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nbrook29 · 3 years

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Lmao I don’t know how this happened 😆

***

June 26th 2021, Saturday

When Sander wakes up, it’s to the early morning June sunlight hitting him straight in the face. There’s a vague smell of alcohol lingering in the air, and he groans pitifully when he remembers the amount of beer he drank last night; well, it wasn’t that much per se, but for his not-usually-drinking self it was a bit much, which would explain the sour taste in his mouth. He could be beating himself up for letting a little too much loose and messing up his rather strict rules, but it’s finally summertime and he was feeling so happy and free. Exams are done and over with, bigger gatherings are allowed again, and most importantly, the love of his life has just graduated high school and-

Wait.

He blinks his eyes open, arm reaching to the other side of the bed expecting a warm body, but it’s met with cold sheets instead.

Where did that love of his life go?

Bones cracking when he sits up on the bed, he rubs the sleep out of his eyes like a little boy, looking around the room, a twinge of worry in his mind. Robbe was way more drunk than him yesterday, being a giggly, inebriated, lovely, messy mess that was barely standing when the party came to an end. Sander had to practically carry him to their cabin, with Robbe wrapped like a koala around his back, holding tight as he mumbled love declarations into Sander’s hair until he fell asleep, arm looped around his head and cheek resting on top of it. It was unbearably cute, but it was also a miracle Sander’s legs didn’t give out because as small as Robbe is, carrying his dead weight on his back is a challenge.

For a second, a dark scenario enters his mind, and he’s working himself up over Robbe maybe getting up at some point to throw up and being so drunk he choked in the bathroom (yes, he’s a tad dramatic), but then a scrap of paper lying on the makeshift bedside table that is his backpack catches his sight and relief washes over him.

It’s clearly torned out from his sketchbook and he smiles before he even reaches for it.

Come and find me when you wake up x

Little hearts were added all around for good measure and then there’s another message below.

P.S. You’re so fucking hot xxxxx

Snorting, Sander thinks back to yesterday’s afternoon when he showed up to pick Robbe up with his dad’s car so they could meet everyone in Ostend. The way his jaw dropped wide open seeing his brand new look makes him feel very smug at the mere memory.

Right next to the note there’s that piece of confetti he put in Robbe’s long hair at the party, his boyfriend blushing so prettily when Sander told him he couldn’t find a flower as beautiful as him around so the confetti had to do for the time being.

That’s Sander’s favorite activity: pulling a blush out of him with his sappy lines. Well, maybe after getting lost in their out of this world kisses. Or making love to him, slow and sweet or fast and dirty, Sander’s not picky.

5 minutes and he’s out the door after the quickest shower of his life, minty fresh and ready for a quest to find his other half. It’s still very early, the clock showing a few minutes past eight, and to be honest, Sander wonders how on earth is Robbe up and about already. He was fully preparing for a morning full of Robbe’s moans (not the good kind), cursing him for letting him drink so much and swearing on his life that he’ll never touch alcohol again.

The beach is almost empty, barely a few people lounging on the sand, and it takes him no time to spot longish brown curls flying with the force of the wind. Robbe looks lost to the world around him, sitting cross-legged and leaning back onto his arms, face turned to the sun to catch the early morning rays. A soft smile is dancing on his lips as he takes in the sight of the calm sea stretching till the horizon to the sound of whatever is playing in his headphones (probably Bowie because Robbe has a Master’s degree in his music now, courtesy of Sander Driesen) and he looks the most relaxed Sander has seen him in weeks. He looks beautiful.

And Sander is so so in love with him it hurts.

The boy must’ve sensed his presence because he turns around just when he’s a few meters away, his smile growing wide at the sight of him, squinting a little and wow, how does he look so good after a night like that? Sander wonders whether it’s his lovesick devotion that makes him see Robbe through a filter or if sleep did its job marvellously this time.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” Robbe pulls at his jean jacket to sit him right next to himself and wastes no time before looping his arms around his neck, peppering his lips with good morning kisses.

“Hey, drunkie,” Sander teases once Robbe gets his fit, earning a half-hearted glare and a soft scoff.

“I was not that drunk.”

“You fell asleep on my head while I was carrying your butt to bed.”

“Well your head is very comfy,” Robbe states matter-of-factly, leaving no room for further discussion because he shuts up any snarky comment Sander may have had with another kiss. That’s a-okay with him, and he tangles his hand in Robbe’s gorgeous locks that he will worship till the day he dies, never missing an occasion to bury his fingers in the tangled strands. The other hand joins in the fun, tugging playfully at the earring he’s also a tiny bit too obsessed with and delighting in the high-pitched sound it pulls out of Robbe.

“What are you doing here so early? I thought you’d be dead to the world till at least noon.” Sander makes himself comfy in Robbe’s embrace, leaning against him and playing with Robbe’s long fingers that are resting on his stomach.

The boy huffs a quiet laugh, a warm puff of air tickling Sander’s neck. “I think it’s the sea breeze making me sober up quicker than normally,” he pauses, hand nudging lightly at Sander’s chin to make him lift his head back and meet his eyes, a soft smile on his lips as he continues. “That and also I think that I was less drunk on alcohol and more drunk on love.”

Sander may be the king of sappy lines, but Robbe has a few of his own up in his sleeve, and everytime he pulls one out, it makes him melt into a pile of goo. Sander crashes their lips together in a kiss that’s a little too heavy for a morning in a public space, but hey, they’re drunk on love and he doesn’t care, Robbe doesn’t care either, and there aren’t many people around them anyway so fuck it. He hums into the kiss, Robbe’s tongue grazing the roof of his mouth almost as by accident, and it’s so good, it always is.

“Last night, it felt so... life-changing, you know? And I don’t know why cause not that much is changing, really.”

“You’re graduating high school, it feels big.”

“Yeah, but I’m staying here for uni, I’m not moving or anything. I don’t know, I think I’ve been feeling a little nostalgic lately.” Robbe shrugs like he doesn’t really understand it, but doesn’t want to dwell on it either. There’s a small frown between his eyebrows though so Sander reaches to smooth it out with his thumb.

Then, something comes to his mind. “Maybe it’s because of us?”

Robbe’s frown gets deeper. “What do you mean?”

Sander turns around in his arms, nodding at the surroundings, voice laced with excitement. “You know this is the first time we have been at the beach since we met?”

Brown eyes blink at him in confusion, but then they light up and match Sander’s excitement.

“Oh my god, you’re right! Fuck, it feels like a different lifetime.”

A very miserable, shitty lifetime if you ask Sander. For both of them.

“I was so lonely back then,” Robbe sighs.

Sander notices a tiny shadow of sadness fogging Robbe’s eyes, like it always happens when he thinks back to that period of his life. Some wounds were cut too deep to fully heal, but Sander’s always there to bring him back to the present.

Tugging lightly on his hair to make him look back at him, Sander gives him a lopsided grin.

“Not gonna lie, I’m very pleased this time around the only person that’s allowed to kiss you is me.”

Robbe hums, a smirk brewing on his lips. “Hmm, I don’t know, I wouldn’t say no to a kiss from Jens I think.”

And Sander knows he’s doing it on purpose, absolutely loves to rile him up and play the “Jens” card when he wants to be snogged into submission. Robbe learned early on that even though Sander’s aware he’s just joking, his possessive streak always comes out in situations like this, making their kisses extra good and their sex extra hot.

“Careful now,” Sander breathes against his mouth, the pent up tension that accumulated last night and wasn’t relieved because Robbe was too drunk hitting him hard. It seems to be mutual because Robbe bites his lip seductively, impish smile letting Sander know that he’s getting the exact reaction he was hoping for.

“Or what?”

“Or I’m gonna carry you to bed the way I did last night, but the finale will be a little different.”

Suddenly, Robbe’s smile turns softer, the gear change leaving Sander a bit confused, but he welcomes it with a chuckle when Robbe snuggles close to him, nuzzling into his neck and letting out a content sigh.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs sweetly against his skin, breaking and healing Sander’s heart all at once.

“I love you too, cutie. In elk universum.”

A giggle erupts from Robbe at the universe line. “It’s been a while since you said that.”

Sander presses a kiss to his temple. “I think I'm feeling a bit nostalgic too.”

***

The beach is slowly starting to fill out with people and bursting their little bubble so they get up reluctantly to the sounds of their grumbling stomachs that demand late breakfast. They notice their friends in the distance, spreading a huge blanket on the sand and carrying armfulls of food, and they walk over to them slowly, smiling goofily at each other and swaying their joined hands, paying no mind to people around.

“Hey, Sander?” Robbe says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“You’re gonna be dating a college boy now,” Robbe announces, and he sounds so proud and so adorable that Sander has to tease him a little.

He sighs, putting an extra edge of sorrow into it. “I think you’re getting too old for me, Robin.” A choked-off sound of pain follows, Robbe’s mellowy state not stopping him from jabbing his elbow in Sander’s ribs when he’s being a cheeky little shit. He should’ve known better by now - Robbe’s elbows are merciless.

They arrive at the spot shoving each other playfully until Zoe yells at them to behave and sit their butts down like good boys to eat their food. They dig in without needing to be asked twice, their previous bickering forgotten as Robbe feeds him sandwiches, pretending they’re airplanes and making Sander and everyone around laugh hard.

This, today, yesterday, is a new memory. One that wipes away the angst he used to associate sea and beach with after enviously watching Robbe in the arms of someone else.

This time, Robbe’s smiles are directed at him, his eyes are constantly seeking out him, hand slides surreptitiously into his hand, and Sander’s heart is bursting with happiness.

They’re going on a roadtrip this summer, just him and his favorite skater boy, and Sander cannot fucking wait. Just like he can’t wait for their future together.

And if there’s a ring sitting in his bottom drawer nobody needs to know for now.

Robbe will find out in 55 days.

#wtfock #sobbe #my fics

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scribble-blog · 4 years

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Soulmate AU part 4!

Tag list is open again! I’m trying to figure out some things, but I definitely want to expand beyond the 50tag limit on mobile!

First • Previous • Here • Next

Marinette had long since shooed her friends back to their rooms, but now she felt at a loss. She had tried to lay down and fall asleep early but her whole body seemed to buzz with awareness, the same livewire feeling as earlier but muted. She tossed and turned as the sky got dark, and eventually she gave up, pulling on a light jacket and bringing Trixx and Kaalki sleeping in the pockets before grabbing a sketchbook and making her way to the roof.

Gotham was gorgeous, even under the dark sky, lights giving shape to the gothic architecture and the silhouettes of darker areas balancing the brightness. People and cars moved down on the street below, and from her spot on high, she thought she saw a few quick shadows leap from one building to another farther away on the horizon. The famous vigilantes of Gotham, she guessed.

And then she heard feet, landing softly on the roof behind her. And she remembered exactly why this city had vigilantes.

She waited, counted to two as she heard their slow approach, and then spun, one leg flying low and knocking them over, her hand reaching out and twisting one arm back while she kicked the other one away from where they had tried to use it to catch themselves. In a half moment, she had them pinned, face into the gravel roof top.

And then she recognized the costume under her knee.

“Mon dieu, je suis desolé, je suis- I’m so sorry, Mr. Red Robin, Sir, I didn’t-“ she scrambled away, and then jumped forward again, grabbing his arm and helping him up. “I’m so sorry.”

To her shock, he laughed. “Oh my god, that was incredible. Where’d you learn to do that?”

She felt her face heat up. “Oh, well, France has its own villains, and I just- I thought you were-“

“I think that’s on me for sneaking up on you like that,” Red Robin said congenially. “Don’t worry about it, Miss...”

“Marinette!” She blurted out. “I’m Marinette.”

“Well, Miss Marinette,” Red Robin gave her an appraising looks, and she couldn’t help but try to stand a bit taller, straighter. “I wasn’t aware there were any major villains in Paris right now, let alone ones serious enough for schoolchildren to be learning that level of self defense.”

“Not aware?” The words almost blew Marinette over. Almost four years of protecting Paris, and people weren’t even aware there was a villain? “We’ve been fighting off Hawkmoth for four years!” She paled as soon as she said it, the implications of her superhero activities in that sentence catching up to her. “That is, literally, everyone has to fight him off, since he targets us with the Akumas, and then-“

Red Robin held out a hand, stopping the flow of her words. “Hold up, wait. Explain what this... Hawkmoth? Does.”

Marinette took a deep breath. “Hawkmoth has the ability to find people with overwhelmingly negative emotions, and then he uses magic to turn those innocent people into monsters called Akumas which do his bidding. He’s been doing this for almost four years, to the point where people in Paris are afraid to feel anything negative, or he might try to use them. And with so many people repressing their emotions, they’ve started breaking down, and the buildup of extreme negative mental states just creates increasingly powerful Akumas.”

She said it all in one very long breath, and at the end felt lighter. On the one hand, it was horrifying that no one outside of France, or possibly even just Paris, knew about any of it. On the other- if they didn’t know, then she could try reaching out again, this time face to face. She could ask for help.

Red Robin just stared at her, incredulous and- worried? “Are there any heroes who are trying to stop him?”

She leaned back, indignant. “Of course! We’ve got Chat Noir and Ladybug, and the entire Miraculous Team!”

Even with his eyes covered in that disconcerting white, she could see them narrow. “Do you think you’d be able to tell me a little bit more about them? About what’s going on in France?”

Marinette assessed the situation, and then very quickly came to a decision. “I think I can do you one better. I personally know some of the heroes, and if you think you can offer anything to them-help, or training, or even just advice- I can ask Ladybug and Chat Noir to come here to speak to you.”

His eyes seemed to widen. “I can’t guarantee anything of that sort, Marinette, I’m sorry- but if I can talk to them, and bring Batman in on this, then we’ll see what we can do and if we can help.”

Marinette nodded. “I can have them meet you tomorrow night. Up here on the roofs?”

He cast his gaze around. “Wayne Enterprises. The rooftop there. You’re certain they can be here tomorrow, say around ten?”

“They can use magic to get here,” she confides, and he nods, seeming to understand.

“I’ll meet with them first,” he tells her carefully. “And then, if necessary, I’ll call Batman in to speak to them as well. I’m sorry that Paris has been suffering alone.”

She nods, feeling tears gathering in her eyes. She wants to hug him but she holds herself back, overflowing with gratitude and exhaustion and over all of it, relief that they might actually finally receive some sort of aid. “Thank you, Red Robin.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he mutters, and Marinette can’t help but feel that she might not have been meant to hear it. “You should get inside. Even this high up, Gotham can be very dangerous at night.”

She nods, and gathers up the unused sketchbook. “Even if there’s nothing you can do. It’s good to know that somebody- knows. Thank you.”

She turns around before he can say anything else, ducking back inside and making her way back down to her room.

Trixx and Kaalki immediately zoom out of her pocket.

“Marinette, are you sure about this?” Kaalki questions, but Marinette just nods.

“I tried reaching out to the Justice League- several times!- back at the beginning! And Chloé said her father had sent in messages asking for aid as well! And now-“

She sat down on the bed and curled up, putting her head in her hands and just breathing. Trixx and Kaalki settled on her shoulders comfortingly.

“I need Adrien and Chloé.”

She pulls out her phone and calls Chloé first. She answers on the fifth ring.

“What’s wrong, Dupain-Cheng,” Chloé demands.

“Not emergency. But I need to talk to you and Adrien now.”

Chloé huffs, and Marinette can almost see her eyes roll. “I’ll grab him.”

The blonde hangs up before Marinette can say thank you.

Carefully she uncurls her body and stands up, stretching lightly before she starts to pace. Is seems like only seconds after that there’s a knock on her door, and Adrien and Chloé are let in.

“I just had a run in with one of Gotham’s vigilantes,” Marinette begins with no preamble, “and they have no idea about what’s been happening in Paris. I volunteered to have them meet with the heroes tomorrow night here in Gotham in hopes that they’d be willing to work with us against Hawkmoth.”

She watched both of her friends blink dumbfoundedly.

Then Chloé snorted. “Yep. Dupain-Cheng, actual shitty action rom-com main character.”

“I am not!” Marinette yelled as Adrien doubles over laughing. “Listen, I’m going to use Kaalki to retrieve Tikki tomorrow, and then I was going to have the three of us meet them. On top of Wayne Enterprises.” She looked them both in the eyes, trying to impress upon them how serious she was. “We’ve been fighting against him for almost four years now, and between our inexperience and our actual lives, we haven’t gotten any closer to actually finding and stopping him. I think this is our chance to do that, and I need you both with me.”

Adrien hugged her. “We’ve got your back, Mari. You don’t have to worry.”

She relaxed into it as Chloé wrapped them both into her arms. “Thanks, guys. So, I was planning on telling them...”

TAGLIST:

@the-fusionist @rebecarojas07 @lowandco @kotaleartzu @resignedcatservant @alenee13 @mystery-5-5 @ladybug-182 @actual-disaster-human @loysydark @rumbelle18 @magic-miraculous @vixen-uchiha @athena452 @mochegato @ash-amg @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry @thestressmademedoit @sassakitty @doriebell @jessigurl-design @emotionalsupportginger @kceedraws @kuroko26 @moonystars14 @toodaloo-kangaroo @myazael @theatreandcomicfreak @mer-mel @dahjokester @northernbluetongue @area51qt @renscorpio @redscarlet95 @razzledazzle247 @rosep16 @tired-butterfly @catthhay @shamefullove @imanerddealwith @chaosace @captainmac6 @dast218 @abrx2002 @cici-schnee @multplelifes @shreky-boi @purple-people-eaters-productions @crazylittlemunchkin @weird-pale-blonde-person

#maribat #daminette #daminette soulmates #soulmate AU #fanfic

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himbohargreeves · 4 years

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And then I heard them mentioning my name

Summary: Vanya finds Diego reading through old interviews she did, and they have a long overdue conversation about that book.

Word Count: 1302

Square Filled: Interview

Characters: Vanya Hargreeves & Diego Hargreeves

Warnings: Swearing

A/N: The fifth of nine entries for @tuacreatorsbingo!

You can read it here, or on my AO3

It had been an interesting two weeks, to say the least. One minute Vanya had been working as a nanny on a farm, the next she and her incredibly dysfunctional siblings were trying to save the world and accidentally wiped themselves out of their own timeline. But that was all behind them, and now they were all busy trying to settle back into their normal lives. Allison was away visiting Claire, and Vanya was at home, with all but one of her brothers camping out in her front room.

None of them had been keen on the idea of staying at the house any longer, and, as it turned out, none of them really had anywhere else to go. Luther had only ever lived at home, Klaus had been couch surfing since he was seventeen, Five, legally, didn’t exist, and Diego… Diego hadn’t actually given a reason, just showed up silently with the others and dumped a backpack full of clothes in the corner of her room. It was cramped, to say the least. Her apartment had barely had enough space for her. But it was nice, after so many years alone, having them all there, bickering about stupid things and squashing onto the couch together to watch old movies.

It was late in the afternoon, and Vanya was just getting back from a violin recital. The apartment was empty, not unusual for that time of day, but there were still tell-tale signs of life that comforted her. The empty coffee cup Five always left in the same spot on the table, dishes in the sink from the huge breakfast Luther had cooked for them all, the sketchbook Klaus had left open on the armchair, and the multicoloured chalky fingerprints he’d left on the armrest. Smiling to herself, she hung her scarf up and padded across the room to make a coffee, stopping midway when she heard the sound of movement coming from her bedroom.

“Five?” She called as she pushed the door open, used to him dropping in unannounced.

There was a mess of papers and magazines scattered across the floor, and she was so distracted by the mess that it took her a moment to spot Diego, sat in the furthest corner of the room with his eyebrows knitted together in concentration as he studied the magazine he was holding.

“Diego?”

His head snapped up, squaring his shoulders and then relaxing again when he spotted her.

“You’re back early,” He observed, glancing around at the mess he’d made and giving her an apologetic look. “I’m gonna clean this up after.”

“What is all this stuff?” She asked as she walked over to him, crouching down to examine the papers. There were newspaper clippings, magazine articles, posters, all about them. Well, about the Umbrella Academy anyway. She picked up one of the newspaper articles, scanning over the story about one of her siblings’ earlier missions. “Where did you get these?”

“Dad’s study.”

Frowning, she scooted across the floor to sit next to him. “Why would you go back there?”

“You sound like Doctor Moncton.”

“Who?”

“I was looking for this.” He said abruptly, handing her a thick notebook, bound in red leather with “RH” embossed on gold on the cover. It didn’t take long for her to figure out what it was.

“Figured we should destroy it,” He mumbled. “Before it ends up in the wrong hands again and triggers round three of doomsday.”

“Yeah, that was probably a good call.” She nodded, running her thumb along the spine and looking back up at him. “Did you read any of it?”

He shook his head. “I started to. Made it as far as ‘insolent brat’ and decided maybe it wasn’t a good idea.” Chuckling, he tossed the book across the room and slumped back against the wall. “Can’t believe he kept all this shit.”

Vanya hummed thoughtfully, leafing through the fuzzy photos of her siblings in their masks. It stirred up a strange mixture of emotions, but mostly she just felt sad. Sad for herself, sad for her siblings, sad that their father seemed to have put more effort into collecting news articles than he had caring for his children.

