protesting beneath him. “Dude, you have no idea. I took a leaf out of your book, just asked him straight out, and lemme tell you I knew Hitoshi was hot but I’ve never seen anyone blush so cute in my whole damn life—”

He swoons a little too hard, arms wheeling, and Kirishima barely vaults the counter in time to catch him. There’s some polite applause from the handful of patrons in the shop. Kirishima and Kaminari bow, and then Fat Gum tells them to quit fooling and get back to work.

Kirishima does not spend the rest of his shift thinking about how Kaminari called Shinsou Hitoshi. And he definitely does not think about calling Bakugou by his first name on Christmas.

He does, however, scrawl Katsuki on no less than three to-go cups.

Kirishima does not see Bakugou on Christmas. He does not see much of anyone, or anything, on Christmas. He can barely see his own hand in front of his face, which could be the delirium brought on by the fever or the copious amount of sweat rolling into his eyes, which is also brought on by the fever.

As badly as he wants to push through the pain, not even he is hardheaded enough to try and drag his sorry carcass to work. It’s hard enough to drag his sorry carcass to the bathroom and back. He tries to text his coworkers (Tamaki? Kaminari? Tetsutetsu? He can’t recall who’s working today, so he texts all of them) and asks them to apologize to Bakugou, but the characters are swimming in his vision and he’s pretty sure the result is gibberish. Which means it’s over. He’s going to be laid up in bed for weeks, he’s going to fail his finals, and come next semester he’ll have a new class schedule, and he’ll never see Bakugou again. He’s blown it. Romance is dead.

Someone’s knocking on the door. He doesn’t answer it right away—it takes a minute for him to peel the rhythm of the pounding door from the pounding in his head. It takes a minute longer for him to stumble up and open it.

“You look like shit,” says Bakugou. He’s standing there looking like god’s gift to the earth, even scowling, even bundled in hat and scarf and mask, even laden down with groceries. Kirishima is pretty sure he’s hallucinating.

“Well? Are you letting me in or what?”

Kirishima lets him in. Bakugou toes out of his boots and then he plants himself in the middle of the room, jerking his head this way and that, taking it all in: the kitchenette-slash-living room, the card table turned dining table, the clashing red and hot pink interior design. “This place is a shitshow,” he declares. “No roommate?”

“She’s spending Christmas with friends.” More specifically, Mina had left last night with the implication that if Kirishima’s date went well he was free to come back to the apartment. There was a lot of obnoxious winking and innuendos. It was sweet of her, if a little mortifying and inappropriate, and in the end entirely wasted when he woke up with the mother of all migraines.

Bakugou drops the groceries on the table and starts shucking his outerwear. The hat, the scarf, the puffy coat. Kirishima sways in place and watches him. He’s wearing a red button down, and beneath that a black tee with the Punisher logo on it. It’s just a little bit dressier than his everyday attire. Is this what he would have worn on their date? If Kirishima had ever gotten to ask him properly? He sighs, forlorn.

Bakugou turns back to him, and they stare at each other. They keep staring at each other until Bakugou reaches past him to close the door, which was still hanging open over his shoulder. Whoops.

“God damn, you’re out of it. Get back to bed, loser.”

He cuffs him over the head, except it’s less of a cuff and more of a ruffle, exasperated and fond. So Kirishima totters back to bed. Hallucination or not, he’s happy to see Bakugou one last time.

When he wakes up, it’s to the rich, earthy kinds of aromas he associates with home cooking, if not necessarily his home. His first thought is that Mina came home early, but she’s just as useless in the kitchen as he is. So either a burglar broke in to cook for him or he wasn’t having an incredibly vivid fever dream, as he’d previously assumed. Which means Bakugou is really, actually, truly in his home.

The door to his bedroom bangs open while he’s wrestling with the sweat-soaked sheets. Bakugou is armed to the teeth with soup, water, tea, pills, and towel, all laid out and puffing steam on a serving tray that Kirishima doesn’t remember owning. He raises an eyebrow at Kirishima’s ogling and knees him in the side.

“Sit up. You have to eat and rehydrate.”

The tray lands on Kirishima’s lap, and then the water and the pills are pushed into his hands. While he’s downing both, Bakugou makes a sour face at the state of his room, and bustles out to change the bedside wastebasket for a clean bag. Kirishima would be more humiliated if he weren’t so happy to see him at all.

When Bakugou comes back he’s got a thermometer in one hand and the card table’s folding chair under an arm. He kicks the chair open, spins it around, and slings one leg over the side. He brandishes the thermometer like a weapon of war.

“Open.”

The thermometer jabs under Kirishima’s tongue. He winces only a little, and his voice comes out nasally and muffled and a little wondering. “I can’t believe you’re really real.”

“What else would I be?”

“I don’t know, a dream? A near death hallucination?”

Bakugou rolls his eyes. “Shut up until I get your temperature.”

A few seconds later the thermometer chirps. Bakugou snaps it up and glares at it, and then something in his face relaxes.

“Barely a fever. You’ll live, moron.”

Kirishima asks, “How’d you know where I live?”

“Your dumbass coworker said you were sick. I threatened him bodily harm until he gave me your address.” Like it’s so obvious. Which, yeah, maybe it is. Probably Kaminari, who is both susceptible to Bakugou’s intimidation tactics and has been pushing for them to get together. When Bakugou snaps open the damp towel and starts mopping at Kirishima’s sweaty face, grumbling beneath his breath, he decides that he’s grateful.

For the first time he’s realizing how silly his fever induced fears were. He might be down for the count for a few days, but he won’t miss his finals, even if he might fail them. And even if his schedule falls out of sync with Bakugou’s, it’s not like he’ll be gone forever. They have a mutual friend in Midoriya, as Kirishima learned recently. Or else he could just loiter around the cafe until they learn each other’s new schedules. This doesn’t have to be the end at all. Bakugou proved that by coming here.

“Sorry, Bakugou,” he croaks. “I really wanted to be there with you today. Was looking forward to it all week.”

Bakugou dismisses him with a roll of his eyes. He folds his arms across the back of the chair and rests his chin on them. “So? What happened?”

“End of the semester. Bad grades. Finals.” He waves a vague hand to encompass the studying and the stress and the lack of sleep. It probably didn’t help that he ran himself into the ground trying to justify a night off with Bakugou, though he doubts that comes across with his flappy wrist.

“Guess it all caught up to me.” He spoons some soup into his mouth. “Oh my god, this is delicious. You made this?”

“I’m great at everything, obviously.” His mask twists with a frown. “You’re having trouble in school?”

“’M not a genius like you.”

“It’s not about being a genius, it’s about studying habits. You need someone to quiz you, keep you on task.” A pause, nearly short enough to be casual. “I’ll do it.”

Kirishima lowers the bowl he had been tipping over for the last of the broth. “You?”

“What, you think I can’t? I’ll be the best damn tutor you’ve ever seen, shitty hair.” Another pause. This one is more thoughtful.

“What?” says Kirishima.

Bakugou shakes his head. His voice has dropped to a low rumble in his chest. “Never seen you with your hair down. You should chuck all your gel, it’s not so shitty like this.”

“Didn’t think I’d have company to put it up for. I’d have to flip upside down to do it right, I probably would have passed out and died.”

Bakugou snorts. “You’d think a nurse would take better care of himself.”

Kirishima snorts back, with a little more phlegm. “You’d think a doctor would have better bedside manner.”

All of a sudden Bakugou’s scowl is a little less—scowly, than it usually is. More searching. More intense. Their eyes meet for a second too long and it’s like someone is pouring nitroglycerin down the column of Kirishima’s spine.

“Sounds like you want to know more about my bedside manner.”

He’s smirking, and there are so many things—so many things—that Kirishima could say to that. Things that would be smart or things that would be manly or things that would be safe. So many things.

His fever speaks for him. “Well, if you’re offering.”

The smirk falls away and that intensity comes roaring back. Kirishima’s insides ignite. Bakugou rises slowly and doesn’t once blink, and his chair scrapes on the floor, and Kirishima has the thought I hope that doesn’t scratch the wood—

Then Bakugou is kissing him. The rough weave of his mask and the heat of his mouth behind it, like a brand. His open eyes. His hand cradling the curve of Kirishima’s skull. It’s overwhelming and it’s nothing at all, less of a kiss than a touch, less of a touch than a promise. Kirishima clutches at him because he’ll fall away otherwise, he’s hungry and dizzy and unmoored, and he’s got one hand clenched in Bakugou’s shirt and one in his hair and it’s soft, how is it so soft? His heart lurches in his chest.

No no no, not his heart. “Bakugou, back up, I—oh shit—”

He pulls away and flops over the side of the bed, unable to see if his hail mary aim for the wastebasket came through. Only once he’s done tossing his guts does he register the steadying arm around his shoulders. The hand pushing back his hair. It’s warm and square and dry, with callouses on every finger.

“You’re disgusting,” Bakugou says from somewhere above him. He sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.

“You’re the one who just kissed a sick man. What does that make you?”

“Magnanimous as fuck.”

Kirishima laughs. It hurts every part of him, but it’s good. It’s really good.

“I really like you, Bakugou. Like a lot.”

It comes out so easy, just like that day in the cafe. He’s still half upside down and his mouth is still sour. Bakugou’s hand is still in his hair. Through the damp red locks that escape his grip Kirishima can see him, and for the first time since they met, he looks starry-eyed. It is the most amazing feeling in the world, even when Bakugou blinks the stars away and glowers.

“Is that why you wanted me to come by the cafe today? I already knew that, dipshit.”

His voice is dismissive and mocking, but his hand is still in Kirishima’s hair, and his collarbones have flooded pink. It’s just like Bakugou to flirt and kiss him within an inch of his life only to get shy about a little sincerity.

“Yeah. That’s all I wanted to say. I was hoping we could go out and, I don’t know, look at Christmas lights. Bake a cake together. Pelt each other with snowballs or something. I like you a lot.”

Bakugou helps him sit up. At his urging Kirishima rinses his mouth with water and then sips some of the tea. It’s lemony and sweet.

Bakugou demands, “What took you so long? I don’t like idiots who beat around the bush, Kirishima. Didn’t think you were like that.”

Kirishima. He doesn’t think he ever wants anyone else to say his name. “Yeah, Kaminari said the same thing. But I didn’t want to mess things up with you.”

“So you decided to be a dumbass? How’d that work out for you?”

He mulls it over. “The guy I like is seeing me half dead, so that’s embarrassing. On the other hand, the guy I like is taking care of me while I’m sick, which is pretty sweet. Net gain, I think.” He’s heartened by the amused squint of Bakugou’s eyes. “So? Want to go out with me?”

For a long moment, Bakugou doesn’t say anything. He just watches, steady, intent, and his hand weaves slow, thoughtless paths through Kirishima’s hair. Kirishima has never been in love before, but he thinks this must be it. He can’t imagine anything else hurting quite so sweetly.

“I’m not dating anyone while I’m still in school,” Bakugou says. “That would be fucking stupid.”

“Okay. After med school is residency, right? You think you’ll be dating then?”

Bakugou’s expression isn’t starry-eyed anymore, but it’s pretty damn close.

He says, “Stick around and find out.”

JANUARY

A new semester means a new schedule, and Kirishima’s does not match up with Bakugou’s even once. It’s a little bit of a bummer, sure, but he’ll survive.

The last customer of the day leaves the cafe two minutes to closing. Kirishima sighs, cracks his neck, and starts prepping the last drink of the day. He sets it on the counter and then he starts wiping down tables, and when the clock strikes the hour, Kaminari goes to lock the doors.

They burst open before he gets there and Kaminari jumps two feet in the air and falls flat on his back. In strides Bakugou, and Kirishima’s heart flutters even as he stands back and cackles at Kaminari for a solid thirty seconds.

“Kirishima,” Kaminari whines from the floor, “your boyfriend’s being mean to me!”

Bakugou kicks at him. “We’re not dating.”

“Ha! Sure, and I’m not dating an insomniac with a fine ass—okay okay you’re not dating, quit kicking me!”

He does, but only after Kirishima scolds him and entices him away with a drink. He grabs it off the counter and passes it to Bakugou. Then he snatches it back.

“Forgot the name, just a sec!”

“You already know my name,” Bakugou groans, but he follows Kirishima behind the counter with barely a frown. “Hurry up, shitty hair, I don’t have all night to tutor your ass.”

“Tutor your ass,” Kaminari laughs from the floor. Bakugou growls.

Kirishima finds the marker and uncaps it. Before he can start to write, Bakugou threads their fingers together and squeezes hard.

“I can’t write your name with my left hand, Bakugou.”

Bakugou hooks his chin over Kirishima’s shoulder. “Sounds like a you problem.”

Well, Kirishima likes a challenge. The final result is messy, but legible. He garnishes it with a heart. “Here.”

“Stupid,” Bakugou huffs, but he accepts the cup and takes a swig. Then he yanks Kirishima toward the exit, where Kaminari is finally peeling himself off the floor.

“We’re still on for Saturday, right?” he asks, dusting himself off. “Double--”

“If you say double date, I’ll set you on fire,” says Bakugou. “And only if shitty hair here passes his test with flying colors.”

Kaminari endeavors to look contrite--his face wasn’t really built for it--but when Bakugou’s back is turned, he shoots Kirishima a subtle thumbs up and mouths double date. Kirishima returns the favor.

Out on the street it’s cold and biting. Bakugou hisses, and takes another gulp of his drink. Kirishima watches him glance at the name on the side of the cup again. If he pointed out the color in his cheeks he knows Bakugou would say it was the cold, or the heat of the drink, and then he’d punch him for good measure. But Kirishima can see his smile, hard-won and worth it. He can see how he passes a thumb over the shaky black characters, over and over: Katsuki.

#fyeahbnhasecretsanta #my hero academia #kiribaku #kirishima eijirou #bakugou katsuki #boku no hero academia #shinkami #in the background mostly #kaminari denki #amajiki tamaki #tetsutetsu tetsutetsu #fat gum #bnha fic #ran's writing #pointy-hat-witch #fyeahbnha #coffeeshop au #university au

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baoshan-sanren · 4 years

Text

Chapter 32

of the wwx emperor au I’m thinking of calling Lan QiRen’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week oh god it’s only gonna get worse

WangJi is deep in thought for the majority of the flight.

His mind keeps circling back to the string of incidents in the Immortal Mountain, insisting that even those events which may seem coincidental must be a part of a larger picture.

Except that there is no picture. There is only a patchwork of uneven pieces, refusing to fit into a coherent narrative. The information supplied by the Rogue Prince and his companion, instead of providing some clarity, only seems to make the pieces more distorted. Still, his mind is adamant that there is a connection to be made, one he simply cannot grasp.

Thinking so, he does not catch his brother’s words right away.

They are flying side by side, the Emperor to their right, the escort comprised of both the Nie and the Lan Sect disciples flying at their back. WangJi does not ask his brother to repeat himself. Conversation while flying is difficult on the calmest of days; now, flying into the north-western winds which snatch their words away before they are fully formed, it is nearly impossible. He follows XiChen’s gaze to the Immortal Mountain City, noticing that the small lanterns illuminating the Five Phoenix Gate steps are finally visible. The wall surrounding the City rises tall to the north and the south. Approaching by the main road, a traveler could perhaps catch a glimpse of the gray stone, or if the sun is in the correct position, the gold phoenix rearing above the gate, but the City itself is well concealed from the eyes of those who have not been invited past its gates. At this altitude, however, WangJi can see a hint of roof peaks in the distance, as well as a mysterious bright light in the south part of the City.

