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yeojaa · 3 years

Text

( NEVER LET YOU GO. )

You do things without thought, making impulse decisions that’d make Freud proud. Sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don’t.

(or: Jeon Jungkook’s just as impulsive as you.)

pairing. tattoo artist!jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating. slice of life fluff, light smut. explicit (but only at the end).

tags / warnings. mentions of heavily tattooed!JK, casual drinking, tender lovemakin’, JK with the bad jokes, honestly just him being funny and chill like that one guy you never get over...

wc. 7.6k.

beta reader(s). @hobi-gif, @papillonsgf, and @yeoldontknow 💛 ty for always indulging me and most importantly, supporting me when i begin to spiral. 🤠

author note. i got this idea into my head one evening in the shower and now... it is this. it’s not your usual bad boy tattoooist!JK fic but i hope you enjoy regardless. as always, feedback means a lot!

You and forethought aren’t close friends. You really aren’t even distant cousins, or part of the same family tree. You consider it a stranger, wave loftily as it passes you by, squinting like you can’t properly make out what it is. Careful consideration? Thoughtful patience? None of that exists for you. At least, not when you really, really want something.

It’s what has you here now, bumbling your way into the tattoo shop like a newborn baby bird.

You wonder how it must look, whether the shop assistant is used to this. Random girl shows up on a Sunday afternoon looking like a fish out of water, eager yet afraid. By how she greets you - with a curious stare and not quite a smile - you’re sure she is.

“Do you take walk-ins?”

You’d meant to make an appointment. Had sat for hours on the shop’s Instagram page, combing through the residents’ portfolios, trying to decide who to reach out to. When you’d finally decided, you’d realised books were a thing and most of them were closed. (Just your luck.)

Still, it never hurt to try, right?

“Everyone’s fully booked.” The girl sounds bored, apathetic yet genial. (You don’t blame her.) By the way her stare swings over you, it feels like a dismissal. You’re ready to admit defeat - head half-bowed, words draped over your tongue. “But our apprentice might be able to squeeze you in.”

An apprentice? Well— that’s not exactly what you’d been hoping for, but this shop is reputable. Well-known. Considered one of the best in the city. Surely their apprentice would be fine. Just less seasoned, not as experienced.

You all but snap your neck nodding along, gratitude tumbling out in the form of awkward laughter. “That’d be great!”

The girl passes you off with a nod of her head, gesturing down the hall. “Last room on the left. His name’s Jungkook. His schedule says he’s all clear, but maybe knock before you go in.” It’s not the sunniest smile you’ve ever received, but the small thing she offers helps with the nerves. Stills them beneath your skin as you do as you’re told.

“Jungkook?” There’s not really anywhere to knock, every wall neatly frosted glass and no doors in sight. (You had passed a few folding screens but otherwise, it’s open concept, each room offering a glimpse into the artist who works inside.) It feels too disruptive to tap your knuckles on one glass pane, lest it interrupt someone else.

(His studio is minimally decorated but inviting: one big cabinet; two of those typical IKEA shelves in the 4x4 grid that every new homeowner and their mother have; and a shop table, upon which a black backpack sits. Various plants dress the room - both hanging from the ceiling and along the window - and Polaroids string over walls, held aloft by twine. A Roomba sits by itself in a corner and the tattoo bed dominates most of the space, positioned closer to the dividing wall; one teeny tiny rolling chair sits beside it. There’s a bench on your left, with a pair of Birkenstocks tucked beneath. All in all, very homey. Reminiscent of your own apartment.)

Hidden behind the bed, crouched low to the ground beside the cabinet, is a head of dark hair that speaks, drawing your attention from studying the cozy space. “Oh?”

You’re not expecting the face that turns to you, all big doe eyes and the sweetest dimples.

For a moment, you forget what you’re here for. Why you’re standing in the empty door frame, staring down at the guy like you’ve spent your entire life secluded and have no idea how to speak.

The longer you’re quiet, the more his concern seems to grow, single brow disappearing into his inky fringe. It hangs in his vision at certain angles, shields the brightness of his stare with each turn of his chin. “Are you okay?” He’s even risen - stopped what he was doing - so he can see you more clearly, without any obstruction in the way. Good for him, but worse for you.

He’s so cute. Were you prepared to look like an uncertain idiot in front of this… angel?

“Y-yeah.” You manage after what feels like forever, sweeping your nerves under the rug that sits on the floor, separates the sole of his sneakers from hard concrete. “Um— I was told you might have some time? For, uh, a walk-in?”

(Why’re you stuttering? You’re never shy. Or rather, you’re not this nervous mess. People have always called you an extrovert, outgoing as hell, a social butterfly.)

(You aren’t those things but you appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.)

“Oh!” Realisation dawns across his features, throws his kind smile into greater relief, and you have to actively tell yourself not to stare, tearing your gaze away to focus on the wall of stencils past his shoulder. He moves into motion then, stepping around the bed to meet you still rooted in the doorway. “Yeah, I’ve got time. Come in.” Up close like this - there’s only maybe two feet between you - you can make out the little scar on his cheek; the tiny beauty mark below his bottom lip; each individual lash that frames his Bambi eyes and flutters when he blinks. “I probably can’t draw you anything new right now but I’ve got some flash, if you’re interested?”

