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savittski-writes · 3 years

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Doppelgängers Part Seven

So this is part seven of my AU crossover fic between Beetlejuice the Musical and School of Rock the Musical. Anyway, usual disclaimer that this is my first time writing for these characters, so it might be a little out of character. The idea for the story is based off this post:

https://colanom.tumblr.com/post/613740109133742080/au-where-charles-and-rosalie-are-cousins-and-ros

Title: Doppelgängers

Part: 7/9

Word Count: 1,117

Summary: Rosalie Mullins and Charles Deetz are cousins who have always been very close, if not a little emotionally stilted. When Charles and Delia invite Rosalie and her plus one to their wedding, what shenanigans will ensue? And why does Rosalie’s new boyfriend bear a striking resemblance to a certain stripey demon?

In this part: Everything has been explained to Ros and Dewey. Ros must come to terms with what is going on while Dewey is just glad he’s not the biggest screw up in the room.

Part One

Part Six

Part Eight

Chapter Seven: Whaddya Say, Amigo?

Deetz Residence, Living Room

“Remind me again why I couldn’t at least tell my side of it?” Beetlejuice asked grumpily from where he sat on the couch, arms crossed over his chest like a petulant teenager. Charles, Delia, and the Maitlands all rolled their eyes, glaring towards where the demon rested. Rosalie and Dewey, who was now sat on the floor in front of her armchair, both looked rather pensive as they took in the story the group had just finished telling them.

“Probably because you get very distracted, Beej,” Lydia drawled from where she sat upside down on the couch next to Beetlejuice.

“That and you tend to retell your Katherine Hepburn story a lot,” Barbara spoke up, glancing sideways to Adam. Both shivered in disgust as they remembered all the awful times they had to hear him recount the story.

“Yeah, whatever,” the demon muttered as he waved a hand at the ghosts. “How’re you doing over there carbon copy? Still with us?” Dewey blinked, looking up at the demon’s words and gave a slight shrug.

“Well… I guess I’m a little relieved,” Dewey admitted at last, fighting back the smirk that was threatening to form on his face.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Beetlejuice asked at the same time Rosalie questioned, “Dewey?”

“Relieved that… someone actually fucked up more than I did,” Dewey said with a small chuckle before tilting his head back to look at Rosalie. “Hear that, Ros? Someone topped what I did!”

“That doesn’t make it any better, Dewey,” Rosalie chided in a disapproving tone, rolling her eyes at her boyfriend.

“Ah, you love me. Besides, I only lied. At least I didn’t torture, extort, or attempt murder,” Dewey pointed out helpfully with a smile. Rosalie’s eyes narrowed at the man, almost forgetting the other people in the room. In truth, she was thankful for the banter between herself and her boyfriend. It was a welcome reprieve from the situation that would allow her a few extra moments to come to terms with everything going on right now.

“You kidnapped children under false pretenses!”

“I did no such thing,” Dewey argued back immediately, turning fully to face her now. “I mean, one, I had already come clean by that point. So there were no false pretenses to speak of. And two, they kidnapped me, if anything. They hijacked the bus and came to my apartment. I was totally prepared to spend a night wallowing in self pity and drinking alone.”

“That… is pathetic,” the demon doppelgänger commented from across the room. Dewey turned back to him with a glare, though it seemed the gothy teenager was on his side just this once.

“Not any more pathetic than moping on a roof with purple hair and singing about how you’re invisible,” Lydia pointed out, drawing the demon’s ire. Beetlejuice couldn’t stay mad at Lydia for long though, and he couldn’t really argue the point. “Touché.”

“I’m not sure I even want to know what you’re talking about, Rosie,” Charles decided as he massaged his temples, looking about ready to pull his hair out.

“Is it hardwired into your DNA, and the DNA of pretty much anyone who looks like you to be… slightly unhinged?” Adam asked, mostly rhetorically from where he and Barbara stood by the stairs. He glanced between the two doppelgängers, shaking his head at their similar mannerisms, energy levels, and general chaoticness they exuded. The only thing Adam was thankful for was that Dewey obviously had a functioning moral compass and general understanding for boundaries.

“Definitely. You should see our actor. He’s just as chaotic as we are,” Beetlejuice added, nodding sagely.

“What?”

“What?” Beetlejuice asked innocently, glancing between Dewey and Lydia, who had both spoken. “Nothing, nothing! Forget I said anything at all!” The room’s occupants stared blankly at the demon, looking slightly concerned. Even those who were used to his antics were rather confused and uncertain of exactly what to say. Deciding that the weirdness had reached a level she was not prepared to deal with, Rosalie cut the tension.

“So… back to the most important topic. You moved into a haunted house and your daughter summoned a demon who went haywire, you brought to life and killed, and now plays house with you?” Rosalie summarized, looking to her cousin. Charles could only nod silently, not really sure of what else he could say to alleviate the tension or to assuage his cousin’s fears or worries.

“Yeah, and for some reason my dead dumbass looks exactly like your living dumbass,” Lydia added, gesturing between the demon and Rosalie’s boyfriend. Both men bristled slightly at her words and shot her almost identical annoyed looks. “Okay, that’s weird, and I’ve seen a lot of weird shit. Even your clones don’t look this exact, Beej.”

“That’s actually a very valid point. Why do you guys look so much alike?” Barbara asked as she stepped further into the room, glancing back and forth between the two men. “It’s uncanny. I mean, you would look identical if you just-”

“-Did this?” Beetlejuice questioned with a grin as he snapped his fingers and disappeared behind a wall of green smoke. Once the smoke had cleared, he looked remarkably cleaner with similar messy dark hair and beard. The only obvious difference between the two at that moment were their outfits and postures.

“Holy shit!”

“Language, Lydia!” Adam chided tiredly, glancing between the now identical demon and man.

“Whaddya say, amigo?” Beetlejuice asked as he reappeared sitting next to Dewey, elbowing him in the side. “Up for raising a little Hell?” Dewey for his part, looked slightly torn between being responsible and giving into his immature urges to have a little fun and take advantage of the situation.

“Well… I never was great at following the rules. And a little fun never hurt anyone,” Dewey conceded with a small smile, earning groans from most of everyone in the room apart from the demon and the goth. He was pleased to note that Rosalie’s groan sounded more fondly exasperated than genuinely put out.

“Tomorrow will be a disaster,” Charles groaned as he dropped his head into his hands, leaning forward in the other arm chair he sat in. Delia tried to soothe her future husband once more, rubbing his shoulders.

“Everything happens for a reason, Charles, so try not to stress. As my guru Otho always says, every success-”

“Starts with sucks and ends with yes,” the Deetz family chorused in varying degrees of enthusiasm, much to the confusion of Dewey and Rosalie. This was going to be a long day, and probably an even longer weekend.

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hms-chill · 4 years

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Alex the Cat-Dad

This piece Ukiyosplash on Deviantart did for my fic about Alex and Henry fostering kittens is absolutely incredible and I love it so much it inspired this

If you haven’t read that fic, just know that Alex and Henry fostered five kittens, and Zest was the one they just had to keep

Alex has pretty much given up on trying to fix his sleep schedule. He's tried basically everything: avoiding coffee before bed, getting up early, even having Henry cajole him into bed at a decent time. None of it works. Henry is too easy to distract, and his sleep schedule is almost as bad as Alex's. Even when he could get to bed on time, they tend to use that extra time more effectively than sleeping. The coffee thing was an entire disaster, and when he wakes up earlier, he's just more tired in the morning. It's the worst on days when he's home alone, or on weekends when he's on his own schedule. He'll get wrapped up in something and forget to eat, or he'll nap in the middle of the day and not be tired when it's time for bed. He can turn alarms off too easily, and he can't ask someone to babysit or check in on him. Even David's not great at keeping him on a schedule, and he tends to go to England with Henry when they can anyway. At this point, Alex has just accepted that he's not going to be the most functional human on the planet. After all, he's tried everything.

What he hasn't tried is a cat. Specifically a cat who is very vocal, very social, and apparently able to read clocks. The first day he and Zest are home alone together, they play some, then Zest joins him in the office. He's got a bed on Alex's desk, so he naps there while Alex works, occasionally balancing a paper on his head or a business card against his paw. He sleeps until noon, when he stretches, toppling the senator's business card that Alex has balanced against him. His foot gets caught on his bed, and he almost falls over before Alex leans over to help him escape. From there, Zest's primary goal in life seems to be causing problems. He starts small, batting at Alex's charger and his hands as he types, then he upgrades to yelling, walking to the door and back until Alex sighs, gets up, and follows him. Zest leads the way to the kitchen, then sits on a counter (where he's technically not allowed, but Alex doesn't mind), and stares at him until Alex gets together a sandwich.

"Are you... are you babysitting me?" Alex asks. Zest chirps in agreement, and Alex laughs, scratching under his chin the way he likes. Zest purrs, hopping up onto Alex's shoulders. He's too big to perch up there like a parrot anymore, so he wraps himself around Alex’s neck instead, purring. Alex gives his ears a scratch and brings his lunch and a glass of water back up to the office to keep working, and Zest falls asleep draped around Alex’s neck, kneading sleepy little biscuits into Alex’s shoulder while he eats and answers emails. He sends Henry a snap of the two of them, Zest's sleepy face curled up next to his smiling one. Henry replies quickly, a picture of himself and David on a rug in Kensington, and Alex video calls him. Henry picks up almost immediately, his face appearing on Alex's laptop. He's lying on the floor, David cuddled to his side. They look cozy, or at least as cozy as they ever look when they’re there alone. Henry smiles when he sees them, a tired smile that’s so full of love it makes Alex’s heart skip a beat.

“I swear this cat can read clocks,” Alex says, by way of introduction. “He started being a little asshole at exactly noon today.”

“Aww, is he looking after you?” Henry asks, grinning. Alex sighs.

“I don’t even… he just took me downstairs for lunch. Like he took me to the kitchen and then sat on the cou— I mean, he sat—“

“Alex, you both know he’s not allowed on the counter! You’re going to teach him bad habits.”

“Hen, I don’t think I can teach this cat anything. It took him two weeks to learn where his food bowl is, and he still steps into his water dish and then gets mad that his paws are wet. I adore him, but his head is just air. Air and apparently a clock to babysit me with. He took me down to the kitchen and just sat and watched me make a sandwich.”

Henry laughs at that, relaxing a bit. David moves his head to Henry’s arm, and Henry rubs his ears.

“How are things there?” Alex asks, and Henry shrugs.

“You know. Not awful, not great. I miss you.”

“It was meetings today, right? Anything you want to talk about?”

So they chat about new policies the royal family is moving toward, and the wyas that royal support will influence different things, how rules might shift or policies might change. Zest wakes up about halfway through their call to yawn and stretch, nearly toppling backward off Alex’s shoulders as he unbalances himself. Alex catches him just in time as Henry laughs, and Zest starts to purr directly into Alex’s ear. It’s only then that Alex realizes how much tension he’s carrying in his shoulders and lets them relax a bit. Zest makes biscuits in his shoulder, and Henry keeps talking about their plans, but Alex isn’t quite as tense. Henry has to go to dinner eventually, but he seems lighter, and happier, too. He’s laughed at Zest, and he’s gotten some things off his chest, and as he fixes his tie and his hair in the little window that lets him see himself, Alex gets to experience one of his favorite things even across an ocean.

He gets to watch Henry fuss with his hair, gets to watch him tie and retie a tie until it’s just right, gets to watch him make sure everything looks just right before he says goodbye and presents himself to the British public. When he hangs up, Alex scratches Zest’s ears, then turns back to his computer and the maps he’s pulled up. Maps of states whose voter demographics and popular vote don’t match their electoral one, maps covered in ink-blot districts and red tape. And he gets to work, looking into state laws and bylaws to figure out how to fix it. How to let each state represent itself the way he knows they want to, how to help them show the world their souls the way Texas could in 2020. He makes lists of local organizers to call, and governors to pressure to restore stripped voting rights. He tweets something about the situation in Iowa and dms an activist from Florida on twitter to see if there’s anything he can do to help them. And when he’s overwhelmed enough that Zest wakes up to purr in his ear again, he gets up and goes for a run, his feet pounding the pavement and his music blasting in his ears as he works off all the pent-up rage he’s been harboring against old white men with names like “Elbridge” who destroyed communities for their own gain.

When he gets home, dripping sweat and panting, Zest is there to watch him stretch, then to sit next to the sink and scream until Alex gets himself some water. He’d been planning on showering first, but Zest will have none of it, and it turns out he’s right-- the headache that had been threatening to burst from the base of his skull recedes, washed down as he hydrates and pets the cat, leaving bits of fur stuck to his damp hands. Zest doesn’t seem to miss the fur; he wanders between Alex’s legs, leaving more stuck to the sweat there before Alex bends down to scratch his ears and follow him, giving him all the attention he needs. After all, no one has been home with him for almost an hour, and he can see a tiny sliver of the bottom of his food dish. It’s a miracle he hasn’t starved to death by now, and he desperately needs Alex to shake the bowl a little bit so that the bottom is solidly covered. Alex is more than happy to oblige, rolling his eyes as he does. Zest doesn’t even eat any of the food, just curls up on David’s bed while Alex goes to take a shower.