For a few moments, WangJi is genuinely puzzled by the sight. Wei Ying--

He closes his eyes, scolding himself. Calling the Emperor Wei WuXian is too bold as it is, even in his own mind. It is infuriating, that the man can wreak such havoc on WangJi’s entire existence with nothing more than a few words.

I really like you.

I was not unprotected. Lan Zhan was with me.

No.

Someone in the Immortal Mountain is trying to assassinate the Emperor, and now, there is also a mass-murdering madman loose in YiLing. WangJi will not allow himself to grow distracted. He must be more cautious in governing his thoughts.

Wei WuXian had mentioned that lanterns are released from the Immortal Mountain as well, but this should have occurred hours ago. The Emperor’s palace is the heart of the City, located slightly to the north of the gate, and cannot be the source of the mysterious light.

“Fire,” Wei WuXian says on the other side of him, the words nearly lost in the rush of the wind.

When his voice comes again, it is louder, sharper, a voice that demands attention, “MingJue, those are flames. Something is on fire.”

As if Wei WuXian had issued an order, Nie MingJue separates himself from the formation with a burst of speed. The Nie Sect falls in rank behind him, arranging themselves to the left and right, a wedge that easily cuts through the wind. Soon, they are far ahead, dark robes fluttering in the wind.

“The main palace?” the Rogue Prince asks, “Another assassination attempt?”

He seems unruffled by the fact that someone might have attempted to burn down the Emperor’s palace. Flying on the other side of Wei WuXian, he also seems incredibly at ease for a man who is essentially flying blind.

“The flames are to the south,” Song Lan says, positioned directly behind him.

“Ah,” the Rogue Prince says, “curious. Guests are rarely placed to the south.”

WangJi’s heart drops, turning his knees weak.

The Peach Blossom Pavilion is south of the gate.

His sword pierces the air. He can hear Wei WuXian’s shout, but the words are indiscernible, and already far behind him.

They had assumed that the target would be the Emperor. They had left uncle alone. Alone, in the Immortal Mountain City, in an old pavilion to the south, where no other guests can raise an alarm, even if they cared to. An easy, convenient target.

The Nie Sect is a blur of color and movement against the dark sky. He passes them in the space of a breath. At this speed, the cold air feels like a thousand icy blades on his skin, tearing at his robes, locking the breath in his chest. An alarm sounds the moment he passes over the wall. Wei WuXian had told him about the array, a harmless safeguard intended only to disorient. The sound of the bell ringing is loud enough to rattle his teeth, jarring and nauseating, pressing against his temples. He is out of its reach in a matter of moments.

The Peach Blossom Pavilion no longer has a courtyard wall. It looks to have been torn down in haste, blown in rather than out, bricks and mortar carelessly scattered. There is a chain of Imperial Guards, throwing water onto the flames. There is a barrier of spiritual power keeping the flames from spreading. But it feels quivering and fragile, as if the person holding it is nearing the point of exhaustion.

WangJi notices all of this, somewhere in his periphery, all of it small and unimportant.

The Peach Blossom Pavilion is engulfed in flames.

He dismounts too early, misjudging the distance. When his feet meet the ground, his right ankle folds awkwardly, dropping him to one knee.

The flash of pain is irrelevant. The shouts of the men around him are irrelevant. The waves of heat are scalding after the cold of the flight, making his eyes water. He thinks that someone has landed behind him. Someone is shouting his name. WangJi can see nothing but the wall of flames.

He has to get inside, he has to--

Something latches on to his robe, stopping him. His ankle and knee scream in pain as he tries to shake the grip off and fails.

Fury overwhelms the fear. He whirls, Bichen leaving the sheath, the hilt still icy cold from the wind, flashing to dislodge whoever dares stop him.

It does not land.

XiChen is by his side, his hand gripping WangJi’s wrist so tightly that his fingers immediately begin turning numb. The sound of other blades being unsheathed echoes sharply across the cobblestones, louder than the hungry roar of the fire.

The tip of WangJi’s sword is trembling at the hollow of Nie HuaiSang’s throat.

Nie HuaiSang’s gaze is dark. He does not blink. He does not speak. His breaths are steady and even.

WangJi knows Nie HuaiSang’s appearance well. He would never mistake the boy for someone else.

He had despised this creature from the first time he had laid eyes on him. He had felt pity, and resentment, and a grudging type of respect. But at this very moment, he cannot be sure whose gaze he is holding. This person, expression cold and calculating despite the tip of a blade under his chin, utterly devoid of fear, is not the same Nie HuaiSang that WangJi had judged and found wanting. This boy is a stranger.

“He is at the Jade Sword Palace,” Nie HuaiSang says, his tone flat, “He has inhaled some smoke, but is otherwise unharmed.”

“WangJi,” XiChen hisses.

WangJi lowers the sword, but not by choice. A quivering rush of relief is sweeping through his muscles, threatening to knock him back down to his knees.

He swallows heavily. His throat feels raw from the wind and the smoke.

Nie HuaiSang takes a step back. The light of the flames shifts across his features, and suddenly, he is no longer a stranger, but the same boy WangJi had despised.

Unease ripples down WangJi’s spine.

He thinks he understands now, why this boy is the Royal Companion to the Emperor.

“Put your swords away,” Nie HuaiSang snaps at the Nie Sect, “If you want to be of use, put out the damn fire.”

They do not hesitate to obey. Nie HuaiSang opens his fan and wrinkles his nose.

“I will never get the smoke out of these robes,” he grumbles, then turns away.

The Emperor is standing behind him.

The Emperor is standing behind Nie HuaiSang, his sword still clutched in his grip, his face pale, his hair wild.

WangJi, who had almost killed the Emperor’s Royal Companion mere moments ago, finds that he cannot meet Wei WuXian’s gaze.

“Your Majesty,” Nie HuaiSang says, “we need to speak. In private. Please allow my brother to escort the Young Masters to the Jade Sword Palace. I have placed Lan QiRen in the Imperial guest chambers, but now it seems that we must find a home for a dozen Lan disciples too. Perhaps we can give them lodgings in the East wing?”

The heat of the flames keeps pressing against WangJi’s back, a physical touch he cannot get away from. Inexplicably, now that he knows uncle is safe, he feels small and fragile, as if a single word could shatter him to pieces.

He can see the flash of the Lan Sect robes; the disciples they had brought with them are standing some distance away and grouped close together, doubtlessly worried and afraid. The Nie Sect has joined the line of guards attempting to put out the fire. Someone is yelling at them to move faster; WangJi thinks he recognizes Wen Qing’s voice.

XiChen tugs on his wrist, pulling him away from the Pavilion, and WangJi does not resist.

#the untamed #cql #mdzs #ficlet #m #wwx emperor au #short clumsy chapter #for which i apologize ahead of time #sometimes every sentence is like pulling teeth #i think i need to sleep for 24 hours straight #anyway #ily chickens

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dancingkirby · 3 years

Text

Shipping

I’m sorry, but it had to be done. Do y’all think this would work better as a Short Story, or just a oneshot on its own?

DAY 1

To celebrate the tenth anniversary of his ascension to the throne, Zuzu and Mai were off on a world tour. Azula had been left in charge of ruling the country. While Azula was glad that he was finally realizing that she wasn’t always thinking about world domination all the time, so far her regency had been extremely boring. Now, she was more than halfway through it, and absolutely nothing of note had happened.

Today had started out like all the others. She hadn’t slept great the night before because of the high winds that had battered Capital Island, and they hadn’t ebbed down very much by morning. She’d had trouble getting her hair to stay in its topknot while training. But the morning council meeting had proven as tedious as ever. Azula was paying the exact minimum amount of attention required as the ministers droned on about tax brackets; most of her brain was occupied on what she would have for lunch that day. Noodles were always nice, but she’d had them for two days in a row now. Anytime she ate any food on multiple consecutive days, there was always the risk of speculation among the courtiers that she might be pregnant. Never mind that she hadn’t even done any sex acts that could result in pregnancy for years…

The door to the meeting hall abruptly swung open. An out-of-breath messenger stood in the doorway, blushing deeply as nearly twenty pairs of annoyed eyes scrutinized him.

“You do realize that you are intruding on a confidential council meeting, correct?” Azula inquired of him.

“I’m t-terribly sorry, P-princess,” the messenger managed to get out. “But I was told that this needed your immediate attention.” Could it be…that something interesting was about to occur for a change?

“All right. What is it?” she asked. At her hand motion, the messenger climbed up to the dais and whispered in Azula’s ear.

“Okay. I’ll be right there. We will continue this meeting at a time to be determined later,” Azula stated.

So here she was on a tugboat, looking at the enormous cargo ship that had somehow gotten wedged into the Strait of Azulon. Azula turned to the old salt who was leading efforts to remove it and said, “Explain.”

“That ship is called the Agni-Given, Princess,” the man said somewhat stiltedly; it appeared that he was trying to rein in a sailor’s natural tendency to use copious foul language. “It’s one of the largest cargo ships in the world. Today, it was passing through the strait when the high winds pushed it off-course and into a sandbar. It also got tangled in some old nets from the Gates. We’ve been trying out dam…darndest to free it, but no luck.”

Azula took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly out of her nose. “And what have these initial attempts included?”

“We attached every tugboat in the harbor to it to try to pull it out, but it didn’t work, Princess. That fu…freaking thing is stuck deep into a sandbar. Next step would be to try to dig it out.”

“Explain how that would be accomplished.”

“Yes…well…”–the old man paused–“We ain’t sure yet, to be honest. The problem is that the place where the bow is stuck is seventy feet underwater. All of the excavating machines available were built for use on land. We was thinking of trying to get some of those new forklifts, try to extend their reach, and bring them out on boats, but…that would take time.”

“Forklifts? Is that the best you could come up with?” Azula demanded. She found herself imitating her brother’s famed nose-bridge pinch. This would not do at all. She needed an ingenue, someone who could design a whole new kind of machine if need be. And she thought she knew exactly where to find one.

DAY 2

It had been the end of a long day, without much progress being made. Azula was just about to demand that the larger, more comfortable boat they’d made ready for her today take her back to the harbor when, at long last, the other ship that she had been awaiting arrived. After this watercraft was tethered to hers, a figure came running down the gangplank, arms outstretched.

“Azula!” Sokka exclaimed. “How’s it going? We haven’t seen each other in forever…hey!” His attempts at embracing her had been thwarted by the princess grabbing his shirt at arm’s length.

“Not in public, remember?!” she hissed. Then, just as formally as if he were any old dignitary, she added in normal tones, “Councilman Sokka. It is good to see you here. I trust that your journey here was uneventful?”

“Yeah, except we had to go around the long way because of…well…that,” Sokka replied, gesturing at the still firmly-entrenched Agni-Given. “So how do you want me to assist, O Princess?” He did a little bow, and could not quite manage to keep a straight face.

“Watch it,” Azula reprimanded again. Whenever they encountered each other, she always needed to remind him that their relationship was a melding of intellects and occasionally flesh; romance had absolutely no place in it.

“I recall that you designed a vehicle that could travel underwater,” she explained. “Would it be possible to modify this concept and attach equipment for shoveling? Or perhaps even the capacity for finer manipulation to untangle the net remnants?”

Sokka took a few moments to consider as he beheld the enormous ship. Finally, he replied, “Yeah, I think that’d be possible. It’ll take a while to draw up plans and get everything built, though.”

“Very well,” Azula told him. “I suppose we shall have to simply endure each other’s company for a little longer.”

“’Endure?’ Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Sokka gave a wink that was obviously meant to be seductive, but in fact only made him look ridiculous. Azula elbowed him in the ribs.

They did, in fact, end up fucking that night, after Sokka had eaten what seemed to be about half of the palace’s food supply for dinner. They hadn’t seen each other in more than three years, and Azula was scrupulous about taking her contraceptive tea, so why not?

Sokka tried to kiss Azula after, but she didn’t let him.

DAY 3

Zuko had sent a message asking if he should cut his celebratory tour short and come home to help with this problem, but Azula quickly scribbled out a reply that they had everything under control.

Today was the day that Sokka would first meet with the team of engineers assigned to resolve this problem.

“And I’m sure that all of you will give him the respect that he deserves,” Azula told them in the most pleasant voice she could manage. Some of them were obviously pissy about being forced to consult with a man who was half most of their ages. Well, too bad. Anyone who tried to ignore him would be upbraided with the utmost harshness personally by her.

DAY 10

The manufacturing process had begun. Sokka informed her that he had dubbed this new invention the “shovelmarine.” He did not attempt to conceal his sheer glee at this horrible pun. Azula threw a pillow at him.

While the two of them worked by day and screwed by night, things were starting to get out of hand in the Harbor District. The plight of the Agni-Given had captured the imagination of the public, and kiosks had sprouted all over the piers selling miniature models of the grounded ship. It seemed that every single street musician in the city had composed his or her own ballad about the situation. Fan magazines had been established simply for the purpose of publishing the flood of stories and art that the more creatively-minded citizens had concocted. Azula had gotten a hand on one of these volumes, and her favorite story was a somewhat graphic recounting of a speculated liaison between the Agni-Given and the statue of her grandfather. Apparently, the statue was the dominant partner in this relationship…just as it should be.

This magazine had also included a drawing depicting her own activities with Sokka. She knew that she should be furious about this; that the culprit should be tracked down and executed, but she found it just too amusing. The picture was even surprisingly accurate, except that Azula had not actually handcuffed Sokka to her bedpost. They had improvised with the sash from her nightrobe instead.

DAY 16

“Okay, lets see what these shovelmarines can do!” Sokka said as the contraptions touched the open ocean for the first time. The two of them watched from the boat that was by now almost as familiar to Azula as her own suite of rooms at the palace were.

As it turned out, the shovelmarines (Azula had grudgingly accepted this terrible name) could do quite a bit. Over the next several days, they worked steadily at the problem. Finally, three weeks to the day after the Agni-Given had first gotten stuck, it once again floated freely, although it would be have to be drydocked to repair all the damage.

In his excitement, Sokka had tried to kiss Azula. She had initially resisted, but he had used his ultimate weapon: polar bear dog eyes.

“All right, but only once. And on the cheek,” she cautioned him.

DAY 25

Sokka had departed two days ago, and Azula hoped that he wouldn’t try to send love letters or anything stupid like that. He should know how it worked by now. Whenever they happened to meet, they would rekindle their affair for the duration of the visit, and then they went their separate ways until their next encounter. Of course, they wouldn’t be able to keep this up forever, but it would be fun while it lasted.

And today…Zuzu and Mai made their triumphant return from their tour.

“Wow,” said Zuko as the two of them stood at the harbor, observing as the last of the debris was carried away. “You and Sokka took care of that whole mess all on your own! Thank you, Azula.” At this point, he obviously knew from experience not to make any comments about her relationship with the nonbender.

“Why do you sound so surprised, brother?” Azula asked, turning toward him and raising an eyebrow. “It’s almost like I am, in fact, a competent ruler and don’t spend all of my days dreaming of bloodshed and destruction! Who would have ever guessed?”

“That’s not what…” Zuko began, but he could say no more as Azula caught him by surprise, got him in a headlock, and began inflicting a merciless noogie on him.

“Admit it, Zuko,” she crowed. “I’m awesome!”

“Okay, I surrender!” he squeaked out. “You’re awesome.”

She released him. “There. That wasn’t so hard, now, was it? Now let’s go get some ice cream.”

And so they did.