“I guess he just wanted to boost his ego,” She said quietly as her eyes fell on their dad’s photo on a front page spread. “I mean, the Academy was his real baby, right? He didn’t care about anything beyond that.”

“Yeah, I thought that too,” Diego murmured, looking up at her. “But he also kept stuff about you.”

He handed her the magazine he’d been reading, folded open on an interview she’d done a few weeks after her book release. She cringed at the photo, looking almost in pain as she forced a smile for the photographer. Seeming to pick up on her exact train of thought, Diego leaned in closer to look at the page.

“That’s a terrible photo of you.”

“Thanks,” She said sarcastically, biting back a laugh as a small smile crept across his face.

She started reading through the interview, and the smile faded from her face again. Almost half her answers were just thinly veiled attacks on her siblings. Attacks that, at the time, had felt so justified. But now, after everything they’d been through together in the last few weeks, she couldn’t even bring herself to read the whole thing, tossing the magazine aside and tucking her knees up under her chin.

The two of them sat in silence for a few minutes, and Vanya could feel her brother’s eyes boring into her. When she looked back up at him, there wasn’t the same burning, angry look in his eyes that she’d grown accustomed to after their first reunion. He was just… observing her, trying to gauge her reaction to her own words.

“I…” She paused, struggling to find the right words to try and justify the things she’d said. “I was in a really bad place back then and… I know I said a lot of shitty things about you guys but-”

“I don’t care about that,” He interrupted and she frowned.

“You don’t?”

“No. Christ.” He made a face, shaking his head. “I wasn’t exactly nice to you when we were kids. Actually I was... a colossal asshole.”

“We were all assholes,” she pointed out. “I think it’s just a Hargreeves thing.”

“Yeah.” He huffed out a laugh. “Yeah you’re right.”

He was quiet for a moment, chewing on his lip before he spoke again.

“I had nightmares,” He said quietly, looking down at his hands. “Every night after I left home, for almost five years. I’d close my eyes and it was like I was right back in academy training with dad barking bullshit orders at me. And I was just starting to get better when you wrote that book, and then it was right back to square one.”

Vanya shuffled closer to him. Part of her expected him to move away from her, but he stayed, letting her press up against his arm.

“I’m really sorry,” She said softly. “I mean… I was angry at you guys, but I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“I know you weren’t.” He leant his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. “Still sucked though.”

She nodded, resting her head on his shoulder, and a moment later she felt his arm winding around her and hugging her closer.

“You tell anyone about any of this and I’ll kill you in your sleep,” He mumbled and she laughed, sitting upright again.

“Message received.”

He grinned at her, possibly the first genuine smile she’d seen from him since they were kids, and got to his feet.

“Wanna set fire to dad’s journal?” He asked, holding his hand out to help her up.

“Fuck yeah.”

#the umbrella academy #tuacreatorsbingo #diego hargreeves #vanya hargreeves #tua fanfic #tua2 spoilers #my fics

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sammansonn · 4 years

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my thoughts on the 100 7x14

yes i’m a day late because i’ve been putting off watching the 100 for the last 24 hours because fuck jroth and my life feels a bit broken ya know?

okay so honestly if last week’s episode hadn’t of happened i would’ve liked a lot of parts in this episode, which honesty pisses me off more

i liked the fact that they were back on earth, its been like 200 years which is strange to think about

i liked all the small convos between people they were honestly kinda sweet

my fave was indra and octavia because those two hadn’t talked in so long and they’re so deeply connected to one another i needed them to talk again (also i always love a lincoln reference because fucking jroth said “lets kill him too”)

also like that indra finally apologized to gaia because honestly she’s kinda a shitty mom at times and gaia deserves better

i said this in another post but i’m not surprised that clarke smashed the helmet because this clarke isn’t Our clarke, our clarke wouldn’t have killed bellamy and she never would’ve hid out on earth and letting all those on sanctum suffer, but this clarke that jroth randomly created last week is that selfish i guess (okay but also i Do understand why she did it like i’m not saying i Hate clarke now i still love this clarke but its just complicated i don’t know fuck jroth)

the scene where clarke told everyone she killed bell honestly fucking Hurted, and as everyone else has said in what world would they all be okay with her killing bell But i also understand why they understood (and also am just glad we’re not having another “everyone hates clarke” things)

first off All of them knew how much clarke loved bellamy, and i guess they know that even if they hate her she hates herself more

also in octavia’s case, after basically parenting hope for 10 years she not only understood bell needing to take care of her but she understands clarke’s protectiveness over madi and again, octavia Knows that clarke loved bell and honestly i liked seeing them hug

but again, she would Never kill bellamy, i’m just saying in this stupid au that jroth has suddenly made canon i get why they forgave her

anyway i liked the fight between madi and clarke because obviously clarke done fucked up and madi needed to say it also madi’s a teenager(?) now so she’s in her rebellious phase

Also, i just wanna talk about how not only was clarke killing bellamy disrespectful to fans and honestly just cruel, it was shitty writing

its just a redo of clarke leaving bell in polis (even though she fucking Said she’d never forget he was family again fuck you jroth) and now we’re just back to her making decisions for everyone even though no one asked her to

and here’s the thing, most of the time when clarke makes a decision for everyone there’s usually a good reason Or they basically forced her to make the choice

but in this case, clarke’s reasoning was very much her own even though it greatly impacted the group And there was no need for her to take charge and make a decision like that

ALSO back to poor writing clarke Knew that she didn’t get the sketchbook and she Knew that cadogan could come back to earth so Why would she think they were suddenly safe there??? like not only would clarke never run and hide but she’s also smart enough to know that she was not in a good hiding place At All

i liked drunk niylah, she was a fun time

emori murphy and raven are a power trio as usual

really weird when murphy is smarter and more compassionate than clarke (not saying Murphy isn’t either of those things because he is and he’s been getting so much more hero-like this season but more than clarke??? hello????)

thought the convo with echo and niylah was interesting i liked hearing what both of them said but kinda weird it was to each other because have they even really met? like i’m pretty sure that was their first one on one convo so thats fun

hope and jordan was expected, i mean they both had a very similar childhood and grew up on stories and then had to meet said stories and lost their parents and all that so sure, stick them in a romance, why not (even though echo and hope would’ve been better but jroth is a pussy and isn’t gonna make hope a lesbian like he should have i mentioned fuck jroth)

okay also can we talk about miller for a sec? because he’s literally been with us since the pilot, he is one of the OG 100, and i feel like we barely know him???

like first off he had a whole other boyfriend for the majority of the show (i don’t remeber his name but he was cute) and i don’t think we ever saw/heard of them breaking up? also did we ever see miller and jackson get together because all i remember is that one episode they were just dating and i was like “yeah okay checks out”

also i barely remember his dad giving up his spot like i’m sure they showed it but idk i just feel like he’s a black gay character whose been o the show the same time as clarke, octavia, and bellamy and yet we barely know him, but honestly who’s surprised with jroth thats just how he be

i also knew gabriel died because i saw the spoiler on twitter cuz i just didn’t care and i was sad obviously but honestly the scene was just kinda weird with clarke focusing on madi and also the fact that like only echo and hope and octavia are close to him or really know him? even octavia didn’t hang out with him for that long so idk i feel like not everyone needed to be in that room for the death idk just a weird vibe of that scene and then with madi sneaking out while he was dying idk (he seemed happy to die tho which is nice like i guess he’d lived long enough)

we love madi being like her mom and not wanting anyone to die for her, i feel real bad for clarke because that girl about to have a breakdown but honestly clarke what did you expect you raised this girl she’s a bad bitch and an independent bitch but honestly that was an emotional scene with madi and the knife

also really small thing that pissed me off (goes back to the murphy being better than clarke now) is when they were stuck in that room and murphy is hitting the crowbar against the window and clarke is just standing off to the side like “stop murphy its not gonna break” like ???? what???

that scene made No sense, in what world is someone trying to kill/kidnap madi and clarke is just standing there?? she would be throwing her entire weight against the doors and trying to break off its hinges, remember when bellamy told her they were putting the flame in madi and clarke tried to rip her handcuffs off of a pipe? yall remember that? because jroth sure doesnt

why the fuck did it look like murphy cared More than clarke, like obviously they all care but clarke is her mom ????

this is just another way jroth has also killed our clarke along with bellamy

in conclusion, fuck jroth, also rip gabriel, and fuck jroth

#the 100 #the 100 spoilers #clarke griffin #madi griffin #bellamy blake #octavia blake #indra #gaia #niylah #jordan green #hope diyoza #nathan miller #gabriel #raven reyes #emori #john murphy #echo #echo kom azgeda

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paaradoxum · 4 years

Text

BakuTodo Rec List of Fics Vol. II

It’s been a while since the last time I did the other list and many new, wonderful fics appeared (the dynamics will be the same: AO3 fics that includes top!Bakugou and bottom!Todoroki for those that are NSFW), so if you wanna check out here is Part I.

This time there are 32 fics in this list, I have more and probably I will make Part III soon.

Spoiler: EVERY SINGLE one of these stories are FUCKING AWESOME.

Rating: G

→ flowers die, feelings grow by kinneyb

Summary: When Bakugo first visits a local flower shop with Jirou, he buys some flowers in a lame attempt to piss off one of the employees - a guy named Shouto. But then he gets a little too invested in keeping his flowers alive.

→ Pretty by doop-doop.

Summary: Like so many things that had to do with Shouto, the question took Bakugou entirely by surprise. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

→ For a Single Moment by itsclowreedsfault.

Summary: Katsuki shakes his head with a sigh and an unbidden smile. Shouto's always been like an overexcited kid when it came to cats; Katsuki should've known he didn't stand a chance against them in Shouto's first visit to a cat cafe.

Rating: T

→ Ruin My Life by justhavesex.

Summary: He's not a vengeful person, really, he's not.

But him and Bakugou have started this little on-going war of theirs back in middle school when they were 10 years old and Todoroki had accidentally—if you got Todoroki drunk enough and fed his ego well enough he would, in fact, admit that it was very much on purpose—accidentally fed Bakugou's limited edition All Might magazine to his cat.

→ Aesthetic Distance by llyn.

Summary: This was around the time Shouto was appearing in all the blogs and rags and instagrams wearing a hideous faux fur coat of bright, hot neon like some awful crawling creature from an acid trip had been hunted and skinned, its pelt draped over Shouto's shoulders.

→ Dance To This by justhavesex.

Summary: Bakugou has never cared much about being an alpha, not really, not until he met the most frustrating omega in all existence: Todoroki Shouto.

→ Welcome to the Mile-High Club by minhakos.

Summary: In which Todoroki realizes that maybe airplanes aren't the only thing that should make him nervous.

→ Boyfriend Tactics by Esselle.

Summary: 'Shouto's eyes go impossibly wide. He seems to lose all powers of communication for a moment and just stands there, frozen, staring at Katsuki and the kitten. Finally, eventually, he utters the tiniest noise Katsuki has ever heard him make.

"Ah…" '

Katsuki comes to the aid of a small and fluffy civilian while on patrol.

→ Line by Line by Lillabelle.

Summary: With half his sketchbook filled with drawings of the guy, Katsuki wondered if he’s already crossed the line of being insanely creepy. They’ve never spoken, and he honestly only knew the person’s name was Todoroki Shouto because of role call in class. Shouto was just… so unique to look at with his half and half appearance. It was hard for Katsuki’s eyes not to get drawn to him. Not to mention they shared several classes, so if Katsuki ever got bored and felt like drawing something, there he was.

→ a todobaku one-shot collection by kagehinataboke.

Summary: all of my multiple, multiple, multiple todobaku one-shots. i stan two (2) dipshit boys that are obviously in love and hate with each other.

→ amaryllis by ?

Summary: The amaryllis has come to symbolize pride, determination and radiant beauty. Somehow this all suited Katsuki a lot more than Shouto expected.

→ tell ourselves a good lie by ElmoIsSatan. (In-Progress 12/?)

Summary: For a straight guy with anger issues, getting a “boyfriend” might just be his only escape.

Or-

Bakugo makes an impulsive decision and suddenly gains a boyfriend just to prove his parents wrong... The only problem is it’s all fake.

→ how to register for a library card (and get a boyfriend in the process) by Kaleid369.

Summary: “Friends have each other’s numbers, yeah?” Bakugou shrugs. “I don’t hate you, I guess.”

“Lucky me.”

“Lucky you,” Bakugou snorts. “I gotta go. Text me so I have your number.”

“I will.”

He's already started walking away when Shouto blurts out, “See you tomorrow?”

Bakugou shoots him a smirk over his shoulder, as if to say, Duh.

Shouto stands and stares at his retreating back, and the thought of kissing him pounds along with the beat of his heart.

→ on brand by dinosuns.

Summary: Midoriya is honestly unsure what’s worse: the tragic fact that Todoroki Shouto can make anything look objectively incredible or the fact Kacchan has six versions of the exact same photograph saved onto his camera roll.

Nobody saves a photo that many times by accident.

Kacchan set the bar, Todoroki raised it. That is not a good thing.

→ The Journey Home by dinosuns.

Summary: “Your hair looks real fucking nice.”

“I thought it was about time I grew it out,” Todoroki says, something wistful caught in his voice. “You were always saying I should.”

That’s true. And Bakugou is satisfied to know he was right about it looking good, but it’s not like he can share that with the fucking class anymore.

Bakugou tells himself that he's fine with how things turned out between them. He also tells himself he's not still in love.

Rating: M

→ Zephyr by yeetin. (In-Progress 4/?)

Summary: The breeze that sifted gently through a golden sea of tall, dry grass brought the tiny spike of a different scent. An inconspicuous little prickle down the spine, barely even worth paying attention to. Something no one else would even imagine being able to notice.

But Bakugou did.

→ Objection, Your Honor by Myona. (In-Progress (8/?)

Summary: Shoto Todoroki hated Katsuki Bakugou. And he had plenty of reasons to do so.

But he didn't know that how things can change for the two of them who saw nothing but trouble in each other's presence and life altogether. Katsuki was a trouble from the first time Shoto heard his name, to the first day he met the man.

Rating: E

→ On Hot Blondes and Drunken Hookups by Crossfire. (In-Progress 4/?) I love this so so much.

Summary: “I’m Bakugou. What’s your name, Pretty Boy?”

Shouto looks at the drink in his hand, then back to the beautiful blonde boy, then back to the drink and downs it in one go, ignoring the slight burn as it slides down his throat, and while it would have been more suave to appear unaffected, he gives his head a little shake. He takes a quick breath and forces the words out before he has a chance to realize what a massive mistake this all is.

“Hot blondes I want to bang can call me Shouto.”

→ Tick Tick Boom by Ajaxthegreat. (In-Progress 6/?) THIS is so good, I’m in love.

Summary: An exhausted socially awkward violin prodigy and a deaf punk rock drummer walk into a bar.

→ Better Take a Mental Picture by chibibeeee. This is HOT HOT.

Summary: The one where Deku watches Bakugou take Todoroki and their exhibitionist kink is unlocked.

→ Cover: Blown by darkanddank. (In-Progress 1/2)

Summary: Some undercover agents got hooked on drugs. Went full Stockholm Syndrome, flipped and joined up with the other side. As Bakugou’s palm went flat over Todoroki’s navel and dove beneath his closed zipper, Todoroki started to understand just how easy it might be to go rogue.

...aka cop Todoroki gets his world rocked so hard by bad guy Bakugou that he has an existential crisis

→ Just One Bite by Crossfire.

Summary: This particular fuckup begins when he saves a cat from a demon in a sketchy alley.

Well, maybe slightly before that when his esteemed hedge-witch mentor turned out to be an incubus who coincidentally turned him and his stupid nerdy neighbor into incubi.

Or maybe when he was born to a non-magic family, but early on developed minor magical inclinations that turned out to be not-so-minor and kind-of-hugely-destructive.

Wherever this fuckup was born, it’s culminated as follows: Bakugou has been an incubus for one hundred and twenty-two days, seven hours, and thirty-six minutes, has not had a single successful feed, and is essentially slowly starving to death. His mentor is suspiciously MIA and that stupid shitty nerd has managed to secure himself a two-person harem so it’s just Bakugou, starving. To death. Slowly.

→ Gangster by Brixxen.

Summary: Bakugou is a detective trying to solve a case that's been open for months. He ends up in a town and meets a man who could be his undoing...

Todoroki wasn't expecting the blonde at the bar to leave him wanting more...

→ How to spend a Friday night by veltana.

Summary: That's how Katsuki ended up on his bed on a Friday night leaning against the headboard with his laptop between his spread legs, his hard dick in his hand, watching Shouto open himself up for him on the screen.

→ Your Turn by doop-doop.

Summary: An extra scene/epilogue/continuation of smd.

Bakugou and Todoroki housesit for Bakugou's parents and take advantage of Bakugou's large bed.

→ Comfort by hellaradholly.

Summary: Katsuki agrees to be Shouto's roommate after UA despite having an unbearable crush on him.a gift for Katie for the BakuTodo Valentine's Day Exchange!

→ Empire of Dirt by castiiron, clairesail. (In-Progress 5/?)

Summary: There was something different about being with Bakugou Katsuki. Something that Shouto had been searching for tonight, to no avail. A consistent burn in his gut, the warmth of a fire that hadn’t been stoked in many years. Katsuki had been inexcusably rough with him. Harsh in a way that had pulled him back to reality. Shouto hadn’t realized he was missing out, being so used to what he knew; going through the motions, a means to an end. His life for the last few years had revolved around mediocre sex as a way to abate constant desire, always at the forefront of his mind.

Unhealthy coping mechanisms are easier to hide when you aren't screwing your ex-classmate.

→ Be Quiet by chibibeeee.

Summary: Katsuki and Shouto stay the night at Deku's. If only they had any self control, then they wouldn't have to keep so quiet.

→ Speak Softly My Sweet Villain by Brixxen.

Summary: Ask anyone in Tokyo and they’ll tell you the same thing. That the No.1 Pro Hero Todoroki Shoto is the perfect hero. He’s kind to everyone, always the first to arrive on a crime scene, always the calm and collected hero everyone wants him to be.

It was ironic how things happened to lead Shoto to his current situation. Him moaning and shuddering like a teenager, clinging to the strong perfect body of the most wanted villain in Japan, Ground Zero.

→ Peanuts and Wolves by cashmeresho.

Summary: “Yeah, man, okay!” The guy holds up his hands in surrender and Shouto shoots him another apologetic look. “I really didn't know you guys were married! I didn't see a ring!”

“Oh,” Katsuki says. He frowns hard for a minute and then grabs Shouto by the arm to whisk him away to his table with Izuku and Kirishima to guard him or sniff him or whatever weird territorial thing he wants to do.

→ College Roommates|BakuTodo by S_Kuro.

Summary: Todoroki is the son of the famous Todoroki Enji, also known as Endeavor, his father is a famous business man that wants Todoroki to take over his business, but Todoroki wants to become a photographer. He goes against his father's wishes and goes to an art university miles away from home. There he meets a certain explosive blonde, who turns out to be his roommate. what sorts of ridiculous shenanigans will they find themselves in and what relationships will they end up in.

a BakuTodo fanfic

This is my first fanfic with these two, so don't judge me and I hope you like it.

→ Locker Room by darkqueen_25.

Summary: There are worse things to walk in on in a locker room, Inasa thinks, than your two new friends fucking against the shower walls.

There's probably nothing better than being asked to join in, though.

#bnha #mha #bakutodo #todobaku #todoroki shouto #bakugou katsuki #shouto todoroki #katsuki bakugou #bakugou x todoroki #top!bakugou #bottom!todoroki #bakutodobaku #fanfic #fic recommendations #fic list

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heartofsnark · 3 years

Text

This is Love (Chapter Eight): Whispers of Wolves

Notes: Heyo, since A) I took a break and B) it’s friday the thirteenth, as it was when I posted the first chapter of this is love back in January, I decided to go ahead and post chapter 8 today. Chapter 9 is already done and I’ll be beginning work on chapter 10 soon, as this is my current hyper fixation. I hope you all enjoy.

Word Count: 8671

Chapter Warnings: Oh boy we got some shit today my dudes! Stories/Reference of Past Child Abuse, Animal Death In the Context of Hunting, Homphobic Slurs/Homphobia towards lesbians, and referenced past anti-Semitism. Less important but there’s a pov change and like three different quotes in this chapter, from the Book of Joseph, and two different songs, which is probably a lot but I ain’t editing this shit anymore

For chapter one and the warnings about this fic’s overarching themes, please click here!

For the previous chapter; click here

Pain cracks through Joseph’s skull late that night, shooting across from each temple, seeming to split his head apart. He sits on the edge of his small bed, a modest bedroom in the back of his church. He knows what it means, he’s grown accustomed to the sharp ringing pain, visions always come with it. They’ve started to come more frequently since The Lamb arrived.

He grabs at his head, as if he could press hard enough to keep his skull together as pain racks him, an instinctual reaction. Pain strikes through and breaks the reality of the world around him, closed eyes starting to see visions of what could be, images of what may await him.

A world anew surrounds him; one changed by the Collapse and washed of sins. Lush and natural, even more beautiful than the world that came before it. Vibrant pink flowers decorate the earth, thick green moss covering trees. A soft pink flowered apple tree stands at the center of the compound, white buildings replaced with hand made little houses.