When Alex comes out of the shower, he’s in the middle of towel drying his hair and almost trips over the cat who’s decided he absolutely needs to be right in the middle of the doorway. Zest yowls in surprise, turning to run for the bed, where he can safely glare at Alex for nearly stepping in the middle of the floor.

“Listen, dumbass, what do you want from me? I didn’t see you; I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?” He’s pulled on Henry’s shirt now and goes to lie on the bed next to Zest, who turns his back, hops down, and walks to the door, tail swishing. Once there, he stops and looks back at Alex expectantly, all memory of their near-collision apparently gone. He meows, and Alex sighs and follows him. Zest leads him downstairs and settles directly next to the stove’s clock. It’s dinner time, and Zest is not going to let Alex get away with procrastinating it any longer. He makes dinner under the cat’s watchful eye, then follows his meowing little boss to the living room couch. He picks an animal planet show, because that seems like something Zest will like, and a few minutes later, Zest has dragged his food bowl into the living room to eat with Alex. He sends a picture of that to Henry, too, telling him they miss him and David at their family dinner.

When dinner’s done and the dishes are washed, Alex is going to go back upstairs to the office to work, but Zest won’t hear of it. He stays on the couch and complains so loudly that Alex has no choice but to bring his laptop down and sit on the couch, and Zest promptly drapes himself across the keyboard, looking up at Alex with big eyes.

“You’re worse than Henry, you know that?” Alex asks, scratching between Zest’s ears. Zest just purrs, letting Alex pick him up so that he can close the laptop and settle the cat on his lap instead. Absently, he digs around under the coffee table for yarn-- Henry’s been teaching him how to knit, giving him something to keep his hands busy when he’s not supposed to be working, and he’s not very good at it, but it helps. Zest bats at the yarn lazily, but his claws are in. He watches through half-closed eyes as Alex knits, the TV playing in the background as Alex very consciously focuses on the yarn and needles in his hands, the ways they move and the way the lumpy, holey… thing draping off them grows. He’ll call it a scarf and give it to Henry for Christmas as a joke.

Zest largely ignores him for a while, dozing intermittently as Alex focuses and the TV plays. But at 11 PM exactly, Zest wakes up, stretches, and begins to bat at the yarn in earnest, meowing at Alex until Alex puts the yarn away, and Zest hops off his lap and twists around his legs until Alex is up and following him, and they go up the stairs to the bedroom, where Zest sits on the bed and turns to look at him. Alex rolls his eyes and grabs his pajamas, going to brush his teeth. When he comes back, Zest is curled up on Henry’s side of the bed, and Alex smiles as he gets to climb in next to him, because going to sleep without Henry is never fun, but at least the bed isn’t empty.

On AO3

Want to support the Hannah Makes Art fund? You can tip me in ko-fi here!

#rwrb #rwrb fic #red white and royal blue fanfic #red white and royal blue fic #alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor #henry fox mountchristen windsor x alex claremont diaz #original cat character #zest the cat #my fic: rwrb #firstprince

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heavenly-roman · 4 years

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Still A Better Love Story Than Twilight

Plot: Remy thinks Logan is a vampire. Logan thinks Remy is a dumbass. Somehow, they're both correct.

Warnings: vampires (and the Classic Allo-ness of vampires), very very minimal talk of religion

Pairing(s): losleep

Word Count: 1237

if you liked this, consider buying me a coffee?

Taglist: @shitpost-sides (legally speaking i must tag @sleepless-in-starbucks)

did a fic trade with @emo-disaster and they requested supernatural!losleep, so uhh,,, enjoy this fic with too many twilight references

(ao3 link!!!)

+++

It starts off relatively normal for two college students paired up for a project.

Remy Morpheus gets paired with Logan Berry, and he couldn’t be more ecstatic. The two have a few mutual friends, so Remy knows - Logan gets the job done, whatever it takes. Remy knows that, despite his insistence that a regular sleep schedule is vital, Logan rarely sleeps. Remy knows that Logan is basically a vampire.

Logan Berry gets paired with Remy Morpheus, and he couldn’t be more miserable. The two have a few mutual friends, so Logan knows - Remy slacks off as much as possible. Logan knows that, despite his addiction to coffee, Remy sleeps for at least ten hours a night. Logan knows that Remy thinks he’s basically a vampire. Logan also knows that, for once in his life, Remy happens to be right.

“Okay, so I think we should make a powerpoint, and - Why are you staring at me?” Logan looks up from his notebook to see Remy’s eyes peering over his second cup of coffee.

“Oh, nothing, you just look a lot more vampiric in person,” Remy shrugs.

“I’m surprised you even know that word,” Logan mutters, sipping his own coffee. He smirks when Remy makes an offended noise.

“I’d knock your coffee over if it wouldn’t pain me so much to do so,” threatens Remy.

“If you want me to function properly, you’d let me keep my coffee.”

“Thought you functioned on drinking the blood of the innocent?” Remy teases, earning a swift kick to the shin. Logan refocuses himself at the task at hand, signaling Remy to join him.

The pair stays at the cafe for quite a few hours, enough for the sun to go down and for the owners to politely kick them out. They’re walking back to their respective dorms, laughing and chatting when Remy smirks. “So, you made us stay there until it got dark because vampires like you can’t go out into the sunlight?”

“I’m not sure if you noticed, considering you're one of the most oblivious people I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting,” Logan starts, earning a slap on the arm from his offended classmate. He continues, “But I did make it to our destination in the sunlight. Also, you’ve been watching too much Twilight.”

“You’re just mad that Edward Cullen is way hotter than you.”

“Absolutely not, you heathen.”

“Jacob is hotter too,” Remy says, teeth chattering. Logan rolls his eyes and shrugs off his jacket, handing it to his companion.

At Remy’s bewildered look, Logan explains, “You need it a lot more than me, and I’ll be fine.”

Remy hesitantly takes the jacket, brushing his hand against Logan’s. “My god, Logan, your hand is… pale white and ice cold.”

“Was that another damn Twilight reference?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And your eyes change color, and sometimes you speak like - like you're from a different time. You never eat or drink anything. You don't go out in the sunlight. ... How old are you?”

Logan pauses their walking and fixes Remy with a glare. “I’m not finishing your quote, Remy.” He begins walking again, then pauses and looks back with confusion. “And why do you have that quote memorized?”

“In case the opportunity arises to make fun of your vampiric tendencies,” Remy shrugs. He pouts, “Pretty please finish the quote for me?”

“Remy.”

“Logan.”

“I will never, ever, finish that quote.”

“I’ll buy your coffee for the rest of our project meetings?”

“ Fine ,” Logan sighs. He gives Remy one last pleading look, and when Remy motions for him to speak, the vampire finally gives in. Mumbling, he says, “Twenty.”

Beaming, Remy replies, “How long have you been twenty?”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

“A...A while.”

“I know what you are,” Remy moves towards Logan, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“That’s enough, Remy.” Logan pushes the taller student away from him, suddenly very nervous. He’s hoping he’s able to keep himself from being revealed this time, thank you very much.

“Damn, babes, why so defensive?” Remy asks, stumbling from the shove and holding his hands up in surrender. He grins, “Unless…”

“Remy, stop it.”

“It makes sense, you know.”

“Not now, Rem.”

“Your allergy to garlic.”

“Remy.”

“Your lack of sleep.”

“Remy Morpheus.”

“Your freezing cold body temperature.”

“Remy, that’s enough!”

If Logan’s booming voice wasn’t enough to shut Remy up, the shorter student pressing him up against a brick wall with fire in his eyes sure does the trick. Remy swallows hard, and he is quickly reminded of how damn gay he is. “It, um… it explains your - your, uh… your strength, too.”

Logan shoves him harder and Remy winces - the rough brick digging into his back through Logan’s jacket is unpleasant, to say the least. “Sorry, sorry!” Remy whimpers.

That seems to break Logan out of his haze, hands releasing from Remy’s jacket lapels. He backs up and shakes his head, as if clearing all thoughts from his mind. His breath is laboured as he says, “God, Remy, I- I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to… hurt you.”

Remy pushes himself off of the wall and fixes his jacket. He mumbles a quick, “‘m fine,” before pushing past Logan.

Not wanting Remy to leave, surprising even himself with that revelation, Logan calls after him, “Say it.”

Successful to Logan’s plan, Remy stops in his tracks and turns around. “Excuse me?”

“Out loud. Say it.”

At Remy’s shocked smile, Logan finds himself free of regret - approximately the opposite of how he thought he would feel. Remy continues the quote, “Vampire.”

Logan takes a step towards Remy, lowering his voice. “Are you afraid?”

Remy closes the distance between the two, laughing fondly, “Now who’s watching too much Twilight?”

“Still you.” Logan chuckles gently. “Answer me - are you afraid?”

“No.” Remy leans his head down, touching his forehead to Logan’s chilled skin.

“Then ask me the most basic question: what do we eat?” Logan moves his head down to Remy’s neck, grazing his teeth - no, fangs, Remy reminds himself - against his soft skin.

Remy shivers, once again glad that Logan lent him his jacket (of which he was absolutely planning on stealing). “You won’t hurt me.”

“No, I won’t,” Logan breathes against Remy’s neck. “I would never hurt you.”

“Okay,” Remy nods, jostling Logan’s place. He tilts Logan’s head up, looking him in the eyes. “One question, though.”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you actually sparkle in the sunlight?”

Logan scoffs and pushes himself off of Remy, walking away and shaking his head fondly. “No,” He calls behind him. “It’s more of a bad sunburn.”

“Boring.” Remy skips up to him, and they continue walking to their dorms. Remy, as stealthily as he can, slips his hand into Logan’s. Logan pretends not to notice. When Remy goes to remove his hand, though, Logan gives him a reassuring squeeze. “And is that why you denounce Christianity? Because of crosses, and holy water? What happens if you get splashed?”

“Precisely. It’s much easier to excuse my aversion to the religion on science than the true reasons. As for being splashed, I’d get really bad burns, reminiscent of chemical burns.”

“And you really can’t have garlic? So no italian food?”

“I can, but that comes with burns as well.”

“Your food must taste horrible.”

“You forget what I eat, Remy.”

“Oh! So no italian chefs, then?”

“Remy, shut up.”

“It was just a question!”

“... No italian chefs.”

#losleep #vampire!logan #logan sanders #remy sanders #vampire au #college au #sanders sides #sanders sides fic #sanders sides fanfic #sleep sanders #logic sanders #bennie’s books

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hellzyeahwebwielingessays · 4 years

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Super Heroes are a HUMAN power fantasy Part 1

Master Post

Super Heroes are a HUMAN power fantasy Part 2

Osvaldo Oyola , J. Lamb and Noah Berlatsky (who hates super heroes on principle btw), along with other dumbasses, have often said they are male/white supremacist power fantasies.

Nah fam. They are nothing more and nothing less than a HUMAN power fantasy.

Follow me along here for a while.

Human beings are animals.

We are. That’s a simple matter of scientific fact.

When push comes to shove we are really, really, really smart monkeys who share something like 50+% genes in common with chimpanzees.

As animals and all forms of life the overwhelming majority of us are biologically hardwired towards one ultimate goal: survival.

The desire to survive drives us innately in ways that go unnoticed most of the time. As we evolved into smarter creatures with higher brain functions capable of comprehending the world around us and constructing complex relationships and societies, that survival instinct was reinterpreted through various means.

The survival instinct in human beings and other mammals takes several forms but most commonly can boil down to two things:

a) Survival through preservation of the individual

b) Survival through procreation

Type a) involves getting food, shelter, rest, avoiding and recovering from injury and of course defending one’s self from threats, which can take the form of other living creatures, including members of our own species.

Type b) involves spawning offspring and at the same time looking after their wellbeing.

But the survival instinct goes deeper than that because we are biologically hardwired to work towards the protection of our very species. That is the very reason why type a) and b) even exist. By preserving ourselves and our offspring our species survives.

We are also communal animals. Much like chimpanzees and gorillas we live in groups for mutual benefit and protection. Thus, as part of survival of ourselves, our offspring and our species, we have a biological investment in protecting members of our group and of our species.

But seemingly paradoxically we are also hardwired to compete with and fight one another. This likely a by-product of how in the wild we’d have to compete for resources like food and shelter. Sometimes this involves two different groups from the same species competing with one another for survival.

Why am I telling you this? Well, because deep down all those things I have just talked about are innate to 99% of all human beings. It is little wonder that as we as a species evolved we expressed these biological driving forces in certain ways no other creatures could.

This is where the concept of our deities, Gods and figures from folklore and myth come from.

Jupiter, Vishnu, Thor, Hercules, Sun Wukong, Sampson, the Biblical version of Jesus Christ.

Whether they adopt the form of human beings or other entities, virtually every single culture on Earth, even those in isolation of one another, have conceived of beings greater than themselves. Beings with abilities beyond the average human being. And they��ve also conceived of those beings from time to time using their abilities to defy the laws of nature (such as averting natural disasters), combat dangerous or malevolent forces/creatures/individuals, and/or safeguarding the lives of others.

It is a form of explaining the world around us, and an act of wish fulfilment of the human experience.

We want to survive and since we are by our nature group animals we desire to be protected. Thus we conceive beings greater than ourselves who could potentially do that.

We want to survive by preserving our individual selves, so we imagined beings that are so powerful that they are not as reliant upon rest and sustenance like normal people. And who are powerful enough that they either cannot be easily harmed and are are capable of defending themselves from potential threats.