#azula #sokka #fanfic #sokkla #sort of #keep in mind that this is a rough draft

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glimmerglanger · 4 years

Text

Whumptober2020 - Day 7

Day 7 of Whumptober and Part 7 of the Oof!au. This is.... rock bottom, everyone. On the plus side: no where to go but up. On the downside....this is where Anakin remembers how to really hurt Obi-Wan, after being distracted for a long time.

Basic information: Post Order 66 Vader-Captures-Obi-Wan AU. Past/eventual Codywan. One-sided Vaderwan. Eventual happy(ish) ending.

WARNINGS: Abuse of a prisoner, mentions of torture, mind controlled into killing people, mentions of non-con, character death (not main characters). PLEASE consider the warnings before you read. Dead dove, do not eat, etc. This is the lowest we go. It’s VERY low.

No 16. A TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD DAY

Forced to Beg | Hallucinations | Shoot the Hostage

Obi-Wan laughed, shakily, when he woke up again in the cell. The sound just slipped out, and something about the tone of it made him clench his teeth shut, swallow it back. It soured in his chest, held tight within him as he breathed raggedly, trying to find balance and--and succeeding, after too long a moment.

He thought about leveraging himself off of the floor, but could see no point to it. He pulled his legs up, instead, making himself small, shifting to wedge himself further into the corner.

All the wounds were gone. Every single one of them, wiped away again by the med-droids. The sudden lack of them was jarring, confusing. It made everything that had happened feel more like a dream. Like a nightmare.

But even his nightmares - foul as they were - never managed to be so viscerally horrible. He stared at the far wall, trying very hard not to remember the way Cody - it wasn’t Cody, it hadn’t been Cody, not really, just his body used as another way for Anakin to rape him - had shoved into him, held him down and--

He bit his tongue until blood flooded his mouth and then he swallowed it, grounding himself on the pain and the nauseating taste of salt and copper. He hadn’t had many pleasant memories to keep him company, during his exile. He’d barely dared allow himself to remember softer touches, promises of what they might do after the war, wants bubbling between them…

Once, he’d imagined taking Cody to his bed, after - after everything. When there were not so many responsibilities on them. When he could be sure, utterly, that it was what Cody wanted, not just rank, or - or anything else. He’d imagined kissing Cody softly, taking their time, sharing touches that didn’t hurt at all, and-- Anakin had taken that hope and made it something foul and horrible. There’d been no kisses, there’d been only - only pain and --

Pain and, he considered, swallowing blood, his mind looking desperately for anything else to focus on, the off-rhythm tapping of Cody’s index finger against his hip. It had been the only thing he could focus on that didn’t hurt, taking himself out of his own head, there in Anakin’s torture chamber.

The tapping had made no sense, not in the room, when horror had driven thought from Obi-Wan’s head. But...but he had time to consider it, further, staring at nothing, remembering despite all of his best efforts.

Memories crawled into his head, recollections from the war, from hunkering down beside Cody behind a makeshift barrier, gesturing instructions, preparing to spring out on the droids closing on their position, Cody knocking his fingers against the top of Obi-Wan’s thigh in the same pattern and--

And they’d developed the short-hand language themselves, at first just to kill time when they were stuck on one miserable world or the other. It had made sense to have signs of their own; the Separatists were always cracking Republic codes. Obi-Wan thought, with the benefit of hindsight, that had probably been intentional on Palpatine’s part.

So, they’d made their own language to speak silently in battle, to communicate plans and ideas quickly.

Obi-Wan sat up, his heart lurching in his chest, all at once, as memory shoved together the facts inside his head, leaving him gasping.

Because Cody had been tapping code onto his hip, their code - the 212th’s code - the language not even Anakin had ever learned. “No,” he’d said. “No,” over and over and over and over, against Obi-Wan’s skin.

Obi-Wan lurched to his feet with nowhere to go, bile burning up the back of his throat, his heart clenched hard in his chest. He did not know what had been done to the troopers. He’d been afraid to hope it could be undone. But-- but Cody remembered something. And he’d said “no,” over and over again. He’d talked to Obi-Wan. He’d--

He was in there, somewhere.

And that changed everything.

Obi-Wan stood there, breathing heavily, and tried to determine what he was possibly going to do next. He tried to remember if he’d - he’d told Cody it was alright. If Cody were in there, if he’d been tormented, too, had Obi-Wan said the right things? Had he said anything? His memories were a blur of pain and confusion. But he thought he had. He held onto that thought, tightly, as he tried to plan his next steps.

There was not much Obi-Wan could possibly do. He did not know where Anakin had gone and did not much care. He braced, every time a trooper entered the room, recalling Anakin’s last words, but…

None of them made any move to touch him in such a way. He wondered if the troopers had simply not relayed Anakin’s orders, or if the very wording just made no sense to them in their current state. What did they know of joy, he wondered, watching them file in to feed him.

Still, he tapped out, quickly, “Thank you,” on Cody’s thigh, when they fed him, and felt him go still all over for a moment. And it was enough to kindle the failing sparks of hope inside Obi-Wan’s chest.

Cody was in there, somewhere. They were all in there, somewhere.

Obi-Wan would get them all out. Because if Cody had retained some piece of himself… There was no reason to believe it wasn’t true for the rest of them. Others had tapped against his skin, he recalled, shivering as his thoughts raced. They were still in their minds. Somehow.

And like hell was Obi-Wan going to leave him men to suffer this un-death, this un-making of all they were. He’d sworn to protect them, long ago. He’d failed in so many of his vows and duties. He wouldn’t fail that one.

Obi-Wan had not managed to escape by the time Anakin returned. He braced himself as the troopers came for him, pulling him to his feet and hauling him through the base, wondering what new horrors Anakin had devised to unleash upon him.

Anakin had left the viewscreen open, again. The contact turmoil of Mustafar filled the room with angry, red light. It was a reminder, every time, of all of Obi-Wan’s mistakes and failings. He had failed to keep Anakin from falling to the Dark. And then he had failed to take the final, necessary step there on the edge of the lava.

He’d paid for his mistakes, but so had the rest of the galaxy.

He wouldn’t fail again, if given the chance.

He shook those thoughts aside as Anakin said, “I do hope you’re going to be more reasonable this time, old man.”

“I doubt that,” Obi-Wan replied. Talking still hurt. And he was no longer sure if his voice would ever return to its normal state. “I think you rather enjoy having an excuse to inflict pain, don’t you? If I didn’t provide you with one, you’d have to go to all the trouble of manufacturing a reason to hurt me.”

Anakin made a sharp sound, turned half-away and snapped, “Get on your knees.”

Obi-Wan sighed. He wondered why they had to keep engaging in this song and dance. They both knew he wasn’t going to kneel under his own power. But perhaps it brought Anakin whatever twisted kind of joy he could feel, in his present condition, to hold out the illusion of choice. Obi-Wan said, waiting for the pain, “I won’t.”

Anakin nodded, which was a surprise and a change from their usual script. He swept away from the open window, stalking over to his throne and sitting. He said, “I thought you’d say that, Obi-Wan. But I think you’ll change your mind. I’ve had an epiphany, you see.”

“Oh?” Obi-Wan asked, arching an eyebrow. “Perhaps you’ve realized--”

“2224,” Anakin interrupted, and Obi-Wan worked to keep his expression still and calm as the unbroken surface of a lake. So, it was to be more of this particular torment. He tried to keep the revulsion and horror off of his face, tried--

“Draw your blaster.” Obi-Wan blinked, startled. It seemed unlikely that Anakin intended to actually kill him. Death would mean an end to whatever enjoyment Anakin drew from torturing him. And merely making the threat without any intent to carry it out would… defang him.

He said, lifting his chin, “I’m not going to beg for my life.”

Anakin lifted his chin, just a little, mask ever unchanging but pleasure in his voice when he said, “Oh, I know that.” And then he waved a hand, lazy, and added, “Shoot 4574.”

Something froze inside Obi-Wan’s chest. He jerked to look, turning in time to hear the blaster shot, to watch Trip sway on his feet and then just - just collapse, down and back, smoke curling from his temple. Cody had shot him cleanly, at least he hadn’t suffered, more, but--

“Stop!” Obi-Wan cried out, the word a rasp through his damaged throat. He looked back at Anakin, wide-eyed. “What are you--”

“Shoot 6762 next,” Anakin said, hands gripping the edge of his throne, leaning forward a little, and Obi-Wan couldn’t--he wasn’t even getting time to do anything to stop it, watching another one of his men fall. “Now 34--”

There was no thought to dropping to his knees. Obi-Wan hit hard, not even bothering to try to steady himself. It hurt, but it was a distant, far away kind of pain. “Ah,” Anakin said, pleasure and satisfaction dripping off of his tone.

“Ever the Jedi,” Anakin said, and Obi-Wan heard him stand but could not look away from Cody, standing there blank-faced, the blaster still up, pointing towards Bones, who was just standing there, waiting to die. “Even now. Even with the Order completely and justly destroyed. You’ve always been weak like this, haven’t you? I was working with the Zygerrians, of late. It reminded me. I wonder how weak you are, really?”

Obi-Wan looked up at him, breathing raggedly. He said, “Don’t hurt them.”

“I will do as I wish,” Anakin said. “2224--”

“No!” Obi-Wan shouted, as best as he could, his voice was still wrong. “I’m--”

“Put the blaster against your head.” And Obi-Wan froze, his heart lurching sideways in his chest, agony sweeping through him. He turned, helplessly, watching Cody lift the blaster and snug the barrel against his temple without any evidence of hesitation. The world shifted, terribly, under Obi-Wan, his gut lurching.

From somewhere far away, Anakin said, “Pull the--”

“Please, don’t,” Obi-Wan gasped out, the words dragged out of him. “I’m kneeling. Please.”

Anakin hesitated and shook his head. He sounded… disgusted when he said, ”Look at you. Begging for the life of this thing. Even after what it did to you.”

Obi-Wan rasped out, “He didn’t do anything to me. You--”

He cut off as fingers clenched into his hair, dragging his head back, forcing him to look up into Anakin’s dark mask. “It beat you almost to death,” Anakin hissed, “it forced itself on you. Didn’t it?”

Obi-Wan’s heart beat against his ribs, uncomfortably fast. The threat of the blaster against Cody’s head echoed between each word Anakin spoke. And the truth would not serve him, in that instant. It wouldn’t serve Cody. Obi-Wan swallowed and lied, “Yes.”

Anakin’s grip tightened briefly in his hair, Anakin’s breath hitched, tellingly. He shifted a little closer, a looming shadow, and his voice had gotten raspy when he said, “Call me by my name.”

And Obi-Wan weighed the lie against Cody’s life, for less than an instant, because it was no contest. He stared up into his own reflection, knowing he’d do whatever was necessary to keep Cody’s finger from pulling that trigger, ever again, and said, “Lord Vader.”

“There,” Anakin said, satisfaction curling around the word as he reached out, cupping Obi-Wan’s cheek, “that wasn’t so hard, was it? All the pain you went through, just to avoid two little words. It wasn’t worth it, was it, Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan’s gut was hard and cold as rock, but he kept his voice steady, lying, “No.”

“I like you like this,” Anakin said, voice rumbling. “Agreeable. On your knees.” He stroked his thumb up, across Obi-Wan’s cheek. “But I’m not sure I’ve been convinced to spare 2224, here. It's defective, you know. Keeping it around is a drain on resources.”

“Please,” Obi-Wan said, because he did not need the Force to read this situation. He’d been in the hands of sadists more times than he could count, the power mad and and the power hungry. And he knew Anakin, better than anyone in the galaxy ever had, perhaps. “Please, Lord Vader, don’t kill him.”

Anakin made a little sound, thoughtful. “That’s the best you can do?”

Obi-Wan’s breath caught, just for a second, something breaking in his chest. It felt like his heart. “I’m begging you,” he said, and heard Anakin make a surprised, thick sound. “Please.” And he swallowed, tipping his head forward, as much as he could with Anakin’s fingers in his hair, “Please, spare him.”

“I don’t know,” Anakin said, tugging him forward, just a little, taking his hand off of Obi-Wan’s face, reaching for his armor, instead, Obi-Wan’s stomach turning over as nausea surged up his throat. “I’m not convinced, yet.”

“Please,” he said, his voice steady through sheer force of will as he made himself wet his bottom lip, knowing where this was going, seeing the terrible conclusion like the edge of a cliff, one he had no choice but to run over, because the alternative was letting any more of his men die, and he wouldn’t do that. Ever. “Let me convince you.”

And when it was done, when Anakin released his hair and let him slump down, gasping for breath, his mouth aching and his throat sore, his vision blurry, Anakin said, “I suppose that’s good enough. For now. You’ve always used your mouth well. Put the blaster away, 2224. And get him cleaned up. Bring him to my quarters when he’s...presentable. I wish to celebrate my victory properly.”

Anakin strode away then, cloak snapping, head high. He’d always been so smug, after a victory. Obi-Wan shuddered, shaking all over, waiting to be hauled to his feet. Nothing happened, for a long moment, long enough for him to look up, though he did not want to look into Cody’s face, at the moment, shame curdling in his gut at what he’d done--

Cody was staring forward, blaster still against his head, his free hand down by his side, finger jumping, tapping out, out-of-rhythm, “No, no, no, no, no.” There was blood, running down the side of his neck, and horror kicked over fresh and new in Obi-Wan’s gut.

“It’s alright,” Obi-Wan blurted, his heart shattering a bit more in his chest with each beat. But-- but his heart had broken to pieces before. He’d kept living. “Cody, please, put the blaster down, please, don’t--”

Obi-Wan jerked when two other troopers grabbed his arm, hauling him to his feet, where he swayed, feeling disoriented and dizzy, sick. Cody had not moved at all, by the time the troopers dragged Obi-Wan through the door, past the bodies of their dead brothers, who they didn’t even regard. “Cody! Don’t! Please!”

Obi-Wan hung onto the sight of him as the droids cleaned him up, as troopers dragged him back to Anakin’s rooms - not his throne room, but - but what appeared to be his actual quarters. There were troopers in the room. Lined up along one wall. A single trooper across from them, blaster drawn, finger on the trigger. Anakin looked him over and said, his voice thick and rasping, “Get on the bed.”

Obi-Wan thought about a blaster pressed against the side of Cody’s head, about Padmé, about the slaughtered younglings, his family, his men, the only people he had left, who needed him…. And he turned, looked at the bed, and said, “Yes, Lord Vader.”

#whumptober2020 #no.16 #forced to beg #clone wars #fic #non con #torture #abuse of prisoner #mind control #dead dove do not eat #oof!au #my writing #codywan #vaderkin #dark fic #please mind the warnings #they're there for a reason #character death

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anotherashley · 4 years

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Give Me Thunder // 1988

Summary: When you’re part of rival fraternities the last thing you’re supposed to do is fall for the enemy, but then, Patrick’s never known anyone like Jonathan Toews before.

In retrospect, Patrick really should’ve known better.

Homecoming is a huge night for most fraternities, including his own, the Delta Chi house. They’re known for going absolutely balls to wall with the planning, preparation, and execution of their parties. It’s an event. An evening to remember if you will. And where’s Patrick? Wedged in some hallway at the Sigma Alpha Epsilon mansion drinking shitty overpriced beer from a keg, sweating his nuts off, and listening to fucking Chumbawamba playing from their high-priced stereo system.

This disgrace of a party deserves no attendees, and yet, the house is packed, every little inch and every single corner filled with Sigma Alpha brothers, their dates, and friends. A house of garbage monkeys. A house of ill repute.

"It's not that bad," Dayna says, exasperated.

Dayna, the reason he’s in this shithole in the first place.

Patrick narrows his eyes, watching her and the room suspiciously. "Oh, but it is, my friend. It is."