Men and women are all around, working around New Eden. Parents playing with their children, carrying their babies; loyal followers allowed to pass through the gates and grow their family. Some members bring back hunted animals to be prepared for meals and others tending to gardens.

And then he sees his brothers and sister.

A fact that changes time and time again as his visions come to him in waves. He’s seen New Eden with and without them. He’s seen each of his siblings die time and time again, old and young, premonitions of what will be or what could be.

In this version, this vision, he’s been allowed his siblings. Faith, Jacob, and John talk at a distance where Joseph can’t quite hear the words, only taken in the moment. Jacob and John’s ages showing more clearly in the gray just starting to pepper their hair.

A voice rises above all others, cutting through the mumbled conversation through the compound, and Joseph knows it’s calling towards him. The soft voice calls him a name similar in meaning to his title, but it cuts to his heart so differently.

“Papa!”

Through the eyes of his older self, he can only watch and take in what happens, no control as he turns to see the source. A young boy of about five comes running towards Joseph, bright blue eyes and an even brighter smile. Joseph’s body moves of it’s own volition reaching out to hug his son, his son, but before he can feel the embrace of his child the world cracks apart again.

Pain splinters through the world and rips him from the moment, when he opens his eyes again he’s back in his room. And his hands itch to hold his son who’s yet to exist, instead he rubs at his temples, fingers knotting in his own hair as he attempts to soothe the agony within his own head. The only respite being what he hopes is a new promise from his creator. A chance for his family to not only walk with him to New Eden, but the chance to expand it.

He’ll have a son. The very idea soothes his pain and is like a salve to frayed nerves. Becoming an internal mantra as he eases himself back to sleep that night.

Sweat coats Dahlia’s skin as she does another push up, her muscles aching at the workout. She shifts to lay on her back on the living room floor, t-shirt riding up her sweaty stomach. Her second day of no work has turned into an impromptu work out, push up and using doorways for chin-ups. She uses her shirt to wipe sweat off her forehead before grabbing her phone to check the time. Dahlia must have gotten her way through the day, it has to be late by now.

“Fucking hell.”

It’s noon, it’s only fucking noon.

“Ahhhhhhhhhh!” She screams into a pillow, how the fuck is it only noon? Dahlia looks at the mess of her coffee table, trying to consider what to do just to eat at her time, she could draw again. But her hand is still cramping. She read somewhere you’re suppose to do warm up for drawing, she’ll have to start doing that.

Then she sees the Book of Joseph, her drawing still sticking out of it. She’s burned through her backlog of manga on her phone and fuck, it’s something to do. Joseph seemed like a genuinely sweet man, maybe he has something interesting to say. Music still blasting, because everything in her life requires a soundtrack, she opens the book.

“Bless the name of those who have dealt you blows.

Be grateful to those who have caused you harm.

For it is these sufferings that have led you to me.”

The first sermon in the book, she chews her lip, it’s not that much different from things Joseph told her yesterday, that he’s thankful her past led her to him. But, something rubs her wrong about the idea of being grateful for her abuse. Not for her, she plans on dying mad about it. She reads onward, an illustration of a flaming capital building surrounded by waves with someone drowning in the foreground. That’s…dramatic.

“If a person had been walking down the poorly maintained road out front of the Seed’s house on that afternoon in June and felt the strange urge to glance over, they would have witnessed a bizarre sight.

They would have seen a man dress in black pants and a white undershirt, frothing with anger, brandishing a comic book in one hand and a bible in the other at his son, a child of about ten. But no one had been down this in the poor suburb of Rome, Georgia, in a long time. Not ice cream trucks, not social service cars, not even police patrols.”

Dahlia stops almost three pages in as Joseph begins to write about a dying widow who once gave him and Jacob cakes before she grew sick. The picture he’s painted is far too clear and hits too close to home for her to continue, at least for the moment. A belligerent bible thumping drunk of a father who derided Joseph for loving Spiderman comics and beat Jacob’s back for the younger brother’s supposed misgivings.

Father Monroe, her stepfather, wasn’t quite the ruddy faced sloppy drunk that Old Man Seed was. But when Joseph describes Jacob offering his back up for a beating, she nearly feels the bite of leather against her own. Stripes for the backs of fools, is all she hears.

She wants to talk to Joseph, she realizes, thinking of both the beginning sermon passage and how their own pasts match up. Does he really bless the man who hurt him? Is he grateful for Old Man Seed? Maybe that kind of forgiveness and peace with it comes with age or is it just him? Ruth has a similar story as well, a little older than Dahlia, and she holds on to the same anger Dahlia does. Has Joseph managed to let it go? Does he still like Spiderman? Did his father beat the passion for comic books out of him or does he still enjoy them? Its hard to imagine, the intense Joseph Seed casually reading a comic book.

Less than three pages is a pathetic excuse for reading and didn’t pass much time, but it’s intense for her. So, she’d rather just…stare at the wall for a bit until she’s ready to tackle it again.

It’s Saturday night, Pratt and Hudson won’t be going to The Spread Eagle tonight, because no work. Meaning a rather mundane day with no interruptions. Other than a short walk, Dahlia spends the rest of it fucking around on her phone and watching shitty tv; passing out after downing an unevenly heated microwave meal.

Sunday morning rolls around, spent much like the last, Dahlia using her down time and excess energy to work out. It’s important to stay on top of exercising and staying in shape, given her profession, she makes a mental note to order some weights online. There’s not really a proper gym in the county and she doesn’t want to lose muscle.

She’s in the middle of another round of pushups when there’s a knock at her door; she jumps up from her position, skin still slick with sweat as she rushes towards the door. Finally, something to disrupt the monotony.

It’s Pratt standing on her porch, hazel eyes looking her over. She’s expecting a shitty comment on her appearance, dressed in shorts and a baggy shirt, hair mussed with sweat.

“You need something?” She asks him, slightly out of breath. Dahlia lifts the bottom of her shirt, using it to wipe sweat from her face, breeze skimming the bare skin of her stomach.

“What the hell has you sweating, Rook?” The older deputy chews his lip, avoiding eye contact for a moment.

“I was working out.”

“With a head injury? Seriously?”

“The fuck else am I suppose to do?”

“Figured you’d be bored out of your mind, reason I’m here,” he grins, “throw some clothes on and we can head out.”

“You mind if I shower first?” She asks, while she’s not sure where he plans on dragging her but she’d rather not stink like sweat while she’s there.

“Uh, yeah, sure that’s fine.”

“You wanna wait in here?”

He nods and Dahlia steps aside to let Pratt into her trailer, it’s not the most tidy of place because, well, she’s not the most tidy of people. She can feel the judgement starting to build up as Pratt looks around her messy living room. A pillow and blanket haphazardly on the couch; her duffle bag on the ground with clothes falling out of it. Her table has her sketchbook, thankfully closed, and the Book of Joseph is tucked under it. It’s a messy little nest, but it’s hers.

“Are you sleeping on your couch?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s just, I prefer it,” she explains with a shrug, not really sure how to elaborate on her weird feeling about sleeping in a bed.

“You have a bed, right?”

“Yes, I have a bed, I just, shut up. I don’t barge into your house and start judging how you live,” she pinches the bridge of her nose, “just sit down, I’ll be back in a minute.”

Dahlia grabs a change of clothes, hearing the couch springs creak as Pratt sits down. It’s weird seeing someone in her trailer. The closest she’s had to visitors have stayed on her porch. Pratt is the first person to be in her actual trailer, he looks immensely out of place and judging by his eyes glancing around, he seems to feel that way too. She tries not to think too hard about it, making a beeline to her bathroom.

She tries to keep her shower short, not wanting to make Pratt wait too long and not wanting him to snoop while he’s left alone. That doesn’t stop her from playing music as she showers, just limiting herself to two songs before she jumps out. A quick dry off and she tugs on her clothes, towel still on her damp hair as she walks back out to her living room.

Pratt, sure enough, has found something to snoop through. Dahlia grimaces at the sight of him picking through her little jewelry box of photos. Was he rifling through her dufflebag? She clears her throat, smirking when he jumps up.

“I was just-”

“Snooping,” she cuts him off, ruffling the towel over her hair.

“It fell out of your bag.”

“No it didn’t.”

“It did...after I kicked it a little, but it did fall out.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she snatches the little wooden box off the table, Lloyd and Caroline’s photo booklet was on top, so at least she probably avoided him seeing baby photos.

“You, uh, don’t look much like your parents. You adopted or something?”

She can’t help but chuckle as she puts it away; she can’t blame him for thinking Lloyd and Caroline must be her parents. The pair are both about Whitehorse’s age and why else would she have so many photos with a couple that age. But, the couple absolutely look nothing like her. Both fairer skinned and blue eyed; Lloyd with dark strawberry blonde hair and Caroline with light honey blonde locks. Short of some shenanigans the chance of them producing an olive skinned, brown eyed brunette is slim. And while the couple have their share of adopted children; Dahlia isn’t one of them.

“No.”

“Oh, uh…” She can nearly see the gears turning in Pratt’s head, her usual one word style of answering has put Caroline’s devotion in question and Dahlia won’t have that.

“They’re not my parents; legally or biologically.”

“Oh, you just hang out with old couples?”

“Maybe, maybe not, ain’t really any of your business,” she shrugs, “more importantly, where the hell are we supposed to be going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t trust your surprises.”

“Would you rather sit here and twiddle your thumbs all day?”

“Fuck no.”

“That’s what I thought, you ready to go then?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she throws the damp towel onto her laundry chair before shoving her feet into her boots, “lets get going.”

She locks up behind Pratt then follows him out to his car. Compared to the last time she was in his car, this is infinitely more relaxing. She hums along to the radio, resisting the urge to sing along. He probably already heard her yelling along to her music in the shower, she doesn’t need to blast his eardrums at close range. After one song ends and another shittier one begins she starts to fiddle with the radio setting.

“The driver is supposed to pick the music,” Pratt tells her as she flips through stations, trying to find a station playing something other than country.

“The driver needs to worry about the road, while I find something worth listening to.”

“Yeah, ‘cause your taste in music is so good.”

“I have excellent taste in music,” she turns to one station and it sounds like a choir.

Help me, Faith

Shield me from sorrow

From fear of tomorrow

“Turn that crap off, right now.”

“The hell is that?” It’s not a bad song like technically speaking, but it’s definitely a bit much.

“Peggie station, it's all crap, Eden’s Gate runs it. It’s all their choir music and sermons.”

“Gross, but the song ain’t that bad.”

“You might wanna have your head checked again.”

“Piss off.”

She finds something better, even if she doesn’t necessarily mind Eden’s Gate music, she’d rather listen to something without fear of a sermon coming up after. At the very least, Pratt doesn’t complain about her choice, a few more songs playing before they cross into Holland Valley.

“How’s your impromptu vacation been going?”

“Boring.”

“That’s what I thought,” he laughs, “figured you’d be going stir crazy by now.”

“So, you decided to come end my boredom?”

“No need to sound so excited,” Pratt rolls his eyes, not appreciating her lackluster response.

“Sorry, I, uh, do appreciate it,” she admits, looking out the windows, cheeks warming at it. It’s embarrassing to say that she is genuinely thankful. Hell she nearly jumped up and ran to the door like a dog when he knocked. Boredom is hell.

“Oh, it’s fine, I was bored too.”

They pull into the police station parking lot and she raises an eyebrow at him as he parks. He’s taken her to work? What on earth is he planning?

“Don’t look at me like that, you’re gonna enjoy this, c’mon.”

She follows him out and around the building to the helipad she noticed before, a black police grade helicopter on it. He doesn’t hesitate to climb into the pilot's seat, telling her to get in. She listens, climbing into the seat next to him. It looks like a mess of buttons and controls to her, none of them making sense. But Pratt confidently starts turning switches, lights coming to life in front of her. They’re going for a helicopter ride, holy shit.

“Pffft,” Pratt huffs out a laugh, “we’re not even in the air yet and you’re already grinning.”

“This is okay, right? Like, no one will mind.”

“I’m the only person at the station who can fly, so if they needed it, they’d be calling me anyway. Don’t worry.”

“I’m fine, I just wanted to know I can enjoy this guilt free.”

“And lift off,” Pratt says as he brings the chopper up off of the ground. The station grows smaller and smaller as they ascend up into the air.

“Wow…” Is all as can seem to say at first as the chopper kisses the sky.

They’re surrounded by a bright blue sky and puffy white clouds as Pratt flies across the county. Lush green forests and farms beneath them, mountains along the edges of the county. A top down view of animals running through, specks in their vision. She oohs and awes, unable to help acting like an excited child over the view. They fly along the county, Pratt is kind enough to answer her stupid questions about flying, what buttons and switches mean. She’s certain to a seasoned pilot her naïve question must be frustrating, but he grins with every answer. Before she knows it the sky around them has shifted to an awash of pinks and purples, the sun setting, before a midnight sky takes it place. Brilliant stars twinkling around them, feeling so close, like she could reach out and touch Andromeda.

Once it gets too late, Pratt lands back at the station, her cheeks ache from all the time smiling. He drives her back to the trailer park, the pair in comfortable silence as she hums along to the radio. Her thoughts drifting off as they are so quick to do. Pratt and her butted heads a bit when they first met, but he’s quickly become her closest friend in the county. Their light-hearted bickering and shenanigans have become her favorite part of her days in Hope County.

He walks with her to her trailer, shoulders brushing occasionally as they move. She turns to look at him when they reach her door. Dahlia clenches and unclenches her hands searching for what she wants to say.

“Thanks, a lot, really.”

“You like flying that much?”

“Not just for that, not to be all mushy and crap, but coming out here, keeping me from going nuts, being my friend. It, uh, means a lot, seriously.”

“Eh,” he scratches at the back of his neck, avoiding her eyes, “just watching out for you, probie.”

“Well, I appreciate it, I, uh, know I’m not the easiest person to get along with.”

“No one in this county is.”

“Good to know I fit in, I guess.”

“Uhh, you’re getting there, once you start stinking like beer all day and have a house full of deer heads, we’ll call it good.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she grins, “night.”

“Night.” She waves Pratt off before going back to her trailer to settle in for the night.

Monday is spent showing up to the station just to play with Petunia behind the building; just laying on the ground while the fluffy opossum crawls on her. She scratches along the marsupial’s back as they nuzzle into her neck.

“Aren’t you supposed to be home relaxing or something?” Beau asks and Dahlia shifts her head back to look at him.

“I am relaxing, what are you doing?”

“Well, everyone asked me to go see what that weirdo deputy was doing, so here I am.”

“Oh no, you hear that Petunia,” she looks at her opossum friend, “people think I’m weird.”

“Yeah, talk to the ‘possum, that’ll really show ‘em.”

She sticks her tongue out at him and he just rolls his eyes, leaving her alone for the moment. Pratt and Hudson invite her out to The Spread Eagle once the sun starts to set, but a steady throbbing ache has built in her head, she skipped pain meds. And the idea of the jukebox booming in her skull makes her turn it down for the night, once she’s back to work she’ll treat them to a meal there, she decides on the quiet ride home.

Dahlia wakes up the next day and decides to finally take that hike, wanting to explore some of the mountains and woods that surround the county. The brunt of the trails seem to be within the Whitetail Mountain area up north, the mountains in the Henbane are mostly around that statue and as much as she likes Joseph more than before; the statue is still creepy.

She tucks her sketchpad, pencils, water, and her pain meds in the storage under her motorcycle seat before she drives up to the mountains; the north section of the county is colder, a chill from the air as she rides up. She stops in at an Old Sun Outfitters, buying a little black backpack to carry her stuff in when she hikes.

The woods around her get thicker and thicker as rides further into the mountains, land growing steeper with every minute, civilization sparser and sparser; buildings harder to find, just peeks of wood or cement through trees. The trees clear on her right as a turn of the road leads her to a large parking lot with little hutch and a sign that says, ‘rest area’. The hutch says Valley View Overlook. It’s built at the top of a plateaued piece of land, not as towering as the mountains in the distance, but higher than the meager hills of the valley or river. She parks her motorcycle and packs the bag before taking in the view.

A small navel high fence, she imagines waist high for others, keep animals or children from just running off the side of the mountain. It’s a beautiful sight; she can see why the lot is named after it. She takes a deep breath of fresh mountain air looking out at the soft blue sky that meets the mountains in the horizon; the deep green forests further down. Air so clean and refreshing, but for some reason she finds herself pulling out a cigarette, to fill her lungs with smoke. Too much good needs a bad, she supposes. She watches the white clouds and birds flying through, as she lets smoke settle heavy in her lungs, only parting from the sight when her cigarette threatens to burn her fingers.

She follows along a little beaten trail through the woods, kicking up rocks and crushing grass underfoot as she lets the trees surround her. Grass rustles around where animals sneak through; deer running through, other hikers crossing her path, and hunters packing bucks back home with dogs sniffing along after them.

It doesn’t take long for her to go off the path, just walking in any direction that catches her interest. Deeper and deeper into the woods, following divots and drop offs, walking along the occasional stream of water that passes through the area. Her feet and head start to ache as hours pass, the cool air no longer able to chill her body as exertion coats her skin in sweat.

A hunting stand, one of many, is within the woods. Gray metal built around a tree with a ladder leading up. It’s empty, but if a hunter really needs it, she’ll move along. She climbs up curling her legs under her on the stand as she pulls off her back pack and red flannel, the sleeves now sweaty after her walk. Dahlia ties it around her waist, feeling the cool air on her skin as she takes a deep breath.

She takes a deep swig of water and one of the pain killers. There’s a crush of grass and she looks up to see a group of deer a short distance from the stand. A fawn and what may be younger deer, with a buck among them. The buck’s fur grayer in color than the richer warmer brown of the others. Dahlia gets out her sketchpad and pencils, balancing them on her knee as she takes the drawing the creatures. A calm energy and flow falls over her as she draws, the only sound the animals rustling within the woods. She’s better at drawing people than animals, she realizes, when she can’t quite get the right slope of the buck’s muzzle, but she doesn’t stress herself over it. No one will ever see her wonky deer. She looks up; the buck has gotten much closer, shuffling near the stand.

Dahlia puts her sketchbook aside, half finished wonky deer abandoned, as she moves to lay on her belly over the edge of the hunter’s stand. She stretches her hand out, his antlers high enough for her fingers to just brush the velvety texture. But that’s not what she’s after, wanting to pet the stags head. Dahlia shifts to a knee and a foot, she forces the fingers of one hand into the grating to keep a solid grip on the stand. She leverages herself to lean further and further out, stretching a hand out and nearly hanging completely off the stand. Her fingers just centimeters away from touching the stag’s head.

The fuzz of fur brushes across her fingers and the soft brown eyes looking up at her go blank; blood spraying from the side of the buck’s head as it’s body goes limp to the ground. She can’t help but jump back and fall on her ass; gasping at the now dead deer in front of the stand, the rest of them have scattered at the sight.

Maybe she should have expected it, being in hunter territory, but the closeness of it still startles her. There’s a heavy thud of boots, steady consistent footfalls crushing branches and grass beneath them. Ginger hair with shaved down sides and an army jacket; Jacob Seed.

This is likely the only time she’ll ever be taller than him, watching him from the stand as he shifts a bright red rifle from his hands to on his back. It seems so vivid and ostentatious compared to his utilitarian style of dress. There’s a childish urge to jump on his back and scare him. But, they don’t know each other well and he’s a veteran, so she can’t know how he’d react to the sort of thing. Maybe a boo would be okay, just something small?

“You enjoying the show, honey?”

Dahlia jolts, taken aback by the sudden acknowledgment. She tucks a strand of hair back behind her ear and chews her lip watching as he starts to gather up the slain deer; then he looks up at her, blue eyes sharp and harsh. All the masculine Seeds have blue eyes and intense stares; but Jacob’s gaze is colder than Joseph’s and more steady than John’s. Something almost predatory to it.

“I was drawing him,” she says after a moment, looking down at the stag.

“And I was hunting him.”

“Still would have appreciated another minute or two,” she says as she grabs her bag, throwing the sketchbook back inside before she jumps off the stand.

“So, you could flail around and try to pet him for another five minutes.”

“Hey,” she pouts, she was caught hanging from a hunting stand like the child she is, but, “wait, you saw me?”

He gives a vague grumble of agreeance, more preoccupied with tying up the hooves of his latest hunt to make it easier to carry.

“And you still shot? You could have shot my hand off.” Has this man never taken a gun safety course, she catches a glimpse of the scope on his rifle, there’s no way he didn’t see how close his shot was to her hand. He chuckles, dry and deep, mocking her.

“Relax, if I wanted to shoot you, you’d be dead by now.”

“Wow, that’s not comforting.”

“Wasn’t trying to be,” he says, standing up and packing the giant deer over his shoulder, like it’s nothing.

Dahlia reaches out to touch it, fingers brushing through soft fur, no warmth beneath it. She might as well be petting a rug. Jacob starts to walk off and she doesn’t know why, but she follows him. Hands clasped behind her back and walking heel to toe after him. Maybe it’s just because she’s curious about him. He’s the only one of the Seeds not to take a strange interest in her for whatever reason.