We have within us a vested biological interest in preserving our species, and so are hardwired to protect members of our family/group; our kin. Thus as part of our human wish fulfilment fantasies we imagine beings we’d like to be who could have the power to protect members of our species.

We then come to the modern superhero.

Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, Spider-Man, etc. Fundamentally they are the exact same thing.

Individuals with powers beyond those of the average human being, who use those powers to help and protect people, typically from numerous threats (which most commonly take the form of individuals with malevolent intentions). This can include perceived social ills which plague society and by extension pose a threat to the survival or quality of life of ordinary citizens.

One can exchange Hercules fighting the mythological Hydra for Superman fighting Darkseid or Captain America fighting H.Y.D.R.A. terrorists and it is ultimately the same thing. Batman battling crime in Gotham city fundamentally is no different from Theseus defeating criminals and bandits on his travels. When Spider-Man swings into action to save Mary Jane from the Green Goblin, it is an expression of much the same thing the Indian deity Rama went through to save his bride Sita.

Many super heroes though are also vigilantes, someone who imposes their own sense of morality whilst working outside of the law. Vigilantes in the real world and in myths, folklore, fiction and so on can also be found throughout history. Perhaps the most notable example being Robin Hood, who denounced his noble status to steal from the rich and give what he took to the poor who were being over taxed and oppressed by a corrupt system. Other examples would be the Scarlet Pimpernel or Zorro.

What I am trying to say is that at their core, modern day super heroes are fundamentally modern riffs of the folkloric and mythic traditions and/or similar expressions of the universal human experience (which are informed by innate biological imperatives).

Ostensibly, in creating Superman (the first true superhero), Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster were either:

a) Consciously/subconsciously influenced by these older mythic stories when they created Superman (and thus birthed the entire genre), or

b) basically tapped into the same kind of thinking which birthed Robin Hood, Hercules, Sun Wukong, etc. in the first place. Across the centuries great minds seemingly thought alike

Superman in particular was possibly heavily influenced by the figure of super strong Sampson or the Clay Golem of Prague, both of whom are part of Jewish religion and folklore (Siegel and Shuster being Jewish immigrants). He might even be seen as a kind of Moses figure. Someone sent away from his natural people to grow up elsewhere, but nevertheless destined for greatness. Or maybe he was just a messiah figure. Whether Siegel and Shuster had Jesus Christ in their minds at all or not, the Jewish religion does (I believe) talk about a saviour figure and Superman could very well be an expression of that.

Figuring into Superman’s creation was 1930s depression and the shadow of impending global war as Hitler was gathering power and invaded Poland the year after Superman was created. In his debut Superman is not only superhumanly powerful but uses these powers as a vigilante to do things like:

· stop wife beaters

· rescue someone framed for murder, whilst apprehending the real murderer

· capture gangsters and rescue a kidnapped person (Lois Lane)

· bring a corrupt politician to justice

This was an expression of 1930s fears and frustrations. Of Siegel and Shuster’s desires to right the wrongs of a system which was perceived to be broken…or at least envision someone who could do that seemingly impossible task.

The next year in 1939, Batman would come along and express many of these sentiments even more acutely, in particular when it came to crime.

As time went by and the superhero genre was consolidated and evolved, many heroes had their histories altered in order to make them more coherent. In Batman’s specific case his home of Gotham city was painted as so utterly corrupt from the lowest criminal to the most powerful political figures that Batman was literally the one and only effective deterrent to crime. Hope of legal or political reform was next to impossible, thus Batman’s brand of vigilantism was the only thing which could stand in the way of criminals from just doing whatever they wanted.

Bearing all this in mind the idea that the superhero genre is an inherent white construction (and therefore inherently racist, deliberately or otherwise) is, you know…fucking bullshit.

There is a difference between something defined by someone of one race or another and it being something which in indicative to them ONLY. There is also a difference between something having ‘white supremacist undertones’ and something simply being created at a certain point in time when cultural norms were (sadly) different to what they became later on.

As originally created Superman (and by extension the genre) was functionally the same kind of wish fulfilment expressesed by countless storytellers from countless cultures across human history, all informed by universal biological impulses to survive.

Yes, the superhero genre was created and constructed by white people and is therefore literally a ‘white construction’. Yes there weren’t many (if any) non-white characters outside of horrible racial stereotypes. Yes many of them took the law into their own hands.

But that doesn’t mean they are in support of white supremacist notions ala the Ku Klux Klan.

In fact given that Siegel and Shuster were of Jewish immigrant descent, one could argue that Superman was a reflection of how minorities need to be BETTER than the majority to be accepted and/or he was arguably an expression of their frustrations at being mistreated themselves an minorities.

On the other hand let’s say that ‘white supremacy’ strictly meant that superheroes operated with the belief in white people being the default, and as the majority, they were better than the non-whites. Superman was created at a time of segregation after all.

The problem is there is no evidence I know in support of Superman, by his mere existence, is consciously implying that white people are better than non-white people. I wouldn’t put it past Siegel and Shuster to believe that given the times they were from, but ALL media was like that. To an extent they honestly didn’t know any better. But just because they believed that and the social context of the time informed people of this, that doesn’t mean that those ideas are inherent to the superhero genre.

Because again, the superhero genre ultimately embodies beliefs and practices which date back throughout human history and can be found in many non-white cultures.

Yes. Their brand of heroism and the beliefs about heroism they embody were gifted to them by their white creators. And those creators were informed by white social norms (as in the white society they grew up in informed Siegel and Shuster that wife beating was bad). But that doesn’t mean that the superhero moral compass is inherently something that is itself white by design. Rather, it goes beyond that to form a mostly universal form of morality. And lest we forget American society and its laws were mostly informed by Jewish and Christian religious beliefs and practices, which themselves were not only innovated centuries before American society, but by people who were NOT white.

Yes, these superheroes are vigilantes, many of which wear masks and employ secret identities. But not only is that a matter of practicality within their work, as well as part of generating drama within the narrative, but this does not (as the above mentioned dumbasses believe) mean they are inheriting a legacy from the Ku Klux Klan.

Theseus and Robin Hood acted as vigilantes of a sort who again predate the KKK. The Scarlet Pimpernel is widely regarded as the originator of the secret identity trope, and he was created by a Hungarian born British woman!

Just because a superhero might act as a vigilante and impose their sense of morality outside of the law (maybe even using force to do it) doesn’t equate them with the KKK, because it completely and utterly ignores the specifics of the circumstances. It is like saying anyone who kills is a serial killer, when they might have killed for justifiable reasons. Superman and Batman might be operating as vigilantes with secret identities but we the readers can plainly see that they are genuinely justified in what they are doing.

But that’s because the writer has established that!

I hear you cry.

Yes that is true...so what though?

If the writer has set up circumstances which justify the superheroes actions then you can’t just IGNORE those. You can’t just choose the evidence you take under consideration to fit the conclusion you want. In this case that’d be the interpretation of superheroes are endorsements of white supremacist notions ala the KKK or police officers who abuse their powers.

That’s like desiring to interpret Star Wars as the story of white supremacy because the ‘black’ clad figures of the Empire are ultimately overthrown by the white Rebel Alliance and the ‘light side' of the force. It ignores the respective actions of the Empire and Alliance in-story.

It’s is presuming the Empire to represent black people and the Alliance white people in the first place and then working backwards from there. Equally it is presuming superheroes to be stand-ins for ACTUAL police officers or KKK style vigilantes in the first place.

And that cop analogy inherently doesn’t work because superheroes are only SIMILAR to cops. The analogy ultimately breaks down because they aren’t subject to ANY legal sanctions, many of them do not kill and their crime fighting efforts stereotypically takes the form of them intervening ONLY if they hear about a crime/crisis ahead of time or if they observe it in progress.

I mean one of the above morons conflated Spider-Man’s Spider-Sense to be a stand in for racial profiling which is an utterly inappropriate analogy. The Spider-Sense was originally constructed as a clumsy plot device that first and foremost operated as a personalised danger sense to Spider-Man of threats. Outside of contrived writing it categorically doesn’t alert him to ANY potential crime or criminal. And it doesn’t discriminate the way racial profiling does. It more often than not allows him to pinpoint precisely who might be a potential threat because they ARE a potential threat.

Spider-Man or Superman or Batman in the course of their work have these skills and it enables them to be ABOVE things like racial profiling. Again, taking their stalking of a potential criminal to be a tacit approval of police methods is an interpretation being overlaid ONTO the superhero and then presumed to be factually what it is.

But it’s not.

It’s just an (mis)interpretation of what is going on informed by one person’s personal experiences and baggage through life. It is the same kind of logic which will take say a female character who has a male love interest as 100% definitely an enforcement of the idea that women ‘need a man’ to validate them when that isn’t necessarily the case of the story at all.

Building upon this is the oft-repeated interpretation that superheroes are fascists and are supportive of fascist values. That is an incredibly simplistic and literal reading of the superhero genre that ignores aspects plain as day on the page of the stories. It again is CHOOSES to see something in the concept which frankly misses the point but is nevertheless accepted as plain fact regardless.

An article in the Atlantic addresses this very eloquently:

This [fascist] reading of superheroes is common but wrong, a symptom of trying to impose political ideology on a universal, fictional myth. Superheroes do say something about the real world, but it’s something pretty uncontroversial: We want to see good triumph over evil, and “good” in this case means more than just defeating the bad guy—it means handling power responsibly.

The “fascism” metaphor breaks down pretty quickly when you think about it. Most superheroes defeat an evil power but do not retain any power for themselves. They ensure others’ freedom. They rarely deal with the government, and when they do it is with wariness, as in the Iron Man films, where Tony Stark refuses to hand over control of his inventions.

Indeed, superhero tales are full of subplots about how heroes limit their own power: hibernating once the big bad guy has been defeated, wearing disguises to live ordinary lives, choosing not to give into the temptation to ally with the villain or use their powers for profit or even civilizational progress. That’s because the creators of some of the most foundational superhero tales weren’t writing solely out of a power fantasy. They were writing out of a fantasy that a truly good people who find themselves with power might use that power only for good—and only in the face of extreme evil.

YES superheroes are a power fantasy.

But there is NOTHING wrong with power fantasies so long as one understands the distinction between the fiction and reality.

More than this...the hard truth is violence is part of being human. We are biologically hard wired to be violent and dominate others. That is innate to us like many, many, many animals. The flipside to that though is what also makes us human is the ability (and perhaps more importantly the DESIRE) to NOT be like that.

Most superhero fiction simultaneously offers us the opportunity to enforce those values whilst at the same time providing us with a safe outlet for our violent urges. We transfer those urges into the heroes and villains fighting one another. Kinda like how in Ancient Rome gladiator fights and other spectacles were used as a way of avoiding the populace of Rome from erupting into violence.

And don’t sit there and tell me that they ENCOURAGE violence.

If someone is going to be violent like that frankly there are almost ALWAYS further underlying factors often to do with their home life And

Human beings have been killing each other and acting in immoral ways LONG before the invention of popular media. Preventing ourselves from being like that is an act of learned control as we grow up. It is otherwise innate to our instincts.

Furthermore the concept of superheroes as being police officers who enforce the status quo and therefore help keep white people in power is incredibly flawed.

First of all Doc Ock nuking New York city hurts everyone regardless of race. Second of all Batman stopping a mugger in the middle of assaulting someone isn’t upholding white power, it’s just safeguarding life. Reading it as more than that is a projection these asshats are injecting INTO the stories themselves when they aren’t warranted.

Finally, the law might be stacked in favour of white power and minority suppression. But that not only has a lot to do with ABUSE of the law, but at the same time large chunks of the law are there legitimately for the well being of EVERYONE. It is illegal to murder someone, to mug them, to exploit them. None of that ensures white power, it ensures the well being of everyone. The problem is that those laws are often warped when being applied to minorities by the police force.

But superheroes don’t represent the police force. They represent something grander than the police force whilst at the same time representing what the police force SHOULD be like. The message isn’t ‘this is what the police are like’ or even ‘the police are heroes so anything they do is therefore a good thing’. It is providing a strong moral ideal and saying ‘You and everyone else should try to be like this’.

It is because of this that the superhero concept REVEALS the warts and shortcomings of the law and law enforcement as it really exists. Which was a part of 1930s frustrations Superman et al were giving vent to. Again, Action Comics #1 showed us corrupt politicians, commentating upon a flawed system.

Basically Superman being who he is doesn’t tell people that a police officer is justified when he racially profiles a black person as a criminal. Quite the opposite, he reveals us that they were WRONG in doing that because Superman would NEVER do that.

Ultimately, yeah these characters were created within a white context, but my point is fundamentally the same thing was created in non-white contexts as well throughout history.

Super Heroes are a HUMAN power fantasy Part 2

Master Post

#Marvel #DC #DC Comics #Marvel Comics #Super heroes #Superheroes #Superman #Batman #Wonder Woman #X-Men #Spider-Man #mythology #folklore #Robin Hood #Noah Berlatsky #Osvaldo Oyola

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choupichoups · 5 years

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Press F (Instagram/College AU) Ch.5

Lucas swears he’s the absolute master of undetected stalking. Or: Eliott is instagram famous and Lucas is the disaster gay who accidentally likes his post.