“You’re overreacting,” she says and grins.

Patrick frowns. He’s not usually one to get overheated, but it’s like a sauna in this joint. He pulls at his tie to loosen it, listening to some Billie Eilish song come on next. "I can't believe you made me come here."

"And I can't believe you wore a hot pink tie when I told you specifically I was wearing a royal blue dress, so I guess we're even."

Patrick surveys the slinky strapless number she’s sporting and his own shimmering tie. It’s not...awful. "I think it looks good together,” he shrugs.

She snorts. “You would.”

“I'm taking that as a compliment.”

“It's not one,” she fires back.

“Hurtful.”

Dayna’s fun and gorgeous, wicked smart. They met last spring in Linear Algebra and became fast friends, partly out of necessity because the math department was full of dull assholes, and partly because they got along so easily. There’s this pressure to find dates for every Greek event, someone to hook up with or to show off, and Patrick just wanted - wants - to relax, hang out, have a good time and not be plagued the entire night with what might happen at the end or if his date will be disappointed. It’s why he asked Dayna in the first place - there are no strings.

He hadn’t really counted on her betraying him in this obscene of a manner, however. Sigma Alpha? Really?!

“I'm sorry,” she says, rubbing his shoulder, but she seems distracted. She’s been looking off into the crowd as if she’s trying to find someone, ever since they arrived.

Patrick tickles at her arm to get her attention and when she turns, smiling, he says. “It’s okay. I forgive you.”

“Will you forgive me for ditching you? Because I'm about to do that too.”

Patrick blinks. “What?”

She scrunches her nose, just a little, and takes his wrist as if in apology. “It's not you, it's me.”

Patrick barks out a laugh. “You're not serious. Here? Now?!”

“I know,” she says, and begins patting his hand like she’s his goddamn grandmother or something. “I'm the worst, but it's really not you.”

“It must be a little me.”

“It's mostly Brent.”

Patrick gasps. As far as reactions go, it might be slightly overdone, but still. “Brent Seabrook? A fucking Sigma Alpha. Dayna!”

Dayna manages to at least look contrite. Sort of. She drops his hand gently. “I can see you're mad. Understandable. I'm gonna go...over there. And hopefully, when I see you Monday you'll be less mad. Bye Pat!”

“Bye Traitor!” he yells. He hopes the whole party hears it over the awful music playing in this awful house on this awful night.

Patrick watches her walk over to a table with a group of guys centered around Seabrook. They took up camp there shortly after Patrick and Dayna arrived. And more and more people have gathered around since. People always seem to gravitate to Seabrook, so Patrick really shouldn't be surprised that Dayna is too. The guy is huge in that cuddly bear sort of way, but with perfect hair, and the kind of laid back attitude that most people never really achieve.

Too bad he's a fucking Sigma Alpha.

God.

Patrick hates Sigma Alphas.

He's not joking when he tells this to everyone, and he means everyone: from the freshman rushes to his TA, Marian, from his Tuesday-Thursday biochem lab, to Lee, his favorite delivery guy, to generally anyone who passes him on the street. Sigma Alphas are self-obsessed, shitstain, egomaniacs, that ruin everything and have no concept of fun. They’re the absolute worst.

So, of course, it only makes sense on this wreck of a night that Patrick runs into the very worst one of them all after Dayna abandons him.

“Amazing,” a smug voice says from behind him.

It’s truly unfortunate Patrick recognizes that voice so well seeing how he can’t stand Jonathan Toews. One of life’s evil jokes, apparently, because Toews is the very embodiment of gum under his shoe, or a flat tire on a rainy day, or some other horrible Alanis Morissette analogy.

The point is...he’s terrible.

Patrick turns slowly, already annoyed when he sees the amusement written all over Jonny’s stupid, grinning face.

“It's not you, it's me,” he mocks. “I didn't know that was a thing people actually still said.”

“Well, that’s what happens when no one will go out with you, Toews,” Patrick fires back with a wink. “No one talks to you.”

Jonny’s smile fades. “Says the guy who just got dumped.”

They’re not exactly standing near each other, but the music is loud and to keep from shouting Patrick takes a step closer, having to tilt his head back just a bit when Jonny moves in too.

“At least I had a date.”

“A date that dumped you for one of my friends.”

Patrick clenches his fist at the smug expression on Toews’ stupid face. “What, you think you can do better?”

“I don't think, I know I can do better.”

“Oh really,” Patrick scoffs.

“Absolutely,” he says. “I could get any girl’s number in here before you.”

It’s a ridiculous statement. Inane. Besides the fact that Jonny has a clear advantage since this is his house and he probably knows half of these girls, it’s a dumb bet to make to prove he’s somehow, someway, better at not getting dumped. Which was the original argument? Maybe? Fuck, Patrick isn't even sure any more he’s too pissed off.

But he takes one look at Jonny’s smirking face and knows he’s going to rise to the challenge. He hates himself a little for not being able to just walk away.

“Go ahead then,” Patrick says, sealing his fate. “Show me your moves.”

Jonny eyes him, nonchalant. “You couldn't handle it.”

“Couldn’t handle what? You haven’t even declared a wager yet. That confident in your moves?”

Jonny straightens his back, stands tall, and pauses for a moment like he’s gathering himself, then he looks down at Patrick, down into his goddamn soul and smirks, calm, confident, cocky. “Hey,” he says. “What’s up?”

“Uh,” Patrick says, confused.

Jonny moves in closer, the corners of his mouth curving up and up as he leans in. “I’m here now. What are your other two wishes?”

Did he just…?

Patrick laughs, can’t help himself. “Good god that’s an awful pick-up line. F minus. You’re supposed to be impressing me - I mean her, dude. That just makes you look like a stuck up jackass.”

Jonny’s brow furrows, displeased. “Okay, what about: Does your left eye hurt? Because you've been looking right all day.”

Less awful, but Patrick can do better. “Are you a 90-degree angle? 'Cause you are looking right!”

“Was that a math joke?”

Patrick glares. “Maybe.”

Jonny snorts.

“Don't shit talk math.”

He waits for Jonny to say something else, now that Patrick’s exposed a weakness, but instead he taps a finger against his chin, as if in thought again.

“I seem to have lost my phone number. Can I have yours?” he tries.

Patrick shakes his head. “Do you know what my shirt is made of? Boyfriend material.”

This time Jonny laughs, vivid and real, and it brightens his whole face in a way Patrick’s never seen before, not this close up. His eyes are almost black in this dimmed corner of the house and they sparkle when the light hits them. He takes another step in, closer, so they’re just a foot away from each other. When he catches Patrick’s gaze he says low, voice softer, “I'm sorry, I don't think we've met. I wouldn't forget a pretty face like that.”

Patrick swallows and pulls at his collar. It’s really fucking hot in this house. It probably shouldn’t be this hot in September.

“That’s um,” he coughs. “That’s not terrible.”

“It’s the one,” Jonny says, lips curving.

He’s more pleased with himself than he has any right to be, the arrogant dickbag. He thinks he’s already won this thing and they haven’t even ironed out all of the details yet.

Patrick purses his lips. “Anyway, what do I win if I get a number first?”

“You have to win first.”

Patrick steps forward, determined, until they’re only inches apart and whispers, “Watch me.”

Jonny doesn’t cede any ground, tall and looming, too casual. He makes Patrick’s skin itch in the worst way. If he could just get Jonny to break, just a little, it’d be worth all this shitty night has wrought upon him.

He shoulders past Jonny roughly, using his upper body strength to edge Jonny a step back as he passes. It’s a small victory, but he relishes it as he looks around the room for a willing participant. Almost everyone is already clustered in groups or pairs so the pickings are slim. He’s about to turn into the next room when he sees two girls tucked away against a bay window, one texting on her phone and talking, the other, curvy, cute and brunette, looking bored beside her.

She’s wearing one of those side strap dresses that are incredibly sparkly, and her feet are shoeless. When Patrick steps up to her, smiling, she’s still almost as tall as him.

“Hey,” he says, cool, calm.

He’s got this. No problem.

“No,” she says, bored expression unchanging.

“I just-”

“No,” she repeats. She’s not even looking at him, which is a little rude.

Patrick drops the chill guy act and goes for something more sincere, genuine, as he bites his lip.

“Look, you want to maybe-”

“No,” she says again, this time sharper. “No, go away.”

“Well, alrighty then. You have a nice night,” Patrick salutes her, spins on his heel and walks away.

That was a dumpster fire.

He can already see Jonny laughing from across the room. Goddamnit fucking bullshit fuck. A weak-ass effort, and of all the times.

He trudges back to their original spot expecting the gloating of a lifetime, but Jonny has his chin tilted up and is already passing Patrick by, headed for somewhere and someone in particular.

Patrick’s eyes trail him, riveted to the way Jonny moves through the crowd like he owns it, as if the room bends to his will.

There’s a petite strawberry blonde with black gauges in her ears and dark red lipstick painted on her mouth, chatting with some skinny kid that's clearly trying too hard. She turns to Jonny when he steps up, her smile curious, but her arms crossed. Patrick can't look away, watching them talk back and forth, the way her expression shifts from curious to suspicious to amused. He barely says more than a handful of words to her before she’s writing her number on his palm.

And where did he even get a pen? Did he just have the pen on him? Who carries pens on a night like this?!

“How the fuck…,” Patrick murmurs to himself, and receives a weird look from one the Sigma rushes, as they walk by.

Before Patrick can blink Jonny’s returned, standing straight and smug in front of him as he holds his hand up.

“Here ya go, slick.”

Slick? This guy is so lame.

Patrick sighs. “Double or nothing?

“No way,” Jonny says. “Don’t filch on the bet now, Kane.”

It was worth a shot.

“Fine,” he shrugs, mentally preparing himself for whatever humiliation is about to come his way. “What do you want?”

Jonny hums. “Loser gives winner a blowjob?”

Patrick tries to replay the words Jonny just said, again, like it’s a recorded message and if he can listen to it closely enough he’ll understand. They’ll make more sense if he can hear them one more time.

There might be a 404 ERROR message currently running through Patrick’s brain.

He needs a rewind button.

He can’t...

He...

Patrick coughs his way into a laugh. “Uh...what?!

It's not that it's a secret either of them are into guys. Patrick's seen Jonny around campus getting friendly with both men and women more than a few times. Still, it's quite the leap to assume Patrick, a Delta Chi, and therefore a superior species is interested in him, a mere peasant.

“Are you serious?” he asks, still laughing. It might be a bit of a hysterical laugh. It’s pretty high pitched.

Jonny doesn't look insulted, the cocky asshole. His expression is more impatient, if anything, as he steps into Patrick's space and says, “Do I look like I’m fucking with you?”

Not yet, Patrick thinks and feels his dick twitch. Jesus. It's too goddamn hot in this house. Sweat gathering at his temples and his tie too tight around his neck. He pulls it looser and tries to shake off his jitters.

“That's a bold assumption you're making, dude.”

“Are you saying you don't want to?” Jonny asks.

The truly gross part is how Patrick only hesitates a second before looking him over, really takes a moment to let his eyes wander up and down the length of Jonny’s long body, his muscular arms, the broad shoulders, the ruddy tint to his cheeks, the sculpted jaw, his pink lips and dark brown eyes. The kind of eyes that are warm and so so intense, and currently trained all on him.

On Patrick.

Patrick’s traitorous dick thickens in his pants, his own body enacting a mutiny upon him.

He swallows roughly. “Uh...no.”

“Let’s go up to my room then,” Jonny says.

Patrick should leave. He should leave.

Instead, he follows.

Walking up the stairs to Jonny's room the only thing Patrick can think about is that he wishes he'd had more to drink. He’s not even buzzed enough to realistically blame this error in judgment on alcohol. But he refuses to blame himself either so it's pretty obviously all Dayna’s fault, and Brent Seabrook’s. Which means it's Sigma Alpha’s fault.

So there, the world makes sense once again.

The upstairs is less crowded than the rest of the house, most of the bedroom doors shut, probably locked to prevent outsiders from fucking on house members beds. Jonny’s room is at the end of the hall, tucked away next to the bathroom. Jonny lets them both in, ushering Patrick inside first and flipping the lock behind them.

It’s a single, which shouldn’t be surprising since Jonny is the Sigma President, but it catches Patrick off guard all the same. He has to take a few beats to gather himself as his gaze travels over the room. It’s every inch what Patrick would’ve expected, from the collection of Apple products scattered over his desk to the trophies and medals pinned to his bookshelf. There’s an econ textbook on his dresser beside his overpriced watch and Armani cologne. Sports gear looks to be thrown in a pile by his closet almost artfully. It’s like his bedroom is a set for a fucking Abercrombie and Fitch ad. Patrick gags a little. Almost.

If that was all there was to Jonny in this room Patrick wouldn’t be surprised one iota. But it’s not.

There’s also framed photos of his family everywhere, pictures of him fishing with his brother, of their family dog, of his grandma knitting him a Christmas sweater. The floor is a mess with socks and crumpled paper, a thousand post-it notes of things he’s written to himself tacked up everywhere. He’s got anatomy posters on his walls and a signed Canadian hockey jersey framed over his bed, the forest green sheets are rumpled and soft to the touch when Patrick takes a seat on his bed. It’s a bit much to take in all at once especially with Jonny’s attention still on him as he removes his tie and unbuttons his shirt at the collar.

“I need a drink,” Patrick says, warm everywhere and restless.

Jonny pulls an unopened Absolut Vodka bottle from his dresser, unscrewing the cap, and handing it over.

“Here,” he says, and begins rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. “I don’t have any clean cups.”

“Anything to chase it with?” Patrick asks, staring at the veins running along Jonny’s toned forearms, the skin golden and his hands large.

“You need a chaser?” Jonny says like it’s a dare.

“Oh fuck off,” he mumbles, shrugging out of his own jacket. He fists the bottle by the neck, using his free hand to wipe at his sweaty brow, averting his attention. He takes a breath, in and out, feels the way his stomach flutters. “Bottoms up!”

Jonny snorts as Patrick takes a long pull. It tastes horribly bitter and burns all the way down his throat. He takes another drink, and then two more, and then again one last time for good measure.

When he hands the bottle over to Jonny he licks his lips, catching a stray drop of vodka at the corner of his mouth and utterly staggered by the way Jonny’s staring at him, eyelids heavy and pupils blown wide.

The overhead light is turned off, just a small desk lamp left to softly illuminate the room, everything a soft yellow glow.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Patrick mutters, even if the idea of it all seems less crazy now with a glass of vodka in his system and Jonny’s bare forearms in view.

“Or you can’t believe you lost?” Jonny volleys back, taking a few swigs of his own.

“Do I have to choose?”

Patrick reaches for the bottle again, wiggling his fingers in a ‘gimme’ gesture. Jonny holds out the bottle for a moment, offering, but the instant Patrick actually touches it Jonny snatches it back, teasing, baiting.

“No,” Jonny says, low. “But you could come closer.” He tilts his chin up, gesturing Patrick to him, movements like dripping honey.

There’s this tension in the air, something that’s always been between them, but it’s different now. No less heavier, but still challenging, still stuck deep underneath his ribcage and tight. It’s sizzling through his skin now, making goosebumps pop up all across his overheated skin. He waits, just long enough to see Jonny shift on his feet before he stands - until they’re both standing. It’s a little victory, but he enjoys it, even more for the way Jonny meets him in the middle, stepping into Patrick’s space again and slotting a leg between both of his.

Jonny’s legs are long, full of thick corded muscle and his thigh hot to the touch. When it presses up against Patrick’s dick he can’t help the way a small gasp escapes his lips.