He doesn’t say anything at first, allowing her to follow along after him. Leaves and grass crush under foot as she follows along behind him, curious as to where he’s going or doing. She’s not sure what she expects, but it’s something to do if nothing else.

“You got somewhere to be?”

“Not really, no.” She tries to crane her head around, trying to get a better look at his face to gauge his reaction, but their height difference is too big to truly do so. The man has to be around a foot and a half taller than her; he seems even taller than the sheriff.

“Well, I do, so get out of here.” Her smirk drops, she was hoping to see him get more agitated like the youngest Seed brother, but his voice doesn’t rise. Staying the same steady deep timbre.

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere you need to be, sweetheart.”

“The nicknames aren’t really necessary.” She can’t help but say, wrinkling her nose in annoyance, the condescending way he calls her sweetheart and honey make her nauseous.

“Neither is following me like a lost puppy dog; but here you are.”

“I’m bored.”

“Not my problem.”

“You killed my only entertainment, so it is now.”

He comes to a sudden stop and Dahlia has to stop herself from running into his back; she doesn’t particularly want deer corpse on her face. He turns to face her; expression still the same stern look he usually carries, and she misses his grin when he was talking to kids at the barbecue.

“Look here, deputy, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong and irritating me isn’t a habit you want to form. Get out of here.”

“Oh no,” she rolls her eyes, “I’m really scared.”

“Keep pushing, sweetheart, won’t get you anywhere.”

“God, you’re no fun.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

“Jacob is something wrong,” a voice cuts through their conversation, rough and masculine. And Dahlia see the long-haired man and short haired girl from the barbecue; the ones who shot her dirty looks when she talked back to Jacob.

“Nothing you need to concern yourselves with.”

“What are you doing here?” The woman asks Dahlia directly.

“Standing.”

“Fallon,” Jacob says the woman’s name, stern tone making her posture snap straighter, “I said it’s none of your concern. Let’s go.”

The three of them start to leave down a path; Fallon and the long-haired man have heavy bucks they pack as well. A hunting trip for Jacob and his…friends? Are they friends? That didn’t seem like friendship, but Dahlia is far from an expert on the matter. She offers a goodbye wave; but Fallon just rolls her eyes. Their steady footfalls leaving the deputy behind.

Well, it staved off the boredom for a while she supposes.

Dahlia lets out a huffy sigh, blowing loose strands of hair from her face as she begins back down the path she came. The sun is setting by the time she’s back to the parking lot and climbing on top of her bike.

Her stomach is growling by the time she’s driving down a main road, she sees the sign for The Grill Steak as she reaches the intersection. Dahlia pulls in, letting her stomach guide her actions, as she’s one to do.

It’s a small restaurant packed with groups of people from friends to families; she can feel the heat of the grill radiating through, the smell of her making her stomach growl. She settles into a booth by herself, when she reads through it the menu is full of gamey meat burgers and steaks. No signs of beef or pork; it’s all bison and deer. She wonders if the cook hunts everything himself, it wouldn’t surprise her, given what she’s seen of the county. He can hear the cook yelling something she can’t understand from the kitchen. Dahlia settles on ordering a cola and a deer burger; thinking about the hunted stag she saw Jacob kill.

As she waits on her food, the chatter of a group catches her ear. They’re not from Hope County; the different cadences of how they speak mingled with fancy latin technical terms tells her as much. Trying to be discreet; she glances at them over her shoulder. A group of four; two women and two men all around the same age. Dahlia’s not the brightest bulb in the pack by her own admission, but when she hears the words corvids and lupine, she realizes they’re talking about animals. It doesn’t shock her, given the abundance of wildlife in the county, certainly people would come to research them.

The door to the restaurant swings open and a man comes walking in, shoulders back and footfalls confident. It reminds her clearly of Jacob, the walk of a soldier, though this man isn’t quite as intimidating a figure. Older than Dahlia, though most people are, with a full dark beard and long scraggly dark hair. He doesn’t bother to take a seat at a booth or look at a menu, only giving a single wave to the cook in the back as he makes a beeline to the group. Dahlia shifts a little further down into her booth, not that anyone could truly tell she’s eavesdropping, but it gives a little more secrecy to it.

“You the conservationists?”

“Yeah, we’re studying the wildlife here… And you are?”

“Eli, not here to ‘cause trouble or anything like that, just wanted to give some friendly advice.”

“Friendly advice?”

“You need to watch yourselves out in those woods.”

“Pffft.”

“We’re well aware of how dangerous the wildlife out here can be. You-”

“No, you aren’t. There’s wolves-”

“And bears and mountain lions, oh my,” one of them jokes, “look, we know what we’re doing.”

“You’re not listening, they’re not regular wolves. They’ve been trained to kill and hunt people down on sight. Even if you avoid ‘em, you get on the cult’s bad side and they’ll send ‘em after you. You gotta be careful out here.”

“Okay, sure,” the eyeroll is nearly audible, “we’ll keep an eye out for killer cult wolves, don’t worry.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, alright.”

The man, Eli walks away, and Dahlia considers stopping him. Admitting her nosiness and ask him some of the million questions going through her mind. Surely by cult, he means Eden’s Gate, right? Dahlia can’t imagine who else he could mean. They’re small and close knit, but they’re not a cult, right? Cults imply something more out there or intense; they’re just a little Christian church. Joseph may have his own book, but they still follow Christian ideas of sins and scripture.

And wolves? How could they possibly be training wolves? It’s all so ridiculous and asinine, making gears spin and churn in her head until they overheat, but it was said with such conviction. By the time she brings herself to make a noise, Eli has already left, and it’s probably for the best. It’s too crazy to be true. Maybe he’s a tinfoil hat wearing type of guy, a conspiracy theorist like the Zip guy who leaves a newsletter in every damn corner of the county, screaming about chemtrails and baby farms.

She fills her stomach, deciding to leave that as it is, finally returning to her trailer late that night. A restless night of sleep with images of wolves and deer creeping around through her brain, nothing concrete enough to latch onto, but enough to unsettle.

A boring morning leads into a boring afternoon, time blurring before the sun has set and Dahlia’s finding herself pulling up to The Spread Eagle to catch her coworkers after their shift. She’s popped enough pain killers that the throb of music and noise is welcomed instead of irritating. A smile already gracing her lips when she catches Pratt and Hudson shooting the shit in the bar’s lowlight. As she sneaks up closer to them, their conversation starts to be audible over the tunes playing through the bar.

“I bet you break before then,” Hudson says, a teasing grin directed at Pratt.

“Hey, it’s only six months.”

“Please, you’re weak and you know it.”

“How much you wanna bet?”

Dahlia strikes, throwing her arms over Pratt’s shoulders, effectively hugging him from behind and leaning her weight into him. He’s warm and Dahlia can’t fight the impulse to squeeze him a little tighter. She breathes in the faint smell of coffee and cologne that still cling to him; comforting after so much time spent around him.

“Jesus fuck, when’d you get here?” Pratt blusters and at this close of a range Dahlia can see his cheeks pinkening under the scruff of his beard. Does this bother him?

“Right now.”

“You decided to come hang out again?” Hudson asks, grinning at the flustered Pratt.

“Mmhmm,” Dahlia hums into Pratt’s shoulder, pressing her face into him, “bored.”

“Get off me,” he grumbles and reaches back to swat at her hip.

“Ugh, buzzkill,” she bitches as she detaches from Pratt and climbs onto a bar stool, “so what the hell are you guys making bets about?”

Pratt coughs, trying to dislodge something from his throat, and Hudson laughs, “yeah, Pratt why don’t you tell her about our bet?”

“Don’t worry about it, Rook.”

“We still need to set an amount.”

“Fifty,” Pratt suggests and Dahlia wants to know even more what the hell they’re making bets about.

“Mmm, hundred.”

“Fine, if you’re comfortable losing that much.”

“Anyone gonna tell me what’s going on?”

“Nope.”

“Well, that’s gonna drive me crazy now, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

She sticks her tongue out at him and orders food, stuffing her face as she listens to her coworkers fill her in on anything of interest she’s missed during her off time. It’s not much, as usual, the workload in Hope County is pretty low stakes. Hunting violations, speeding tickets, and the like. Seems like her assault is about the most interesting case in a while. Dahlia’s tempted to ask if they know anything about wolf attacks but bites her tongue before she does. Hope County is filled with wildlife, wolf attacks have no doubt occurred to some degree and if she mentions the idea of trained cult wolves, they might start to think she’s buying into the conspiracy shit.

“Stop,” Pratt says suddenly, putting hand on Dahlia’s knee, “you’re shaking the whole damn bar.”

Her leg she realizes has been bouncing the whole time, the hike helped, workouts help, but she’s still breaming with pent up energy. There’s a rustle of movement and Dahlia is drawn to the open floor near the jukebox, she’s seen a few people dance here and there, a couple now and again swaying to softer tunes while she’s been here. But, it’s more crowded tonight, people laughing and dancing together.

“People are dancing,” she states the obvious.

“It’s ladies’ night, women drink free, so everyone’s extra, uh, energetic tonight,” Hudson tells her.

An upbeat song starts and Dahlia’s up in the next breath, she needs to move, burn off excess energy. And while her favorite club in Lake Charles isn’t exactly available to her anymore, she’ll jump at the chance to lose herself in a song.

You should be wilder, you're no fun at all.

Dahlia’s singing along as she sways and shifts through the crowd, body moving instinctually to the beat. There’s a woman about Dahlia’s age, long blonde hair and brown eyes, dancing as well and the deputy finds herself gravitating towards her.

Yeah, thanks for the input.

Thanks for the call.

She asks low into the woman’s ear, so she can be heard over the music, if she can dance with her. The response is a smile, lighting up the girl’s face, a nod of her head and then she’s pulling Dahlia in by the hips.

With dull knives and white hands

The blood of a stone

Cold to the touch, right

Right down to the bone

And then she loses herself in it. In the music that fills the bar, the feeling of a stranger touching her, the slide of her feet as she moves, the way hips knock together, the scratch in her throat as she sings lyrics in the woman’s ear, their grins as they laugh and bump noses together. It’s fun and it’s silly, a reason to move and forget life for a moment.

Cause you give me the electric twist and it kicks and it kicks like a pony.

And true, you might run away with it, it's a risk it's a risk yeah.

Because it kicks yeah.

It really kicks yeah.

Dahlia spins the woman with a laugh, before pulling the woman close against her again, wide smiles and bright eyes as their foreheads touch. There’s sweat sticking to their skin as the song winds down. Panted breaths ghosting over each other’s faces as they come down from exertion.

And the touch of your lips it's a shock not a kiss

It's electric twist, it's electric twist

“How much I gotta pay to see you kiss?!” A loud voice booms out, making Dahlia and her dance partner of the night separate. There’s a man, couldn’t be older than his mid twenties, sitting at the bar with his legs sprawled open drinking a beer at the table between the bar and the dance area. His eyes linger and look over both women’s bodies

“Can I help you?” Dahlia asks and furrows her brows, glowering at the man as she draws closer.

“Oh just enjoying the show, sweetheart.”

“Not your sweetheart and I’m not a damn show.”

“Pfff, don’t get your panties in a twist,” he turns back to his table and rolls his eyes, as if Dahlia’s the problem, “fucking dykes.”

The junior deputy grits her teeth and she sees from her peripheral the woman rubbing the back of her neck, letting her bangs fall into her face looking like she’d rather disappear.

“The fuck did you call us?” She can’t stop herself from speaking, barely managing to reign her anger in enough not do something worse.

“You heard me.”

“Fuck you!”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Pratt’s voice cuts through as the man starts to turn to retort, the warmth of her coworker’s hand wraps around the clenched fist she didn’t realize she had raised.

“Is something wrong?” Mary May calls out, starting to walk out from behind the bar.

“Everything’s fine,” Pratt responds before Dahlia can say anything and when she starts to speak, he looks at her to whisper, “you’re barely three weeks into your job, you really wanna be getting into bar fights?”

“He ca-”

“I heard what he said, Rook, but it ain’t worth your job.”

“You’re right,” she gnaws on her lip and looks down on the ground, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, I get it, I just don’t want you doing anything stupid.”

“I need some fresh air.”

Dahlia leaves The Spread Eagle, noticing the woman she danced with has already vanished, unwilling to deal with the bullshit. A cool breezes ghosts over her sweaty skin as she sits down on the porch steps at the front of the bar; running her hands through her hair as she fights to ease her nerves. She digs a pack of cigarettes out of her jacket pocket

There’s a crush of footsteps as she lights one, bringing it to her lips, shiny black leather boots entering her vision.

“Dep-yoo-tee.”

“You Seeds can just smell when I’m sad, can’t you?” She teases looking up to see John, the neon bar sign setting his face aglow in the night as he chuckles at her.

“Not my intention, but if you’re in need of a talk, I’d be happy to oblige.”

“You weren’t coming out here to harass Mary May again, were you?”

“Deputy,” he puts his hand to his chest cartoonishly dramatic in his hurt, “h-harassment? That’s ridiculous. am I not allowed to visit with Ms. Fairgrave and just discuss our difference of opinions.”

His voice is ramping up in pitch as he defends himself and Dahlia can’t help but smile, appreciating the distraction from her own troubles.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure Mary May would have a different of opinion about that one. We still gotta talk about members stealing booze.”

“Our members would do no such thing; and I assure you, if there’s any harassment here, we’re the victims. We’ve been insulted, had our sermons interrupted, our practices mocked, Mary May herself once showed up our church simply to cause trouble.”

“Okay, okay, it’s a two-way street, I get it. Sit, we can chat for a bit,” she pats the section of porch step beside her and reluctantly after a beat of silence, he sits down, “so, Mary May caused trouble for you guys?”

“Yes, yes, she has and she’s not the only one; the people of this county have persecuted me and my family since we’ve been here.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, no one should mistreat you that way,” she looks him in the eye as she speaks, “and if it ever happens again, I want you to call down to the station, ask for me, and I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“Well, it’s certainly nice to know you’re on our side.”

“Ah, ah, I’m on everyone’s side. Mary May is owed the same respect as you and your family; and if you cause issues for her, I won’t hesitate to intervene for her sake as well. I’m here to keep everyone safe. Got to treat everyone like you wanna be treated, the whole spiel.”

“I know you’re not preaching biblical principles to me, dep-yoo-tee.”

“Not biblical, just a little maturity.”

“Are you implying I’m immature.“

“You’re a grown man spatting with a woman ten or more years younger than you; throwing a tantrum and pointing fingers when you’re told to behave.”

“First of all, I’m not that old,” Dahlia raises an eyebrow at him, “don’t look at me like that, I’m 32. Secondly, I am not a child. Mary May has-“

“And if she does something again, now that I’m here, let me know and I will help. But her actions don’t justify yours.”

“Fine, I’ll be sure to hold you to that promise, then.”

“I mean it’s less a promise and more so doing my job, but alright.”

She breathes out a plume of smoke, making sure to aim away from John’s face, his blue eyes track the movement and the nicotine fumes that escape into the air. An ex-smoker, she deems as she watches him staring at her lips and the cigarette between her fingers.

“You want a smoke?” She asks, offering her pack of cigarettes.

“Smoking is forbidden in Eden’s Gate.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Tattooed fingers pick out a cigarette and she lights it for him with a grin, watching him take a deep inhale and blowing out the smoke that fills his lungs. The soft rise of his chest and the gray clouds that billow out from parted lips. She notices for the first time the freckles on his neck and chest, shirt unbuttoned low enough to expose them. There’s thin fresh scratches along his hands and forearms, too superficial and fresh to match the deeper worn in scars, they look like cat scratches. And yeah, he seems like a cat guy.

“So, now that you’ve berated and tempted me, deputy,” he speaks after an exhale of smoke, “why were you out here pouting?”

“BREH!” She plops her back down on the porch with a vague animal long groan and throws her arms over her eyes, cigarette still between two fingers, must he remind of her own issues.

“Well that certainly wasn’t immature or dramatic.”

And she laughs, because he’s right, she can preach maturity all she wants to him. But, she’s still a brat herself. She’d justify herself with their massive age difference, because no way he’s thirty-two, but that feels flimsy at best. They’re both just two temper tantrum throwing children, hell they’re even both fibbing about their ages. Though, she suspects his own much more severe than the few months she adds to her own.

“Don’t wanna talk about it.”

“You know,” he lays back on the porch, matching her position, “I take the confessions for our church, if there’s anything you need to get off your chest, I’m the man to talk to.”

“Not much to say; guy called me a slur, I nearly throttled him.”

“Someone else’s actions don’t justify your own,” he parrots her words back to her.

“Yeah, someday I’ll follow my own advice.”

“Has that happened before?”

The gears in her brain churn, she’s been called many a thing, but her sexuality has been one of the less insulted facets of who she is.

Her stepfather, as religious as he was, was adamant on his hatred of gay people. But her own disinterest in exploring her sexuality or romance saved her from his scorn in that area, his focus more on the other various things he found deplorable about her.

Her mother’s side is Ashkenazi Jewish, and Dahlia remembers the few people of her stepfather’s church who despite her mother converting were disgusted their preacher would marry a Jewish woman. A handful leaving the church, a few sticking by just to call Dahlia and her mother slurs when their backs were turned.

The nightclub she favored in Louisiana was considered a gay bar, though not exclusive to LGBT folks. Women dancing with women, men dancing with men, men and women dancing; and a healthy amount of people who didn’t quite fit either label. Only one-night sticks out, a car speeding past the line outside the bar just to scream a slur out the window.

Maybe what bothered her most was the boldness. This wasn’t someone whispering when they thought Dahlia couldn’t hear, and this wasn’t a man just screaming out at the public as he speeds away. Just a man emboldened and willing to hurt her in front of a bar filled with people.

“We’re blocking the door.”Everything else died on her lips; unable to spill her guts.

“And we weren’t while you were lecturing me?”

Her phone buzzes in her jacket as she brings her cigarette back into her mouth, unwilling to justify her evasiveness to a man she barely knows, she answers a number she doesn’t know at all.

“Hello?” She says around her smoke.

“H-hello, is this a deputy?” A soft broken voice, she remembers from the diner, asks her and Dahlia sits up, tension pricking at the back of her neck.

“That’s me, Cassie?”

“You remember me…”

“What’s going on, are you okay?”

“Yeah, uh, I…” a beat of silence and a choked sob comes next, “no, I’m sorry, I’m, I’m not okay, I-“

“Where are you?” Dahlia’s on her feet, heartbeat in her throat as she waves off John’s furrowed brows and concern, running to her bike.

“I’m at the diner. I didn’t know where else to go…”

“I’m headed your way now, Cassie, are you safe?”

“I…I don’t know…I…”

Her voice breaks out into sobs again as Dahlia starts her engine, slams on her helmet, and switches her phone to the speaker in her helmet. The girl’s cries echoing around her as her wheels kick gravel across the parking lot, speeding out of Falls End.

#far cry 5 #fc5 #john seed #jacob seed #this is love #dahlia hale #joseph seed #if you ever think im like smart or competent i want you to know that everytime i post a chapter i doubt my ability to count #like i know last chapter was chapter 7 but am I reeeeallly on chapter 8 is that reaaaaalllly how numbers work

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mccnyoongi · 5 years

Text

knj ⇢ novels.

⇢ word count: 5k+

⇢ warnings: art dealer!namjoon, bougie & rich!namjoon, hints of sugar daddy joon but not really??, established relationship, THEY ARE VERY IN LOVE ITS VERY SOFT >:(, but also, smut/porn, unprotected sex, dom!joonie, lots of praise, degredation, spanking, hair pulling, choking, light exhibitionism, light anal play, a bit of impreg, good old fashioned parisian fucking.

⇢ summary: You might just fill a novel with all the things you love about Kim Namjoon.

⇢ author’s note: happy namjoon week - this went from being an 800 word smutty drabble to a full ass one shot with a whole lotta fluff and exposistion… so i hope you guys are ready for the most lovey dovey bullshit to ever come out of this blog (which is saying a lot im a small soft baby)! but im also a whore so its still filthy… ily 💞

You met Kim Namjoon just over two years ago. Your friend had dragged you to a new opening at a gallery, insisting that the artist was a) crazy talented and b) crazy cute, so there was no way she was about to miss it, but also no way she was about to go alone ‘like a loser.’ Said artist was the young, and, admittedly, quite cute, Kim Taehyung, who Namjoon had just started to represent, and would swear up and down that he was gonna be the next big thing.

You were inclined to agree with both Namjoon and your friend, but you thought that Namjoon’s eyes were far more captivating than any painting you’d ever seen. And later that night, after everyone but the two of you had left, you found out that no collection of brush strokes or lines in a sketchbook could possibly compare to the beauty of Namjoon and the groans he’d involuntarily let out as he fucked the life out of you against the floor to ceiling windows of the empty gallery.

You figured it would be a one-time thing; that he was far too busy to be chasing after a girl like you. People were writing articles about him, you were scraping your way through your last semester of university as an English major and working a shitty part-time job. But then a week later you had gotten a special delivery- the Taehyung piece you and Namjoon had first crossed paths in front of. The one you had been staring at to avoid his searing gaze, the tension palpable despite knowing each other for only minutes.