Lucas smiles to himself as he browses through Eliott’s Instagram story, melting at the sight of the boy holding different puppies at each frame. Where does Eliott find so many dogs to cuddle anyway? Lucas can’t even guess the answer, all he knows is that the photos need to keep coming. He’s just settled down on the bulky armchair they’ve placed in the corner of their “break room” (it’s a small empty space at the back of the kitchen) when he reaches the end of it, almost choking on the water he’s just drank at the last photo.

He recognizes that building behind Eliott. He’s very familiar with it, in fact, because it’s the same building he sees every time he looks longingly out the window when a shift goes particularly south.

Jumping off the armchair, he hurries to get to the front, narrowly missing stubbing his toe on the stove in his rush.

And just as predicted, Eliott leans against the wall by the entrance, eye-catching even in a simple hoodie and that damn jacket of his. Lucas slowly approaches, wary of the stares that are already trained on Eliott. Mr. Instagram Famous doesn’t seem bothered by it, only grinning at Lucas as he flips his phone back and forth between his hands.

“What are you doing here?”

Eliott shrugs. “Picking you up.”

He doesn’t finish for another hour. “And how’d you know I’d be here?”

“Yann told me.”

“Oh, so you guys talk now?”

“Well, I’ve gotta get on his good side.”

“Why?”

Eliott pushes off the wall, lifting his eyebrows as he teases, “You know why.”

Lucas doesn’t let himself believe that quite yet. "What if I told you I don’t get off work for another hour?”

“Then I’ll wait. If you’ll let me this time?”

His brain function staggers, grasping for a witty response. “It’s not 5 hours, I guess.” Close enough.

“Why thank you, you’re so generous.”

Lucas turns around to head back, having used up his 15 minute break watching Eliott’s story and now talking to him. Eliott’s a real hazard to his much wanted alone time. “You could’ve just messaged me, you know.”

“Hm?”

“What if I didn’t check your story when you came?”

“Nah, I knew you’d be watching.” He sounds so sure of himself and Lucas kind of wants to slap him but at the same time, the whole confident act is working for him god damn it. Lucas flips him off but that only serves to widen Eliott’s shit eating grin.

His coworkers stare him down as he takes his place at the second cash and Lucas does his best to avoid their eyes, unwilling to spill anything about the gorgeous boy waiting for him by the window stool. He only gets away with it due to how busy Saturdays tend to be, allowing them zero free time to ask him the questions he knows they’re dying to throw at him.

He can still feel their stares on his back when he leaves the cafe with Eliott.

“Where are we going?” He asks, following Eliott to the bus stop.

“You’ll see.” It doesn’t even occur for Lucas to question it.

Eliott’s taken him to the doggy daycare he volunteers at, stating that he’d been there the entire morning and had only stopped by the cafe specifically to get Lucas.

“I wanted another date,” Eliott claims, hands wrapped around a tiny Pomeranian that looks strikingly like Champagne.

“This isn’t a date,” Lucas retorts, taking the Pomeranian off his hands.

Eliott chuckles. “Of course it is.”

Lucas kisses the dog on the nose, hoping with his entire being that the warmth on his cheeks isn’t as visible as it feels. “What’s this one’s name?”

“That’s Bee.”

Lucas laughs down at his phone, chancing a glance at Eliott who’s also smiling down at his own screen, free hand petting absently at a poodle’s back.

His staring gets interrupted by multiple pings from his phone and his eyes narrow in confusion, recognizing the Instagram handles that follow him all at the same time.

“Why are your friends following me?”

As if electrocuted, Eliott jumps out of the couch and lunges for Lucas’ phone, but Lucas was fast enough to dodge him, turning around so he can fold over the device like a protective cocoon.

“They’re a bunch of dumbasses, ignore them.”

“What? No.”

“Why not?”

"They sound fun."

"You're choosing them over me?"

"Maybe."

"Here you go again, hurting my feelings like this," Eliott sighs melodramatically.

Eliott has his arms around Lucas now from how he’s been trying to reach over him for the phone. Lucas looks up and turns until he can clearly see Eliott when he says, "Sorry."

"Got some more of those apology candies?"

"I don’t have any left."

"So how are you gonna apologize now?"

The way he says it is electrifying, his voice freezing Lucas on the spot-- not that Eliott has to do much for that to happen. Lucas belatedly realizes that Eliott’s beginning to lean down and, panic simmering in his stomach, Lucas turns away, forcing himself to face forward again. His cheeks feel like they’re in flames and his heart is pounding so loud it's a wonder Eliott doesn't hear it.

"I'll apologize by sincerely saying sorry,” he mumbles, sounding shaky even to his own ears. Eliott's hands tighten around him and Lucas gasps, acutely aware of how goddamn nervous he suddenly feels. Fuck, Eliott isn’t saying anything but Lucas can feel his breath above the nape of his neck. What is going on here? Eliott places large hands on his waist and spins him around so that they're facing each other and fuck if that isn’t the hottest thing to ever--

Someone knocks on the door, the noise jarring despite its softness. "Eliott? Gerard's here for Bee."

They stand there as if suspended in time, blinking at each other. It takes a minute for the both of them to process the interruption.

"One second." Eliott looks down at him, thumbs running restlessly over the material of Lucas’ shirt. He huffs out a sigh and ruffles Lucas’ hair before scooping up a wiggling Bee in his arms on his way out of the room.

Lucas slumps down on the couch, immediately wrapping his arms around the giant German Shepherd that comes sniffing around his lap. He buries his face in the dog's soft fur as he lets out a drawn out groan. Eliott's going to be the death of him.

#skam france #elu #elu insta au #*violently updates*#i cant believe i had to watch lucas cry for 3 mins #hopefully this shows up #if not #i will try my best to update ao3! right!! away!!!#fictag

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jonnmurphy · 5 years

Text

Kinktober Day Twenty-Seven | Gun Play/Against A Wall | my selfish side has got a special way of coping | Murphy x Bellamy | The 100

Words: 4290

Tags: Gun Play, Modern/Dystopia AU, Guard!Bellamy, Prisoner!Murphy, Prisoner/Guard dynamic, Questionable use of power, Anal sex, Rough sex, Fingering, Mentions of systematic abuse, Mentions of homophobia, Questionable consent

tagging @mvrphyblooms

Note that this is a kinktober prompt fill. It will be explicit smut, and quite likely, kinky. Mind the tags.

ao3

Murphy's a survivor. Always has been, always will be. No matter what life throws his way, he struggles through, and he keeps on going. Honestly, some days his perfect track record with overcoming calamity is the only thing that keeps him from giving up. And he has overcome so very many potentially life ending disasters, some that weren't even his fault, too.

Like this latest one, being locked up in a facility he doesn't even know the name of. No one will tell him where he is, or why he's here, which isn't a good sign. Couple that with Murphy being no stranger to jails and knowing at least in general what day to day life should be like, and he can tell pretty easily this is no normal jail.

Government black site, detainment camp, ultra max - it doesn't matter what term they're using, the end result is the same. Even if there was anyone out there looking for him - which there probably isn't, beyond a few gangs he's screwed over - they would never be able to find him. He's off the grid, at the mercy of a government that he's never been on particularly good terms with.

Just another thing to survive, at the end of the day, and Murphy knows exactly how to do it.

If the government running this facility isn't friendly with him, Murphy's got to get a lot more friendly with the people directly responsible for his miserable quality of life. It takes a few false starts, a couple of beatings that he only half deserved, and no shortage of embarrassment, but he finds his mark after a while. Nameless, simply the least cruel of his guards, until one of the others calls him “Blake” a little too loudly when passing Murphy's cell.

It’s not hard to tell where Officer Blake’s interests lie, with a little careful testing of the waters. He never calls Murphy a fag or queer like the other ones do, which is a good first indicator. He doesn’t shy away or beat Murphy when he stumbles and leans up against him as Blake ushers him to various facilities, simply grunts and waits for him to catch his feet again. He’s primarily aloof, which doesn’t necessarily make him a mark. Maybe he’s just a good guy, caught up doing bad things in the name of serving his government.

But of course, there’s the final test, the one that’s gotten Murphy’s ass kicked countless times. He times it perfectly, for when Blake should be coming to collect him for his daily shower. At least, he thinks it’s daily; there aren’t any windows, or any real way of telling the passage of times short of counting seconds. Murphy hears the familiar boot steps approaching, and grins to himself. Time to see if he’s right, or if he’s going to have dinner seasoned with his own blood again tonight.

When Blake opens the door, heavy locks falling with the sound of gunshots, Murphy is perfectly displayed. Ass to the door, three fingers buried inside himself, spine bowed in the way he knows makes him look the most delicate and inviting. He moans, a small needy noise as he thrusts his fingers a little. It feels good, even though his primary purpose in this show isn’t to actually get off. No, this is a declaration of intent, a display of the goods he can offer if only Blake is in the position to give him something in return.

Murphy knows, by the gust of air brushing over his skin, that Blake is in the room. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t rush over to beat him, so Murphy figures it’s working. He drops his face into the shitty, moldy mattress as if it’s the finest bed in the world, completely ignoring Blake’s presence. This only works if the guard thinks it’s an accident, not purposeful. They both know that’s a lie, of course, Murphy’s tried this trick a time or two before, but the illusion is necessary for the relationship to work. The guard has to initiate it, he always has to have the power. Nevermind that Murphy feels perfectly in control, making short thrusts of his hand at this awkward angle.

“P-” The first syllable dies on Blake’s lips, sending a thrill of victory through Murphy. Oh, he knows what that dry mouth and stumbling brain means. Life is about to get a little bit better for Murphy. “Prisoner 211804, stand and face the wall.”

Murphy hops to it, quite as if he hadn’t just been ‘caught’ masturbating. He chuckles as he raises his hands to the side of his head, staring at the cement wall, entirely nude. “What seems to be the problem, Officer?”

His breath leaves his lungs in a rush as Murphy’s shoved forwards into the wall, hard and without warning. Worry flashes through him, it’s entirely possible he misjudged Blake even in the last few seconds. Maybe he was just so enraged he couldn’t speak, maybe it wasn’t that he liked what he saw.

But no, Murphy crushes down on that doubt in a second. He’s come too far now, he has to see this through to the end. It’s not like he’s going to get any more of a beating for talking.

Well, he might. But a beating is a beating, at the end of the day.

“So rough,” Murphy laces his words with a moan, “That’s okay, I like it rough.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Blake’s voice is an even deeper rumble than the few times Murphy’s heard him speak before. His hand, still covered with its rough, tactical glove, grabs the back of Murphy’s neck, pinning him to the wall.

It doesn’t hurt, though, and he doesn’t hit him. Even when he shoved Murphy into the wall, it was more surprise than pain. Murphy smiles, cheek scrunching against the cold concrete.

“What, you-”

Murphy starts, but he’s silenced by the cold touch of steel on his exposed cheek. His eyes strain in their sockets, mouth going dry as vision confirms his fears. Okay, yes, that’s a gun. It’s not pointing at him, simply resting against his flesh, and the safety’s still on, but still. Murphy’s concern over a beating is a fancy of the past now. He shudders, closing his eyes.

Time to play the survival game, which means doing exactly what Blake wants. No more flirting, no more teasing, just being a good little prisoner. He can do that, much as it pains him.

“Who put you up to this?” Blake demands, voice dark in Murphy’s ear. It occurs to Murphy that he’s way closer than he needs to be for intimidation, the starched fabric of his uniform actually brushing against Murphy when he shifts slightly.

“No one, I swear man, okay? Nobody puts me up to this, I just-” Murphy cuts off, unsure of exactly how to phrase it. What way does he plays this situation, that doesn’t get him killed and dumped in a hole without a name?

“You just what?” Blake asks, words clipped and tight.

Murphy tries desperately to think quickly, as the gun slides against his skin. His body reacts to the situation unfortunately, his fight or flight response as always giving him the not so helpful third option of ‘fuck’. It’s all he can do to keep from rutting against the wall, and it does not help his higher brain function in the slightest. Murphy takes a second to mentally kick himself for being such a horny bastard, which is a second too long for Blake, apparently. He steps forward, crushing Murphy to the wall with his body, and as frightening as that should be, it does not help the situation with Murphy’s cock in the slightest.

“You. Just. What?” Blake’s breath tickles Murphy’s ear as he speaks, and Murphy shudders again, but for a different reason than when the gun had touched him. It’s been a stupidly long time since he’s gotten any other than his own hand, and- “Answer me.”

Blake taps the gun against Murphy’s temple, and it snaps Murphy out of his ridiculous headspace with mild panic. He blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind, which is also, unfortunately, the truth.

“I was trying to seduce you!”

The gun goes frighteningly still against the side of Murphy’s face, and he barely bites back a whimper. Blake is silent, still crushing him into the wall. He can feel his life hanging in the tense air between them; Murphy may have felt in control earlier, but Blake has all the real power here. As in, the gun. He’s got the freaking gun, and Murphy really should have come up with a better lie than-

“You what?” Blake’s voice sounds different in a way Murphy can’t quite put his finger on, but hey, at least he’s talking. Talking is better than hitting, and definitely better than shooting. So Murphy’s got to play this situation with the truth, then, or near enough to it.