“This is so stupid,” he says, even as he pushes closer.

“Is it?” Jonny murmurs, rocking forward until they’re chest to chest, faces only a breath away.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I hate you,” Patrick says, huffing out a laugh at the absurdity of the question, of this entire night.

“Well,” Jonny, says, nose barely grazing the edge of Patrick’s jaw and the sensitive spot behind his ear. “I hate you more.”

Patrick shivers. “Impossible.”

“You wanna bet?” he chuckles.

He’s so goddamn annoying Patrick wants to shove him away and storm out. He wants it so bad he can taste it, the tips of his fingers practically tingling. So it makes absolutely zero sense that he fists his hands in Jonny’s dress shirt, yanks him close, and spins them both around to tumble back onto the bed.

“Just,” he groans. “Just shut up and let’s get this over with.”

Jonny stretches his arms wide, crosses them under the back of his head as he spreads his legs. “Pretend all you want, Kane, but I know.”

“Know what?” Patrick asks, settling between Jonny’s tree trunk thighs and unable to keep his eyes off the considerable bulge in Jonny’s pants.

“You’re hard too. You want this too.”

His voice is a deep timber and it slides over Patrick like a silky wave. Almost calming despite Jonny’s provocative words. He wishes he could deny them, flip the script on Jonny and show him he’s not as hot as he clearly believes he is. The truth is he can’t. His own dick is a hard line inside his boxer briefs, the need to rub himself over the bedding becoming a problem he won’t be able to avoid for very long. Especially not with the way Jonny’s stupidly perfect body is right within reach of taking.

“Stop talking,” Patrick snaps, fitting his hands over Jonny’s hips and moving them up. He can feel the buzzed flush at the tips of his ears spreading down his neck. Jonny’s own throat is covered in a glossy sheen of sweat and smooth enough to lick. Fuck.

Patrick frowns.

Jonny mimes zipping his lips, locking them, and throwing away the key. It’s disgustingly endearing and Patrick gives up any pretense right then, gives all the way in.

He reaches for Jonny’s pants, opening them up and then peeling Jonny’s silver-gray boxer briefs over his hips and the plush curve of his ass, his cock slapping back against his stomach. There’s foreskin, which is new. Not much, just enough to cover part of the rosy-colored crown. Patrick's never been with an uncut guy before. That's not what causes him to pause. Jonny’s cock is long too and so so thick, fat enough it’s difficult for Patrick to get his fingers around. The tip is slippery wet and perfectly shaped. It’s an unfairly gorgeous dick, as far as dicks go. Patrick wonders if he can hate a guy for being so well endowed while still wanting to see exactly how far he can deep throat him. It’s not a question he thought he’d be asking himself on Homecoming night.

When he takes Jonny in hand he’s pleasantly surprised to see the way his hips arch up off the bed, just a tiny sign of need. Patrick runs his hand up and down the smooth length of him, dragging up the foreskin and pulling it down as he goes, then thumbs over the slick slit. Jonny hisses, moaning in the back of his throat and Patrick grins to himself evilly.

He could do this all night, he thinks, as he works Jonny up with the twist of his hand and the tongue that’s swiping out over his lips. Leaning down to lick a stripe up the length of him from root to tip he relishes the way Jonny keens, reaching out and then digging at the sheets instead. Patrick does this a few more times, just to see the way he silently begs for more.

All of it has his own dick leaking inside his pants, balls tight and snug. He presses into the mattress for relief as he mouths at the head, breathing over it hotly, but not taking it inside.

“C’mon!” Jonny growls, impatient.

Patrick hums wickedly and doesn’t move. “Ask nicely.”

“Fuck you,” he spits, propping himself up on his elbows.

“That wasn’t part of the deal,” Patrick sings, biting at his lip. He tries not to imagine another time, another deal, where it could happen, where Jonny could be the one pressing Patrick down into his mattress right now and filling him up.

Jonny whimpers a little, hand coming up like he wants to yank Patrick down on his cock, before falling to his side again. “Will you just...please?”

He says it almost sweetly, his expression shifting into something soft, earnest. It could all be a play to make Patrick do what he wants. It’s embarrassing how well it works.

Sucking Jonny down is overwhelming. He tastes salty and hot and he’s heavy on Patrick’s tongue. He can only take so much inside, working by half inches as he bobs up and down in a continuous rhythm. When he can feel Jonny at the back of his throat he’s still got one hand inelegantly stroking the base where two could fit. He can’t take much more, even with his truly enviable skills.

It doesn’t seem to matter anyway as the movements he’s making are enough to have Jonny arching off the bed and groaning deeply as he comes. There was a half-assed warning in the flapping of Jonny’s hand, but Patrick doesn’t let up, sucking him down until he’s jerking weakly. He's not really sure why he swallows, he certainly doesn't owe it to Jonny after all. That was never part of the bet. But it might be the way his own dick aches when that first splash of come hits his tongue, filthy and tangy, so clearly all of Jonny. Or it might be the way Jonny's eyes roll back in his head when he sees Patrick suck harder on the crown, instead of pulling back, shuddering all over and letting out a breathy punched out ‘fuck’. He’s not sure why and he’s not going to question it further. Instead, he eases back lazily, wiping at the edges of his mouth and watching Jonny stretch out across his bed, murmuring happily.

“You're welcome,” Patrick says, heart pounding and skin prickly.

“Oh yeah, thank you,” Jonny smiles, eyes closed. “That was great.”

“I know.”

“Mmm. Made me all sleepy.”

Patrick watches him settle back into his pillow, body slack, relaxed even with his shirt askew and his pants still unzipped. “Are...are you actually falling asleep?”

“I could.”

“Right now?”

“Why?” Jonny asks, breezily. “Did you want something?”

Was this guy for fucking real?

“Nah, man. I'm good. See ya later,” Patrick bites out, twisting to move off the bed. He doesn’t make it far.

“Shut up and c’mere,” Jonny laughs, looping his arms around Patrick's middle and pulling him back down. Then he kisses Patrick long and bruising, stealing all the air from his lungs and licking the taste of himself off of Patrick’s tongue. “Your breath smells like dick.”

“Your dick.”

“Mmm yeah, it's good,” Jonny says, and sucks on Patrick’s bottom lip for another few long beats.

“You're a weird one, Toews, but you're hot as fuck.” It shouldn’t be said, but Patrick can’t not say it. His buzz is really starting to kick in now.

“Thank you?” Jonny asks like he's unsure if Patrick's insulting him or not.

Patrick nods, dizzy drunk and skin tingling. “You’re welcome.”

A large hand settles hot over his cloth covered dick, rubbing in circles that make Patrick whine with the need for skin on skin. Luckily Jonny doesn’t make him wait, flicking open his pants and shoving his hand inside until he can grasp Patrick good and tight. He’s a sticky, wet mess, precome slick all over his boxers. Jonny uses it to ease the way, grip firm and surprisingly deft. He leans close to bite at Patrick’s bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth again as Patrick shudders out his release. It’s better than it has any right to be.

When Jonny pulls his hand free he licks some of the come from his palm, lapping at it slowly, making a show. Patrick's so mesmerized he doesn't realize Jonny's wiped the rest of the jizz on his thigh until he feels it start to seep through the material.

“You're fucking rude,” he spits. Or tries to with the way he’s attempting to catch his breath.

“You liked it,” Jonny grins, still smug as ever.

“That second rate handjob? I've done better with a bottle of Jergens on my own, pal.”

Jonny flips over onto his front, throwing an arm over Patrick’s middle as he pushes his face half against his pillow, lips just inches from Patrick’s temple. “You know how I know you’re lying?”

“Mmm?” Patrick mumbles, limbs heavy and the room a little spinny. Maybe he needs a quick nap before he hikes it the fuck out of here. Just a quick catnap.

“Every time I touch you...you tremble,” Jonny whispers.

Patrick doesn’t shiver.

He doesn’t.

Because if he did that would be embarrassing and this night has already ruined him.

He’s wrecked and he can’t think about it.

Patrick lets his eyes flutter shut, let’s himself float into the hazy warmth of it all and doesn’t think, only murmurs, “You wish.” And then he’s blessedly asleep.

Patrick wakes the next morning to a buzzing in his pocket and a dull headache. Jonny’s knocked out beside him, breathing deep and pressed heavily along Patrick’s side. His face is soft in sleep, all of his edges rounded out, gentle. There’s no conceivable reason why Patrick should spend any time looking at Jonny or even be in Jonny’s bed. He shouldn't have landed himself here in the first place, and yet here he is, still, easing himself out of the enemy’s bed, and his room, and making the walk of shame home stained in disgrace.

It’s lucky Sharpy called him when he did, early enough that Patrick can escape the Sigma house without being detected. He’s not even sure what he’d say if he was caught or what they’d do to him, especially if Backes or Kesler were the ones to cross his path.

There’s other people out walking at this hour too, if only just a few. Patrick passes a couple of them on his way down the block. They look as unkempt as he feels, hair ruffled and clothes out of place. The sun is too cheerful bright the sky too blue for his dehydrated mind to process and he realizes he’s still got a come stain on the side of his pants, chalky and stiff to the touch. Awesome.

The Delta Chi house, when he walks through the lawn to the front door, looks a bit worse for the wear after last night. There are streamers and Solo cups strewn across the yard and trailing inside. Patrick kicks past some glittery confetti shit, pulling his phone from his pocket as it buzzes. It’s Sharpy again. His tenth text since last night and three missed calls. Yikes. Who’s about to get a lecture? Two thumbs for this guy.

Patrick considers trying to evade him for a few hours, maybe take a nap first. Unfortunately, he only makes it to the staircase before he’s caught.

“Where the fuck were you last night?” Sharpy says, face pinched and a mostly empty bag of trash in his hand. “You were supposed to help me with the pledges or did you forget?”

“Oh shit,” Patrick sighs. “Sorry, man. I...yeah. I totally forgot. Dayna dragged me to a Sigma Alpha party and well....”

Sharpy’s eyes go comically wide. “Sigma Alpha?!”

“Yep. And then she sorta bailed”

“The hell?” Sharpy says, stepping up to him.

The house has brothers scattered all over it in various levels of passed out, most of them too drunk to know better because if they did they’d be up safe in their rooms and not out in the open where anyone could mess with them. Shawzy’s plastered on the leather couch in front of the flat screen, some cartoon on that he’s probably seen twenty times before, Chaunette’s head pillowed on his lap. Phil’s smoking a cig by the window, even though he knows he’s likely to incur the wrath of their house mother for it. Buff is spread eagle on the floor, underneath the fancy shag rug that Soupy left them before he graduated last fall, a girl on each side of him. What a pimp. And on the green couch is G-Money, drooling from the corner of his mouth, and a dick in the shape of a J, for his first name, scrawled across his cheek.

Patrick’s going to have to wake him up in a minute. Hopefully, he doesn’t puke everywhere.

“Yeah,” he shrugs in Sharpy’s direction. Then he sighs.

Sharpy chucks him on the shoulder. “Sorry, man. But wait. Why didn't you just come back here then? Did you...you got laid, didn't you? Aww Kaner, good job, buddy.”

His smile is so weirdly proud that Patrick has to shove him away with an eye roll. “Stop acting so surprised, shithead.”

“Was she hot?” Sharpy waggles his eyebrows.

“He was...very,” Patrick admits, even if he’s not sure why.

“Nice. Name?”

“Uhhh.”

The thing is Patrick could tell Sharpy, probably. That it was a Sigma, that it was Jonny. He’d catch no small amount of hell for it, but Sharpy wouldn’t actively judge him like the rest of the brothers would, at least not in any real way that would have consequences. The downside of telling Sharpy would come when he inevitably opened his fat mouth and told everyone Patrick’s business, probably by accident, but that would be moot once it slipped out.

So Patrick knows he can tell Sharpy, but he won’t. Instead, he shrugs, mind still too fuzzy sleep worn and foggy from the alcohol.

“Did you at least suit up?” Sharpy asks, like he’s Patrick’s father.

“Umm,” Patrick says, fidgeting under Sharpy’s scrutinizing stare. How's he supposed to tell Sharpy no, they had not, in fact, used a condom, because Patrick didn't want latex between his tongue and that gorgeous cock? But he’s pretty sure if anyone is squeaky clean on this campus it’s definitely Toews' lame ass.

Sharpy frowns and digs in his pocket, pulling out at least five foil packets. He shoves them into Patrick’s hand. “Hey! No glove no love, okay.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. Won't happen again.”

They break off after that to begin cleaning, Patrick shuffles to the kitchen to grab a few black garbage bags and collects empty Solo cups and balled up napkins off the floor. Other brothers slowly join in, if a bit reluctantly, grumbly and moaning about headaches and begging to know where the Tylenol is located. Once the majority of the mess is under control Patrick leaves the rest of the pledges to it and escapes upstairs for a long needed nap. On his way he passes a framed picture of the unofficial house rules.

RULES TO NEVER BREAK (EVER!) (unless you’re shawzy and don’t give a fuck)

don’t sleep on the green couch. you’ll wake up with a dick drawn on your face.

never let a Sigma in the house

don’t leave your shoes by the door, they’ll be thrown out.

laundry days are on friday. wash your fucking clothes you, filthy animal!

the strawberry yogurt is kaner’s. don’t touch or he’ll glue your ass to the toilet seat. right, shawzy?

sharpy gets the TV every thursday from 7pm-9pm for The Bachelorette. no, you can’t watch your shitty Cardinals game. DON’T ASK.

I repeat, never let a Sigma Alpha in this, our home and refuge

if reggie is around feed reggie.

stop putting forks in the microwave, you morons.

david backes is satan. never look him directly in the eyes.

312-664-7440 Dominos Pizza - ask for Malynn NOT Bree for the 25% discount

DON’T ASK ABOUT THE GRASS

don’t give carbomb grey goose after midnight. or you’re cleaning the second story bathtub.

Seriously. Under pain of death DO NOT let a Sig into this house or you will forthwith be banished from the kingdom.

He taps his finger against the glass of the frame as he passes it by, a reminder to himself where his priorities lie.

In his room he face plants on his bed and dreams weird dreams of being kicked out of Delta Chi, then college, then his parents' house to live a lonely, shameful life on the streets of Chicago all because he let Jonathan Toews put his dick in his mouth. When he wakes, more clear-headed and less hungover he makes a vow to forget last night and never think of it again, like it never happened.

It’s for the better. It has to be.

#a little bday fic in honor of the bday boy #jonathan toews #patrick kane #1988 #my fic #1988quarathon #mine #mygraphics

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knifeshoeoreofight · 4 years

Photo

Part 3 of ?

(part 1 here)

(part 2 here)

They fall into a pattern after that. Sid works in the labs during the day, going over previously gathered data and doing just enough to keep Bettman thinking that all is well. Natalia teaches him the staff rotations and camera locations to allow him to reach the observation room without being caught, and they meet up there in the middle of the night to discuss their plans.

Natalia just calls the being “malysh” most of the time, but Sid had wanted to call him with his name. The being had only laughed in a riot of color and explained that Sid had no hope of replicating it with human vocal cords. Much of the being’s communication, aside from color and telepathy, he explained, was subsonic, at frequencies too low for human ears.

“Evgeni,” Natalia says firmly, in order to move the conversation along. “Good Russian name. Can call you Zhenya for small.”

I like it the being--Zhenya-- had replied, radiating mental warmth in response.

“Zhenya,” Sidney had said, testing the sound of it in his mouth. The lights on Zhenya’s body had all flickered in response.

Now, they have the rudiments of a plan. Zhenya needs some of the equipment on his ship, badly.