He texted you about dinner plans the same day you received the painting. Your sweet, sweet, stupidly romantic boy.

Two years have gone and Namjoon was only proven right- Taehyung was his big break into the art world, and everything Namjoon had ever wanted. He’s not sure if it would all taste as sweet without you, but he does have you, so his life is cotton candy flavoured, rose-tinted and gorgeous. Right now, however, the cotton candy is overpowered by equally sweet red wine, a bottle shared between the two of you in the extravagant hotel room he had insisted upon. Paris suits him, you think.

He loves the extravagance and being able to laugh at the pretentiousness of some, most, all of the artists here. He glows under the lights of the city as they pour in through the balcony windows, the moon as full as your heart and your glass. His eyes take in the view, something he once told you he’d never get tired of. He loves pretty landscapes, from cityscapes to rolling hills of the countryside, to the curves of your body. You take him in from your spot on the plush couch, a piece of furniture not even Marie Antoinette would turn her nose up at.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” It takes you a second to figure out that he’s referring to the wine- you were too busy thinking about the poems and sonnets you could write about his dimples.

“Tastes expensive,” You comment, and you only say it because you know it was expensive, otherwise you wouldn’t know the difference. It is smooth though, running down your throat like water, dangerously easy to drink, and you’re suddenly thankful that you only have the one bottle to split between the two of you.

“It is expensive,” He chuckles but throws the rest of the glass back into his mouth like it’s a gin and tonic from a dive bar in your hometown. “But I stole it from Tae’s room- the kid fucking owes me.” The devious grin he throws at you is dazzling. Not that he’s in any kind of position where he needs to steal bottles of wine from his friends; he’s childish and teasing when it comes to them. You think it’s cute and endearing.

You humour him like your teenagers who have to be creative with their drinking habits. “Well then, it’s the best wine I’ve ever tasted.”

“You’ve impeccable taste, darling,” He gives you a nod that asks you to join him by the window without him having to actually ask. He never has to ask.

You stand to join him, the dress he had gifted you with for your first anniversary falling at its place on your thighs, the silk soft and cool on your skin. He wraps a toned arm around your waist when you’re close enough, always revelling in how small you feel in his arms. He noses at the crown of your head and your heart brims with nothing but love for your Kim Namjoon.

“We should get a place here,” He sets his now empty wine glass on the counter beside him, his hands now free as he pulls you to stand in front of him, wrapping both of his toned arms around you from behind, his feel and smell more comforting than the world’s best massage.

“What, in Paris?”

“France. Southern France maybe. Get a villa, or whatever they’re called. A boat too... I want a fucking boat, babe.”

“Then you’ll get a boat,” As far as you’re concerned, what Namjoon wants, Namjoon gets. The universe seems to bend around him, whether you like it or not. Thankfully you like it quite a bit, especially ever since Namjoon had decided he wanted you.

“And we’ll need a big backyard,” He’s quieter now, no hint of teasing in his tone and when you look over your shoulder at him, he’s avoiding eye contact, his eyes darting around at the view the window is still offering to him. “For some kids to, you know… Run around and shit.” He always clams up and gets a little awkward when treading unknown territory, even when he has no reason to be.

“Sounds like a plan, big guy.”

His arms tighten around you, and he nestles his nose back into your hair for all the words he’s not saying. Namjoon has many ways to say I love you, and every single one makes you float a bit off the ground. Tonight you’re practically fucking levitating.

His plush lips press against your head, soft kisses littering your skin as he travels the pecks down the side of your face. You lean into them, until he places one on the corner of your own lips and you turn your head, two pairs of lips finally meeting. They move in such tandem and harmony, they can only belong to two people madly in love. His tongue sweeps against your lips, the kiss deepening as he turns you to fully face him, mouths never leaving mouths, the two of you only becoming more entwined with one another.

He mostly tastes like the wine, French and pungent, but that distinctly Namjoon taste is still there- it’s minty and intoxicating. The familiarity makes you relax into his strong arms still curled around you.

“So sweet,” He mumbles into your lips as if he still can’t believe that you’re real. “Always so sweet for me.” He finally pulls back from the kiss to admire you- your heated cheeks, swollen lips and half-lidded eyes.

“Joonie-”

“I know, honey, I know. Gonna take such good care of you- my perfect girl.” You almost make a somewhat sarcastic comment at the word perfect, but it dies in your throat when his head dips down so he can suck harsh marks into the soft skin of your neck. He loves leaving marks there, even though you tease him and call him childish and cheesy for it, but he can’t help it. He loves making you into his very own work of art. If he had his way you’d be on display in the Louvre, the most beautiful piece there. Mona Lisa be damned.

“You’d better,” You tease because you don’t have the words to explain how much you love him, not out loud. That’s what writing is for. But for now, you’ll tease and poke and prod until he gives you what you need- which you never have to wait long for. He finds it impossible to say no to you.

“Don’t challenge me, little girl,” A fire has ignited in your lover’s eyes, one that sparks something within yourself, as it always has, and you genuinely believe it always will.

The hand that tangles in your hair only stokes the flames that have begun deep within you. His hand is all at once rough and caring as it pulls, baring your neck to him as if he were some kind of bloodthirsty nightcrawler. But no, he’s just your Namjoon, the one who can dampen your panties and have your heart racing with just a look.

You grin at the tension and the intensity with which he looks into your own, lust-stricken eyes. “What, Namjoon? Afraid you won’t be able to deliver?” It’s an empty taunt, you both know it. He has delivered time and time again, leaving you with a stinging ass, hoarse voice, and an embarrassing waddle in your step. If there’s one thing Namjoon knows how to do, it’s deliver on his promises. And yet you still find yourself push, push, pushing.

But Joon’s dominance holds strong, a real and honest, guttural growl tearing through his throat at your bratty behaviour. You don’t flinch, but instead bite your lip at the sound, the rumble of it tearing through you and straight into your core.

“Gonna remind you who the fuck’s in charge, baby,” He’s whispering but to you, it’s just as loud and just as intense as a jet plane taking off, the rumbling of the syllables reaching every primal nerve in your body and setting them alight. His grip on your hair loosens, the large hand brushing stray hair away from your face, the softness of the action almost surprising you more than the forceful yanks he had subjected you to not moments before. “You want that?” He nudges your nose with your own, the air around the two of you thick with tension.

You almost respond by telling him what a dumb question that is- of course, you want it. You think you might even need it. But you decide to acquiesce, to submit because this night is too perfect to carry on being brat you’d have no problem being anywhere that isn’t this five-star hotel room in the heart of Paris with your near-perfect boyfriend.

“Please, Joonie. Just want you.” And he’ll give you all of him, that much is clear. His jaw clenches as he looks you over with the same eyes he used to look over the lights of the city not ten minutes ago, but now his gaze is filled with an unbreaking, loving lust.

He’s drinking you in- starting with your bare feet, freed from the confines of those strappy Louis Vuittons the moment you’d stepped through the door. He travels up the flesh of your legs that he just wants to sink his fucking teeth into; moves up the silk of the dress that accentuates everything he loves about your body to the lavish diamond choker he’d really fucking splurged on for the most recent anniversary; and finally to your eyes, beautiful, blown out and wide as they stare up at him. He could so easily get lost in those eyes, and he has many times before- but right now he’d rather be getting lost in your pussy.

“Turn around and put your hands on the glass, baby.” Your body obeys before your brain even has a chance to process his words, not that you have any complaints.

You can still see Namjoon when you turn around; his mirror image in the reflection of the panelled windows far more enticing than any city on this planet. You feel bad for the smudges your hands will inevitably leave and Namjoon will inevitably tease you about tomorrow morning, but it’s a fleeting thought, the anticipation of what’s in store for the rest of your night clouding your judgement, in a welcomed break from the concerns of the real world. Now it’s just Namjoon.

The glass is cold against your hands, but Namjoon’s hands are warm as they start palming your silk-covered ass, jutted out slightly because of your position against the window. It’s no secret Namjoon loves this particular body part of yours- known among friends for casually and nonchalantly slipping a hand into your back pocket or up your skirt.

He inches the skirt of your dress up your thighs and past your hips, not even bothering to stifle the groan that tears through him at the sight of the dampened lace now being the only thing to protect your modesty (hah).

“So fucking pretty,” The way he says it is so fucking sincere you think you might tear up. Instead, you just let out a slight cry as he runs a single knuckle up and down your covered folds. The chuckle he lets out at your sound isn’t quite sinister but it’s nowhere near innocent; he’ll never get over the effect he has on you. “My girl’s got the prettiest cunt around, nothin’ fucking compares, baby.”

His next movement is so sudden; there’s no stopping the girlish squeal that escapes your soft pink painted lips as he gives a swift spank to your ass, his large hand and the force behind it making your nerve ending blossom in pleasurable pain. He delivers a flurry of quick smacks, too fast for your lust addled mind to possibly count as he alternates between your left and right cheeks. Your sounds are embarrassing, or they would be if you didn’t know how much he loved them. You squeal, whimper and moan as your ass juts out, begging him for more as your legs involuntarily kick from under you and your splayed hands turn into fists against the glass.

He keeps one hand on your now slightly pinkened ass, palming it and massaging it under his warm appendage, the other thumbing at your pussy, making you wish he’d just strip you of your underwear already. His patience is maddening though. His thumb roughly moves up and down your pussy, the cloth becoming wetter by the second.

“C’mon, Joonie,” Your voice is airy, almost breathless, but above all, pleading. “Need more, need you so so bad.”

Normally begging works fairly quickly on Namjoon. Unless he’s in a mood where he wants everything drawn out, wants you drooling, dripping and barely able to think before he gives you what you want. Two guesses as to how he’s feeling tonight.

Your begs don’t get you what you want- although you’re not sure you’re even clear as to what exactly it is that you want- instead, they land you another spank, this time to your still goddamn clothed pussy. You let out a sob of both surprise and pain, your elbows buckling so your forearms and the side of your face are against the window and you’re bent over even further than before.

“Greedy fucking slut…” He gropes at your pussy now, massaging away any lingering pain. “You’ll get what I give you and you’ll fucking take it,” A hand winds into your hair once more, now mussed and tangled from his earlier ministrations, and pulls forcefully so that your head is next to his, most of your weight supported by the fist in you hair and his other arm as it curls around your middle. “Isn’t that right?”

You nod in spite of your limited movement, desperate to please. “Yeah-yes Joonie, I’ll take it all,” Your eyes close in sheer submission. “Take anything you give me.”

“Cause I know what you need, yeah?” You nod again as his hand loosens in your hair to squeeze at your cheeks and pucker your lips. “No one else. Just me. Just me and you.”

“Just us.” He lets out a puff of air at your words- satisfaction maybe, or excitement- but it seems to have been enough when he bends you back against the glass and grips at your hips.

Excitement buzzes through your bones at the feeling of his talented figures hook into each side of the lace there. He pulls slowly at the fabric, too fucking slowly, so slowly that you think you might lose your mind if it wasn’t for his hands and overall commanding presence tethering you to some lose grip of reality.

He grins when he sees the mess you’ve made, all thanks to him. Pride blossoms in his chest, like it, always does when he gets to see a physical manifestation of the effect he has on you.

The panties are gone, but you barely register it. He could have thrown them out the window for all you cared, the only thing you could possibly focus on is his fingers, skilled and devilish on your finally bare pussy. He’s still teasing of course, relentlessly, never giving enough pressure, never focusing on one spot for too long- circling around your clit, dipping into your hole but never more than a single knuckle. Evil bastard. He taunts you with sinful words as he goes.

“You’re so fucking wet, baby,” A pinch to your clit and you whine pitifully. “Soaking my fucking hand and I barely have to work to get you this wet,” A generous drag of his thumb against your swollen bud and your hips buck in a desperate attempt for something, anything, just more. “That’s how fucking easy you are for me, my perfect slut, made to get fucked by me.”

“Joonie, please, please, I am, ‘m your slut, Joonie-” Your begging is cut off with an abrupt sob when Namjoon plunges two of his deliciously thick and strong fingers into your weeping cunt with little pretense.

“This? Is this what you were fucking begging for? Just needed something to fill your desperate pussy, hm?”

You don’t answer- you can’t, not with him pistoning his fingers in and out of you with an unforgiving pace and an even better curve and arch. Your mouth is open in silent cries at what he’s giving you, as it’s both so much but not nearly enough to take you over the edge, to bring you the peak you so fucking desperately crave.

“That’s all you ever want, isn’t it though? Your pussy filled and your head empty,” More spanks are landed on your ass as he speaks, punishing you for something he loves about you. “Always so needy for me, just like you should be.”

You whine and buck your hips frantically, knowing you don’t need words to beg him. He knows your body well enough to understand that you’re pleading for more, even if he’s finger fucked the words out of your head. It might even be more delicious this way.

“I know, baby, I know,” He speaks softer now, as if he’s talking you through a nightmare and not knuckle deep inside you as we speak. “Just need to get fucked so fuckin’ bad, don’t you baby? Can’t even fucking help it.” He coos; how can he still find you adorable like this, doubled over and stuffed full of his fingers, breasts spilling out of the top of your dress.

“You gotta cum for me first though before you get what you really want,” His other hand reaches around your front to rub brutish but calculated circles into your swollen clit and your cries become even more wanton and needy. “Gonna stuff you full of my cock, promise, just need your tight, filthy cunt to cum around my fingers first, alright baby?”

You nod frantically- “Yeah, Joon, gonna cum soon, need it,” You wish you can see him as you reciprocate his crude promises to the best of your fucked out abilities. You know he must have the biggest shit-eating- or is it pussy eating- grin on his face as your breath catches on every other syllable. “Need your cock so fucking bad.”

“You’ll fucking get it,” He sighs out, bending over to mouth at your neck to whisper into your ear. “Now fucking cum.”

The command is a trigger for you almost like even your body knows that it belongs to him. You orgasm on shaking, unsteady legs, eyes shut tightly, as if letting any light in would overwhelm you to the point of no return, and fingernails digging into your palms in an attempt to ground yourself. Your moans are a combination of your lover’s name and incoherent babbles while Namjoon gracefully coaxes you through the ordeal, soft mumbles of what’s to come in your ear, and hands still incessant at your core.

His voice, which sent you tumbling over the edge of the earth is also what brings you back, calling you his good girl, perfect girl, my girl. His hand is gently petting at your messy hair, pulling you to an upright position, though most, if not all of your weight is being supported by him.

He tilts your head up by your chin, getting a good view of you- blown out pupils, heaving chest and sweaty skin. He’s so fucking proud because he did that, it’s all him, you don’t fall apart like this for anyone else, and no one else can cause his cock to strain against his pants the way you do. The perfect match- and the wicked grin you give him when your eyes meet his only confirms the notion. You’re both as beautifully depraved as one another. Soulmates, if you believe in that kind of thing.

Namjoon does believe in that kind of thing. And you’re his person. This notion is only further confirmed when he moves his calloused hand down to your neck and wraps around the soft skin there; and your grin doesn’t falter a bit, but instead, it widens a fraction. The sight makes his heart jumps in his chest in time with his cock jumping in his pants.

“Good fuckin’ girl…” He’s referring to both you cumming on his command and your unwavering submission. It’s beautiful and so are you. “I think you deserve a reward, baby.”

At his words, you suddenly feel as though your orgasm hasn’t quite sated you, but wracked up your neediness several notches. The sound of his zipper being undone is enough for your pussy to slicken even further; you feel like a mess but you’re revelling in it and you know he is too.

Your dress- the fact that you were even still wearing it had slipped your mind somewhere in that mind-blowing orgasm- is pulled over your head, leaving you bare in front of appreciative and loving eyes. He kneads at your tits for fleeting moments, even teasing your already hardened nipples and you keen, every single part of you oversensitive and buzzing.

“Up against the window now, baby,” He steels you by the hips and shuffles you forward, breasts once more pressed against the chilly glass, but you don’t have to bend over so much as arch your back and present yourself for the taking.

His hands grab at your waist, grip strong and surely going to bruise, the marks leftover for him to trace and press sweet kisses to in the days to come. It is sweet now, but lustfully so, while he rocks his hips, the thing you crave most still two layers away as it grinds against you.

He doesn’t bother actually undressing, he likes the visuals and the power dynamic of your naked form against his completely covered one too much. Instead, he unsheaths himself from the confines of his pants, cock hard and at attention, small beads of white collecting at its angry red tip. He’s so hard, so fucking hard because you make him unbearably hard.

You’re a minx and a menace, even when you don’t realize it. Right now, however, you're fully aware of it, pushing back on his now bare cock, looking over your shoulder to smirk at him. You just might fucking kill him, he thinks.

“Joonie, come on-” You’re not quite begging anymore. Your voice has taken on a playful lilt with a hefty side of undeniable lust. “Gimme your cock already, just fuck me, need to feel you in me, fucking me, cumming in me-”

He interrupts you again. Not with a spank, or his fingers inside you, but with his hand finding home on your neck once more. He adds pressure, restricts your breathing ever so slightly and your heart skips a beat. “What, you get what you want and you turn into a greedy tease? Ungrateful fucking whore,” He slides the length of his cock along your dripping heat, you’re so fucking tempting and he thinks he might be the strongest man alive for not sliding into you right then and there. “I’ll give you my cock. You know I will. And I’m gonna fuck you so hard, make you cum so hard I’m gonna have to carry you out of the hotel when we check out tomorrow morning, and all those prissy bitches in the lobby are gonna see my cum dripping out of you because you’ll be so stuffed full of it.”

You swallow and he can feel the movement of your throat against his palm. His grip softens for a second and he sighs into your ear as you soak his cock before he even begins to fuck you.

“Fuck me Namjoon. Please.”

The dam breaks- he can’t hold himself back anymore, not for a million dollars, not for the entire damn Louvre. He slides into you, filling you to the brim in mere seconds and your groans harmonize with each other. Two proverbial puzzle pieces locking together, the head brushing against your cervix. The fear that you might split in two over his girth is no longer there, instead, it’s just bliss as you know no one else will ever fit with you like he does.

He throbs within you and you clench around him, wondering if he’ll just fucking move because if he doesn’t you might just have to bite his goddamn head off-

And now he’s cutting off your inner monologues too, as he pulls almost completely out of you only to pound back in with force and heat. Your whines are high pitched and his growls are low and grumbling as he starts to properly fuck you, to batter your needy pussy.

“Shit, Joon, oh my God,” You stutter out none too gracefully and his hand tightens once more around your throat, the goal to restrict your breathing enough to drive up your oversensitivity into overdrive. His own maddening breaths and grunts tickle your ear.

“That fucking good, huh?” He laughs airily. “Love when I can make you like this, my little bitch, keening and begging and praying.” Puffs of air fog up the window, and no doubt there’ll be crude outlines of you by the time you’re done, your own little piece of crude and fleeting art and it will be beautiful, but nowhere near as exquisite as the hand around your neck or his length sliding in and out of you at an unforgiving pace.

His hand still at your waist slides to your ass, landing a few more lingering spanks to make sure the pink hue will last well into tomorrow and you groan at each one, all the sensations too much in the best way possible. When it’s the colour he wants he gropes it roughly, fingernails digging in just enough to leave little crescent marks in their wake. As he pulls at the flesh there he notices your untouched hole, tempting him just by being there.

He lets his thumb ghost over your asshole; the idea had always enticed him. Now it’s even more so, so taboo and brilliantly so.

“One day I’ll take this hole too, huh?” He lets his finger rub over the whole, not penetrating, only teasing, only tempting. “You’ll let me have all of you, won’t you.”

“You already have all of me,” You counter, because it’s true, especially now, with the way he has you in his grasp. “You just have to take it.”

He groans at that- you know how to make him crumble, don’t you? You’ve got him wrapped around your pinky finger, but there’s only one finger of yours he wants. “Gonna put a fucking ring on that finger soon, baby. Then we’ll really belong to each other,” Your whimpers make him grin and his hips stutter at their pace on your cunt. “But for now-” He’s falling apart, you can tell by the way he’s choking through his words. “For now, I’ll just make sure everyone knows your mine by painting your beautiful body with my marks, my bruises, my cum.”

“Are you gonna cum in me, Joonie?” The mere idea of it makes you clench tightly around him, needing to milk him until he does. “Please…”

“You want my cum?” You nod, a hand coming off its place to grab at his head beside yours, at his silken locks, now laden with sweat. “I’ll fill you with it, baby, might even knock you up-” You both gasp at his words, his thrusts becoming even harsher and your pussy gushing even more around him. “Then everyone will really fucking know who you belong to when you’re carrying my fucking baby.”

“Namjoon, I’m gonna-”

“Cum around my cock and milk it dry, my perfect greedy whore? Then do it. Fucking do it.”

And you do- you fall headfirst into yet another mind-boggling orgasm, so full, and as you do, his hand tightens once more, all your breathing cut off. He only does it for a few seconds, before moving his hand up to your face, puckering your lips, but it makes a fucking difference, your eyes rolling back into your head, cries sounding something like Namjoon’s name tumbling out. You might even thank him, you’re not sure.