“I was-” Murphy stumbles on his words as the hand on the back of his neck shifts. Ever so slightly, but instead of crushing his face into the wall, it simply seems to be holding him now, thumb laying gently along the column of Murphy’s spine. He doesn’t find too much comfort in that, though, steel still glinting in his peripheral vision. “You’re really hot, okay? And it’s been a while, and I thought-”

Blake silences him with another movement of the gun. Murphy hopes that response works, at least it gives Blake a way to dismiss him as just some dumbass, horned up guy, instead of anything malicious. And it is the truth, just not the whole truth. Let’s be real, if Murphy had run into someone who looks like Blake at a bar, instead of in a prison, he would be climbing that shit like a tree.

“No one put you up to this?” Blake asks again, and Murphy shakes his head as much as he can, which isn’t much at all.

“No. I’m in solitary confinement, remember? Who would I talk to, who would have put me up to this, all the other guards hate me anyway. I guess that’s part of your job, and you do too, but-”

“I don’t hate you,” Blake cuts him off, and there’s that hope again, flaring dangerously in Murphy’s chest.

“Okay.” Murphy accepts that without questioning it. Things seem to be a little less volatile now, and there’s no need for him to go changing that with stupid questions. But then, of course, something starts nagging at his mind, and he asks a question anyway. “Wait, why do you think someone would have put me up to this?”

“They’re always talking about the pretty little-” Blake cuts off in a way that informs Murphy very clearly what the next word is, or at least the sentiment of it. He clears his throat, continuing, “I figured it was because I’m- that they were trying to get to me, to mess with me.”

“Hey, I’m not messing with you, man, I promise,” Murphy assures him, hope taking more sound root among his ribs. So, in those little absent words, does that mean what Murphy thinks it means? Then this position, Blake crushing him into the wall with his body...

Murphy’s dick twitches painfully against the rough cement of his cell wall, and his breath stutters in his throat, unbidden. He curses mentally at his reaction, because no matter what Blake meant, now is not the time for this shit.

Except, there’s Blake’s thumb, moving ever so slightly to stroke just the pad of it over Murphy’s skin. Almost imperceptible, but Murphy’s perception of his body is a little bit heightened right now, what with the weapon still against his face, and the rock hard erection between his legs.

“Are you… getting off on this?” Blake asks, and Murphy immediately attempts shaking his head again, despite the fact that yeah, yeah he is. Blake’s voice sounds like pure sex at the best of times, so him asking that question doesn’t exactly help any.

“No, it’s-” Murphy begins to lie, but then Blake’s hand shifts up his neck, to thread into his hair, and he has to bite his lip to stop from whimpering.

“You are,” Blake states soundly. The gun disappears from Murphy’s cheek as Blake takes a half step back, and there’s the sound of it being holstered, which allows him to breathe a little easier. Then the hand in his hair turns into a fist, pulling his head back enough that Murphy can actually look at Blake a bit more. His gaze is dark, something almost violent in it, but not like the violence Murphy’s used to. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I-” Murphy goes to lie, but a twist of Blake’s hand makes him wince and rethink that strategy. “Okay, okay! I am.”

Blake pushes him back flush with the wall again, and then his hand leaves Murphy altogether. Murphy hates that he finds himself missing the touch almost immediately. Well, he hadn't been lying when he’d said it had been a long time. Even before he got locked up, the last person he’d slept with was… God, had it really been since the bouncer at Skybox? What was his name again? Mbege?

The sound of velcro draws Murphy back to the present and away from delightful memories of the strong, mostly silent man. Something falls to the ground, but Murphy isn’t going to risk moving in order to look and see what it was.

A bare second later and Blake’s hands return, except this time it’s not the rough touch of fabric gloves. Blake’s skin is hot against his slightly chilled form, and Murphy can’t help the way his breath catches in his throat. He practically melts into the touch as Blake runs his hands up Murphy’s back, dragging his palms over his ribs. Murphy tries to look at him as much as he can, but Blake leans over him in order to rest his head on the back of Murphy’s shoulder.

“They weren’t lying about you being pretty, huh?” Blake mumbles, one of his hands reaching down to squeeze Murphy’s ass. Murphy jumps under the contact, and Blake’s other hand falls on his shoulder, holding him firmly in place. Murphy is saved from having to come up with a response to that by Blake speaking again, “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

His voice rumbles straight into Murphy’s chest, from there to his groin in a heartbeat. Murphy swallows thickly and nods, cheek dragging against the wall.

“Say it,” Blake orders, hand squeezing Murphy’s shoulder. His other hand continues its lazy exploration of Murphy’s buttocks, mapping and squeezing the flesh there. A moan sneaks past Murphy’s guard as Blake’s thumb trails down for a scant second to ghost over Murphy’s hole.

“Yes, this is what I wanted,” Murphy admits, blushing despite the fact that this had started with him fingering himself in full view of Blake. This isn’t how this had gone down the previous times Murphy had seduced guards in his various prison stints. Those were always quick, guards taking what they wanted from him and giving him the little luxuries they could after they used him for their quick little orgasms.

“And what if it’s not what I wanted, huh?” Blake asks, actions somewhat undermining the possibility of that being true.

Without warning or any real preparation, he sinks a finger into Murphy’s ass, and Murphy gasps. He’s glad he’d prepped himself just moments ago, allowing his body to take the intrusion with a minimal amount of protests. It still burns slightly, though, and Murphy grunts in the back of his throat.

“What would you have done then?” Blake asks, curling his finger inside of Murphy. Murphy chokes on a breath, chuckling breathlessly.

“Gotten beaten. Gotten dead. Nothing that couldn’t have happened on any other day,” he admits, perhaps a little too truthful, but Blake had told him not to lie. Blake’s slight movements still for a moment, and he wonders if he’s fucked up.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Blake’s words are a bare mutter against his skin. Murphy refuses to feel anything for that other than victory. Protection is one of the biggest things he can get out of this whole arrangement.

He moves his finger inside Murphy once again, thrusting slightly, and a second digit begins probing at his entrance. Murphy barely restrains himself from moving his hips, grinding them towards Blake’s hand. He remembers his earlier words, said in jibe, and Murphy smirks.

“I mean, you can hurt me a little. I wasn’t kidding when I said I liked it rough,” Murphy suggests, once again very definitely not lying. Because this is nice - hell, more than nice, Blake’s touch is strong and hot and belays a certain level of skill that excites Murphy to no end. But a part of Murphy is desperate and has been barely holding back from humping cement this whole time, and he’d love nothing more than to have Blake just take him however he damn well pleases.

“You do, huh?” Blake rumbles the words, thrusting his second finger in much as he had the first. Murphy’s hips jerk at the shock of it, and okay, grinding his dick into the wall isn’t quite as good as his mind had thought it would be. Blake continues holding him firmly in place, thrusting his fingers and shifting them to stretch Murphy. “Then maybe I shouldn’t bother with any of this, huh? I mean, you were handling it yourself pretty well when I came in.”

He leaves Murphy with a choice with those words, one which Murphy doesn’t hesitate in making. He bites his lip and takes a shaky breath before responding, “Yeah, just do it. Please.”

He sounds more than a little desperate, but whatever, he’s allowed to make the best of a bad situation. He could do a hell of a lot worse than getting fucked by a phenomenally hot guard with a voice that is getting sexier by the second. Blake pulls his fingers out of Murphy, chuckling slightly, which sends a crazy heat through him. Really, him laughing at Murphy’s needy state should not sound so damn good, but it does, and Murphy luxuriates in it.

There’s the sound of a zipper behind him, and then Blake grabs Murphy by the hip, pulling him slightly away from the wall. Only just enough that he’s not crushed into it, and Blake’s other hand keeps his shoulders firmly against it. It takes some of the uncomfortable pressure off of his dick, and Murphy breathes a contented breath.

“You’re sure you want it rough?” Blake asks.

Murphy shudders, harder than he can remember being in recent history, nodding eagerly. He feels the head of Blake’s cock drag over the skin of his ass for a monet before dipping between the mounds of flesh to tease at his hole. Murphy hopes Blake doesn’t want a verbal answer, because the anticipation takes deep hold of his lungs, making his breath come shallow and forming words absolutely impossible.

He hears Blake spit, which is the grossest form of slicking oneself up in Murphy’s mind, but better than going in dry. As is, it’s barely better, and as Blake starts to sink into him, it hurts like hell. Murphy sucks a breath in through his teeth, hissing at the burn. Okay, so maybe Blake is one of the biggest guys Murphy’s ever been with, and maybe Murphy’s a bit out of the game to be taking someone so well endowed.

Nevertheless, Blake continues to press forward, unrelenting, filling Murphy to an almost impossible extent. Murphy’s pretty sure he forgets how to breathe about four inches in, and he doesn’t remember until Blake bottoms out against him. His hand on Murphy shoulder moves to rub the back of his neck soothingly, and Murphy gasps a breath.

“You’re fucking huge,” Murphy manages to say, and Blake chuckles again, which makes Murphy’s cock twitch despite the discomfort.

“Still want it rough?” Blake asks, sounding a little bit patronizing, which Murphy scoffs at. Okay, Blake is big, whatever. Murphy’s taken more with less prep, and he’s actually not so bad now that Murphy’s had a second to adjust. The burn fades to a gentle ache, and Murphy rolls his hips a little, as much as he can given the angle. He smiles as the actions causes Blake to choke out a curse.

Not so cocky now, huh?

“Try me.”

And oh, does Blake ever rise to those two words. He makes a noise somewhat akin to a growl, drawing his hips away from Murphy for a moment, only coming out about half way before pounding back in with impressive force. Murphy can’t help the gasp that draws from him, or the breathless noises he makes as Blake sets to fucking him thoroughly and soundly. It’s not too fast, but every thrust of his hips drives enough force into Murphy that he’s somewhat glad for the wall holding him up.

It should be too much to be pleasant, or the sort of weirdly dull experience he normally has when simply getting railed in order to get something he wants. But Blake’s hands on him, fingers digging in whenever Murphy manages to move against him, send sparks of pleasure to his core. And there’s the little noises Blake makes; not as many as Murphy, who moans when Blake hits that sweet spot inside of him, but definitely there. He’s good at this, not merely using Murphy to get his rocks off, but actually paying some small attention to what pleasure Murphy is getting out of it.

“Rough enough for you?” Blake goads, snapping his hips forward particularly firmly, his fingers digging bruises into Murphy’s shoulder. The actions drives an aborted half moan from Murphy’s lips, and he catches his breath with a laugh.

“Is it rough enough for you?” Murphy parrots back, because there’s no denying the possessive force of Blake’s grip, or the way his breath catches whenever he drives in particularly hard. He likes this, just as much or more than Murphy, and that all works to Murphy’s favour.

“That sounds like a challenge,” Blake rumbles, and Murphy rocks his hips against him.

“Does it?” He asks, the very picture of false-innocence.

Blake mumbles a curse that Murphy’s sure he didn’t even intend to say and begins thrusting again, with a new and singular purpose. His cock brushes over Murphy’s prostate time and time again, building pleasure in Murphy’s gut and making him react to the movements all the more. He doesn’t bother with being quiet; there’s no one else around that he’s ever heard, other than guards. And if Blake’s here, there’s little chance of anyone coming this way until they swap shifts later on.

So Murphy gives into it all; the moaning, the quiet curses and heavy panting behind him, the thorough and oh so delightful abuse of his ass. Blake hits his sweet spot on more thrusts than not, and Murphy whines, fingers digging into the wall so hard he’s afraid he might tear his nails out. He didn’t expect to actually get off on this, but now he’s almost there and he wants it so, so bad.

“Do it,” Blake orders, releasing Murphy’s shoulder and dropping down to grab roughly at his cock.

It only takes a few quick pulls and Murphy is finishing with a strangled moan, cum painting the wall in front of his hips by virtue of proximity. He breathes hard, chest still flush to the concrete, barely managing to hold himself up as Blake continues thrusting inside of him. As his orgasm ebbs, it’s definitely too much for his level of sensitivity, but never let it be said John Murphy is a quitter when it comes to dick.

Blake must know something of how uncomfortable it is for Murphy, because he releases Murphy’s softening cock and grips his hips with both hands. He thrusts violently for a few more moments, which Murphy takes with only a few whimpers and grunts of protests. Then he pulls out rapidly, so sudden that Murphy finds himself clenching around nothing and feeling awfully empty. Blake chokes out a deep curse behind him, and Murphy feels warm wetness hit his ass.

They stand there a moment longer, catching their individual breaths, and then the sound of a zipper breaks the relative silence. Murphy listens to Blake picking up his gloves, never moving away from the wall. No matter what, he’d been told to do this by a guard, he’s staying right here until Blake tells him otherwise. No sense ruining a good thing by making a guard think he was using sex as a distraction to go for his weapon.

Staying still has an added bonus when Blake shows enough consideration to grab something to wipe Murphy’s ass off with. Well, life is looking up already, isn’t it? With a cursory cleanup, Blake drops Murphy’s long discarded clothes on the ground next to him.

“Get dressed, it’s time for your shower,” Blake says, and it sounds less like an order and more like a request. Well, Murphy is more than happy to oblige. And if he puts on a little show when he bends over, well, Blake isn’t complaining.

When Murphy gets a chocolate on his dinner tray that night, he certainly isn’t complaining either. It’s not too bad, he decides, going to sleep on his shitty mattress, freshly showered, well fucked, and with cocoa on his tongue. As far as situations he’s been in, could be worse.