Even if you weren’t interested, you don’t think you’d say no. You were always a sucker for a cute boy and this Jungkook? He was that. In spades.

“Sure.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” He’s retreating back into the room, moving to grab his iPad off the far table. It’s balanced on his arm when he swivels to you, prominent front teeth on full display. “I’ve got a pretty big selection.”

When he drops onto the bench - a wayward vine above his head tickling his cheek - he gestures to the spot beside him. This time, you don’t stare for a stupid amount of time, instead taking up the seat without hesitation.

“So—” He’s swiping through the photo library with his Apple Pen. You’re sure there are pretty sketches on the screen - you just can’t focus on them, too preoccupied by the artwork that crawls across his hand and into the sleeve of his oversized, well-worn shirt. It’s an intricate chrysanthemum, impossibly well-shaded with bold colours that demand attention and stand out over his fair complexion; it creeps halfway up the back of his hand to tickle over his knuckles. He notes your attention with a quiet chuckle, fingers wiggling. The ink moves, flows, ripples with the motion, before his hand relaxes, knuckles unravelling as he offers the limb to you and your curiosity. “Do you like it?”

“It’s incredible.” It really is. You’ve never seen anything like it, as if a painting has been done across his skin, laid in watercolour rather than tattoo ink. “Did it hurt?”

(You almost want to hit yourself for the stupid question. Of course it did. It’s a hand tattoo.)

Jungkook only laughs again, doesn’t hold it against you despite the verbal barrage you’re faced with internally. “Like crazy, but it was worth it. This was my first tattoo and all the rest have just sort of been—” He shrugs, fabric of his shirt bunching around his collar.

“A piece of cake?” You can only imagine.

“Exactly.”

You nod thoughtfully, as if that means anything to you. (It doesn’t. You’re bare as a baby’s bottom, blemish free save for the occasional hellish pimple and the scar you have from surgery on your hand when you broke parts of it in sixth grade.)

If he can tell you’re talking out of your ass, he says nothing, redirecting your attention back to the iPad propped on his lap. “Do any of these interest you?” He’s resumed scrolling, swiping carefully through pages of flash. There are assorted floral pieces (plum stems, lily stalks, fully bloomed mums) and various skeletons (what looks like a deer, a dragon, a wolf). They’re mostly blackwork with fine lines and heavy contrast, so wonderfully detailed you spend too much time studying one piece before he’s flipping to the next.

“That one.” It catches your eye more than the others have. Likely because it’s one of the few pieces in colour, soft hues spilling over neat lines. A pretty little cat with a braided collar, big golden bell centered beneath its head, unravelling petals sweeping around it.

“You like cats?”

You do. “She looks like mine.”

“It’s settled.” He beams then, rising so quickly you’re startled; you watch as he moves around the space with decisive steps, putting your plan into motion. A paper is pulled seemingly out of nowhere, laid on a wooden clipboard and offered with a blue ballpoint pen. “If you can fill all of this out, I can get the stencil ready.”

Well, that was easy. Somehow, you’d thought it’d be more complicated, a ton of back and forth and yes and no. You can’t deny you’re nervous, staring down at the consent form.

(It doesn’t mean you read it any more than you normally would, though. You gloss over all the points, making note of what you’re agreeing to without really considering any of it. You’ve wanted a tattoo for most of your life. There’s really no going back now.)

(You just hope it turns out like you want - that you’re not just being blindsided by a sudden superficial crush and a lack of critical thought.)

“I think I’m done,” you mumble, slashing the date into the paper with gusto.

“Do you have your ID?” You’ve got it ready for him when he returns to take both it and the form. “I’m just going to make copies and then we can discuss more.”

He’s gone with that same smile, disappearing back the way you’d come.

Alone, the nerves set in. You’re actually doing this. Getting a tattoo. Putting something permanent on your body. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once, shaking your hands in your lap. Maybe you should’ve eaten more before you’d come. (You’d woken up late - had only shoved two pieces of raisin pinwheel bread into your mouth before you’d made up your mind about this.)

(But had you really made up your mind? Was this going to be it? It feels mostly like yes, though the repetitive thud of your toe against concrete seems to indicate otherwise. It’s as if you’re tapping out something in morse, telling yourself—)

“Okay!” Jungkook’s back before you know it, driver’s license returned to you along with an unsealed envelope. You eye it curiously. “A copy of your form and an aftercare sheet.”

He’s really thought of everything. Or the shop has. Either way, you appreciate that when you’re not so sure, caught somewhere between giddily excited and vaguely worried, as if someone’s pulled a weight off your shoulders, taken on some of the burden of this spontaneous choice.

“So, where do you want it?” It’s like he has a one track mind, utterly focused on the task at hand. (Probably a good thing, given you’re about to voluntarily let him needle your poor skin.)

You hadn’t thought about that. You’d always liked the idea of a back of the arm tattoo, positioned somewhere along your tricep so it could be seen while turned away. “My arm?”

“Upper? Forearm?” There’s not an ounce of annoyance or exasperation or anything else negative. He’s just genuinely curious, peering over his shoulder at you.