My kind, he explains. We….adapt, easily. I can stop your gravity and atmosphere... from killing me. But I need my ship.

Their communication comes so much easier now. Sid wonders if there’s some kind of link or connection that grows stronger with use. He knows that it still takes effort and that Zhenya has to rest after long sentences, but the gaps are becoming shorter. Zhenya’s personality, vibrant from the first, comes through even more clearly now. Sid can see why Natalia is so fiercely protective of him, and he aches thinking about the suffering he’s had to endure until now.

I will be able to assume an almost human biological form he tells Sid one night. Tell me...what is considered good, to your species? In a person’s form.

His lights are all soft yellow and his eyes are wide and innocent-looking. Suspiciously so. When he imitates a human facial expression it’s deliberately done.

Sid flushes. “You mean, like, what is aesthetically pleasing? Or um.”

Lights pulse, a rainbow of other colors flickering through the yellow. Your species is very focused on...reproductive availability, correct?

“Oh god,” Sid says, feeling his face heat up even further. “Uh. Well, height is considered pretty important, for guys? And, um.”

Reproductive organ size? Zhenya says, still wide-eyed and butter-yellow with what Sid is beginning to think is faux-innocence.

“Such a dick,” Sid blurts. His face feels like it’s on fire.

Not yet Zhenya sends, smugness radiating from the words like bad cologne.

“You told me last night that your people have monitored our radio and television signals for decades,” Sid accuses. It had floored him to learn, but it explained Zhenya’s ability to speak human languages, albeit telepathically. “You know exactly what is considered attractive to humans.”

I only want to program the DNA successfully, Zhenya claims.

“Uh huh.” Sidney rolls his eyes, but has to smile as Zhenya’s lights edge toward pink. “Sure you do.”

***

Sid has more than a few overwhelming fears about their plans.

“If I disappear at the same time you do,” he says, one night about two weeks in. “They might come after me once I return home. They’ll be watching my place, probably.” He feels terrible even bringing this up. Zhenya and Natalia are both risking so much.

Once I have adapted Zhenya tells him, lights flowing down his skin in a way that seems intended to comfort and reassure. I will still have some of my abilities, and my technology. I will be able to protect you.

“You’ll be staying with me?” Sid asks. “After this?”

Zhenya goes very still. If. If you consent.

“Of course,” Sid says. He feels a strange sense of relief. The scientist in him, of course, wants every opportunity to continue to learn about extraterrestrial life, and the rest of him has begun to grow...fond of Zhenya. His curiosity, his surprising playfulness. His affection for Natalia.

Sid leans his forehead against the glass. He’s exhausted from weeks of fractured sleep and strung out nerves. They’re alone tonight- Natalia’s husband has a cold and she stayed home from work to care for him.

Zhenya leans his forehead against the glass as well, making one of his low, rumbling hums.

It was my dream, he thinks wistfully. All my life. To come and study this planet. I’m not ready to leave it. I just need to be free of this place.

“I know,” Sid says softly, and tries something new. Just like the times he sends thought Zhenya’s way, he tries to send the complicated bundle of emotions lodged in his chest. Fear, affection, resolve.

Sid is all Zhenya sends back, and the glass between them trembles with sound that Sid mostly feels, rather than hears.

He has the strangest sense that there’s more that Zhenya would like to say, but he holds his peace, moving instead to the less emotionally fraught topic of the facility’s containment breach protocols.

***

After a while, there isn’t anything more to discuss. There is only the execution of their plan.

Their saving grace is that due to the paranoia of those running the facility, nothing so much as a laptop camera is allowed in the observation room. They decide then, that getting through the window is their best bet, as they will have at least two hours between guards making security checks of the room.

Sid has access to the equipment storage area for the research department. He manages to steal a reciprocating saw and an acetylene torch easily enough, hiding them in one of the equipment lockers close to the observation room. He packs a backpack with only the absolute essentials, and makes his way to where Zhenya is waiting for him, tense and pacing as they wait for Natalia to arrive.

When she arrives, she wastes no time. She presses a wrapped package of food into Sid’s hands and kisses him on both cheeks. Sid has to swallow and clear his throat before he can ask her how preparations went.

“Pipe is blocked in office block. All cleaning staff go there, big mess.”

Sid nods. They have to get Zhenya out, then time their race to reach the hanger just right to avoid security patrols.

Natalia pauses, then presses something heavy into Sid’s hands, wrapped up in what appears to be a flowered tea towel.

He goes cold all over when he realizes that it’s a handgun.

“I’m take from guard’s room,” Natalia says. Her expression is worried but her gaze is flinty. Whatever it takes, her eyes say.

Sid’s hands shake a little, but he checks the safety, and tucks the weapon in the waistband of his jeans. The reality of it is, he doesn’t know how to use a gun properly, and the guards here are most likely going to bring him down and ask questions never. Some of the tension leaves Natalia’s shoulders though, and that is enough.

The plexiglass of the viewing window proves insanely difficult to deal with. It emits billows of noxious-smelling smoke as it melts, and when Sid has to alternate between the torch and the saw. His shoulders and arms are burning and sweat is running off him in rivers as he grits his teeth and shears through the window centimeter by hardwon centimeter. They’re cutting a diagonal across one of the corners, hoping for the sealant to fail and make for fewer cuts.

His brain is just an endless loop of come on come on come on come on as beside him Natalia starts to murmur what sound like prayers.

A glance into Zhenya’s enclosure shows smoke collecting at an alarming rate. His lights are flickering a sick green-yellow that turns Sid’s stomach with worry.

Finally. He hits the edge of the window and starts in on the massive bolts on the frame, working his way down from the top as Natalia starts in on the ones on the bottom.

They’re not going to have enough time. There’s no way. Sid wedges a crowbar under the edge of the frame and heaves on it, with a strangled grunt. Natalia grabs on as well and they both haul on it as Zhenya pushes on the opposite side.

There’s a horrible squeal of metal on metal, and, miraculously, the frame gives. The plexiglass falls out of it with a thud.

“Go, go!” Natalia cries. She pushes Sid’s bag at him and he throws it over his shoulder. He turns and holds out his arm to support Zhenya as he folds himself through the gap. He’s lighter than he looks, as if he’s hollow-boned as a bird.

Quick.

He extends a tendril to Natalia and she holds out her hand. Sid watches in puzzlement as Zhenya’s lights flare.

It is an honor, Natalia he says.

Natalia’s eyes are wet as she hurries them out of the room and down the long corridor to Zhenya’s ship. Sid can hear an alarm start to blare in another part of the complex.

“Be safe,” Sid tells her with a final kiss to her cheek. She nods, and takes off. She has to make it to an electrical panel that will allow her to throw the fuses for the hanger bay.

Come, Zhenya tells him, and they take off down the endless hall, sirens and flashing lights now blaring around them. Zhenya stumbles, and Sid has to haul him upright.

As if in a slow motion nightmare, just as they turn a corner and the hanger doors come into view, Sid registers a guard standing there, raising a radio to his lips.

Sid reaches for the gun before he can think. Sweat-slick palms, nothing but the drum of his heart in his ears.

He fires. The shot goes wide, the guard swivels, bringing up his own weapon.

Sid fires again. The guard goes down, clutching at his leg. Before he can reach his dropped weapon Sid kicks it away. He wants to lean over and vomit.

Later.

The guard’s key card opens the doors for them, at least, and as they run inside, the lights all go down, save the faint glowing ones on the ship itself.

Past the electric barrier erected around it, up into the gaping entryway that opens at Zhenya’s touch.

Hold on Zhenya thinks tersely at him, as Sid half collapses against a bulkhead, lungs burning.

The ship hums to life, and Sid sways on his feet as it rises into the air. Zhenya is standing inside a curved, organic looking arch, a web of light rising around him as the ship turns, screeching and throwing sparks as it brushes the hanger walls.

The doors are corrugated steel, and Zhenya had told them that his ship can break through. Sid still closes his eyes as he hears the thrum of the engines increase in pitch. Nothing around him had looked anything like an identifiable jumpseat or safety harness, so he just braces himself against the bulkhead.

Then the ship’s sudden acceleration presses him back into the wall like an enormous hand, there’s a jolt, an awful shearing sound of metal on metal, and the floor beneath Sid tilts.

The ship is shuddering, G forces pushing on Sid until the edges of his vision start to go dark. He might be screaming. Everything is sound, and roaring, and pressure. Time itself seems to stretch.

Then, easy as a sigh, the pressure lets him go. The floor rights itself, the engines calm.

Sid is on the floor on his hands and knees, panting for breath. When he can raise his head again, he looks up, out of the cockpit window.

Beyond it is deep, velvety black- too deep and dark to comprehend, spangled with a billion points of light.

The stars.

***

Sid is lightheaded with residual adrenaline and his hands shake with fine tremors. His eyes greedily devour the sight outside as he stands in front of the main viewing-window- the blue of the sky going cold and deep at the very edge of space, the infinite blackness beyond the fragile curve of the earth.

“Zhenya,” he breathes, and turns to look at him.

Zhenya is manipulating the web of light that must make up the controls, but he seems unwell. He’s hunched over a little, and his breathing seems rasping and labored.

Sid realizes, with a flood of guilt, that he’s able to breath perfectly, and that the gravity of the ship, after the press of rapid acceleration had ceased, feels normal to him.

“Zhenya,” he says urgently. “The life support systems. You’ve set them to human parameters, haven’t you?”

Zhenya blinks at him, slow. You would suffer ill effects from my species’s ideal parameters.

“Maybe of atmospheric composition,” Sid says. “What about gravity? Does your species need higher or lower gravity than humans?

Lower.

Sid sighs in relief. “That’s fine then, my species has done great in zero-g, even, without too many ill effects. Go ahead and change it.

Zhenya does something, and Sid grins like a child as his feet slowly leave the floor. Zhenya sighs, taking a deep, rattling breath that sounds, to Sid, relieved.

“This,” Sid assures him,”Is so fucking cool. I’ve dreamt of stuff like this, space and weightlessness, my whole life.”

Zhenya’s lights pulse, and Sid feels a swell of wordless affection wash up against his thoughts.

Zhenya just feels so fond when he looks at Sid. Sid doesn’t know quite what to do with that so he turns to look out of the window again, just in time to see the Baltic Sea slide by underneath them.

Something occurs to him. In all this planning, they hadn’t considered-

“Uh, where are we going,” Sidney asks.

I need time for the adaptation Zhenya replies. I still want to conduct my research. I could take you anywhere. I have earth resources we can use.

Sid has to stare out the window at that a little. Instead of northern Norway, he watches the reflection of Zhenya’s lights, gone gently blue and pink.

He’s sitting in a spaceship. He’s sitting in a spaceship with an extraterrestrial and he’s on the run from a shadowy government organization. He shakes his head.

“I don’t even know,” he says softly, and for some reason, he thinks, “I shot someone today,” and his hands start to shake.

Sidney. Zhenya moves to stand behind him, and he rests one of his long-fingered hands on Sid’s shoulders.

He can feel...regret, he thinks, bleeding across the connection of their minds. He turns to face Zhenya.

“I’m so glad we got you out,” he says decisively. “I am.”

You are… Zhenya pauses. Extraordinary. You and Natalia. You have both risked so much for me.

His eyes are fathomless, his face as unreadable as it ever is. But the pulse of his lights and the warmth in his mind tells Sid everything that his expression won’t.

Sid, for some reason, feels his own face heat. “It was the right thing to do.The humane thing.”

Humane, from the word for your species Zhenya thinks, and his mind does something that feels a lot like the equivalent of a smile. You humans are creatures of such staggering contrast and potential.

Sid can’t meet that steady gaze anymore. He looks out of the window again. Are they over the North Atlantic?

“So this adaptation,” he asks. “What is that going to entail?”

Natalia brought me a hair of her husband’s and one of her own. I will be very nearly as if I had been their son.

Sid shakes his head in amazement and feels a curious sense of loss. All that Zhenya is, all of his otherworldly beauty, compressed into a human shell. Necessary to live on earth and fulfill his dream, perhaps, but still.

I look forward to a mostly human body Zhenya goes on. I will only hold up to the most rudimentary medical scrutiny, but I will definitely stop being killed by your environment—at least not any faster than you. He flickers his lights wryly.

I will need to spend about an earth month in a nutrient bath as my DNA is re-programmed and my body restructures itself. The DNA from Natalia was the final piece, the rest of the scaffolding was already completed as part of the preparation for this expedition.

“You guys really can just rewrite DNA, huh,” Sid says, shaking his head.

Our technology for genome manipulation arose out of necessity, Zhenya explains. My people were dying out. After we discovered space travel, we discovered that almost everything foreign to our planet caused our DNA to mutate. We were fragile. Luckily, we developed the technology before it was too late.

Sid cannot help but think,for a moment, of children dying of cancer. Of his grandfather losing his mind to Alzheimer’s.

I’m sorry, Zhenya says, having probably ascertained some of that from Sid’s thoughts. The ability to accept radical gene therapies and be effectively re-written is a particular trait of my people’s DNA. Our technology would not be of any use to humans, to my regret. You are noble to think of it.

“Ah, well,” Sid says. “We’ll have to muddle through on our own, then.”

Zhenya flickers at him, then tilts his head to one side.

You grow tired, he says. The extensive telepathic communication is hurting you.

Oh. Now that he’s paying attention, Sid can feel the beginnings of a headache throbbing at his temples.

“We never decided where we were going.” He has to laugh a little.

We will stop at your abode, and then-- Zhenya doesn’t finish the thought, but Sid gets a quickly stifled mental flicker of... palm trees?

Wherever you would like, Zhenya defers politely.

“It’s your research trip.” Sid smiles at him. “What was your plan?”

Zhenya’s lights glow excitedly. In my research I encountered several cultural artifacts of popular entertainment set in Miami. One in particular seemed to imply it would make an excellent hiding location for those involved in espionage and covert operations.

“Are you….talking about Burn Notice?” Sid says, and laughs. Why is that so cute? “Face it, you just want to go to the beach, eh?”

Maybe so Zhenya replies, and his mental tone is a warm as a smile, even if his slit of a mouth doesn’t move.

“Sure, let’s go.” Sid winces as a bolt of pain stabs his temples.

Rest, Zhenya tells him both in word and in a soothing ripple of light. I shall take you to your home and we will then travel to our next hiding place after you have gathered your belongings. Please. He motions to an entryway in the rear of the cockpit.

When Sid goes where he’s bidden, he finds a handful of compact rooms. One is dimly lit, with soothing colors playing over the walls and a white, squashy blob the size of a king mattress on the floor.

Just to be sure, Sid hollers up the hall. He doesn’t want to end up sleeping in the equivalent of an alien toilet. When he receives the affirmative that it is, in fact, a bed, he puts down his pack and takes his shoes off, studying the weird, organic shapes of the room’s mysterious furnishings.

He snorts out a laugh when he notices, enshrined in a wall niche, a little collection of earthly looking doodads including, of all the fucking things, a Funko Pop figurine. He goes over to look and the objects make him smile. There’s a pine cone, a dented tin can of baked beans, and a postcard from Seattle. He knew Zhenya was fascinated with Earth but this tenderly displayed cluster of random artifacts just drives it home.

The bed is strange. The surface feels like silicone rubber and velvet had an oddly comfortable lovechild, but it’s pillowy and soft and he drops immediately off to sleep as soon as he lays his head down.

***

Sid.

Sid jolts awake as though his name had been spoken aloud, not just into his mind.

Zhenya is leaning over him.

How is your head?