#kinktober #murphamy #john murphy #bellamy blake #the 100 #fan fic #i fell behind both on writing and cross posting here #sorry #i was so sick #i will do my best to finish kinktober in the next few days #i'll run over and work double in nano if i have to

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seventeendeer · 6 years

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{{ OhmyGOSH can you tell us more about that ravenous pearlmethyst monster? When did you start shipping them? What do you want to see happen? What do you think is ALREADY happening? I'm so curious; how did I not know you shipped them?! (answer at your leisure and optimal timing, of course!)

HELLO MY OLDEST OF FANDOM FRIENDS, YES, I WOULD LOVE TO TALK MORE ABOUT THIS

I actually had a very powerful Pearlmethyst phase at one point a few years back, but I think you and me only started talking after my life had been swallowed by Jaspidot (r.i.p. always in r hearts)! but Pearlmethyst was my first SU ship, and it’s still the only one that I like. want and think has a chance of happening

I started shipping them around the time Secret Team came out, I thought them working together was just really cute and I wanted to see them work out their differences together. By the time On The Run came out, it was cemented as my Oh My God Please Make Up So You Two Can Heal Together ship

The thing I’ve always wanted to see was basically Pearl eventually realizing that Rose wasn’t as inhumanly perfect as she always thought she was, and in realizing this fact, she’d overcome her perfectionism and see that someone doesn’t have to be flawless in order to be wonderful and magical and worthy of love. It would help her learn to love herself. And her getting together with Amethyst sometime late in the show’s run would be a very neat little bow on that character arc, showing her in a healthy, down-to-earth relationship with a horrible messy little gremlin with just as many psychological problems as herself. Basically the opposite of her relationship with beautiful, seemingly perfect Rose.

As a mirror to that, I wanted Amethyst to realize that she doesn’t have to be locked into the role of Local Bad Rebellious Teen Who’d Rather Be A Fuck-up Than Humiliate Herself By Actually Trying And Failing. I wanted her to get over her rebellious streak and actually try to better herself as a person, even if she’d fail at her first many attempts. I wanted her to learn that it’s okay to talk to people and be vulnerable and bad at things, as long as you don’t stop trying. And her getting together with Pearl, the person she’s always comparing herself to negatively, would kind of symbolize that change in her personality, from someone who detested perfectionism and trying too hard, to becoming someone who can be happy seeing other people succeed without feeling like that automatically makes herself worse by comparison.

Of course, there’s a lot more layers to it now, and they’ve both developed in more directions than I assumed they would, in ways I never saw coming, but the ship is still there! I still think a relationship between the two of them would be a very sweet way to tie up both of their separate character arcs and show how far they’ve come as individuals. Now that their friendship is so much healthier and happier, I want to see it happen even more, I live for all the casual affection they show each other these days, it makes my little gay heart so happy

They’ve been through so much together and no one understands them as much as they understand each other, I want to see them have a very clumsy and funny and cute romance subplot some seasons down the line and then they get married and they become that dumbass disaster couple that always get into trouble together somehow but also with their combined scraps of common sense they almost make up 1 fully functional adult

if Garnet is the happy stable old married couple that stuck together for many years through thick and thin, then Opal is the disastrous depressed 20-something’s newlyweds who may eat kraft dinner 4/7 days a week, but at least they’re great at making each other feel happy and cared for and like they’re not alone with their problems, and I feel like that’s a narrative that certain members of the audience might relate to pfft

I’m not certain if this ship has a chance of sailing, but it wouldn’t surprise me and I know I’d be very happy if it did!

#sketchertalkssu #caps cw #beyondthetemples #thesketcherasks

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wren-rp · 6 years

Text

Pour Out Some Liquor

ONESHOT #1

June 5th, 2030,

The high school was a mess of loud excited teens celebrating the last day of classes for that year

Wren squeezed himself past the crowds of his classmates trying to get to the parking lot that it itself was also full of students loitering around celebrating.

He pushed his way through all the freshman that were sticking to the front of the building which wasn’t to difficult as they all moved away from him not wanting to piss off one of the most intimidating Seniors the school had

Once he got him self to the parking lot he scanned around and decided it would be a lost cause trying to find Cyrus in the mess so he decided to call Brian, a ‘friend’ he had met working for Rich. They had a friends with benefits sort of relationship but they were close, he knew Brian would drop everything to come pick him up.

[ On the Phone]

“Heya” Brian answered picking up after a few rings

“This place is a fucking disaster i can’t find dumbass anywhere can you come get me instead” he said slightly overplaying the whining

Brian sighed before laughing

“Yeah go to the gas station up the road, I’ll be there in a few minutes “ he said hanging up

Wren dodged all his classmates that were trying to talk to him or hug him on his way to the main road outside the school property, he just wanted to leave this place and never look back or be reminded of the past four years ever again.

Once we managed to get to the gas station through all of the mess he found Brian beat him to it, he walked up to the old beat up truck and opened the passenger door

“You look so happy for someone who is done with school forever “ Brian teased as wren got in

“Shut up I’ll be more excited later, I’m to sober to be excited right now” he said giving the other a fake glare

Brian just chuckled and stared the truck back up

“Me,Moors and a couple others are going drinking in the woods tonight, we can turn it into a graduation celebration if you’re in?” Brian asked

Wren thought about it for a moment or two before deciding it would be fun

“Yeah, getting wasted in the woods with you idiots sounds like a good time” he said sarcastically then giving a small laugh

“Yeah I’ll go “

Brian smiled before looking towards Wren again

“Ya know, we have plenty of time before I planned to meet everyone” He said suggestively raising his eyebrows up and down

Wren laughed rolling his eyes

“Aaannd?”

“Aaannd, we could pull over and have a little fun” he said moving his hand to Wrens leg

Wren nodded considering what Brian had suggested

“Yeah, pull over” he answered smirking at him

—————-1-hour-later—————-

Wren pulled his shirt back on still breathing a little heavily as Brian pulled himself back to the front of the drivers seat

He climbed to the front as well a few moments later

“Should we meet up with the others yet?”He asked situating himself in the seat as Brian restarted the truck

“Probably Yeah, you need to stop at home to get a hoodie or something to cover that” he said gesturing to the hickeys he’d left on the others throat and collarbones

He opened the mirror on the sun visor and looked at the damage Brian had left

He shrugged

“It’ll probably be fine,they already know I sleep around I doubt anyone will be surprised”

“Ok”

They drove in comfortable silence, it was never akward or weird after they did things like that together, they both had a good understanding of the fact that they were just friends that were sometimes closer than most friends are. They reached the small parking space for the trail that lead to where the others already were within a few minutes.

The sun was beginning to set and the air held a slight chill it was a nice feeling

They walked next to each other occasionally messing with each other or making some dumb joke at the other until they saw the small fire Moors was hunched over trying to grow it

“Hey dumbass!” Wren called out to him in the place of a greeting

He looked up at them and waved dramatically

Both Brian and Wren laughed at him as they approached them

“Here catch !” Stevie , one of Brian’s friends called to them throwing them both beers

Brian had to jump forwards to catch his and Wren caught his but had to fumble to get a good hold of the bottle

—-2-hours-later——-

There were five of them there sitting around a camp fire drinking and talking about anything and everything

Wren did not have a strong tolerance to alcohol and was already tipsy three drinks in, everyone else was also getting there too

“So Mr. Highschool Graduate, whats next for your life?” Stevie asked sitting down on an old tree stump like everyone else and putting her head in her hands

“Uhhh, fuck I don’t know I just got out today, I have no fucking clue probably continued working for Rich with you guys” he said with a just noticeable slur to his tone

“That’s a good decision, you’re good at the shit you do with us” Moors said next

Wren nodded looking down to his feet and staring for a few moments

“Fuck I drank to much already” he laughed

Everyone laughed with before Brian pulled his backpack from next to the stump he was sitting on and pulled out a water bottle

“See I’m prepared, I know you have no self control and drink to much every time you have a chance “ he said slurring slightly from drinking a bit to much himself and throwing it at Wren

He went to catch the bottle way to early and it hit him square in the face

“Shit” he muttered before throwing a small rock back towards Brian as revenge but missed by a long shot

“Good try dip shit” Brian laughed at his failed throw

“Alright Alright lets not get into a whole thing” Moors said opening the cooler someone brought and pulling out various tiny liquor bottles and letting everyone come up and grab whatever they wanted.

After way to many tiny bottles of liquor Wren was now challenging Stevie on a race up a tree

“You know I’ll win!” She challenged back

“Bet!” He yelled at her laughing

“Bet!” She answered back

And with that they were both scrambling up two different trees

Wren was surprisingly physically functional when drunk and was able to climb on a branch right after Stevie slipped off accepting defeat

“I told you !” He called down before digging into his pocket and bringing out another small bottle and downing it in triumph before getting himself back down

One of the other people there turned on their music, which caused an argument between Moors and Stevie over which Drake song is the best, that lead into Wren pouring alcohol into the fire causing it to practically burst into huge flames to shut them up.

Their activities continued into the night before Moors, the only responsible one there, decided to lead everyone out back to their cars

“Try not to die! None of us are fit to drive but fuck it right!?” He yelled as they got themselves into their cars

Wren looked at Brian

“Which one of us is more coherent?” He asked

“What?” He asked sounding like he just re-entered life

Wren sighed

“I’ll drive”

“Wait,wait ,wait” Brian slurred

Wren raised his eyebrows at him

“What, not like you can do it” he said practically tripping over his own feet

“And you can?”

He looked over at him for a few seconds

“You right”

They both laughed for a few seconds before Brian made the decision to just sleep over in the truck until morning when the park security would kick them out

It was really the beginning of a new life for Wren, they continued to do these get togethers monthly bringing new people and doing different dumb stuff but always giving each other a taste of the good days.

[ Inspired by Old Fashioned by Panic! At the disco]

[also don’t drink and drive ]

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esselley · 7 years

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Kinktober #6: Bonds

Please accept this offering, nearly 5k words of more Mage AU <3

"Oy, Kageyama, wake up."

Kageyama jerks upright, and says, as knowledgeably as he knows how, "Channeling as a type of spellcasting was popularized at some point between the sixth and seventh century."

The group of classmates gathered around his desk all laugh, as he stares at them blankly.

"Nice try, genius," one of them says, "but you're in Magical Theory. Not History."

"It's a good thing he’s a natural at actually casting anything, seriously..."

They continue on in this vein, about how lucky and gifted Kageyama is; he yawns, staring off into the middle distance, and tunes them out. He doesn't mind people assuming he's better at magic than them, through no fault of his own. Not like Hinata, who always gets offended any time people take his skills for granted. And speaking of Hinata…

"Sorry," Kageyama says, as he stands abruptly, not feeling very sorry to be able to escape at all, "I've got to go to club."

His classmates wave goodbye as he collects his things and hurries from the room.

“Why are you in such a hurry?”

"Oooh, I guess that’s what happens after you tie the knot!"

Kageyama resolutely does not give any sign he has heard them.

If anyone were to have asked Kageyama Tobio ten or five or even one year ago where he saw himself in the present day, his answer would not have been "accidentally magically married to a disaster of an orange human being", because—well, for starters, he and Hinata aren't actually married—alright, functionally, they are, as far as mage unions go; but it's different, and they're figuring out how to reverse the spell as fast as they can (nevermind the fact that everybody keeps telling them it can't be reversed). It's complicated.

What isn't complicated is going to club, and meeting up with Hinata to go over strategy, and winning their practice duels for the day.

Only, that turns out to be quite complicated as well.

There's another problem that's been grating on Kageyama as of late, and it's one more he never could have anticipated. See, at the start of all this—wherever the start is, exactly, because Kageyama isn't sure, whether that's meeting Hinata, or their disastrous entrance exams, or being forced to pair off for the club, or deciding to try The Kindling Pact—at the start of all this, he never would have guessed that he'd get used to having Hinata around.

And he truly had. Not just physically, but mentally—emotionally. Hinata is something of a tempest, when it comes to presence, and Kageyama had borne the full brunt of that after they'd been magically tethered. And the whole point of doing the damn spell in the first place had been so they could be stronger—doing so required forging a most unique sort of bond. And it had worked (better than either of them had bargained for).

So it's a mystery to him, now, why Hinata has recently decided to ignore him entirely.

Kageyama rubs at his chest, absentmindedly, pressing the pads of his fingers to the mark that lies beneath his shirt.

He hadn't noticed it at first. He's bad at noticing things, and on top of that, they've both been trying to regulate the whole "reading each other's mind" thing. Gradually, they'd been able to filter things. It was like getting used to background noise—other stopped being intrusive and instead just became a constant, more images and ideas than actual dialogue.

But lately—the past week or so—it's gone quiet. Even when they're in proximity, or during duels, Hinata isn't giving him anything. That part of Kageyama that had shifted to accommodate him is suddenly just empty space.

It's weird. And maybe weirder still is how much Kageyama dislikes it.

Hinata barely looks at him during warm ups, and Kageyama doesn't push where he's not wanted. He especially refuses to do this inside Hinata's head, but the penalty for them both comes in the form of handily losing their duel against Tanaka and Nishinoya during practice. If Hinata won't focus long enough to plan beforehand, and he won't use their mental advantage during the actual duel, they have basically no chance. They're an explosive pair, for better or worse, and when it works for them, it really works. In all other instance, it backfires. They're so out of sync, the match barely lasts five minutes.