“Tricep area, I think? Would that look good?”

“If you like it, it will.” Then he grins - beams so bright you half expect the sun to come zooming out of his mouth - and laughs, a funny little cackle that makes you do the same. “I’m kidding. That was cheesy. But I’m sure it’ll look fine. We can try laying it down first, so you get an idea?”

“That sounds good.” A lot better than endless years of regret for poor placement.

“You’ll, uh— need to take your shirt off though.”

It’s then you realise your mistake: wearing a turtleneck. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes, then another, and he smiles so kindly you wonder what your expression must look like. Sour, like you’d sucked fresh lemon? Awkward, as if you’d never worn anything less than double layers before (a proud Never Nude)?

“If you’re uncomfortable, we can reschedule. Or I can put a divider up so you don’t have to worry about being seen from outside. Whatever you’d prefer.”

The longer you stay quiet - a seemingly common occurrence today - the closer his brows furrow, preparations coming to a standstill. You can tell he’s not trying to rush you, politely waiting for an answer with transfer paper in one hand and scissors in the other.

(If only he could peek into your brain, see the whole reason you’re hesitating is because you can’t quite remember which bra you’re wearing, whether it’s the slinky black one that offers absolutely zero support or the lacy blue one with the cute detailing and practically see-through cups.)

(Did it really matter either way? He was probably desensitized.)

“It’s fine.” You find the confidence somehow, nodding firmly. Jungkook’s still studying you carefully, though. Waiting as you strip your purse off your shoulder and reach for the hem of your sweater. It feels funny in your fingers, more like steel wool than sheep’s.

One breath. Two.

You fold your turtleneck neatly, laying it beside your bag and turning back to face him. “All right. Let’s do this.”

“So, which arm?” He’s close now - crossed to you in two strides of his long legs - and holds up the stencil.

Your right rises, fingers wiggling as if to say hello.

He lays the design down, pats it into place with deft fingers. You don’t realise the breath you’re holding until he pulls the sticky paper away, leaving neat line work in its wake.

“Oh.” It slips out of its own accord, almost a whisper as you stare at the design in the mirror. “It’s so pretty.”

There’s pride in his eyes as he stares with you, bounces his gaze between it and your face. “Thanks.” He lets you linger, peering thoughtfully at your reflection before speaking, casually hopeful. “What do you think?”

“This is it. Right here.”

Maybe he’d fist pump, if he were any less cool. As it stands, he simply nods, cheeks round like fresh baked bread, nose scrunched with glee.

“All right. We’ll shave you down and get started. You like the colours, right?” Once again, he’s buzzing around the room, gathering up all his materials and snapping black gloves on once everything is laid out upon his cart. It’s heavily stickered, covered in video game vinyls and anime mattes. (You recognise a handful of them, make a note to ask him where he got them from.) He pats the tissue papered bed top when you make no movement toward him. “Hop on up. Face down, if that’s okay.”

You do as he says, climbing atop with minimal grace. It takes you a bit of adjusting to get comfortable, folding your left arm under your head and allowing your right to simply dangle, uncertain of where it should be.

“You’re sparkly.”

“What?” You’d misheard that, right?

“Your skin. You’re sparkling.” He sounds a little in awe, surprised as wetness spills across your arm, the edge of a razor following closely thereafter.

“Oh.” Heat creeps over your cheeks, slinks all the way up into your roots and has you chuckling awkwardly. “It’s my soap.”

“Sparkle soap?” Whether he’s just making conversation or genuinely curious, you’re not sure. He does seem delighted by the fact, though, as if he’s never seen a girl covered in glitter before. (Which, fair.)

“It’s this specialty holiday soap. It has pigment in it.”

“That’s cool.” He’s laying the stencil down again, smoothing it over your now-hairless arm. “It smells nice.”

Obviously, you agree. It’s honey and citrus, brightly fragrant but not overpowering, lingering on your clothes like the subtle golden glitter does. Still, you flush, heat crossing from a casual day under the sun to burning-on-the-stove hot. “Thanks.”

“Was that weird? I hope not.”

“No, you’re fine.”

He hums a tiny noise, something that sounds like understanding and appreciation all at once.

Then the buzzing starts - a steady, inescapable brrrrrrrrr - and he’s gripping your arm, steady yet gentle. “Ready?”

Honestly, you’re not sure. Hearing the noise makes it seem scary, has your entire body tensing up like Pavlov’s dog. Your honesty can’t be helped, a nervous giggle chased off your tongue. “I think so.”

“I think so too.”

By the time you’re done - a good almost five hours later, your arm stinging so bad you wonder why you’d ever sat down in the first place - you’d fallen asleep twice, started drooling on your other arm once, and really, really have to pee.

“All right—”“ The incessant buzzing stops. Liquid spills where the pain centres, followed by rougher paper towel. “You are finished.”

(You might be imagining it, but he sounds about as relieved as you. Maybe because you’d been sitting for hours on hours, turning down his offer for a break because you just wanted to get it done and therefore forcing him to do the same.)

“Can I see?” You don’t want to leap to your feet - feel a bit too lightheaded for that - but you’re bouncing with excitement, the thrumming in your arm intensified when you shift to catch a better look at Jungkook’s face.