Sid’s head feels a little like it usually does after a big headache- sort of like it’s a fishbowl made of brittle glass that he needs to be careful with. But it’s manageable.

He rubs the sleep out of his eyes. “Where are we?”

The roof of your apartment building.

That wakes him up. “Okay, nice. Are you coming in with me?”

Zhenya’s lights flicker excitedly. I would love to finally visit a private human domicile.

Sid smiles. The thought was accompanied by the same feeling of giddiness he imagines you’d get from a kid walking into a toy store.

***

Sid’s apartment is thankfully on the top floor, and they get Zhenya inside without incident. Zhenya does something with some sort of scanning device and his thoughts pulse with concern.

We should not linger. This building is being surveilled.

Fuck.

Go Zhenya tells him. I will keep watch.

Sid’s place is dim with all the shades drawn, and the still air with its closed-for-weeks smell adding to the surreality of it all as Sid makes his way through his rooms with a pounding heart.

What do you bring with you when you might be leaving life as you knew it behind for good? He grabs a duffle bag, then decides he doesn’t have time to be tidy and finds a garbage bag in the kitchen. He can organize later.

A couple changes of clothes, his backup hard drive, a photo of his parents. Does he take a bottle of shower gel? It’s not like he’s leaving the planet (ha). There’s going to be a CVS or something in Florida.

In goes his favorite quilt that his grandmother made him. A coffee mug he’s fond of from his sister. A stack of research materials and books that he’d hate to lose. There’s no reason he can’t keep working. A few more things get shoved haphazardly into the duffle and the garbage bag.

Just in time he realizes that he should probably grab his birth certificate and social security card. Just in case he really never comes back. Shit, what about rent? If he keeps paying rent, can the Russian organization that held Zhenya hack in and find out, tracking his credit card usage?

Too much to think about now. He’ll have time. He’s supposed to be in Russia for another month, in any case, and it’s paid in full.

He has everything he can’t do without. He takes a last look around. He has the strangest feeling that he’s never going to see the place again.

He shoulders the duffle and nods at Zhenya.

“Let’s go.”

***

#zvezda #sidgeno #sid/geno #sidney crosby/evgeni malkin #Hockey rpf #dana writes a thing

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evening-starlight · 3 years

Text

Chances {Chapter Fourteen}

This chapter super heavy and long

Master List

T/W: mentions of grooming, domestic abuse, divorce, cursing, sex

Finally Light

Word Count: 2027

This chapter is fucking heavy, guys. There will be talks of grooming, sex, abuse, and overall bad vibes. Please be careful reading, and if it's too much, you can skip this chapter. I will never ever hold that over you if this could be triggering. Take care of yourself first.

I sit with my back to Tom's. We got home a few minutes ago and decided to do a trick Stevie had taught me when I was having trouble opening up. Back to back was supposed to help me feel like I was talking to myself about everything.

This is supposed to be the part where I spill my guts and everything that happened with Jared, but I can't. I know he won't judge. He's shown that over the last few months of us being together. Tom's taken it slow, and he's shown me multiple times I can trust him. But this might break us.

I take a deep breath and start from the very beginning. "I was introduced to Jared at fourteen. I was young and naive, and he was an older, wiser man. He told me the things I wanted to hear. But, as I've said before, it was all innocent for a few years. He'd introduce me to his girlfriends as his little sister for the longest time. He'd help me with my homework and would scare away the bullies.

"He had me sleepover at his house whenever my parents were fighting, which was a lot. It wasn't until sixteen that things started getting weird. I basically lived there from sixteen on. I showered, slept, ate, and hung out there with my friends. It became my home. It was more home than my parents' house.

"Again, it started innocently. I'd be in the shower, and Jared would need something from the bathroom. I used his a lot just because the water pressure was the best. But it was glass. He'd shield his eyes the first few times and then would walk in without bothering.

"Slowly, he'd just stay in there and have chats with me. We'd talk about innocent stuff like school or work. We'd talk about how the band was doing and if we found a record label yet. That's actually where he offered to get me a deal with his record label while I was in the shower. And he did. He made good on that promise. Virgin Records signed us the next month for four records. But I thought it was all normal things friends did for and with each other.

"Jared was a king at making me think I was crazy. He did it all the time that, at one point, I thought I was. He called me dramatic and a girly girl whenever I made a deal about wanting to do something he didn't want me to do. Like, go to prom. I missed out on every high school prom because he didn't want me to go with another boy. Hell, I missed out on graduation because we were on our honeymoon.

"We had a sleepover the night before my eighteenth. He said it was because he wanted to be the first person to wish me a happy birthday when I woke up, but looking back, he really just wanted to be there when I legally turned eighteen to do everything he's dreamt and said he wanted to do to me. He'd say things all the time like, 'the boy who gets to fuck you first is going to be so lucky.' or 'I'm surprised I don't have boys knocking down my door to come in and take you.' I thought that's just what you say to your friends.

"But that night, we went to bed in his bed, and I remember waking up to him going down on me. The clock read twelve o'five. He waited until exactly midnight to start, like those few seconds between the 23rd and 24th would mature my brain. At the time, I thought it was romantic. He waited four long years to do this." I feel the cool tears stream down my face as I remember that traumatic night. The rock in my stomach grows with every sentence I utter, slowly causing my voice to become tight. Like the rock was taking up my airways. "And then he started changing.

"He wasn't my best friend anymore. He was this controlling monster. He slowly drove a wedge between me and everyone I cared about, including Robbie. Granted, Robbie was still reaching out to me every day with stupid memes and horrible jokes. And I saw the band once a week in the studio, but only because Jared would be there with me. He wouldn't let me go in alone. I thought it was romantic.

"I almost broke up the band because they were always so mean to Jared. They would make mean faces and be short. They'd start arguments when I was in the booth and couldn't hear what they were saying. And they tried to kick him out of Robbie's parents' house when we went over to announce our engagement. At the time, it was awful. My friends weren't accepting of my love for Jared. They were the problem." I choke back a sob, replaying all the fights the band and I had about my engagement.

"Soon after our engagement," I continue. "Jared started controlling me even more. He sold my car without asking because 'I have him now' and our driver, why would I ever need to drive myself anywhere? He went through and blocked everyone's number that was a guy and the band except Naomi. She was the only person allowed to text me and strictly band things. I thought this was all normal. I thought this is what you do when you're in love.

"The band came to my wedding, only because I wouldn't talk to Jared until he agreed to have them there. Robbie was actually my bro of honor; he didn't want to be called a maid at the time but now relishes in the term. I wouldn't let up on that either. Jared had drilled it into my head that I was unloveable. That he would be the only man who has ever loved me and will ever love me until I die. Fuck, those were even his vows, 'I have proven I am the only man who can and will ever love you the way you deserve to be treated.'" I sob loudly. Tom reaches back and holds my hand tightly, grounding me slightly.

"That cemented it in my head. Deserve. Deserve to be treated. I deserved to be treated like he was treating me. I had done nothing wrong my entire life, but obviously, if he puts it into our eternal vows, it's true. I was eighteen. I didn't know any better.

"My parents were talking to me more, wanting to be a part of my life. But every time I spoke about something bothering me, I was told to suck it up; that's just what a wife does. Suck it up and suck him off.

"It wasn't until a studio day when Jared was away on a movie set, and Shannon was out of town, that things started coming to light. I was arguing with Robbie about this god-awful melody he came up with. Like to this day, I still think he did it on purpose to start a fight," I say with a light laugh. "And then Robbie slapped me. Like, hard. Red marks and everything. I gave him a fat lip in return, and the first thing out of his mouth was, 'so why do you fight back when I hit you, but you let Jared abuse you like that?'" Tom squeezes my hand as I choke again.

"I was with him another six months before he went from slapping to fists." I swallow harshly. I hate talking about this part. The traumatic events making my hands clammy and shake. "I was black and blue for weeks, and after one vicious fight, he wasn't discrete about where they were placed. So I avoided the public for three weeks, hiding in the house as the bruises and cuts went away.

"I realized I was alone. I was totally alone in this marriage. I didn't have a husband, I had an abuser, and my friends were right. So I called Naomi one day when Jared was gone and had them meet me at her apartment. We came up with the money and the plan to get me out of that relationship. So I moved in with Robbie and Naomi, where Jared couldn't find me, and had my lawyer serve him.

"And then my parents found me. I don't know how, but they showed up at the apartment door and started berating me about how a divorce will mess up my life and how I can't do that because what will it say about them? That their daughter is twenty and divorced like a slut.

"I couldn't believe it. Maybe I was supposed to be unloveable my whole life. Maybe my friends were just big dreamers, and I deserved every punch and awful name thrown at me. Jared flipped his tune on a dime after he was served and got ahold of me.

"He offered me my own place to live, that he'd pay for it as long as I stayed married to him. He'd find the perfect place for me, with a view and everything. He'd buy me a car and let me drive myself to the studio. I felt like I was falling in love again, but I wasn't. I was falling into a false sense of relief.

"His name is on the lease and continues to send gifts, trying to buy my love back.

"It was a messy divorce" I get back on track. "When I moved out of his place and into mine, it became clear what all I was missing. I was missing club nights with the gang, movies, and normal young adult things. I already missed out on my teenagehood. I wasn't going to let him ruin my twenties. So I threatened him that I would leak all the evidence and information I have about him if he doesn't sign the papers. They were in my lawyer's office the next day.

"He didn't let me read the prenup before I signed it. The entire divorce settlement went to my parents. They got to be filthy rich for the rest of their lives like they always wanted to be. Jared sends them thousands every month that should have been sent to me.

"He's threatened to take away my deal, my apartment, and ruin my name every day. Obviously, I still live there and have my deal, but he shows up everywhere all the time. He seeks me out and inserts himself into my life. I've tried everything, but even restraining orders can do so much. And I do fall back into that habit when things are hard. He's easy. I know what to expect from him. I know how to conduct myself to keep him happy. I know him." I pause, thinking over if I missed anything with Jared. "So, that's the sob story of my awful past." I finish. I hear Tom sniffling behind me. "Are you crying?" I ask.

Tom turns around and hugs me. "I'm so sorry you had to go through all that, Love. He's a terribly awful man who should be behind bars the rest of his life." I hold onto him tighter. I knew he cared, but enough to cry on my behalf? "If I ever do anything that reminds you of him, please just let me know. I never want you to go through that again. Especially with me." I let myself cry, releasing all the shame, guilt, and horror that's sat in my stomach my whole life.

I felt lighter after that night. Tom has this extraordinary power of making me feel like I was a feather and worthy of love. He's never lost it, and I hope I never do.

Tag List: @queenofallhobos

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddelston imagine #tom hiddleston fanfic #tom hiddleston fanfiction #i got 99 problems and tom hiddleston could fix everyone of them #jared leto #Jared Leto imagine #jared leto fanfic #jared leto fanfiction #love #romance #chances #fiction #fanfic #fanfiction #original character #og #oc #original content

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sunshine-in-a-bottle · 3 years

Text

I'm watching Beast Wars again for no reason and so you all have to hear me talk about it.

If I was personally given Rights I would first use them to erase Cheetors weird crush on Blackarachnia because it literally adds nothing to the plot or the characters. Instead I'd take full advantage of my personal headcanon and make Cheetor desperately want a big sister because I am always a slut for Found Family. Like, that scene with Una ?"Aw, she wants to be you!" Like c'mon viewing him reaching out to Blackarachnia because he desperately wants some semblance of a relationship is a lot more wholesome when it isn't romantically coded. Cheetor is Lonely, so horribly lonely, and so young seeming in comparison to the rest of the cast. He hasn't lost that love for the stars or spiraled into cynicism just yet, and I would much rather explore the ways he tries to reach out to his bitter, jaded teammates. And maybe he's left wanting, maybe he gets tired of being lonely, and maybe he fucks up trying to be like them because "he tried to prove himself." And maybe that scene where Optimus, Silverbolt, and Rattrap reach out to him has a little more weight because it isn’t just Cheetor trying to be an adult, but a Cheetor that tried to be them and post Feral Cheetor has real fucking consequences and isn't just a cool upgrade.

I want that episode where Rattrap finds out they spat on Dinobot’s memory by making him into a "dishonorable" clone and goes ballistic. I want him to find the memories Dinobot stowed away and be conflicted. Is it Dinobot without the spark? Could he live with only a shade? Would Dinobot even want that? I want him to try and fail and be utterly distraught over the whole damn thing. I want him to be angry every time he sees Dinobot 2. I want Rhinox to try and fail to comfort him. I want Cheetor to sit with him, neither speaking but both knowing they're in this fucked up mess together now. CONSEQUENCES. WHERE ARE THEY. GIVE THEM TO ME.

I also just really want Blackarachnia to have closer bonds with the team??? Idk, I'm vibin well enough with her and Silverbolt but tbh I'd really just like her to have an episode where she's hanging out with someone else and Isn’t A Complete Rude Person. I think that's something I actually really vibed with in Beast Machines (although my memory there is still pretty fuzzy, I'll probably have to rewatch that to say for sure) Blackarachnia could actually work with the team in a friendly and occasionally sweet way. She was capable of a blunt and angry sort of kindness. Should that happen right away? Nah of course not, she needs to get comfy with her shiny new Dumbfuck Teammates. But there’s no real Solid Connections there other than Silverbolt, which is purely romantic. (Once again I emphasize Cheetor and Found Family)

Rhinox just needs more in general. If I had to guess the reason he was made a villain in beast machines was because he is only Meh as a Developed character after Blackarachnia shows up and takes over tech wise, not to mention rattrap is also pretty damn techy when he wants to be.(it was also probably to increase tension since his whole deal is being diplomatic but that's a separate thing) Sort of an issue when you make them scientists but don't have them specialize in anything and, more importantly, have a weakness in anything. If your character is simply the backup scientist when the other one is out of commission u gotta problem. Rhinox is stagnant personality wise, I can’t honestly say anything about him changes in the whole series. He has functionally gained nothing from this perilous journey, no real trauma, no bonds he didn't already have with the team, not even an upgrade in form. Isn’t rattrap supposed to be his best friend???? SHOW ME MORE THEN. Seriously if this show had let me have Rights I’m not saying I wouldn’t have loved if we had actually Really Dug In to a character arc or something about Rattrap and the concept of Honor vs Loyalty but that’s exactly what I’m saying lets talk about that. Season One Rattrap they played with this a little (After the whole early on “I would not send someone to do something I would not do myself” and “double agent rattrap” WHICH NO ONE WOULD EVER BELIEVE IF THAT HAPPENED ANY LATER THAN IT DID SINCE RATTRAP IS SO ANTIPRED) and the whole Dinobot thing really wedged it in (”But at least you know where he stands”) AND THEN FROM MY SHODDY MEMORIES OF BEAST MACHINES ITS PLAYED WITH EVEN MORE WHEN HE FUCKING GOES TO MEGATRON BECAUSE EVERYONE WAS BEING A LITTLE BITCH TO HIM

Where was I going with this? uhhhhhhhhhhhhh oh yeah LISTEN Rattrap and his morals are Very Fascinating and I really wished there was more about that. Like, he gives no shits about Doing What’s Right or Being A Good Person, but he rewards friendship and loyalty and not getting him killed by miles. And despite his Hatefest Dinobot he was actually really... shocked? Offended??? about Dinobot handing over the disc because you’re an asshole but you’re also our asshole what fuckery is this did all our arguments mean nothing to you. And then attempting to join Megatron in BM because he might be Evil and it might be Bad Moral Conduct but fuck morals his teammates were being shitty friends. Is that petty of him? Maybe, but if the maximals had been evil but still genuinely kind and caring towards Rattrap I don’t believe he would ever leave for a second, not for all the Morals or Its The Right Thing To Do in the world. And that’s why darkfics that still use Found Family are the best! The End.