It wouldn't be so bad losing to upperclassmen normally, but Kageyama knows Hinata is distracted, not giving it his all. But the weirdness doesn't end with the duel. Instead of trying to argue or bemoan their loss, Hinata… apologizes. Awkwardly and blandly, like he knows he's messed up but doesn't really care about the reasons as to why; and as soon as club is over, he makes his excuses and scurries off, without so much as a backward glance.

That's not normal either; Hinata always tries to linger and soak up as much of the atmosphere as possible, fluttering around their clubmates, like he thinks he can absorb a bit of everyone else's knowledge, their finesse.

It's all so unlike Hinata that Kageyama almost feels worried instead of angry, but Hinata won't give him the time of day to talk to him, either—so he just winds up pissed. He intends to find out what's going on.

By the time he manages to escape from Tanaka's teasing, he bursts out into the long hallway to see Hinata already halfway down it.

"Hinata!"

Hinata either doesn't hear him, or ignores him. Irritated, Kageyama gives chase.

"Hey! Quit ignoring me, dumbass!"

He's definitely being ignored. Hinata glances over his shoulder and then speeds up. Furious, Kageyama prepares to shout again, and then remembers a much better way to accomplish doing what he wants, short of magicking a lasso to catch Hinata.

He musters all his willpower, and thinks as hard and as loudly as he can into Hinata's head.

STOP RUNNING!

Hinata screeches, trips, and falls flat on his face. Kageyama finally manages to catch up to him, sliding to a stop next to where Hinata now lies, rolling around on the ground in pain and probably crankiness.

"Don't do that!" Hinata shouts at him as soon as Kageyama leans over him. "Do you have any idea how loud that was?!"

"I wouldn't have had to do it if you'd stopped when I called out to you the first time," Kageyama says, crossing his arms. He refuses to help Hinata up, and Hinata probably wouldn't accept his help. Since Hinata's been avoiding him like an ass, anyway.

"Maybe if you knew when to leave people alone, you wouldn't have had to bother in the first place!" Hinata says.

Ah ha, Kageyama thinks. He doesn't say anything, just looks away as Hinata sits up. He hasn't done anything, that he knows of, to make Hinata want him to stay away.

Hinata sighs. "I didn't—it's not because of anything you did, really."

Kageyama snaps his stare back at him. "Now you want to listen to what I'm thinking?"

Hinata wilts. "It's not that I didn't before—well, I mean, not any less than usual. It's not like you actually like it, anyway, so what are you mad about?"

Kageyama scowls. He tries very hard not to think the thing he's currently thinking. As it’s been on his mind for days already, he fails. Hinata's mouth falls open.

"You do like it?"

"No!" Kageyama says. "I don't."

"You just thought—"

"It's easier!" Kageyama grinds out. "It's just—easier."

Hinata blinks. "Why?"

Kageyama doesn't know why. He's not good at explaining the way he's feeling to people; he doesn't understand half the time what he's feeling himself. It usually doesn't occur to him to talk it over. He'd had no plan, when he went chasing after Hinata. He just knew something had changed.

Oh, Hinata thinks.

Kageyama startles. It's the first time he's heard Hinata in his head in days. Hinata chuckles.

"See?" he says. "Now imagine if I'd shouted."

He clambers to his feet, and Kageyama uncrosses his arms in an effort to look less pissed off. It probably doesn't work, because of his face, which is presumably doing what it always does.

"I didn't think you'd be mad about it," Hinata says, as if to prove his suspicions right.

"I'm not mad," Kageyama says, "I'm just annoyed."

Hinata rolls his eyes. "Okay, annoyed."

"Why haven't I been able to hear you? Either talking or thinking?" Kageyama asks. It's curiosity as much as anything else. The first few weeks had been chaos, constant chatter in his head. He hadn't known anyone could be as talkative as Hinata before, and that was before they were sharing thoughts. Even when they'd gotten used to each other, the low hum of Hinata's presence was always a constant reminder. Until it had suddenly just… stopped. And everything had become quiet for Kageyama again.

"Uwahhh," Hinata breathes, and Kageyama sighs, knowing he heard. "Did you really miss—"

"It just got quiet!" Kageyama says furiously. "It helped me stay awake in class."

"We can't hear each other in class," Hinata points out, before Kageyama can realize his mistake. Hinata starts to grin.

"Oh, shut up," Kageyama tells him. "Why'd you stop, then?" He isn't even sure how Hinata stopped it.

"Oh, I, uh—" Hinata says, right before he turns a brilliant shade of pink.

Kageyama squints at him. "What?"

"Nothing!" Hinata squeaks. "I didn't stop, you're just—"

"You already said it's not because of anything I did, so—"

"Yeah, because I didn't stop doing anything in the first place—"

"Hinata—" Kageyama grabs Hinata's wrist and Hinata squeezes his eyes shut as Kageyama attempts to hear what he's thinking.

Immediately, he's assaulted by a barrage of thoughts: tamago kake gohan; a replay of some episode of some anime; playing with somebody’s cat—all inconsequential, random, nonsensical—

He's going to know, he's gonna know, meat buns, yesterday's theory homework—crap, I forgot to finish that—

"Hey!" Kageyama says, letting go of him. "St-stop! What the hell are you—what am I going to know?"

"Nothing!" Hinata says.

It’s so obvious how turned on I am—oops—

Kageyama blinks. He heard that crystal clear. "You—" Turned on? Does Hinata want to—what else could he mean—

"Yes, obviously that's what I mean!" Hinata groans. "And I haven't been able to stop thinking about it for days, so I had to—"

“Stop thinking about—”

“You, yes,” Hinata says.

"Why didn't you say something?!" Kageyama demands.

"What?!" Hinata sputters. "Why would I?"

"Because—" Kageyama starts to say, then falters. That is… an excellent question. Yes, they had fucked once, and yes, Kageyama can admit that it wasn't not good. It was alright. It—

"It was more than 'alright'," Hinata says, and Kageyama ignores him.

Whatever it had been, neither of them had meant anything by it at the time. This whole situation they'd found themselves in was a mess. They’re stuck with each other against their will. And so he can’t figure out why, even if Hinata was horny, he would want to think about Kageyama—

They stare at each other.

"It's weird, right," Hinata says softly. "I know it's weird, that's why I've been avoiding you."

"Yeah, it's weird," Kageyama says. His voice feels thick in his throat. "So what, though?"

Hinata's expression glazes over. "My room is in South Hall," he says. "It's nearby."

Kageyama follows Hinata to his room in awkward silence. It's not that he hasn't thought about what happened between them, in the forest, the spell and the act that kicked everything off. He has thought about it, a lot; but it had all happened so fast, and he lacks the context necessary to know what to do next. He and Hinata aren't anything to each other, but accidentally made themselves everything to each other, apparently.

They slip into Hinata's room, and Kageyama closes the door behind them. He stares at the back of Hinata's head.

They bonded through a spell that should have been, judging from what everyone has said, impossible. He's thought about that a lot. The way it felt, Hinata's fingertips and palm burning through the layers of clothes and skin and bones, right through to his heart. He rubs at his chest again, right over the handprint tattoo he still sees every day in the mirror, and Hinata turns and looks straight into him. That's what it feels like. Kageyama doesn't know what to say.

"The last time we started with kissing," Hinata fills in. "That was…"

"It wasn't the worst," Kageyama murmurs, leaning in to find out if it will continue to be not the worst.

It takes him by surprise when Hinata reaches for him without hesitation. He slides his palms to rest against Kageyama's cheeks and lingers; with his eyes lidded, fiery lashes fluttering. He hardly breathes. His lips are soft and parted and so close to Kageyama's, Kageyama can almost feel them, the warmth.

Then he hears it, a nervous thought, passing nearly too quickly for him to catch: What if it's not the same?

Kageyama closes the nearly non-existent gap between them in an instant. Hinata shakes—one full-body shiver, when their lips meet.

Kageyama wonders, almost in retaliation, what if it's better?

Hinata moans, softly, and Kageyama pours himself into the kiss—manages to bring his hands up to grip Hinata's shoulders and anchor him there as Hinata's mouth falls open against his, wet and needy. He pushes closer, tongue sweeping across Kageyama's lips hungrily, insistently, and Kageyama suddenly feels too distant and impartial. He's been that way for far too long, considering he's supposed to be able to hear Hinata in his goddamn head—considering they are bound together.

He slides his hands down Hinata's chest, feeling it heave under his fingers. He knows what he wants, and so Hinata knows it, too, and he is already moving to help; reaching down to help tug his shirt up and off, as Kageyama rids himself of his own.

Hinata stares at his chest, at his own handprint tattooed over Kageyama's heart. Hinata wears the corresponding mark, Kageyama’s big handprint covering pale skin across the nape of Hinata’s neck. Kageyama wants to see it, suddenly, very much so. But then Hinata drags him back in again, hands grabbing, sliding over Kageyama's bare skin, and that seems so good—Kageyama responds in kind.

He hadn't done this the first time. Soft touching, slow touching. He'd been focused on the spell, on the unexpectedness of the situation, on not doing something incredibly wrong. That seems silly, now, when he could have been more focused on Hinata.

He wants to be focused on him this time.

Hinata gasps, as Kageyama tilts his head to the side, ducking in to press his lips to Hinata's chin, the underside of his jaw, his neck. He slides his hands up Hinata's back, palms pressing firmly against him, and draws his tongue over sweat-slicked skin in tandem.

"Oh—nnh, Kageyama—" Hinata mumbles. "That… feels…" Wanted this…

Kageyama's stomach jumps. Hinata wants this. They both do.

It doesn't take them long to stumble to the bed, stripping off the rest of each others' clothes as they go. Hinata pushes Kageyama down to sit onto it, but doesn't follow right away. Kageyama swallows.

"Come here," he says, tries to turn it into a demand rather than a plea at the last moment. Hinata must be able to tell, but he still shakes his head. Kageyama tries not to pout. He doesn't entirely succeed.

Hinata…

The way Hinata bites his lip when Kageyama thinks his name makes Kageyama's hips jump. He wants to rut against him, he wants to be in him—Hinata groans and slides down, to kneel between Kageyama's legs. Oh, god, he looks good there.

"L-last time…" Hinata licks his lips and looks up at Kageyama, who tries desperately not to think of anything too gross or explicit. "You said—or you thought something. About me. I want to try it."

Kageyama is hoarse when he responds. "Thought what?"

Hinata's lashes lower again, and Kageyama wants to ask him why he's being so coy, so shy and soft, and then he sees it, suddenly.

It's not a memory, but it's almost vivid enough to be one. A thought made of Hinata's imagination supplying the images, the sounds, the feelings.

Hinata, with Kageyama's cock down his throat, lips swollen and red; face flushed and eyes watering, Kageyama's hand in his hair, Kageyama rolling his hips and fucking his mouth—Hinata imagined this, after Kageyama thought he'd look good, and he would—and this image so vivid it could have been real suddenly becomes real, when Hinata whines and dives down, as soon as he feels how much Kageyama wants him.

Kageyama cries out, trying to stifle himself. It feels like fire sparking in his belly, Hinata's lips warm on the head of his cock, tongue swirling around it. Fuck.

"Hinata," he gasps, "you don't—j-just because I—"

Want to.

Kageyama inhales sharply through his nose. His hand finds its way into Hinata's hair, sifting through the soft strands and Hinata tells him, Pull it.

"Wh-what—" Kageyama is having a hard time processing, with the feeling of Hinata's mouth around him, the voice in his head, the knowledge that he is wanted—

Pull my hair.

Kageyama gasps and tightens his grip, fingers twisting against Hinata's scalp, and Hinata moans around him before sliding off him to lick him messily all over his shaft.

"I thought about this so much." Hinata’s breath is hot on Kageyama's cock. "Oh my god, I've been—" He laughs unsteadily, smiling right at Kageyama, despite the embarrassed flush across his cheeks. Something light and almost painful balloons inside Kageyama's chest. It's confusing. "This is why I couldn't look you in the eye at all—"

"Because," Kageyama says, with a distinct hitch in his voice, "you were thinking about blowing me?"

Hinata beams at him, like somehow this stupid observation is nothing less than delightful. "Yeah," he says, wiping his mouth with his hand, "and because I've been thinking about you every night to get off."

"O-oh," Kageyama says dumbly. Hinata is climbing into the bed now, on top of him. Kageyama doesn't know what to do, besides stare at him like he's never spoken to another human in his life before.

Hinata is still smiling at him. He settles himself in Kageyama's lap—he's not very heavy, but he is very warm, and his—his butt is really soft and kind of squishy on Kageyama's thighs.

"I'm not squishy," Hinata protests, and Kageyama shakes his head immediately, even though he just thought it. He didn't mean it in a bad way. Hinata giggles. "You're a lot more nice when you're naked."

"All my important parts are exposed to attack," Kageyama explains, and Hinata laughs even harder.

"Kageyama…" he murmurs, and Kageyama feels a whine bubbling up in his throat. He shoves it down. "Open your mouth."

When Kageyama does as asked, Hinata slips his fingers into his mouth for him to suck on. He feels his own face getting redder, with the way Hinata watches him. Hinata looks—good, when he's thinking about sex stuff, Kageyama thinks. His eyes lid, and his breath comes in little, heated pants through lips that are constantly plump and shiny from the way he bites them. Hinata leans closer, so Kageyama loses that view, but he shivers up the length of his whole body when he feels lips, then teeth, tug at his ear gently.