“Yeah, go ahead. Just be careful - you might be a bit—”

He’s right. You nearly topple over the moment you stand, none-too-gently rolling off the edge of the bed and barely landing safely on your feet. It’s only his close proximity that prevents you from falling to your knees, one degloved hand darting out to steady you.

“Careful!” It’s politely reproachful, coloured soft with worry.

“Sorry, sorry.” You seize the edge of the bed, gripping tight as you wait for everything to settle, the lightheadedness to recede. Everything straightens out quickly enough. “Got up too quickly.”

“Do you need a snack?” He’s already up, moving faster than you, rummaging through the cabinet against the far wall. “I’ve got seaweed and Choco Boys and shrimp chips and—”

You can’t help but laugh, hobbling to the mirror to inspect your new piece of art. “I’m fine.” That, and you’re too occupied with the ink that now sits embedded beneath your skin, a flurry of lovely colour and impressive line work.

“Choco Boys it is then.” The familiar yellow package is thrust toward you, a pack of his own already ripped open. Mushroom-shaped treats are tossed into his open mouth, lips curling around chocolate and his next words, “it’ll help with your sugar levels.”

A thank you comes, fingers curling around the snacks, but you’re still in deep, so focused on the lovely hue that bleeds over your skin, marks up previously unblemished flesh and holds your attention. It’s better than you could’ve possibly imagined, a piece of artwork forever yours. It makes you giddy as you stare at it - almost reach for it, but stop when you catch the alarmed widening of Jungkook’s eyes.

“You like?”

“I love.” You’d stare at it for hours, if you could. Likely will, once you get home, sitting in front of the mirror like a zombie. “Thank you so, so much.”

The brunet beams as he polishes off the last of his Choco Boys, tossing his dark hair back with a flick of his head. Triumph rolls off him in palpable waves, sitting pretty in the lines by his eyes, the scrunching around his nose. Seeing how it blooms in his stare is like a straight endorphin shot, as if you’ve done more than just be the canvas he’s laid all his hard work into. “It was a pleasure.”

It’s a whole month later - enough time for the piece to heal - before you decide you want another one. It’s not as spontaneous as the first time, instead led with an Instagram direct message to @jeonink. (You half expect him not to answer; you’re utterly delighted when he responds not five minutes later.)

Maybe it’s fate or maybe it’s luck that has him with availability the same day you reach out, bringing you back to the studio three hours after you’ve messaged him.

He’s just as cute as before, black baseball cap pulled low over his ears, silver-lined ears twinkling beneath the shop lights.

“So, what’re you thinking?”

Truthfully, you hadn’t done much thinking. Just like before, you’d decided you wanted a tattoo and, well, the rest had been history. You figured you’d let him have free reign, given how happy you were with your first piece. “A sleeve?”

That surprises him. His whole face lights up, eyes wide, mouth rounding curiously. “Like, a full sleeve?” It’s not necessarily a no - more of an are you sure? he hides between the syllables.

“I think so.”

He nods slowly, knowingly, arms folded over his chest, expression suddenly unreadable. “You caught the itch.”

Your own features twist, brows shooting high. “The what?”

“The tattoo itch,” he clarifies with a laugh, the sound sweeping your concern away like the sea. “People say once you get one, you get addicted to the feeling.” He’s extending both arms to you now, hands palm up. For a moment, you’re note sure what he’s doing. (In actuality, you’re distracted by the fact that he’s in a tee, muscle cording his limbs, undulating as he turns his arms over.) “I got bit by it when I lived in Japan. It’s actually what got me into tattooing myself.”

You remember what he’d said last time - how he’d spent a handful of years overseas, working in restaurants after having followed his last partner there. He’d shared lots about his life, giving you the Sparknotes version while you’d ground enamel to fine dust.

“I guess I have the itch then.”

“Guess you do.”

Your dream comes to life in four excruciating sessions. It’s some of the worst pain you’ve ever endured (you’re never going to get an elbow tattoo ever again) but you’d do it all again in a heartbeat, utterly in love with the mural that now lives on your skin. A peony caps your shoulder while one runs halfway up your bicep. Another takes up the entirety of your forearm. There’s a darling little bird and delicately inked koi. It’s breathtaking, greater than anything you could have dreamt up.

You’ve been staring at it for at least three minutes now, tracing over the freshly laid colour with a tender touch. You’re grateful for the SecondSkin, the clear bandage that wraps everything up and keeps it safe from your over eager hands.

“You did it.” Jungkook’s grinning at you, feet kicked up where he sits, his usual bag of Choco Boys balanced in his lap. “Big girl.”

From anyone else, it might sound condescending - might rub you the wrong way and have you glaring daggers. Instead, you take it in stride, beaming at him from your seat. He’s been there with you every step of the way, been there for every hour (seventeen over three months, to be exact) you’ve dedicated to finishing this beauty up. Tease you as he might, you know he really is proud of you.

“You mean we did it,” you return, giddy like a child.

“Ah, right.” The chocolate-covered snack he’s devouring goes crunch crunch crunch before he speaks, mouth still full, eyes crinkled. “I guess I did do all the work.”