All the characters would actually be the size of their animals because goddamit I want a tiny Rattrap that has to be carried around by the others while he screeches indignantly. Or at the very least make him just a little smaller. Just a bit. And maybe they all have a big Sleep Pile. I like physical affection and cuddling and things no I don't care if they're robots no I don’t take criticism. Dinobot would have feathers fight me.

Optimus has died, been tortured, and painfully grew to like 3 times his size why doesn’t he have ptsd someone give him a hug.

Could we have waited for Airrazor and Tigatron to get kidnapped???? We should have gotten more for them. Let me see them more often. LISTEN THEY’RE VERY CUTE I LOVE THEM SHUT UP.

WHICH LMAO BRINGS ME RIGHT BACK TO CHEETOR BECAUSE HE CONSIDERED AIRRAZOR AND TIGATRON HIS BROTHER AND SISTER AND HE THINKS THEYRE GONE FOREVER AND THEN ITS NEVER REALLY BROUGHT UP AGAIN LIKE CHEETOR AND FOUND FAMILY REALLY SHOULD BE EXPLORED HERE

Silverbolt is fun, but suffers from the same problem as Blackarachnia where all you really remember about them Relationship wise is the one they have with each other. Who does Silverbolt like best among the maximals, who does he like the least? And if I'm erasing that weird Cheetor crush thing then their interactions probably have a lot less tension so... what else do they have.

Depth Charge is an unrepentant asshole and I love him. He is so hostile but it doesn’t stop him from begrudgingly helping out on occasion. He also gave Optimus some backstory??? Like not as much as my greedy Character Loving hands would have wanted but GIVE ME.

Other Stuff:

Nothing will ever be as funny as Optimus being like “Evacuate the base you’re all gonna die” and Rhinox grabbing his fucking plant

Blackarachnia Craves Power

Cheetor suffer from Bad Bondage multiple times throughout the series, but specifically during the web I remember Tarantulas leaning over him and thinking “wow this is kind of... date gone wrong vibes??? What the fuck”

Rattrap and Dinobot: *Spot each other from any distance* Miracle Hatemance has entered the chat

Why is Megatron wearing roller skates. Who did this. Why.

“Spider/Bird dog is hetero nonsense” - everyone who has to bear witness to them ever, including me the viewer

Tarantulas is completely done with any attempts to seduce him. Ever.

Airrazor tries so hard to be cool and hip oh my god she is a complete dork i love her

“FOR THE ROYALTYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY”

please be nice to Waspinator he’s trying his best

Rhinox: exists

Me: hello yes sir I love u wise mentor sir

Holy shit Dinobot’s death scene is a gut punch. Rattrap honestly is what makes this scene perfect. I have never seen him so respectful or emotional is a way that wasn’t meant for comedic relief.

That scene, man

Tigatron’s speech about bringing beast mode and robot mode together is like foreshadowing to beast machines. Or it isn’t. Idk. Would have been really nice if they, yknow,

bothered to bring up literally anything from the previous series to beast machines

(yes its been awhile since I’ve seen Beast Machines, but I do remember that being my primary complaint.)

This series is so cheesy but Thundercats is still cheesier so its fine

Rattrap was canonically a miner at some point apparently.

He’s also super prejudiced and honestly that’s interesting. HONESTLY SOMETHING I WOULD HAVE LOVED TO SEE DISCUSSED IN BEAST MACHINES IS THE SUPER MEGA DIVIDE IN PREDS AND MAXIMALS BUT I GUESS WE WEREN’T GETTING THAT OH WELL

The ‘Everyone is blind’ episode was always one of my favorites and it never gets old

Upon rewatching the series I have concluded Cheetor is Babey. Which is weird because I didn’t think much of him from what I remember. Shift in perspective I suppose. They really made Rhinox farting the thing that saves the day, huh. What even was season one.

BITCH THAT IS A TERRIBLE WAY TO TRANSPORT MEGATRON NO WONDER HE FUCKING CONQUERED CYBERTRON Y’ALL DESERVED THIS HONESTLY

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh in conclusion:

Rattrap is my new religion apparently

#Beast Wars #listen listen listen #i have a lot of feelings #honestly I doubt this will be my actual conclusion im sure ill post this and instantly remembered something else to talk about #Look I have seen very little of the transformers honestly #I watched gen1 as a kid and beast wars and beast machine #and thats it #if you dont count a couple comics I have stashed in a drawer somewhere #i do not count them #I tried to read this over again #realized i dont know how formatting works #and have decided to just post it anyway so have fun with that

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theundercovermarvelfan · 4 years

Text

Whumptober 2020 - Day Four

Whumtober Challenge @whumptober2020

Running Out of Time Caged | Buried Alive | Collapsed Building

The warehouse had been cleared and all the hostiles were either captured or eliminated. Tony’s scanners had confirmed that there was no life left within the enemy compound.

The Avengers had won for all intents and purposes. All that was left was tying up a few loose ends. They were still trying to track down the blueprints that had been stolen from Stark Industries months ago, which in the wrong hands could be disastrous. They had split up to do one last sweep to see if they could find anything.

Simple, right?

“Anybody find anything?” Steve asked over the comms.

Various versions of “no” or “nothing” floated over the line. Clint was clicking on his flashlight and moving into a dark office as he articulated his own confirmation that he hadn’t come across anything interesting. He swung the light around as he took stock of what was in the room.

“I think if there was anything to find, we would have found it by now,” Natasha pointed out.

“I think you’re right,” Steve agreed. “Let’s finish up the area you’re currently in, and then I think we can head home.”

“That sounds good,” Clint agreed as he shifted through the papers on the desk in the room.

It had been a long day and Clint hadn’t been too enthusiastic when after a hard fought battle, Steve insisted that they do this extra sweep when there was no evidence that the blueprints were ever here. Grudgingly, Clint did realize it was the right call, but after an hour of fruitless searching that thought wasn’t terribly comforting to his aching feet and sore muscles at the moment.

Clint was turning and heading back out of the room, when suddenly he stumbled. For a split second he thought that maybe he had been more tired than he thought and his legs were giving out. But then there was another sudden jolt as the floor shifted under his feet.

“Did anyone else feel that?” Clint asked uneasily into this comm.

“Tony, can your sensors pick up any kind of booby traps in the compound?” Steve asked quickly.

“Sensors are all still quiet,” Tony said unsurely just as Clint felt the ground shifting again, this time a little more insistently. “But hold on… I’m picking up some seismic act--”

Anything else Tony was going to say was lost as suddenly the floor jerked violently, sending Clint flying off his feet and smashing hard onto the floor.

“Earthquake!” Clint yelled on instinct, unsure if anyone could hear him over the sudden roar of the ground rearranging itself.

A quick scan of the room told Clint that he was in the worst possible spot, near a large floor to ceiling cabinet with glass doors. He went scrambling across the room just as the cabinet tipped, only barely able to throw himself out of the way to avoid getting pinned. His instincts wanted him to get to the desk in order to shelter under it, but the tremors were so violent that it went sliding across the floor toward the shattered cabinet. Clint needed something, anything to hold onto in order to stabilize himself, but everything in the room was shifting violently. There was a loud crash as a tree smashed through a large nearby window, sending razor sharp shards raining down on him as Clint ducked and covered his head as best he could. Among the deafening crashing, Clint could have sworn he heard someone cry out in pain, his head automatically jerking in the direction of the noise…

And then suddenly the floor underneath him dipped sharply inward, sending Clint careening downward toward the middle of the building. Clint scrambled desperately trying to slow his descent, knowing that moving further inward was the worst possible scenario, but debris was raining down on him, pushing him deeper into the chaos. Then what started off as an uncontrollable slide, suddenly turned into a free fall and then…

Nothing.

Blackness. Silence. Stillness. Like the world had suddenly blinked out of existence.

Clint had no idea how much time had passed before the pain began to bring him back around. It felt like he had been put through a meat grinder, and for a long moment he couldn’t pinpoint any part of himself that felt any worse than the rest. He heaved in thick air that burned down his throat and into his lungs, which spasmed painfully at the intrusion. As he blinked his eyes open, trying to get a sense of his surroundings, he pulled the collar of his shirt up and over his nose and mouth in an attempt to filter out at least the larger debris in the air as he continued to wheeze desperately for precious oxygen.

By some stroke of luck, Clint realized that his heavy duty flashlight had followed his descent, and though it was cracked, by some miracle it was still shining brightly just a few feet away. He went to reach out for it… and screamed in pain as it felt as if a white hot poker had been jammed and then twisted viciously into his shoulder.

He gasped and coughed painfully as he struggled through the pain, thankful when it dulled as he remained still. Very carefully, he shifted to get a look at his shoulder, fully expecting to see something horribly grotesque. He was confused when he didn’t immediately see a reason for the pain outside of the cuts that covered the rest of his body as well. Then he realized his shoulder was sitting lower than it should. It was dislocated. He let out a shaky breath, feeling relief wash over him. It was bad, but it was fixable.

Of course, that was assuming that he was able to make it out of here.

He methodically took stock of himself before he attempted to move again. All the glass that was around him seemed to have done the bulk of the damage, all his exposed skin had been practically cut to ribbons. Thankfully it didn’t seem like the cuts were very deep… until he found the deep gash where something had sliced through his thick uniform just above his hip. Blood was already beginning to pool underneath him.

He reached out his good hand and as he stretched out painfully, he was just able to reach his fingertips to the flashlight and roll it closer to him so that he could grab it. He took a shaky breath as he shined the light around in order to get an idea of his surroundings. The building had obviously collapsed in on itself during the earthquake, and Clint was beyond lucky to have landed in a small gap between slabs of what used to be either a floor or ceiling, it was hard to tell.

“Can any…” he had to pause to cough and wheeze, “...’nyone hear me?”

He wasn’t surprised when there was nothing but silence from his comm. He couldn’t bank on being rescued. They had all still been in the building when the earthquake had hit and there was no guarantee that any of the others had made it out. He shined the flashlight around the space, trying to see if there were any gaps he might be able to climb through…

“S’anyone ‘ere?”

Clint’s eyes snapped to the sound. It hadn’t come from his comm., but rather seemed to float to him from somewhere beyond his little space. Had he really heard it though? Or was his desperate mind imagining things?

“Hello?” Clint tried, coughing hard at the effort it took to raise his voice.

He strained his ears when he heard some kind of muffled response. He couldn’t make out what was being said, but it was undeniable that there was another person down here with him. He shined his light in the general direction he had heard the voice. There was a small gap in that direction that he might just barely be able to fit through. With an effort and several groans of pain, Clint used the forearm of his good arm -- good being a relative term at this point -- in order to drag himself toward the gap.

“Hey,” Clint gasped as he moved. “Can you--” cough cough, “...you ‘ere me?” More muffled mumbling. Clint finally got close enough to shine his light through the gap, having to squint when it glared off something metallic. It took him a beat longer than it should have for him to realize what he was looking at. “Tony!”

Tony was still mostly in his Iron-Man suit; the faceplate had been removed and lay to one side. The suit, along with Tony, was pinned from the chest down under a large slab on concrete. Clint felt adrenaline honing his senses as he focused on the way that Tony’s features were pulled in pain, in the way that he gasped weakly… and finally saw that the midsection of Tony’s metal suit was bent inward.

“Shit, Tony,” Clint mumbled, suddenly realizing how serious the situation was.

The gap between the area where Clint had been and where Tony lay was a tight squeeze for Clint to drag his broken body through, gritting his teeth so hard he wouldn’t be surprised if they cracked. But once he got through he found that this area was at least bigger and gave him more room to work with.

“Hang on, jus--” cough, cough, wheeze, cough, wheeze, “h’ng on.”

In the larger space he was able to get up on his knees and crawl his way over to Tony. The man was pale and his breath came in quiet, raspy gasps. His eyes locked on Clint as he approached, wide and terrified but also relieved that he had been found. Clint eyed the predicament, feeling a sinking in his chest. There wasn’t going to be a good way to do this, but judging by Tony’s inability to breath well enough to even try to speak at this point, they didn’t have any time to waste.

Stoically ignoring his own protesting injuries, Clint shifted himself next to where Tony lay and carefully positioned himself so that his intact shoulder was wedged under the piece of concrete.

“Ge’ ready,” Clint warned as he wheezed in a few steadying breaths.

Looking back, he honestly wouldn’t be able to really understand how he did it. All the laws of physics were against him. Later, Tony would tease him about being like one of those mothers with a baby trapped under a car. All Clint knew was that despite everything, as he strained every single muscle in his beaten body, little by little that slab of concrete began to move. Somehow he managed to lift it just far enough that there were a few precious centimeters between the slab and Tony’s suit, giving him just barely enough space to pull himself out from under it.

As Clint let the slab crash back into the ground he let out a raw cry of pain as his injuries screamed at him for being ignored. He slumped over, his limbs shaking and his throat raw and burning with every breath. He knew the task was only half done though.

He blinked away the dark patches at the edges of his vision as he pushed himself over to where Tony now lay. The mechanic was scrabbling at the side of his armor, but his fingers were too bulky and uncoordinated with the suit dead in the water like it clearly was. Clint was suddenly glad they had drilled this so many times as he was easily able to find the small hatch in the side of the armor, reaching in and pulling a small lever that served as an emergency release for Tony’s suit in case of just this kind of situation.

Tony gasped desperately as he clawed the now loose pieces of armor laying on his chest. Clint let out a sigh, letting himself slump over once again against the concrete slab, thankful that Tony was able to shed his own armor.

“Shi’...” Tony breathed between coughing and wheezing as he rolled off of the pieces of his suit that were underneath him. He gasped and yelped at the motion, and Clint imagined that he had to have some severely bruised ribs, possibly even some broken ones.

He should be moving toward Tony. He should be checking him over, seeing if he was really okay. But for some reason, his muscles would not move. He felt heavy and suddenly everything around him had a strange floating quality to it.

“Barton?”

Was the air around him getting thicker? Was Tony suddenly further away? No, as Clint blinked he saw that Tony had actually crawled closer to him. So why did he suddenly sound further away?

“Clint?”

Clint suddenly noticed the blood that covered the ground, a thick trail of it smeared across the ground leading back to where he had come from. Even so, he was slow to realize that that blood was coming from him. He had been bleeding… from where? He suddenly couldn’t remember as large, black splotches suddenly moved across his vision.

“Hold on, Clint. I think I c--” cough, “c’n rig a beacon. You just gotta--” cough, cough, cough, “you gotta…”

That’s all Clint would remember. He would wake up in the hospital several days later. He woke in a panic, only able to calm down when Steve left and came back pushing Tony in a wheelchair from his own recovery room. Tony had managed to hook up a small part of his suit directly to the arc reactor in his chest in order to send out a distress signal. Bruce -- who had been saved from being trapped in that building by the Hulk -- had been scanning for signals using the Quinjet. As soon as he found the signal he was able to direct Steve, Natasha and Thor -- who had been on the other side of the building that hadn’t sustained as much damage, leaving them relatively unscathed -- to where Tony and Clint had been trapped.

It was a miracle that they had all made it out alive. This time it wasn’t a conscious enemy that almost got them, but a natural disaster that didn’t care who’s side you were on.

#whumptober2020 #no.4 #running out of time #collapsed building #Avengers #fic #earthquake tw #blood tw #trapped tw #clint barton #hawkeye #tony stark #Iron Man #fanfiction #whump

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