At the peak of it, he reaches his own release, cum spurting into you and somehow it feels even better and the pleasure might be making you insane. He groans your name, and from his mouth, it sounds like the most beautiful ballad you’ve ever heard. He cums so much, and so hard you almost take it as a compliment, some of his cum spilling out of you and onto your thighs, and probably onto the tiled floor, it’s just so fucking much.

The world is still around, like you and Namjoon are the only things not frozen in time, chests heaving and overheated. The lust fades slowly, at the same rate his cock softens within you though he doesn’t pull out quite yet. As the lust dissipates, you’re left with a love for the man who can fuck you within an inch of your life and hand-feed you a silly, childish sundae not twenty minutes later as you watch your favourite episodes of shitty sitcoms and mumble I love yous into ice cream frosted lips.

The cum has been cleaned off of both of you, and the floor, because, yes, it did drip down a little, and you’re bare-faced and cozy pyjama laden and he still looks at you the exact way you did when you were decked out in diamonds, luxury brands and makeup.

Yes, you might just write a novel about all the ways you love Kim Namjoon.

#btsbookclub #btswritingcafe #bts smut #namjoon smut #namjoon x reader #bts x reader #namjoon one shot #bts one shot #namjoon fanfic #bts fanfic #im iffy on the ending but!!!!! u know #jdskfndsk #happy namjoon day!

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biblically-accurate-soup · 5 years

Text

Hair Tie

Summary: Callum had never noticed how pretty her hair was. (Drabble)

——————

“Can you braid my hair?”

Callum looked up from his sketchbook. His elven companion was fumbling with a comb, failing to untangle the knots in her silver hair. She sent him a pleading look; her hair had grown out quite a bit in the past few months, and Callum had lost count of how many times it had gotten caught in a tree and slapped her in the face when the wind picked up.

Callum quirks an eyebrow. “If it’s bothering you, why don’t you trim it?”

Rayla rolled her eyes. “Cutting your own hair without a mirror is a nightmare and a half, Callum.”

“Well, I could trim-”

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, so you can cut my hair but I can’t trim yours?”

Rayla looked up from her mangled locks, giving him a deadpan stare. “Callum, I’ve seen how you handle my blades. No offense, but I think Zym would do a better job than you.”

“Hey, I’m not that bad!” he pouted. “Well, at least I not as bad as I was before.”

“You have improved, I’ll give you that much,” she hummed. “Now, are you going to braid my hair or should I keep my ‘l just rubbed my hair against a tree for nine hours’ look going?”

Callum sighed and closed his sketchbook: a sign of resignation. Wordlessly, Rayla plopped herself down in front of him and handed him a simple metal comb. He started working through her hair—bottom to top.

They sat in relative silence as he untangled the knots in her silver hair. Zym was curled up on Rayla’s lap, despite being far too big for it now, and she stroked his head gently. She began to quietly hum, her song accompanied by the chirps of the various magical insects of Acadia. In that moment, Callum felt as if their ragtag family were the only people in the world. It was nice. Peaceful.

As the sun began to set, Callum wove the last strand of hair into a practical braid. He bound of the end with a leather cord and took a moment to appreciate his handiwork. The sunset cast an orange glow across the landscape, and he could swear that Rayla’s hair was almost glowing in that ethereal light. He’d always liked things like her ears, her hands, or her eyes, but he had never really thought much about her hair. Now that he was thinking about it, he couldn’t help but think that it looked as beautiful as starlight.

Callum was abruptly brought back down to earth as Rayla played with the end of the braid. He couldn’t see her face, but he hoped she was smiling. Slowly, she tilted her head back to look at him with her lavender eyes, taking care to not poke him with her horns. Their eyes met. Callum’s heart decided to stop for a few moments.

“Callum?”

All he could do was stare at her blankly and nod.

“Thanks.” Her face softened as she gave him a small smile. Callum felt heat rush to his face, but thankfully, Rayla has already turned away from him to stand up. She stretched her arms above her head before turning to look at him. “I’ll go ahead and get our stuff packed up for the morning. It’ll be another long day of traveling ahead of us.”

Callum didn’t know what had come over him, but suddenly, he had lost his thought-to-mouth filter. “Hey, Ray...”

“Hmm?”

“It looks nice. It suits you.”

Rayla seemed at a loss for words. He couldn’t tell from the distance he was at, but he thought he saw a dusting of pink on her cheeks. Instead of a reply, she flashed him a brilliant smile.

Despite how pretty her hair, eyes, ears, hands, and a million other things about her were, Rayla’s smile was the the most beautiful thing in all of Xadia.

——-

A/N: oh look it’s me again writing a shitty OOC drabble at 10:43 pm and then posting it without editing it. what a shock. If you came here for quality writing idk what to say but you fooled yourself. Hope you enjoyed the shameless fluff though.

#rayllum #*tosses this into the tag* validate me

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justanotherdeadgirlwalking · 4 years

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That is Just the Saddest F**king Thing I Have Ever Heard.

TW obviously DEH is about a kid’s suicide, so it has those themes

other parts :)

Part Five.

Art doesn’t just happen. It’s a process. You need a muse, an inspiration, something that lights a spark in your brain. Inspiration is everywhere. I’m surrounded constantly by beautiful bodies, beautiful faces. Sometimes you walk down the street and see how perfectly someone’s shoulders meet their slender neck, and the image burns into your mind. You want to see it in front of you again, but you can’t because that would require stalking the person to find them, and that’s super fucking creepy. So, you settle for the next best thing, you draw it. You sketch it over and over again until you get it right, and suddenly that woman is in front of you again. I prefer to draw people, because then you never run out of ideas. Faces are so unique; each body is different. There’s billions of people in the world, each one just waiting to be captured; I never run out of ideas. Eyes are like two little galaxies right in the center of the asteroid that is your face.

Putting together a portfolio has been a lot harder than I’d expected. I thought I’d just through my favorite drawings in a folder and call it a day. The only problem is, I hate literally everything I have ever drawn. Mom has always told me that my drawing look like photographs. That’s complete bullshit because you can see fingerprint smudges, and you can tell that one eye is significantly better than the other, and the noses look like shit. I literally want to redo every piece.

I’m not being one of those people that says their work is shit because they’re fishing for compliments, I know they’re good. I’ve been featured in district art shows, and I’ve won awards. And I’m not trying to sound like a cocky asshole either. Art is just the one thing in my life I have complete and total control over, and trust me, I took control. I can choose how it looks, I can make it as perfect, or imperfect as I want it. I had to beg my parents for the best pencils and canvas to use. I figured, I didn’t take music lessons or dance lessons like Zoe did, you guys can buy me some quality supplies. They didn’t want to waste money on the stuff if I wasn’t going to use it. As a child I tried a lot of sports and hated them. When I was ten, I joined the swim team. I practiced every day, for hours. I even talked Zoe into training with me, I made her time me, and yell at me in an angry German accent when I wasn’t making time. Then, after probably hundreds of hours of training, I decided that I didn’t like swimming before I even had the chance to compete. I guess they didn’t want me to do the same thing with art. Mom finally took me to an art store, like a real art store, when I proved to her I was serious about it. It was like going to Disney world. Everything I’ve ever dreamed of was right there in front of me. There was a wall of colored pencils. There were pencils in every color I could think of, and then some, colors I never even seen before. I stood there in awe. It was a game changer to use real colored pencils, not Crayola’s. Larry was so mad, he didn’t understand how art supplies could be so expensive. Well, I don’t understand why someone would spend $100 on a dozen golf balls either, so I guess we’re even.

Since I couldn’t realistically redo every piece of art I’ve ever made, I decided I would just use every piece that my art teacher loved and draw one new piece. It seemed like a good compromise. Miss Schmitt was the only person I really trust with anything. She’s always pushed me to keep going, not to give up on a piece and see it through. She didn’t teach me how to draw, you can’t teach talent, but she always motivated me.

I really needed her motivation now. There was one person I really wanted to draw, but I seemed to have a mental block on what they looked like. Miss Schmitt told me to use a reference picture, but I didn’t want anyone to know who I was drawing. It would make me look psycho, and people finally stopped thinking I was a freak. I couldn’t bring myself to draw his face, so I drew his body. I drew his New Balance sneakers and his mal fitting khakis. I spent hours trying to replicate the crease down the front of his pants just right. I even made a special trip to the art store to make sure I found the right shades of blue for his stupid stripped shirt. I got an off-white colored pencil so I could shade his cast just right. Evan’s arm may not be broken anymore, but when I think of him, I think of him in his cast, just after I signed it. When everything was still really real and made sense.

I’ve become obsessed with him. How could I not be, he was my one and only friend. Except, that wasn’t true, and he used me for a better life. I really wanted nothing to do with him, but at the same time I wanted to know everything about him. It didn’t help that he was always around.

There was a knock on my door. “Come in” I called, snapping my sketchbook shut. I looked up to see Evan in my room, behind him, Zoe was peering in, almost hiding. “What’s up” I asked them, annoyed. Evan stands there for a second, looking down and playing with his fingers. I cleared my throat to get his attention.

“Um, me and Zoe want to talk to you” he spits out in a nervous stutter. I motion for them to come in. Zoe comes in and sits on my bed, not looking at me. Evan stands still for another moment before pulling the door shut and sitting on the ground where he stood. Everyone is silent for a moment, avoiding eye contact. I cough loudly to end the awkwardness.

“What did you guys want to talk about?” I ask.

Its Zoe that answers, softly, her voice breaking, “I want answers,” she says. Well kid, that makes two of us. “Why did you try to kill yourself.”

I feel like I was kicked in the chest. I don’t really have an explanation as to why. I just did. It was impulsive, seemed like the right thing to do in the moment. I wasn’t suicidal, and I wasn’t depressed beyond my normal gloom and doom. I just did it because I felt like it. I wasn’t feeling helpless or worthless, just bored. Except, I can’t tell her that. “Connor?” she asks. I just stare at her, hoping she will drop it. She meets my gaze and raises an eyebrow. She looks so sad, so broken. I must have really hurt her.

“I don’t want to talk about it” I say.

She sighs and balls her fists and taps them against her legs. She didn’t like that answer. I get it. I’d want to know too, I guess. Except, there’s nothing to know. Except, I wasn’t as important to her as she is to me.

“In the emails you wrote to Evan,” she starts. Oh, great the fake emails, “you were doing so well. Please you don’t need to tell me everything, but I just want to know what happened”

“I said I don’t want to fucking talk about it.” I snap.

Evan coughs, bringing attention to himself. I forgot he was here for a second. He looks nervous, really nervous. I don’t blame him, I could blow up his whole life right now with the truth. “Maybe he needs more time Zoe” he says. I give him a dirty look.

Zoe slams her hand against the bed, “You’ve had months,” she yells, “How much more time do you need. How do you go from climbing trees with Evan to killing yourself in a park?”

“Zoe,” Evan says, “you remember what you read, you don’t want to trigger him.” Trigger me? Okay Evan, you just don’t want me to tell the truth. Evan stands and opens the door, motioning for Zoe to leave. She looks at me again, pleading me with her eyes, then gets up and leaves. Evan lingers for a moment, watching her walk down the hall to her room. He steps back in and slams the door.

“We need to talk f-for real,” He says.

“Oh, for sure” I say, standing up and covering the distance between us until I’m towering over him, “Let’s talk about how you’re taking advantage of my entire fucking family.”

He’s beet red. “I’m not” he says, looking at the floor.

“Hey buddy, we’re not friends, we never were friends, and we’re probably never going to be friends.” I say

“Wh-why not?” he whispers.

“News flash,” I yell, “the first and only time I ever talked to you was when I signed your cast remember? You lied to everyone, and you’re a shitty liar.”

Evan is silent, he’s staring at the ground and pulling at his fingers. I watch him as he scratches his neck, pulls his ear, shifts his weight. I’ve thought Evan and I were the same; neither of us had friends because we were outcasts so to speak. He was just socially awkward, whereas I was the school freak. But I could tell he felt the same stuff I felt. The same wish that someone would notice us, that we were both on the outside, always looking in. Maybe if things were different we would be friends. I tried reaching out to him, but he was too self-absorbed with his own issues to notice me. And now, I am somehow engulfed in his issues. He took my suicide and made it about him. He lied to my parents and Zoe and the whole world. Evan Hansen was a nobody, a barely in the background kind of guy, and now his basically an internet celebrity. And me? People still don’t care about me, but at least they’re nice to me now.

I think that’s why I’m so angry about the whole situation. He got what he always wanted, he got his dreams come true. He got a taste of a perfect life, so he did what he had to do. But it ends now. I hope it was fun and he had a blast while he dragged me along.

“Did you read the emails?” Evan finally asks. I read them. He wrote a story of a perfect friendship. Friends that quote their favorite bands and tells jokes nobody understands except us two, and there’s nothing that we can’t discus, like girls we wish would notice us but never do. He even included me encouraging him to go after my sister. The fucking creep.

“Dear Evan Hansen,” I say, “You either tell Zoe and my parents the truth, or I will.” I open my door and shove him out of my room, “Sincerely, me.

#deh #dear evan hansen #DEH fanfic #deh fandom #Dear evan hansen fanfic #dear connor murphy #connor murphy #evan hansen #zoe murphy #mike fiast #ben platt #fanfict #tree bros #musicals

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chalantness · 5 years

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fic: And It Still Comes Back to Us

Rating: PG-13 Word Count: ~2400 Characters: Steve/Natasha Summary: She lets him wade in his thoughts. Lets him come back to her on his own. He always does, and part of her knows that he always will. She doesn’t quite believe in fate or destiny, but she believes in Steve and that’s all she needs.

A/N: THIS FANFIC CONTAINS MAJOR MOVIE SPOILERS.

This is basically one big closure fanfic addressing the problems I had regarding Nat's arc in the movie and a little of Steve's, too.

Read On: [ ao3 ]

The first thing she sees when she wakes up is Steve: his chin tipped forward, blonde hair falling over his forehead, his eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly as he stares down at the sketchbook in his lap, dragging his pencil across the page in short, quick strokes. Shading. She doesn’t know how many times she’s listened to this sound – sitting across the table from him, or beside him in the briefing room, or on his tiny couch in his shitty apartment in D.C. – and she certainly doesn’t remember the last time she’d ever heard it.

It had to have been years ago. Steve sketched on any scrap of paper or corner of napkin he could get his hands when they’d gone on the run after The Accords, but The Snap was different. His hands barely stopped shaking long, his body every bit as restless as hers, though he’d gone out into their broken world, channeled his energy on support groups and volunteering while she went at punching bags until her knuckles went raw, went through hundreds and thousands of bullets as she shot at targets, day after day.

She used to think it was ridiculous that she found this small, simple sound comforting.

But now? She kind of loves it.

“If that’s a sketch of me sleeping,” she starts, smiling at the way his gaze snaps onto hers, his entire expression easing as he sits up a little straighter in his chair, “I’m going to take your pencil and throw it at your head.”

He exhales a chuckle, sets his sketchbook on the nightstand as he leans forward, elbows resting on the bed, brushing lightly against hers. Sometime while she’d been passed out in Tony and Pepper’s guest bedroom, he’d slipped inside and dragged the armchair from the corner closer to her, barely a foot away.

Not that she expected any different. When they’d come back from space, back from time—since she’d come back into existence, sealing the Soul Stone back into that desolate planet—she barely went two steps without being pulled into someone’s arms, squeezed into a hug. There had been tears, from them and from her, and when they’d started to talk over each other in a rush of sentiment and questions, Wanda had pried her away and latched herself onto Natasha’s side, silencing everyone with a stare. Natasha had only hugged the girl tighter, smiling as she brushed the stray strands of her hair behind her ear, and Wanda had poured everyone tea as they crammed into Tony and Pepper’s room and sat around Tony in bed, Morgan cuddled at his side. Using the Stones had left his right side nearly charred off, close to killing him, but somehow, he’d managed to survive.

(There seems to be a lot of that going around these days.)

Sam had asked if she’d felt her body hit the bottom, if she remembered it at all, and she thinks she must not because she doesn’t remember it hurting. She doesn’t remember anything.

She remembers closing her eyes, remembers the sensation of falling, and then—

Then she’d woken up in water, nearly gasping for breath, and Steve had been calling for her, pulling her up and into his arms, murmuring her name in a near panic. He’d held her so tight that it almost hurt, but she didn’t dare ask him to let go. She wanted to feel his body against hers. She wanted to know without a doubt that he was real.

“You’re awfully violent for someone that slept for five hours,” he quips, his voice low, his face close to hers.

She raises her eyebrows. Five hours. She had just wanted to lay down for a little, after Tony had fallen asleep and they’d cleared out of his room, but it seems that she was more exhausted that she’d realized.

His lips quirk into a grin at her expression. “You were out as soon as your head hit the pillow. Seems like you had a lot of excitement for one day.”

“Well, if you want to be technical,” she says, holding his gaze as she rolls onto her side, tucking an arm under her head, “I was gone for quite a few days.”

Steve chuckles again, though she watches as his expression fades at the edges, his forehead creasing as his gaze shifts across her face. He swallows lightly and reaches for her hand, his fingers wrapping around hers as he smooths his thumbs over the knuckles—back and forth, quiet and distracted, and she lets him wade in his thoughts. Lets him come back to her on his own. He always does, and part of her knows that he always will. She doesn’t quite believe in fate or destiny, but she believes in Steve and that’s all she needs.

“We were going to have your funeral today,” he tells her through the tightness in his throat.

Her breathing falters, but only for a moment. “Yeah?” she asks.

He swallows again, nodding. “I—I was going back for you. Clint couldn’t bring himself to take your body back, but the second he came home, he’d regretted it. So much, Nat.” The nickname tugs at her chest, makes the air rush out of her almost all at once. “He wanted to be the one to put the Soul Stone back and bring you home, so we could have this beautiful ceremony Wanda prepared, but I didn’t want him to have to see you like that again.” He shakes his head. “I wasn’t even sure if I was going to keep it together.”

“Did you?” she asks, blinking slowly, afraid to look away, to move even just a little. His grip tightens on her hand like a lifeline and she manages a smile.

His lips twitch at the corners, pulling into a small smile in return. “I lost it as soon as my feet hit the ground.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but his words settle over her thoughts, warmth unfurling in her stomach and shooting through her veins, even as her chest tightens from the pure grief in his eyes as he recalls that moment.

“Steve.” It feels a little like she can’t breathe.

“I nearly chucked the thing and left,” he admits, letting out a quick, manic sort of laugh, no doubt wondering what would have happened if he’d done so. He wouldn’t have realized the chance he’d tossed away. Then he shakes his head, as if trying to rid of the thought altogether, meeting her gaze again. “I never got the chance to realize that you were really gone. We’d mourned you. We all did, but there was still so much left to do—so much else to focus on. Even after, when Tony barely made it through, there were a few last pieces to recover. Loose ends to tie.” His lips tug at the corner. “Then Wanda talked about your funeral, and Clint wanted to bring your body back home to us, and I—”

She shushes him gently, pulling her hand from his to brush her thumb over his lips. Her heart hurts, watching him relive these memories, hearing him relive his sorrow.

“You don’t have to,” she reassures, cupping his cheek, stroking her fingers over the slight stubble along his jaw. “It’s okay, Steve.”

But he shakes his head, taking her hand in both of his again. “I wanted to be the one to take the Stones back, and I—” He licks his lips, hesitating, squeezing her a little tighter. “I didn’t want to stay here, Nat,” he admits in this small, low voice, like he’s almost disappointed with himself. “I was going to bring your body home, and then I was going to go back in time again. Try to live the life I’d lost before I went in the ice.” His eyebrows furrow, forehead creasing, and she can tell from his expression that this genuinely bothers him. If anyone deserved to make a move like this, it would be Steve. He’s done more enough, sacrificed more than enough, and he deserves to have whatever ending he wants.

But that doesn’t quite stop her breaths from becoming shallow at the thought. Doesn’t quite stop her chest from feeling too tight to feel anything else.

“And I realized I was just trying not to move on. I’d lost you, Nat,” he says, his voice cracking ever so slightly on her name, “and it felt like waking up in a whole new decade again. It felt like having the world pulled out from under my feet, and I wasn’t sure if I’d find my ground a second time.”

She blinks once, twice, then quickly, her vision going blurry at the edges. She doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know if she can even get her voice out, but continues on.

“But even before I’d put that first stone back, I knew I couldn’t go back into the past. I’d get back the life I was supposed to have, the dream I was supposed to make happen. Except I didn’t want that anymore.” He breathes out a chuckle, laughing at himself as he shakes his head. “I wanted this life, with this family, even if you weren’t in it. And it was going to be so hard to be without you, Nat. It was never going to be half as good as the life I wanted for us, but leaving our family would have been like losing you twice.”

Her breath catches in her throat, a tear rolling out from the corner of her eye and into her hair.

The life I wanted for us.

For us.

“I’d never cried so hard in my life, on that damn planet all by myself. Everything hurt. Everything. And you know what pissed me off the most?”

She’s almost afraid to ask. She doesn’t know if she’s prepared for the answer. “What?”