“Hey! Screw you!” You’re glowering at him, middle finger raised in defiance.

(How curious that your relationship has grown like this, turned from tattoo artist and client to what feels like more. It probably makes sense, given the long hours you’ve spent together, the support he’s had to offer each time the pain has gotten this side of too much, chattering your teeth and dizzying your head. Solidarity in pain and all that.)

(You really had tapped out once, when he’d crept his gun into the ditch of your elbow. You’d asked him whether it’d hurt beforehand and he’d only laughed, shrugged off the question and continued with the careful shading to your inner arm. That in itself had hurt like a biiitch; you hadn’t thought it could get worse.)

(You’d been mistaken.)

“Am I wrong?” He drawls, full of laughter and that big dumb smile of his you’ve grown accustomed to. It eats up his cheeks and disappears his eyes, makes it hard to be mad at him when he looks so sweet.

“Yes, you are.” You’ve got absolutely nothing to back it up, but who cares. This is the sort of banter the two of you have developed, like two old friends forced to spend too much time together. (Not that you’d complain. You’ve loved hearing his stories, all the tales he regales you with whenever you’re in his chair.)

A snort is his answer, the full roll of his eyes over-exaggerated and playful. “You’re lucky we’re all finished or I’d sneak in an ugly fish somewhere on your arm.”

You think he’s kidding - know he takes too much pride in his work to do that.

Still, you stick your tongue out, hopping down from the bed with your freshly inked arm, hands clapping together in celebration. “You wouldn’t dare.” You’re confident, crossing to the bench to tug your flannel on, careful of the dull pain that throbs beneath the thin medical dressing.

“Wouldn’t I? I’m leaving anyway.”

You’re ready to call him out for it, insist he would never ruin the sanctity of his profession in such a way, when you realise the words he’s spoken, the casual tidbit he’s just dropped like it’s nothing.

“Leaving?”

(Is it you or do you sound disappointed? You can’t dwell on it for long, worried you’ll miss his explanation. Had he mentioned it previously? Slipped it in when you’d been delirious from pain? No, you would’ve remembered that. You swear you would’ve.)

“I’m moving to Tokyo.” How he’s so casual, you have absolutely no idea. You suppose it’s not a big deal for him - he’s not from here anyway. Home is back in Korea, the place he’d spent most of his life before moving to Japan and then here, just two years ago. (God, your memory is good. If only you’d retained knowledge like this when you were in school.) “My flight’s next weekend.”

Your face must be hilarious because Jungkook’s laughing, cackling like the evil villain in an anime.

“Gonna miss me?”

Would it be inappropriate to say yes? Because you will, you realise the moment he’s posed the question. You’ve grown to consider him a friend, someone who you send random memes to on Instagram (usually pertaining to #tattooartistproblems or one of your shared hobbies, like video games and finding the best noodle soup restaurant in the city).

You go for the safe bet, answering with a question of your own. “Are you gonna miss me?”

“I’ll miss your restaurant recs,” he answers, offering honesty to your reticence. “You can still send me funny photos though.”

You can’t help your laugh, the tiny quirk of your mouth into a smile. “I guess you’re right. Will you still be tattooing?” It’s an innocent enough question - you really do want to know. You can’t imagine going to anyone else, even if it means you’ll be shelling out an absurd amount of money for a plane ticket.

“Yep, new shop.” Something twinkles in his stare, has him giddy as he rises to his feet, tossing his empty packet of snacks into the trash bin. “Actually, where I got most of mine done.” You understand it then - that it’s a move of faith. He’s finally come full circle. You’re unbelievably happy for him, brimming with delight to mirror his pride.

But you’re still going to give him a little bit of a hard time because you have to. It wouldn’t feel right otherwise. “Whoa, big shot.”

“I am actually,” he sniffs, raking an ink-strewn hand through his hair. It’s longer now than it was when you met him, curling over the tops of his ears, hanging in his eyes at every turn. “You’ll be lucky if I remember you when I’m famous.”

“Famously lame, maybe,” you tease, slipping your bag over your shoulder. You busy yourself pulling your keys from the interior pocket, checking your phone as if you’re ready to go. It’s only when you’re standing in the hallway - you have no real intention of departing like this and he knows that, considering you haven’t paid yet - when you level him with a half-formed smirk. “But I guess I should take you for a drink?”

His hoodie is on before you know it, yanked over his head and tugged into place as he joins you. It’s become your regular routine - leaving together after your sessions, a perk of always booking the last slot he has available. (Not that you relied on that, but simply because your work schedule didn’t really allow for anything else.) “Obviously.”

Jeon Jungkook is a talented artist, a dedicated snacker, a lover of the colour black. You discover, sitting on the patio of the nearby bar, that he’s also really, really good at holding his liquor.

(Not that he’d ever indicated otherwise.)

“Do you think you’ll get anything else done?” He’s on his sixth pint, casually leaned back in his chair as he picks at the fries you’d ordered but that he seems perfectly happy to help himself to. (Payback for all the times he’s forced snacks on you maybe?) “Like, a face tattoo?”

You scoff at the question as if greatly offended. “You think I’d get a face tattoo?”