"You look good like this, too," Hinata breathes. "Can you do that thing? With the lube…"

He takes his fingers out of Kageyama's mouth, so Kageyama can Speak a brief spell, to turn the spit on Hinata’s fingers (and his cock, he remembers at the last second) into lube. Hinata hums and reaches behind himself. The last time they'd done this, neither of them had any idea what they were doing. Now…

Hinata's head falls back, and he sighs as he starts to finger himself. Kageyama watches in stunned awe.

"I figured out how to do this…" Hinata breathes. His voice is shaky. "I, um…"

He seems to be having trouble talking, but then he settles into Kageyama's lap, so he can drop his forehead to Kageyama's, and that's when Kageyama sees.

Hinata tried the first time and barely managed to get a finger in before giving up and rubbing one out while stifling his moans into his pillow.

The next time he did manage to finger himself, but he couldn't find that same spot Kageyama had, the one that made him gasp and cry—

I found it eventually! Hinata protests, feeling Kageyama’s surge of smugness.

Yeah, but I found it first, dumbass.

Okay, well, I've found it a lot more times now.

Hinata can annoy Kageyama, it seems, as easily as he can make Kageyama want to pin him down and rub against him until they both can't move anymore. He grabs Hinata's face between his hands as he sees, clear as day—

Hinata, flat on his back, knees by his ears as he worked himself open with three fingers. He held his legs up with his arm hooked under his legs, gasping as he shuddered bodily, over and over, Kageyama's name.

Kageyama growls and moves his hands to grab Hinata's ass, kneading his fingers into Hinata's round cheeks, before dragging him closer, until Hinata's thighs are spread wide across his lap and his dick is pressed to Kageyama's. Hinata moans, body lifting and falling on his own fingers.

"I want…" he gasps, and when he can't get the words out, he thinks it instead.

I want to fuck myself on your cock.

Kageyama's mind goes blank. He can only think one thing, and it matches so perfectly with Hinata's thoughts in his own head that it's like a lull, a deep silence, broken only by:

Yes.

It's not like their first time. They'd both been barely ready, then, and it was mostly frantic eagerness, and the spell high, that made it possible for Kageyama to frantically pound Hinata until they both ended up coming; and sealing themselves into some kind of lifelong magical contract, but that's besides the point.

The point is, this time, there is no magic to help them along. It's just Hinata doing the work, because Kageyama is out of his mind with desire. After seeing Hinata's memories, watching Hinata aching for him like that, trying to satisfy himself, needing it so much he couldn't face him—Kageyama can't do anything but sit there and hope his dick doesn't explode and fly clean off him like a deflating balloon. He's never been this desperate to come in his life (honestly, it's not something he's been all that interested in at all, before stupid Hinata came along); and now, Hinata is rocking up onto his knees in his lap, naked and tempting and soft under his hands, and looking at him like Kageyama's body is his to use as he pleases.

It turns out alright, that they aren't worried about old books and spells and the mage speech this time. None of it is needed, when Hinata already feels like magic.

Hinata is as tight around his cock as he was last time, but unlike before, he's in control like this, arms draped around Kageyama's neck, sitting fully on him, biting his lip at the fullness. Kageyama can feel what he wants, runs his hands slowly over Hinata's body, and Hinata moans for him.

He starts riding Kageyama's cock like he was meant for it, runs his slender little fingers down Kageyama's chest and plants his palms on Kageyama's pecs as he rocks his hips, raises himself on his knees before slamming back down again. He's being aggressive—he's taking Kageyama, and Kageyama feels like he's being pulled apart, every time Hinata rises and falls on his dick, smooth, rough heat.

Without quite meaning to, he lets his hand fly up, to grip the back of Hinata's neck—and he feels his hand quite literally locking into place there as he remembers, the tattoo.

It happens again. Everything Hinata feels—the sheer bliss, the relief, and happiness, too; Kageyama feels it. That's what undoes him, finally. Hinata is so inexplicably happy, to be with him like this.

A little while, Kageyama hears him think. I just want this for a little while.

Kageyama grabs one of Hinata's hands, and drags it into place over the mark on his heart, where it slots, a perfect mirror of the tattoo.

Hinata freezes, going rigid in his lap. And Kageyama feels his own heart then, an echoing beat that he swears is so strong that it pulses in waves outside himself; Hinata cries out—moans again, but it's high and long and loud, and Kageyama surges forward to press their lips together, in an attempt to muffle the sound.

The sudden influx of sensation seems to have rendered Hinata totally powerless, which is a different but wonderful thing all on its own; now Kageyama can wrap an arm around his whole waist (so small) to press Hinata close to him, chest to chest, as he takes over. Hinata feels like he's burning, warmth bleeding off of him. Kageyama fucks him slowly, and lets Hinata bury his face in his neck.

He knows when he's found that spot again, because he feels it through Hinata, his own pleasure spiking as Hinata squirms and cries out in his arms.

That's twice, he thinks. Hinata pounds his shoulder with a closed fist before gripping it tightly, fingers digging into Kageyama's flesh hard enough that Kageyama is sure he'll see marks later. He hopes he will.

He knows right when Hinata is about to come—Hinata tenses up, squeezing tight around his cock, spine going rigid. Kageyama crushes him against his chest and groans, because it finishes him, too; he can feel the whole thing through their bond, and there's no way to guard against the intense rush of Hinata's orgasm, or the knowledge that he's the one making Hinata shudder like that, soundless as he finishes. Kageyama holds him close and gasps, hips rolling as he spills inside Hinata.

That's twice runs through his mind again, but not as a boast, this time. He can't believe he's come inside Hinata twice. He can't really believe Hinata wanted this from him again.

Hinata sinks against him, body limp, and very sweaty. Slowly, Kageyama pushes at him until he takes the hint, lifting enough to let Kageyama pull out with a wince. Hinata's hand slides from its place on Kageyama's chest, and Kageyama loosens his grip on the back of Hinata's neck. But he can still hear what Hinata is thinking, and vice versa.

You better believe it. Even Hinata's thoughts sound sleepy. Be ready to go again in fifteen minutes.

Kageyama severely doubts Hinata will be awake in fifteen minutes.

I will!

He deserves a good smack on the ass, and Kageyama delivers it. Hinata yelps, and squashes his face into Kageyama's neck.

"Are you too good for talking out loud, now?" Kageyama asks pointedly.

"You said you liked it," Hinata reminds him, shifting to get comfortable. Kageyama rolls his eyes.

"Not constantly."

"Make up your mind." Hinata quickly covers his rear end with both hands as Kageyama considers whacking him again. "I liked you before, you know."

This distracts Kageyama sufficiently. "Huh?"

Hinata burrows further into his neck, mumbling when he speaks next. "Before the spell. I didn't… know it at the time, but I saw you and you just—stuck."

"I stuck?" Kageyama repeats. "What does that mean?" He feels Hinata shrug.

"You were just there, in my head. Kinda like now, but less obvious." He trails off, hesitant. "I knew it wasn't like that for you. That's why I've been… weird."

Something twinges, strangely, inside Kageyama's chest. No, it hadn't been like that for him. He'd run into Hinata several times before they'd been paired off and forced to work together, and he does remember being baffled by the oddness of Hinata. But it was the first time he felt Hinata's Words, his magic, shaping itself around his own that something had truly changed.

It's not the spell that made things different, though, not really. It just made him notice. And then, like Hinata said—it had stuck.

"I'm here because of you," Hinata says softly.

Kageyama shakes his head. "You'd still have gotten in without me."

Hinata laughs, very gently—sleep is finally winning out. He curls up against Kageyama, who wonders what to say, about the way he feels now. He might be out of luck until Hinata wakes up. But then he hears the smallest whisper of a thought—or a memory.

I've been looking for you for so long…

Kageyama looks down at him in surprise. "What… do you mean?"

But Hinata is asleep, already.

If you missed what exactly these two idiots did in order to start reading each others’ minds, here’s the fic!

More Kinktober? I feel a strong connection between us! ^^

#kagehina #hinata shouyou #kageyama tobio #haikyuuwriters #kinktober #kinktober2017 #kagehina fanfiction #haikyuu!! fanfiction #haikyuu!!#esselle writes #tumblr fic #mage au #nsft #essie's hq fic

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frenchy-and-the-sea · 6 years

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frenchy tell me some twin facts! (5 each or 10 each or 10 for both of them, you decide!)

YESS @colonelcupquake‘s awful trash boys are my favorite. I’ll do ten for both cause I gotta establish them as two very separate entities despite how often they are discussed only as “the twins.”

Finn:

Has a hard time hearing out of his right ear, thanks to some wayward and decidedly illegal use of fireworks. He’s not deaf, but he’s a little less likely to catch muttering from that side.

Is made particularly uncomfortable by horses. Would see posts like this and all but memorize the URL to defend himself. (thank you rufina)

Ace-spec. Not sex-repulsed or anything, it’s just generally not really at the forefront of his mind.

Is weirdly good at imitating accents. Does even better after hanging around the crew, who all have vastly different accents from vastly different parts of the world. It’s a little scary sometimes.

Taps his fingers or toes when nervous. Davin likes to make fun of him for having the most obvious tell in the world.

Leaves Alex’s employ a few years after SC concludes and manages to woo a young woman of wealth and status named Eleanor, who is sort of fond of his devil-may-care attitude. He uses his connections with Alex to help her family’s trade grow, and together they make an absolutely cutthroat team.

Duchess, the ship’s cat, absolutely loves him. She brings him ‘gifts’ all the time and if he’s sleeping in a berth, she’ll climb right in with him and purr for about seven years. He hates her at first, then slowly, begrudgingly accepts her later on.

Has a literal golden gun that is only functional if he accounts for like ten things when firing it. He is too proud to let it go though, and will defend its existance till the world stops spinning like the stubborn dumbass he is.

Is actually the better cook, of the two of them. That’s not saying much to be honest, but it’s notable enough that Davin usually automatically passes off the responsibility.

Makes up names for knots and tries to get them to catch on with the rest of the crew, ESPECIALLY the new members. Some of them do, and it drives both Alex and Tahir crazy.

Davin:

Started the trend of making accessories out of stolen El Dorado gold. He plated a set of dice in gold and even though they probably don’t roll true, he likes having them to show off.

Also ace-spec like his brother, although maybe slightly more so.

Was left handed before the accident, now gets as much use out of his left arm as possible and learns from Tahir to be ambidextrous (or as much as he can be.)

Is the older twin. Won’t let Finn forget it.

Loves to gamble and play card/dice games, but ONLY those that involve some measure of skill. If it’s just a game of pure luck, he gets incredibly irritable and probably has learned at this point not to play.

Drinks a bit more after losing his arm. Not enough to be called an alcoholic or anything, but the habit does sort of settle in while he’s recovering.

Never really settles down with one person, and instead has multiple long-term partners over the course of his life.

Has never actually killed someone before. Finn has, and he was around for that, but Davin himself never did the deed. Not before SC anyway.

Is veritably covered in freckles now. Both of the twins got fried to shit early on while sailing, but Finn very quickly found himself on Alex’s watch (at night) and Davin was out in the sun much, much more.

Takes tea with Alex on the regular after a while. Neither of them would be quite stuffy enough to do it in any other circumstances, but it’s a good excuse to trade info between watches, and to take chamomile as a sleep aid. It’s their one act of solidarity; making sure the other has a decent enough sleep to work.

God they’re such disasters. Thank you Muffin!!

#frenchy replies #seven cities #oc crap #davin #finn #this are all subject to change cause halle was only around for me to hash out some of them

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zenruption · 7 years

Text

The Daily Disaster-6/22

AN UNDER-APPRECIATED PROBLEM WITH THE TRUMP PRESIDENCY IS HOW HE AND HIS STAFF CONTINUOUSLY NORMALIZE DISASTER. BECAUSE WE WITNESS NEW SCANDALS, GAFFES, COVERUPS, HYPOCRISY, MISDIRECTION, INCOMPETENCE, ATROCITY, CRONYISM, IGNORANCE, RACISM, XENOPHOBIA, TREASON, EMBARRASSMENT, LIES, DYSFUNCTION, POWER GRABS, WAR ESCALATIONS, ENVIRONMENTAL ASSAULTS, MISOGYNY AND MORE ON A DAILY BASIS, THE MAGNITUDE OF EACH IS DIMINISHED IN OUR CONSCIOUSNESS BY THE SIMPLE VIRTUE THAT WE HAVE BECOME SATURATED. BECAUSE OF THIS, WE AT ZENRUPTION WILL BE PUBLISHING A DAILY CURATION OF THE EVENTS THAT HAVE BEEN REPORTED, FROM VARIOUS SOURCES, INCLUDING LEAKS WITHIN THE WHITE HOUSE, SO THAT WE CAN FULLY EXPERIENCE THE LEVEL OF DISASTER OUR EXECUTIVE BRANCH HAS BECOME AND THE IMPLICATIONS IT HAS ON ALL OF US. TODAY, JUNE 22, 2017

Check back often

and contribute!

By Jerry Mooney

From The Horse's Mouth (Trump tweets, then leaker tweets, then published reports)

Former Homeland Security Advisor Jeh Johnson is latest top intelligence official to state there was no grand scheme between Trump & Russia.