He manages a wry sort of smile. “I know you. I know your every thought, always—and I know you fell for that Stone with the belief that this was going to be the thing to make up for your past. That this was the sacrifice to needed to make to wipe the blood off of your hands.” She presses her lips together and he tightens his hold on her hand, her chest feeling tight, her stomach flipping in unease—in guilt. Because this was the truth. “You never, ever believe me when I tell you you’ve more than made up for your demons, Nat. I made bad choices, too. We all have, and you’re the first one to forgive us, convince us of our worth. But you never let us convince you? You died believing so little of yourself?”

She makes a noise from the back of her throat. “Steve—”

“I was devastated to have lost you, but I was also pissed at you. I know you wouldn’t have let Clint sacrifice himself. I know it was needed. I know.”

She starts to sit up, feeling the emotion burst through her, and she feels helpless against it. Against everything she’s tried to talk herself out of feeling, out of thinking. “Steve—”

He grasps her arms, his hands trembling ever so slightly, his face only inches from hers as his eyes. “But you’re so ready to leave us? You think you deserved it?”

“It couldn’t have been him,” she says, her voice shaking. “He needed to be there for his family when they came back. It shouldn’t have been him.”

“It shouldn’t have been either of you,” he shoots back, one hand coming up to cup her cheek, brushing another tear away as it starts to fall. “But I think you’re the only one that doesn’t believe that.” He tucks his fingers into her hair, cradles the back of her head. “What did you feel while you were falling?”

She swallows through the tightness in her throat. “Steve.”

“Please,” he whispers, drawing her forehead against his. He’s never, ever touched her like this, held her like this, but it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

“I felt devastated.” Her eyes are almost completely blurred with tears, but she stares right back into his bright, bright blue eyes, letting them anchor her. Letting them calm her. “I had a real chance to get our family back, and I knew we were going to make it work, but I wasn’t going to be there to see it. I felt pissed that I had to make the choice to begin with, and then I felt guilty for even thinking that, because what was the alternative? Clint dying? Laura and the kids going without him? Was that truly any better? But I—” Her heart stutters in her chest, but the words still pour out from her lips. “I think I finally wanted to slow down. I wanted more for myself, and for the first time, it felt possible.”

“It is,” he whispers, his breath arm against her face with how close they are. She twists her fingers into his shirt, needing him to anchor her. “You spent years trying to get me to live my life. To get me to move on from what I’d lost, so it’s only fair that I do the same for the woman I love, even if it takes the rest of our lives.”

She exhales a laugh, her voice shaky and trembling. “Love?” she echoes.

He smiles, crooked and boyish, eyes wet with tears, and she’s never seen anything so perfect. “Yeah, Nat.” He swallows, gently cupping her face in his hands. “I love you.”

But before she can take a breath to respond, before she can even blink, he slants his lips against hers and it sends tingles shooting through her veins. His kiss is gentle, but not at all tentative, not at all hesitant. He kisses her because he wants to. He kisses her like he’s meant to.

And she kisses him back, harder, because she wants to. Because every ounce of her body is drawn to his, because every part of her fits perfectly against every part of him.

“I love you, too,” she murmurs against his lips, smiling, heart fluttering at the way he groans ever so softly, like he’d waited his entire life to hear those words. She kisses him harder, twisting her fingers tighter into his shirt, and he says the words again, muffled against their kiss, but she still hears them.

She looks forward to hearing them for the rest of their lives.

#endgame spoilers #avengers endgame spoilers #romanogers #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #chanty writes

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subasekabang · 5 years

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A Redbud’s Name in an Ink-Splattered World

Rating: T Word Count: 7676 Pairings/Characters: Neku Sakuraba/Yoshiya “Joshua” Kiryu; Neku & Joshua & Beat & Rhyme & Shiki & Eri; Neku Sakuraba, Yoshiya “Joshua” Kiryu, Daisukenojou “Beat” Bito, Raimu “Rhyme” Bito, Sanae Hanekoma, Yodai Higashizawa. [Other Characters(9)/Ships(1) to appear in later chapters.] Warnings: Frequent Canon-Typical Violence, Injury; alluded to, but neither appear in the chapter. Swearing, mostly from Neku. Summary: It’s summer in Inkopolis, just after the chaos that broke loose during the last celebrations—and yet, even in its aftermath, a delicate balance meant to be enough to wrap up the mess that was made isn’t anything close to scrubbing the grime and stone under the city’s waves. Yet, when something pulls at the balance and tugs the seas of color too far and too thin, he finds himself of all people squidnapped and sunk into an underwater espionage, stubbornly searching for what hides in Inkopolis’s murky depths. As much as he hates the ‘people’ part of it…

Well, maybe he’ll find he’s submerged himself in much more than he agreed to—both in his missions and in the hearts of those he works with.

Partners: Vi, Turtel Author’s Note: I’ll be posting this on ao3 eventually (probably with way more gushing than I can fit here!!) This was the only chapter I managed to complete, but I’m happy with how it turned out. Thank you so much to everyone I talked to and worked with along the way!!

The day that Neku’s world starts isn’t when he’s born, but it is the last Saturday of July.

It’s a day when less than a week has passed since the last Splatfest, at a time when both celebration and cleanup are as remarkably chaotic as any of the other 18,994 or so weeks Neku has endured have ever been. Now, the sun pours over Inkopolis Square like a cast in a mold. The city, absolved of the mess and dissonance that had fully collected itself nine days prior, wafts a gentle balance into the air once again, its citizens ambling once more along its glowing streets and sunlit buildings.

So it claims.

By all means, Inkopolis should be—and is far better, if it is—a place of peace. In the days following the final festivities, Neku and his mother saw lotuses and water lilies hung from the other tenants’ windows in rows. All turf wars and activities had declined, even during peak hours. Any hints of disaster from the Splatfest should have dissolved, leaving its hosts, participants, and spectators behind with the precarious rubble—and to Inkopolis, that was exactly how it seemed. If this had kept up for longer, Neku would have been pretty pleased.

It does not take long for him, a normal, law-abiding, doing his best to survive now and that’s it Inkling, to walk straight into disaster.

He doesn’t even mean to, honest! It’s a complete and utter mistake that shouldn’t be one—the most glaring reason being that this was the quickest way home, and his normal path home. Plus, it was supposed to be relatively safe; sure, maybe he could find people fighting or tagging the walls, but that was a rare occurrence and a given for Inkopolis. Turf wars and art were indispensable to the city: the two together were its blood, its infrastructure, and its entire world.

Perhaps it’s the absence of both on his way home that hurls him into another world.

When Neku walks home from Inkopolis Square, often a twenty-seven minute trip if he speedwalks, there are no brawlers and no graffitists. Every drop of ink that dripped and spilled was gathered up by the air before sunset. Now, there is he, his bag and tank, his cherry-blossom sketchbook, his Permanent Inkbrush and the concrete floor. He walks with only one companion, and that is the music streaming through his headphones—not a single other being is in sight.

And then, of course, it happens. Because nothing can go without a hitch in Inkopolis.

Neku doesn’t register exactly when he bumps into a stranger, but it’s after three songs and four seconds into a “Twister” remix, which seems to place it at a solid fourteen minutes into his walk. When he does, it’s because he’s falling face-flat onto the floor, and because he almost hits it if not for his last-second scrambling.

That’s weird, is the first sentence that comes to mind. There’s nothing to trip over on this way home. Unless someone thinks that kicking rocks into incoming pedestrians’ paths is supposed to be funny, Neku knows this route enough to use his phone or daydream on the way back, and that requires a very specific amount of certitude in the neighbors’ goodwill.

In an uncontrollable wave of curiosity, Neku turns his head, then his arm and bag, then his legs—

And he finds himself staring not exactly face-to-face with a towering, 100 percent glowering Inkling. He has dark brown hair, ancient ram symbols all over his clothes, and fluorescent sneakers that disrupt the menacing vibe he’s trying to pull off, and Neku swears that he’s never met him before in his life.

As unexpected as this is, Neku devises a plan. It’s short and simple; after all, there’s only one solution to this, panic-led or not.

He breathes. Sighs.

Then, he turns back around and starts walking away.

It is an incredibly ingenious plan, which is also probably why it fails so quickly. No more than four steps forward and Neku swears the start of the lyrics in this remix sounds horrendously off-beat, which shouldn’t be a problem when he’s listened to this version again and again.

Then, of course, the obvious sets itself into motion. The drums thud closer and faster until they cease; the air shifts behind Neku and sends goosebumps through his shirt; in one swift motion, Neku yanks his Inkbrush off of his shoulders and jerks his ink tank back in place, and dashes forward in a stroke of ink before any foreboding hell can break loose.

A few seconds pass before he pivots back around, granting an unwavering stare towards his imposing assailant. His Inkbrush drips at his side, knuckles white around one of the two black grips as the others brush against his walkman.

The song skips and a different mix encompasses the fray, swallowing all but the stranger’s words.

“You,” he rumbles, shaking the ground but little of Neku himself, “why swing that measly pastry brush along this concrete?”

Neku grimaces. Nobody calls a paintbrush, let alone his Inkbrush, a goddamn pastry brush, and gets away with attempted murder. It’s an insult and injury he isn’t standing for, so he weighs out his conversational choices and comes up with, “Pretty sure we both know the reason why, dude,” and gives a shrug with his spare hand.

“Hmph.” The man scowls, and he drags his roller back. Neku studies the length of the roller and the gold paint covering it; he realizes how normal it looks in comparison to the man, who looms over both him and his own weapon with ease. “Of all foods, I could not have expected you to be a citrus peel. Your bitter bark is just that: a bark that none dare bite.”

“And your point is…?” Neku could laugh at how bad that was if he wasn’t in danger. “I think you’ve got the wrong person.”

“You need not play coy. You are just the same as them. Unlike the raw morsels of this city, you are consumed by your desire.” The roller draws in further, and Neku steps back. “Even after this haluhalo of chaos and order, there is still something you want, isn’t there? No matter what it is, they are just the same—and soon enough, you—”

“That’s enough out of you, isn’t it?” a voice echoes from the nearby alley, stepping out of its maw and into the fray. Out tumbles a boy made of shades of platinum and lavender, the bell sleeves of a silvery blouse trailing behind him as he tiptoes past the puddles of orange and brown. When he stops, he stares straight up towards Neku’s assailant. “I would think your group would have more dignity than go after odd passerby on the street, but I must have overestimated you.”

“Quite the way to prove a point, isn’t it? Perhaps next time, you should be more covert in your preparations.”

“I see no point when there won’t be a ‘next time,’” Neku’s ally—maybe an ally? he can’t really tell—shrugs, still turned away from him. “He has no relation to our missions. If you’re looking for a fight, then I regret to say that it’s me you’ll challenge.”

“I desire no challenge. This recipe was issued to me not so long ago, and it was purely to the point. But, if you must stand in my way—”

The man lifts the roller behind him, high in the air, and the boy in front of Neku sidesteps out of the ink, glancing to him as he does. Neku’s gaze lingers on his odd acquaintance; he even squints until the man’s attack comes back to mind, and he springs off of the sidewalk, possessions rattling behind and around him as he rolls onto the road. The roller meets the concrete and thuds, cracking the tiles Neku had once stood over as he drags himself off of the asphalt.

Smooth, he grimaces, rubbing a red spot on his shoulder. Dangerous, too, considering his lack of skill with rolling.

Cods, if this is some kind of evaluation, he’s certainly failing it.

“How long do you intend to keep this up, Higashizawa?” the boy asks, crossing his arms. “You should know by know that you can’t defeat us.”

Neku’s eyes narrow. He’s not particularly keen on being included—hell, he hasn’t even done anything himself, but… has this guy even pulled out a weapon yet?

He tries to ignore that fact to focus on his assailant. Higashizawa—that must be his name, if not ‘the man who tried to kill Neku, like, twice with shitty food jokes’—stands like a statue, unmoving, his eyes trailing their every move and nothing else. For a while, the noise is deafening. The cold stone reverberates fire and whistles. The strange boy hums an odd, harmonic tune. Neku observes both, his hearts rasping a fast, arrhythmic beat, and waits for a signal.

Higashizawa moves first. He slings his roller over his shoulders and turns away from them, sending a wave of nervous heat over Neku as he remains silent. Then, finally, he speaks, slow and steady.

“How shameful. You would prefer the table set and appetizers cold before cooking the main dish?” a ‘tsk’ slips from under his breath. “It will be an unpleasant meal. Let us see if you liven it up once all has been said and done.”

Neku watches the man turn away and disappear on the path to the square, and a final wave of relief washes over him, letting his breath escape like steam. He looks back to the boy, who turns at the same time that he does and quirks a small smile.

“You’d best be getting home, wouldn’t you? Go on. He won’t be back for a while.”

“Yeah, great hearing that from a stranger.” Neku snorts, but he considers it. He turns around and takes a step forward before a realization settles in his head, and he jerks his head back to the boy.

“Hey—who even are you, anyways?” One of ‘them’ might be a good guess, considering what Higashizawa said, but… who the hell, and why?

The boy is already a good distance away when Neku yells at him, but still within hearing range. It doesn’t stop him from continuing onwards, giving naught but a cryptic silence in response.

“Hey! Answer me!” he yells again, and the boy stops, pivoting on his heel and leaning back. His phone glows, tinting his face blue as he speaks.

“I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough, won’t you?”

The boy doesn’t deign Neku with another response after that, even when he yells once more. He turns the corner up to Inkopolis Square, and Neku spins back around, leaving the dissipating puddles behind.

What the fuck just happened? He wishes he knew. Maybe that would’ve helped him give his mother a reason it took five extra minutes to get home and get ink over his shoes.

The next day, Neku takes the time to process what the hell happened, and doesn’t come up with shit.

The day after is when they—unfortunately—cross paths again.

Call him an idiot for it, don’t call him one—whatever. It shouldn’t exactly be Neku’s fault that Inkopolis Square is at the peak of popularity and Inkopolis Plaza is the ghost town four minutes away from his house, or that that means that all of his clients are up and kicking ink at the Deca Tower instead, but maybe it should be his fault for taking a trip outside to sketch their commissions in the face of possible danger.

But it should so not be his fault that they meet at one of the freshest coffee shops downtown. That’s a factor he doesn’t take credit for.

All things considered, it’s quite possible that he should: Neku has always found solace from the city’s constant chatter within a corner of CATfish Café, where a small table and two chairs are enough for him to seat himself, his things, and his coffee while doing whatever. But that is exactly why—because after a year and a half of visiting the store, from the moment winter froze the rest of the town over to now, when summer burned it to a crisp, he’s never seen the other enter the store once.

Until now.

It’s like a freaky coincidence—the chance that they meet while waiting near the pick-up counter, standing side-by-side because there’s no other place to stand when it’s so crowded. Neku doesn’t notice until he turns left out of curiosity and looks straight into the same hair and shade of lavenders. He has on a periwinkle button-up and dark jeans, and the longer that he stares into that orange phone, the more Neku realizes he’s either ignoring him or he genuinely hasn’t seen him.

For four seconds, Neku considers what to do, until he resolves to speak first, harshly, “It’s you. You’re that kid from Saturday.”

All that Neku gets is another flick down the blue screen.

He tugs the boy’s right sleeve once, twice as he continues, “Hey, you didn’t answer me last time. What the hell did you mean by—”

“Shh.” The boy budges away from his pull. He places the index finger of his free hand over his mouth, even as he continues to look over his phone. “Try not to be loud about it, will you, Neku? We’re in a public space. We wouldn’t want to drag anyone else into this fiasco, would we?”

“As if I signed up for this in the first place,” Neku grumbles. He pauses, processing every word as two Inklings, teal and fern hair respectively, take an order from the counter.

Wait.

“How do you—”

“Oh, you know.”

No, he glares pointedly, I certainly do not know! “Fine. Fine,” he sighs, throwing his hands out in front of him. “Okay. What do you want from me?”

The boy smiles again. “Isn’t that obvious? I came to talk. Go find us a seat, will you?”

“Only if you get my order,” Neku mutters, but he doesn’t give him his receipt and swivels to find a seat instead. Luckily enough, the corner is still open, and he drops all of his belongings gracelessly over one of the seats before leaning back in it himself. He waits, tapping his foot over the wooden panels and glancing at the mural-like segments which pop in bright colors from the walls. Eventually, the other arrives, their coffees both landing like airplanes over two runways and the stranger following suit in an opposing chair.

“Alright, first things first,” Neku starts, crossing his arms. “Name. So I don’t need to make a stupid name for you like ‘Salted Cod’ or whatever that ancient jellyfish says.”

“Straightforward,” he notes, and clears his throat before responding. “My name is Yoshiya Kiryu. My parents would call me Joshua, however—and seeing as how we’ll be meeting in the future, feel free to say the same.”

Oh, he really hates that.

“Okay. Joshua. Great,” he says, uncrossing his arms and pointedly avoiding his loathing. “I don’t need to introduce myself, so shoot: what the hell happened yesterday?”

The boy replies quickly. “You were attacked by Higashizawa on the way home.”

“Dude, I’m not dumb.”

“Of course,” he lilts, though the smile on his face says otherwise. “But he did have a reason, as incorrect as it may have been. He thought you were one of ours.”

“Is this that ‘them’ thing he mentioned yesterday?”

“Correct! You’re rather smart, aren’t you?” he hums, “He was talking about the ‘Cephalosquad.’ I suppose the other group would call it a ‘secret society of heroes,’ but there’s nothing quite heroic about defeating lower-level fighters.”

“What a name,” Neku rolls his eyes. Cephalosquad. “And the reason he thought I was involved was…?”

“Presumably the wrong place at the wrong time. We’ve had missions all over the city.”

“So that just prompts premeditated murder? I could’ve died there—”

“And it’s likely that you wouldn’t have. You wouldn’t have given up and died, would you?”

“…No,” Neku resigns, and Joshua smirks, “Exactly.”

It’s unfortunate that he has a point.

“Now that that’s settled…” Joshua takes a sip from his coffee, setting it down before steepling his hands. “How would you feel about actually joining?”

Neku’s hand freezes over his own coffee, the heat ineffective to thaw it. “What.”

“It’s nothing complicated, really. You’re already rather involved in this, regardless, so it’s not like you have much of a choice.”

Joshua’s voice is careless, as fluous as honey and as calm as the snowfalls in storybooks. Neku’s bridges the gap between nettles and marcato notes as he leans forward. “I told you, I didn’t ask to be a part of it. What, do you want me to say ‘yes?’ Oh, sure,” he hisses, voice bristling yet dulcet in tone, “I’d be happy to die the next time I go outside, thanks a bunch for the offer!”

“…So you’re saying no.”

“With pleasure.”

The table falls silent. When the sound over their coffee returns, it’s from Joshua chuckling, his smile even more evident on his face. It’s saccharine, and it’s sickening, and—

“So, did you have anything else to tell me, or can I go? I have a job to do,” he says, even though his sketchbook is the first thing he meant to grab when he got to the table and not anywhere else.

“…Hmph,” Joshua frowns, his eyes narrowing. “No, I don’t. If that’s what you really want, then I won’t stop you.”

He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it; by the time he can possibly say a word, however, Neku’s already gone on his way, his person and belongings wholly absent from the opposite chair and his shadow ten steps away from that of the café overhang.

He doesn’t see Joshua again for a while, but it doesn’t mean the boy’s presence ever leaves him.

Which is godawful unfortunate. When he had said that he wouldn’t sign up for whatever joke of a ‘Cephalosquad’ that the boy was a part of, he had meant it—and he still does, even three days after their talk.

And, technically, one could say that the other had done the same, following through with the words that he had said before Neku had left—but it seems today that it isn’t the case, not when Neku’s pocket is yet again disrupted by someone out of the crowds.

It happens when he’s drawing those same commissions that he had meant to the day of the past incident, right in the midst of a more complex one: it’s a poster for two twins, an Inkling and an Octoling clad in yellow and purple as they gesture and yell through a microphone in close composition. It’s not as special as it’s been made out to be, whether by him or the client—their mom, apparently, even though she’s got hair dyed with lime and not sunstone or amethyst—but considering the quality, it’s an oddly significant one.

He can’t really fathom why someone would request so much from a high school student, but he doesn’t have much time to dwell on it.

“Excuse me,” a voice snaps him out of his thoughts, tapping the table before lifting their hand back up, “Did someone named Yoshiya Kiryu come by here yesterday?”

An Inkling looks down at him from the tableside, a cup of coffee wrapped in her hands. Her fingers peek from rosy sweater sleeves, and she smiles the sun from under a black beanie and a skull pin. For every second that she speaks, a brown bag around her shoulder and her hip rustles, blown by the wind of every note nearby.

He’d feel bad snarking to her, but she’s the one who sought him out. She should definitely see this coming.

“Sure did. And I met him.” Twice, he doesn’t add.

“Oh, good.” she speaks, and then there’s a look of regret on her face that adds, well, not really. “I was wondering if I could talk to you. About—well, what he was supposed to talk about.”

“I think he talked plenty,” Neku grumbles, erasing a harsh line, and the girl winces.

“Well…” her voice trails off. A finger taps her chin before resting over the cup sleeve again. “Yes. I’m sure he did. But I don’t think he said the right things. Otherwise, we probably would have met somewhere else.”

“What, are you expecting me to join because you’ll say something he didn’t? ” Neku rolls his eyes, glaring up to the Inkling shortly afterward. “ You’re bullshitting it at this point, aren’t you.”