While a little glazed in the eyes, you can tell he’s altogether coherent, grinning across the table at you. “Hey, I don’t judge. You like making surprise decisions, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Okay, so he’s got you there. Used your own impulsive history against you. “I would never.”

“If you change your mind, do I get first dibs?”

“Dibs on what? Tattooing me?”

He nods as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “Duh.”

You can only roll your eyes, tossing a wayward burnt fry end at him. “Yes, Kook, you get first dibs on ruining my face.”

His expression twists, mouth shaping around words he’s keeping caged behind his teeth. There’s something he isn’t saying, a comeback he’s chosen to lock up. You wonder what it is.

“Hey - nothing wrong with face tattoos.”

“Really?” You’re leaning forward, a clear challenge written across your face. “Then why don’t you have one?” He has a million others as it is: a hand, nearly the entirety of both arms, his chest, his shoulders, one of his legs. (You haven’t seen them all in person but you have seen them online, memorialised on his Instagram feed.)

“And hide all this?” One inked hand is gesturing toward his own face, gesticulating wildly as if that’ll drive his point further home. “I would never.”

“That’s what I said!”

It doesn’t matter to him, not when he’s fully sober and most certainly not now, when he’s slightly buzzed, eyes glossier than usual. “But I’m cuter. It’d be a shame if it were me. You…” The way he trails off is suggestive, indicative of something mocking and mean. (Except it’s never cruel - far too friendly and soft to ever hurt your feelings.) “—not so much.”

Another fry hits him right between the eyes and then another disappears into the hood of his sweater, lost to the black fabric that bunches up around his neck and hides the flush he’s been battling since you two got to the bar an hour ago.

“Don’t be rude!”

He beams at you then, so unnecessarily endearing you can only throw one more piece at him.

“I’m kidding.” You knew that already but pretend to ignore the pseudo-apology, choosing instead to polish off the last of your now-cold fries. A bad choice, you realise when he continues, surprising you with the words that come out of his liquor-laden mouth so much so that you almost choke. “You’re actually pretty cute.”

(So what if you’ve sort of maybe been waiting to hear them? Wondering if the tiny crush you’d developed was in some way reciprocated?)

(Not that this meant it was. Only that you perhaps weren’t alone in thinking he was the most lovable - and somehow simultaneously hot - person you’d ever met. It’s almost rewarding to know the long hours together hadn’t left him unscathed.)

“You all good?” The look on his face is worse than that smile he usually offers, instead a devilish smirk that makes him look like Satan himself.

Were you? You’re not sure.

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Really? You can’t?” You’re not sure what that means, whether you’re simply reading too far into it. But then he’s dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, head cocked curiously. It’s a bait, you realise—and one you’ll gladly take.

“Should I have expected it?”

Shoulders hike, rising up around his ears. “I thought I made it sort of obvious.”

Had he? Thinking back on it, you can’t really recall. Of course, he’d always been friendly, indulging you in your pursuit of body art, sketching up the loveliest things you’d never even think to dream of; accepting your distracting Instagram messages without complaint, always tossing you a like or some sort of acknowledgement no matter what you’d send (and you’d send some random, random stuff). Chatting with him daily had just become the norm, conversation flowing freely whenever you’d pop in for your next session.

But that was just because he was a nice guy - or so you’d thought. You realise now how wrong you’d been, too occupied with your own crush to notice his (if it could be called that).

“You like me,” you hum, surprisingly nonchalant despite the little pitter patter in your chest, the flutter of your heart within your ribcage.

“I think you’re cute,” he retorts, though there’s no real weight to his rebuff. The two statements are really one and the same and you’re giddy with the knowledge, absolutely tickled pink.

Except for the fact that he’s leaving, fully prepared to start a new life in another city in just one week. The irony isn’t lost on you, like fate’s laughing even as she offers you this little crumb. (You feel like Oliver Twist, frankly.)

“Same difference.”

He huffs - you’re reminded of how adorable he is when he does that - and downs the lukewarm remainder of his beer. “I take it back.”

“No, you don’t.” Where the confidence comes from, who knows. You grip it tight with both hands though, hold it snugly as you level him with a stare that has his own unwavering. It’s almost as if you’re caught in a staring match, a battle of unspoken wits.

It drags on longer than it should, just the two of you locked to each other with nowhere to go.

Then he does the last thing you expect: shoves his chair aside and leans across the table, stealing a kiss and returning to his seat, all in the span of time it takes you to blink.

(His lips are so soft. A little chapped, a tiny bit dry, but soft - deceptively delicate. Bitter, touched with sea salt and something else distinctly him. French fries and beer and his Chapstick.)

(For the briefest moment, you wonder whether you’d just imagined it - if your imagination had truly gotten the best of you and you’ve absolutely lost your mind.)

“You just kissed me.” It seems like you’ve found your new favourite hobby of just repeating things, giving live play-by-plays like an awkward narrator in a romcom.

“Yeah, so?”

“You’re leaving.” Speaking the words into existence feels bad; you see the way his eyes tighten, the subtle sobering of his expression even while he tries to keep his cool.

“I am.” At least he’s realistic. It saves you from any uncertainty, keeping the what-ifs at bay.

You suppose it means you have nothing to lose.

“Do it again.”

And Jungkook does - over and over, sinking the taste of him almost as deeply as ink, offering a piece of himself you want to keep for just as long.

It takes you longer to add to your collection of art, nearly four whole years before you decide what you want next. (It’s a back piece this time - a full body suit from your shoulders down past your ass. Another cat, dressed in traditional Japanese clothing and surrounded by flowers. An ode to your first tattoo, to the one that had started it all.)

(You’re not sure you’re ready for the pain, though.)

“Lay down,” the artist instructs, back turned to you, busy preparing his materials. You’d stripped down while he was occupied, discarded all your clothes to the allocated basket and stood quietly in anticipation.

You do as he says, dropping atop the tattoo bed with a quiet oof. The stencil has already been laid, the entire outline ready to be inked into your skin. You can’t deny you’re more than a little nervous. It’s been years since you’d last gotten anything done, uninterested in finding a new artist since Jungkook had left.

(Which he had, exactly as he’d intended, gone on a 6 AM flight that you’d driven him to, teary-eyed and embarrassed. He’d laughed at you standing outside of the departure gate, his suitcase at his side, arms wrapped around your shoulders. You’d refused to show your face, burying it instead into the warmth of his neck, into the familiar scent of him that was going away for who knows how long.

“Stop being a baby,” he’d said, smothering you in kisses, the full weight of his laughter palpable through your close proximity. It'd rumbled out of his chest all the way into yours, finding a home behind your ribcage, right alongside where your heart fluttered, shaded blue and sad.

“Stop being mean,” you’d countered, petulant like a child.

It couldn’t be helped. You’d had only one week with him - one glorious, chaotic week filled with eating too much junk, rewatching your favourite animes, and generally making up for all the lost time you’d never even known there was. As amazing as it’d been, it still hadn’t prepared you for the goodbye.

That was your fault, though. You’d wrongly entertained the idea that maybe things would work out, that he’d change his mind or ask to take it - whatever you had, that is - with him, keep it going somehow. He hadn’t.)

“Do you have a preference where I start?” You’re unbothered, hair loosely knotted over your shoulder. Ready for the session to start - ready to feel the familiar sting again. (You’re proud of that. It might have taken you years and years but here you were, tackling something huge.)

“Nope.”

“Sounds good.”

The buzzing begins and pressure lands upon the small of your back, a gloved hand laid over the centre of your spine. You remind yourself to breathe in, out, focus on something other than the pain that fizzles over your skin and then ebbs into tenderness. Where he’s started - just above the fattiest part of your butt - isn’t too bad. Tolerable and yielding.

You can do this.

Your back aches in a different way than you’d anticipated, soreness buzzing beneath inflamed skin and making it uncomfortable to move around. It’s not any worse than your arm had been - the lines along your spine had felt comparable to that of your elbow - but it’s fresh, not dulled by years like your sleeve now was.

The artist is stripping his gloves off, your back neatly covered and the bed stripped of its original tissue paper. He’s leaned against the sink, onigiri held in his now-free hands, nibbling at the edge of the rice ball as you turn this way and that in the mirror. “You did good.”

You’re still undressed, admiring the linework from different angles, shimmying closer to your reflection to catch the lighter inking that makes up the undefined edges of the various florals. Something tells you that you should be shy - eager to redress after spending nearly five hours naked in the secluded studio - but you don’t care. Your back is quickly becoming a masterpiece, something that might as well be hung in the halls of the Louvre. You’re in love with it.

“Thanks.”

You mean thank you for his compliment but also for all his hard work, the long hours he’s put into bringing this beauty to life. It means so much - like progressing to the next level.

Which, you suppose it is. This is a fresh start for you. A new beginning in a new city.

“Proud of you,” he hums, suddenly close, broad palms searing heat over your hips. He’s careful to avoid the edge of the bandage that wraps your back and holds you delicately, like fine china or the most precious jewel in the world, lips sweet against your temple.

You meet his eyes in the mirror - the same sweet doe-eyed stare from five years ago. A little darker now, aged by the hand of time but endlessly kind, shining beneath the overhead lights.

“Proud of you,” you chirp, identical smiles spreading over your faces.

Jungkook’s having none of it though, bratty as usual. “Proud of us.”

You suppose you can settle for that. You really are proud of the two of you - for how far you’ve made it and all the obstacles you’ve overcome. From the first few weeks of sadness, all the melancholy that’d set in when he’d left, to exactly one month after, when he’d called you in the middle of the night, drunk and stumbling home.

(It’d been infuriating at the time - incoherent and foolish as he was - but it’d bloomed something between you, something neither of you could ignore.)

Four years of miserable long distance had become this: a love that's brought you back to his side, to a city you’re unfamiliar with but that he calls home; to a city that never sleeps, loud with pachinko machines and some of the best food you’ve ever had; to the place you’ve been missing every minute you were apart.

You’d never thought you would move for someone, uproot your entire life for a relationship, but he’d changed that. Made it worth it in ways you had never considered. Convinced you more and more with each trip you’d taken, two visits twice a year, for a measly two weeks at a time.