“I’m not, really,” she sighs, and she pauses. The music overhead drowns as it ends in the crowds, and she speaks as the next track plays. “Please, will you hear me out? I don’t have any reason for funny business, honest.”

Neku feels a little sorry for her, actually. She came all this way and now he’s turning her down without a second thought, his mouth opening not seconds after to respond—

And then he looks up at her one last time, her eyes pleading under knotted brows and her fingers cutting small dents in the paper mold, and his first words fade to naught.

The beat of a drum echoes through the speakers. It is quiet, waiting, expectant.

Neku groans. This is going to kick his ass, and he knows it.

“…Fine. Go ahead.”

Her face lights up like the sun, and as she nears the opposite chair, Neku just knows that he’s screwed more than a hundred times over.

“May I?” she gestures. Neku nods, and her face nearly glows, the effect only disrupted as she sets her coffee down with a ‘clink.’

“Alright. Thank you,” she smiles, steadying herself in spite of the shakes and glee in her voice.

“Before we get started, we should introduce ourselves, shouldn’t we?” The chair drags along the white tile and she slides swiftly into the seat as she speaks. “My name is Raimu Bito, but Rhyme’s just fine. Joshua and I have been working together for the past eight months.”

She nods once again, then twice, eyes training on him and waiting, and Neku jolts himself out of his commission-induced stupor to speak.

“Neku Sakuraba. I’m, uh—pretty sure you know how we met.”

Rhyme interlaces her hands in her lap, barely visible between the table and the loops of pink. The edges of her mouth turn upward, and her eyes narrow in turn, apologetic but almost laughing in Neku’s eyes. “Well, Neku, it’s nice to meet you!”

He doesn’t grant her a response. The weariness pales her face.

“Alright—back to business,” she says, and sips her coffee. “So, did Joshua at least tell you about the Cephalosquad?”

“Yeah. And why I’m stuck in this mess.” Neku says, leaning into his sketch. “That’s it.”

“Is… that when you left?”

“No, I left after he said I didn’t have the choice to join or not.”

Rhyme pauses, fidgeting her hands as she mulls over what to say. Eventually, she half-whispers, “…Neku, I think you might be barking up the wrong tree.”

Unbelievable.

“What the hell is there to mishear from that?” Neku leans back, eyes narrowing. Rhyme continues to stare up at him, no sign of being unfazed. “Well, nothing. It’s what he didn’t tell you that might’ve helped, you know?”

She takes another sip of her coffee—although by now, Neku’s pretty convinced it’s just tea. “He probably said you got caught up in this because of a coincidence, right? It’s partially true. Sometimes, you just happened to be somewhere by chance. But other times, it would be on purpose.”

“We’ve got a little… no, a big problem on our hands,” she whispers, her eyes now glancing between Neku and her own palms. “To tell the truth, we’re not a big group—after all, we haven’t worked together for long, and we can’t reach out to too many people. We wouldn’t want anyone to catch on, you know?” her shoulders lift and plummet. “But, of course, that means that we’re not prepared when something like this happens.”

“Like… what, exactly?”

“Something’s… happening. We’re all sure of it,” Rhyme murmurs, and Neku raises a brow. “We’ve been hearing about these people in town called the ‘Reefers,’ and their name hasn’t yet sunk to the bottom of the sea. We’ve been tracking them ever since we first heard about them—and one of them was the guy who nearly killed you.”

Her fingers interlace again, twisting into untangleable knots. “After what happened… we really have to be on full alert. Whatever they’re after, they’ll get it—and if they’ll harm strangers, then they’ll likely get rid of anyone in their way if they have to.”

She falls silent. The café, from the people to the music, takes in a breath, a pause.

“Sorry. That’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” Rhyme sighs once more, and her hands fall apart, the palms briefly white as a sheet. “We really need the help, though. I know it might be a fixed decision, but would you at least think about it?”

Neku stares at her, gaze unmoving. She locks eye contact with him, and they stare and stare, the café and music picking back up in their place.

…Ugh. “Okay. And what are you going to do if I don’t?”

Rhyme regards it quickly, thoughtlessly, like she’s considering the tirade of a fifth grader. “We’ll find someone else who’ll help.”

“And if you don’t?”

“We have to,” she says, hope persistent in her voice.

“But if you don’t,” Neku snaps, and she smiles.

“I think we will. But, if not, then… I guess we’ll try to do it on our own.”

The silence returns. This time, it drags on, stretching as thin as a wire. Neku watches it pull along, focusing on Rhyme, her drink, his own and the notebook and the table, until it finally snaps in two with his own voice.

“Your damn team isn’t gonna leave me be, will it.”

“Well, I will, and I’ll try to stop them. I can’t make any promises, though.”

Something in her eyes shifts; then, her seat creaks, and she rises from the table, taking her drink with her. The clasp around her bag opens as she starts walking—but she doesn’t leave the vicinity before turning back to Neku one last time.

“Neku? Thank you, at least, for hearing us out. It really means a lot.”

And then, before Neku can say even the smallest of words—she’s gone. All that’s left is all that belongs in his hands, and a thin sheet of paper with cursive letters and neat prints of numbers.

How clever.

He tucks it away between the pages of his sketchbook, and his world shifts back to normal once more.

Frankly, Neku isn’t sure how he got so caught up in this.

The Great Zapfish casts a shadow overhead. It slinks around the Deca Tower and chimes like a bell. Neku catches a glimpse of its oil black skin when he looks up, its whiskers jittering as it appears and disappears. With its departure, he glances back down to the conversation in the palm of his hands, the bright hues fluorescent under both shadow and sun as he scrolls through the few messages from the night before.

> August 1, XX19.

neku. (20:07) hey. this is neku neku. (20:08) ill do it

rhyme! (20:19) Perfect!! rhyme! (20:19) Can you meet in front of the Deca Tower, tomorrow, at 12?

neku. (20:22) sure w/e

rhyme! (20:22) ٩(•̤̀ᵕ•̤́๑)彡ᵒᵏᵎᵎᵎᵎ I’ll see you there!

He’s dumber than a stream of minnows. Why did he agree to this when that’s the equivalent of casting away any normalcy in his life?

He sighs again, peering around for any sign of rose knit or black. There’s little to find in the crowds of people, all arranged in a spectrum of designs as usual, so Neku casts his eyes back to his phone and the headphones slung for once around his shoulder.

“Neku, over here—!” A familiar voice bursts from the crowd, and Neku turns his head, one hand halfway through to pulling his headphones back up. He ducks through some of the passing crowds, ensures any chance of actually bumping into them never becomes true as he makes his way to Rhyme. When he finally catches sight of them, he notices another next to her—another Inkling with the same color hair, taller, and dressed in a loose tank top and cargo pants—and he seems to recognize him at the same time, his voice raising as he looks Neku over.

“So’s this the guy you and priss kid were talkin’ about?”

Rhyme beams. “Yep! Neku, this is my brother, Beat. Beat, this is Neku. He’s going to be working with us from now on.”

“Yo!” He grins as well, waving his hand halfway in the air. “Wassup?”

Neku responds with silence.

“Well, jeez,” Beat mutters, crossing his arms, “if that’s what you wanna do.”

Rhyme cuts through the tension with a tilt of her head and a step forward, then another as she walks past them. “Okay—we should get going, right? I bet those two are waiting for us back there!”

“They can’t have been for a while,” Neku shrugs, following behind her and her brother. “Why’s your brother here, anyways?”

“You got a problem with that?”

“Beat!” Rhyme yells, turning around once before continuing. “He kinda wanted to go with me. Plus, I thought it’d be a good idea—you guys could get to know each other on the way!”

“How long is the walk?”

“Not too far! But striking a conversation like this never hurt, right?”

Honestly, Neku’s surprised that she can keep up a smile for this long, stop, and bring it back so quickly after. Still, instead of arguing with her, he merely resigns, “…Sure.”

He’s gotta say, though, the silence that follows seems almost laughable. Finally, after a few minutes of it, Rhyme brings up another topic again, drifting to Beat’s side and leaning past him as she does.

“So, what’ve you been up to this summer?”

“…Nothing.”

Rhyme tilts her head, a finger tapping her chin in thought. “Really? I mean, besides turf wars or Grizzco? Like, at The Reef, or Arowana, or— ” suddenly, she nearly jumps, eyes widening as she notes, “ Oh! What about the Splatocalypse?”

“You mean the last Splatfest?” Neku raises an eyebrow, and Rhyme continues on.

“Yeah! But calling it the Splatocalypse is pretty fitting, too, isn’t it? It makes it unique.”

He’ll ignore the destructive parameters of that name—cods and carps, of all things those hosts could call it, it didn’t need to be that—and pretend like it’s still just the ‘Final Splatfest’ that they held. “Whatever. What do you mean, ‘what about’ it?”

“Well, which team were you on? It’s always interesting to hear about everyone’s teams and opinions during the Splatfest.” Before Neku can swat away her and her question, she adds, “C’mon, we‘d never make fun of your decision!”

Well. Now she’s just forcing him to. He should get some kind of reward for this, like what they give in games when you tell the truth or a good option.

Neku glances around them, then back to their group, and finally gives in. “…Pretty sure I joined Chaos.”

“Someone like you joined Chaos?” Beat says, and Neku almost laughs at how contrary his words are to Rhyme’s own.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nah, there’s nothin’—” Beat gives up, and leans a ways back— “I just didn’ expect you to join it.”

“You don’t have to say why. I’m sure you had a good reason,” Rhyme hums, “But, if it says anything, Beat and I actually joined Chaos, too! Right?”

Beat grins and yells, “Hell yeah we did! And those Team Order punks got their asses beat hard!”

“…Well, basically,” Rhyme laughs, though she jabs him lightly in the shoulder soon after. “You’re exaggerating, though. We lost a few of those rounds, didn’t we?”

“Well—yeah, but what about the other rounds? Order got served, and most of it’s ‘cause of us!”

“I can’t disagree with that,” she sighs, but she smiles again before looking back in front of them. “Hey, Neku, guess where we are?”

“…‘Here’?” It doesn’t take much skill to notice the difference in setting, but only when Neku actually bothers to look around. When she gives him a small nod and affirmation, he’s only even more stunned than he was prior. Color him surprised more by the fact that they barely needed one topic to cover the distance—though maybe they were walking pretty fast, and maybe most of that time was covered by a wash of silence.

Something’s… kind of weird about this, though. Taking a look around, most of the walls and path has faded to a dull grey and obsidian; Neku faintly thinks he’s seen this before as they pass by the sound of rushing water, a background noise that only heightens as they pass through the area. When they step over panels of white chalk and splatters of old graffiti, Neku realizes exactly where they are, and the shock nearly escapes through his voice.

“Wait, isn’t this Angelfish Canal?”

“Yep. But we built the base over here since it was quiet. Nobody would notice us.” She gestures to him to approach a grey door, the windows covered by blinds and steel frames, and knocks twice before pushing the door open. “Anyways, welcome!”

Neku steps through, not expecting much from the dreary exterior, and subsequently tries to avoid the shock that resurges and follows.

They’re in a main room, vast in size but nearly void of spare space. Instead of the light steel from the windows, black steel melds around the clear glass windows, the stark white shelves and hangers, and all else that hangs around and in the room. A white tile snakes from one entrance to another, passing white napkins and containers and a glassy table with white borders prominent in the room’s center. The only difference in color are the chairs surrounding it, black but splattered with color alike a construction paper and crayons.

“…Yeah,” he winds up hissing, “I did not see that coming.”

Rhyme shrugs and responds, “That’s fair.”

“Is that the new kid?” A voice bursts from a separate room. Its speaker soon follows: a man with similar monochromatic tones in his clothes and hair, walking calmly through the doorway almost incognizant of anything that had occurred prior. He slouches back, one hand in the front pocket of his pants and one against the doorway. Rhyme waves to him as she notices him.

“Yep! He said he’d do it!”

“Nice,” he pushes himself off the frame and waves, wrapping his free hand around the nape of his neck. “Well. Welcome, Phones! Feel free to make yourself at home.”

Oh, Neku has absolutely seen that face before. He’s exactly sure he knows where, too.

“Mr. H?!” he sputters, falling back onto one leg. “Aren’t you normally at—”

“Nah, we’re closed this morning. Had some ‘deliveries’ to make.” The man laughs; his shades glint, the same ones Neku’s always seen him wear behind the counter, and continues on. “But, hey, thanks for joining. Really livens up the place, you know?”

And here Neku thought it was lively enough with the cast and decor, but now, this— “Sorry, are—am I getting some kind of explanation for this? Like, what’s going on?”

“ Yeah, of course, Phones. ”

“Neku,” he frowns. “It’s Neku Sakuraba. I’ve told you this a million times before.”

“Gotcha! Sorry, Phones,” Hanekoma gives a thumbs-up in response, and Neku wishes the door weren’t so far away now.

“As for your question, though: what we’re doing is all top secret.” He walks towards Neku and the rest of the group, pointing at the two around him once before bringing his hand back to his neck. “We have agents, here, so to say—like Rhyme and Beat, here. That’s three down. Then, there’s support: there’s two on communication and three on designs. They‘re the same; you’ll see ‘em soon enough.”

“Then, of course, there’s me. Sanae Hanekoma. Blood type A, March 3. By day, your hip café barista. By night, local sponsor, leader, third designer, the works.” He jabs a thumb towards his chest, and Neku raises an eyebrow. He’s pretty sure he’s heard the first half of this before.

Hey, though. Maybe he should be glad the guy didn’t give even more of a personal ad than before.

“Okay. Sure,” he groans. “So what am I supposed to do?”

“How good are you at Turf Wars?” He asks.

“What, is that going to affect what I do?” Neku says, raising a hand up in a half-shrug.

“Nah, it won’t. But it’ll affect how good you are at it.” Hanekoma looks around, even past Neku and the others and even lowering his shades to squint past the window blinds and the front door. “…Seriously, he can’t be this backed up. I know the others are workin’ shop, but where’s—”

A single, sound knock echoes on the door, and the door creaks open. Neku whips around, nerves and fears filling his head at the singular knock versus the two of Rhyme’s own, and looks back to a bright lifevest. It soars through the air, the original orange and white just barely visible under layers of cream and neon pink ink as its owner enters. “Sorry, did I miss something?”

The owner’s hair is noticeable first, a pale silver and lavender against the black and contrasting hues. Even then, his hair and his skin seems to be covered or singed in patches of the same hues of ink, and Neku doesn’t think he’s ever regretted a decision so much in his life as this.

“There’s the kid of the hour!” Hanekoma yells, waving in the agent; Rhyme gives a smaller wave, short and curt, and follows up with a soft, “Welcome back, Joshua.”

“Why, thank you both. My apologies for the delay—I was rather caught up during the mission.” He grabs a hand towel off of one of the racks and swats the ink off and away from him, and Hanekoma waves him off.

“’s alright. Actually, you showed up just in time.”

“Oh?” Joshua looks up from the towel, already stained in the foreign ink, and his eyes widen slightly before he speaks. “Oh, Neku! You actually showed up. Color me surprised.”

Neku crosses his arms and scoffs, stepping back from the boy. “…Yeah, no thanks to you.”

“Not even one? I’d like to think I had some effect on your joining.”

Beat jumps in, standing solidly between his group and Joshua alone as he yells, “Yeah, well, you almost ruined it! What if Rhyme hadn’t stepped in to help, huh?”

Joshua wipes the last of the ink off and drops the towel in a small hamper nearby as he points out, “But she did.”

“Guys, not the point.” Hanekoma steps in the center between all of them, both of his hands out towards the two. When they’ve both backed down—though, arguably, Beat certainly hasn’t, a hand still held out in front of Rhyme—he straightens up and turns to Neku. “Anyways. Neku—you’ll be working with Josh as an agent.”

Neku feels his mouth go dry, his gaze unmoving from the other as he struggles to speak.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you have a problem with that?” Hanekoma sighs, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “I know you might have some qualms with it, but we’ve been needing a second agent for a while. Our team’s usually out in partners. Safety reasons, y’know?”

Frankly, Neku’s calling bullshit.

“Okay,” he says, throwing his hands in front of him, “well—then why can’t Beat or Rhyme go with him?”

Beat turns, his face scrunched up as he mutters, “‘Cause I ain’t goin’ with that priss.”

“Beat…!” Rhyme says, half-gasping and half-warning as she places a hand over Beat’s arm.

“Sheesh, see what I put up with?” Hanekoma sighs, his hands digging deeper into the ends of his pockets. His voice cracks with amusement soon after. “…Kiddin’. But he already was—and then after a mission, he didn’t want to. He’s been with Rhyme ever since—and hey, that’s why you’re goin’ in his place!”

“I—” Neku feels his voice rising into a yell— “You could have told me beforehand!”

“Does it really matter, Phones? It’s the same goal either way! You’ll just be farther out on the field than the rest. Isn’t that what you signed up for?”

He hates to admit it, but… he does have a point, and it’s hardly refutable with how he’s phrased it. “…Sure. Yeah,” he gives in, and Hanekoma grins.

“That’s the spirit! Now, Neku, apologize to the kid, will ya?”

Wow, this is not getting any better, is it? “…What?”

“Did I stutter? I told you two you’d be workin’ together, didn’t I? How are you gonna work together if you won’t even talk nice?”

Neku glares daggers at him, at Joshua, at all of them—and, in the end, it doesn’t do anything. He sighs, “…Fine. Okay,” and takes a deep breath, and he runs through the few points he can apologize for. “I… am. Sorry. For being a jerk and telling you off five or so days ago.”

It doesn’t seem like more than a half-canned response to him—at least, that’s the amount of effort he put into it, anyways, and Rhyme’s clouded stare back must have noticed it, too—but Hanekoma nods and turns away. “Alright. Josh?”

The boy looks up towards him, a smile faint on his face as he says, “Yes?”

“C’mon, get over here. You’re included in this, too.”

“Really?” The smile falls from his face, drowning quickly under the waves of apprehension before he shrugs it off. “…Well, alright. I’m sorry for what happened four days ago. I understand that it jeopardized our objective, and I apologize to Rhyme for just the same.” He looks back to Hanekoma with the same expression: Is that good enough for you?

Apparently, it is.

What a damn low standard.

“Good! See? You two are talking to another! That’s an improvement from before, isn’t it?” Hanekoma turns back to all of them. His face, momentarily alight, grows pale. The lights around them flicker once, twice, and again, and for a moment, it feels like all of the winter has seeped past the summer heat. “Now, before I can dismiss you four, I’m gonna need you all to remember something—especially so this sort of thing doesn’t happen again. Alright?”

“Trust your partner. You remember when I said that last time, right?” He looks through to all of them but Neku, watching each of them nod slightly before he continues. “I meant it. You can’t face these Reefers without one another. You can trust yourself all you want, but you’ve got to trust each other—and more than ever, you’ve got to trust your partner when you’re here. No matter how far apart, no matter what happens: you need to remember you’re not alone. All of you are stronger together. If you can open up, reach out, and tell them what you’re thinking, then you’ll only grow stronger. You all got that?”

Beat and Rhyme nod once more. Neku tries, as fake as a nod would be, but his chin and his mouth clam up, frozen by frost and wind, and all that comes out is silence.

“…Josh?” Hanekoma asks. “Phones?”

His voice is a fire, quick and unsteady to the ice; Neku places his hands to his elbows, and musters the little strength and masks he has after to mumble out, “Yeah, sure.”

“Yep,” Joshua follows him, nods. “Got it.”

Neku spots the man’s eyebrow raise just above his shades—and then, he sees it lower, falling in place of a sigh. He takes his hands out of his pockets and places them firm around his waist.

“Alright! Well, class—you’re all dismissed.”

The lacking reception begins, and it ends almost as soon as it starts. “…Kidding, kidding. I’ll see you kids back soon, yeah? I’ve gotta open up shop. Why don’t you all stop by later? Especially you, Phones—maybe you’ll see the others, while you’re at it.”

“…It’s fine. I think I’ve had enough coffee for one day.” Neku grumbles. “I’m just gonna go.”

“That’s cool. Hurts a little, but it’s cool.” Hanekoma places a hand over his chest; it falls from it just as easily, and he laughs Neku’s words off with a wave of his hand. “I’m kiddin’. Go and be on your way.”

Neku doesn’t take long to approach the door before he hears another yell.

“Hey, Phones: one more thing?”

“…What?”

“Get a good rest. You never know when a mission could pop up, you know. We try to be available whenever we can.”

“…Sure,” he chokes out, half between laughter and half between exhaustion. Hanekoma? Acting as some kind of dad for him? Where did that come from?

The answer never comes—he pushes the door open and enters the open canal again, and the visions of jet black and white and silver hues fades back to a dull grey. The water fills his ears once more. But just as easily as he pulls his headphones over his ears, everything floods back in a blur—what happened six days ago, four, one day ago, and today, all else washing away with the waves and debris—

and, honestly, the whole way back, Neku wonders what the hell he got himself into, because he sure as hell never thought it’d be this.

…It’s going to be a long summer.

#TWEWY #The World Ends With You #TWEWY Bang 2019 #inkresistup #Subarashiki Kono Sekai #fanfic #submission

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