“Should we head home?” He means your physical home - the apartment the two of you had decided on in Roppongi, the one you haven’t seen yet, that he’s had to move into all by himself. It’s not quite as nice as the home in his arms.

You say yes anyway.

“I’m so talented.” The words come entirely too whole for your liking, loud somewhere above your head.

“Are you serious?” You’re levelling your boyfriend with the most incredulous look, whole face scrunched up, hands fisted into his dark sheets. It’s uncomfortable at this angle - kinking your neck as you look over your shoulder - but you really can’t believe he’s just said that. He’s knelt between your legs, knees spread wide around his own, his hand halfway up your back and tracking heat over your spine.

Somehow, he has the audacity to look surprised. “What?”

“You’re really patting yourself on the back right now?” Now, when he should be pounding you into oblivion, working that big fat cock of his through your fluttering walls, making you moan his name into his pillows like it’s his only job?

(It truthfully could be. You’d rank his skills in the bedroom on par with his skills in the studio.)

“Oh.” All at once, he’s the devil - sin personified. Or would be, if he didn’t somehow still look infuriatingly cute.

The gentle touch turns bruising, heel of his palm pressed hard into the tender notches of your spine. “You don’t like when I admire my own work?” Asked as he shifts behind you, length dragging out of your dripping cunt to gently tap against your aching clit. The head of it glides through your folds, mercilessly teasing but never slipping back in, never filling you whole like you need. (Because you really do need it. You haven’t seen him in six months, left to your own devices - literally.) It feels like heaven and hell, too good and not nearly enough all at once.

“Kook,” you snap. Try to, anyway, his name far too whiny and breathless to hold any real weight.

“I’m just admiring you, sweetheart.” He’s dragging the hand over your back, tracing all the lines he’s embedded into your skin. They make up his favourite piece, inked permanently into his favourite canvas. A testament to his hard work, his dedication, his love.

Any other time, you might not care. Here and now, after not having felt his touch in what feels like forever, you’re burning from the inside out, a million volts of electricity tripping your circuits. When you speak, it’s more a plea than a reprimand, uttered so sweetly you know he can’t deny you. “Admire me later.”

“I’ve missed you” is his only answer, punctuated by a fluid roll of his hips, the heavy press of his cock back into your dripping cunt. “I’ve missed this,” he breathes out, sinking all the way in, so slow you can feel every ridge and vein as he fills you.

“Missed you too,” you parrot back, a little delirious now that you’ve gotten what you want.

Now that he’s right where he should be - with you.

tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle @xjoonchildx

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undead-merman · 3 years

Note

Yo this is the person who asked about Monster Dia and Barb, I just want a monster that suits them best.

Alright, I’ve got Barbatos as a Naga and Diavolo as a Dragon

Obey Me Headcanons (Monster Edition) 🐲Diavolo🐲 and 🐍Barbatos🐍 as Yanderes GN - Reader SFW

Diavolo

Appearance

Diavolo is a proud dragon. He stands much taller than most in the Devildom. His large human figure stands at ten feet tall.

His skin is covered in dark maroon and gold scales, most of them centered around his face, chest, and legs. His legs resemble a dragon’s more than a human’s with three wide toes and long black talons.

He has a long prehensile tail as well tipped with a tuff of black fur and lined with large black plates sticking up dangerously.

His horns and teeth are long and fearsome, his fangs always manage to hang out of his mouth and his smile can be just as lovely as they are terrifying. His horns are always adored with gold accessories, usually in the shape of: golden skulls, torn wings, and blood red rubies.

In his True Form he stands taller then any building in the Devildom and with a wingspan capable of casting a whole city in darkness.

Diavolo’s build is much bulkier in this form, mostly seen around the jaw, and wings. His wings contain rougher and sharper scales and contain some of the black plates his tail has.

His Hoard and His Breath

Diavolo’s bed chamber also doubles as the Royal Treasury. Since his draconic nature craves hoarding wealth he has a need to sleep amongst the treasure.

Every morning he spends his first hour of awakening, sitting amongst the hoard, fiddling with gems and Grimm in his clawed hands, immersing himself in the candle lit room of wealth. Afterwards, he gets up to drink tea with breakfast while reading the R.A.D Newspaper.

He gets anxious and grumpy if he can’t be near his hoard for too long. Barbatos has to help make time in Diavolo’s schedule for Hoard Breaks.

Whenever he pleases, he’s able to breath massive plumes of black hot fire and streams of red lighting. Everything in its wide path is reduced to ash. It gets wider the angrier he gets, and it’s believed that if he truly was ever to get enraged, he could destroy the entire Devildom.

Spending Time with You

Diavolo is captivated with you to the point of obsession, needing you by his side at all times, though knows you need some freedom. Despite his instinctual anxiety of you having autonomy, he knows he could easily dispose of anything should it ever threaten his position with you. Anyone who makes you doubt him, or try to lure you to their side, he would make sure there is no trace of them left.

You are often given gifts, his form of courting you even if you’ve already tied the knot. Gifting you outfits and jewelry made from the finest gold and purest gems. He does this because he now considers you the center of his hoard, the paragon of his wealth, treasure and triumph. He wants to coat you in beautiful fine things.

He enjoys you touching the scaly parts of his body. It feels nice to have your soft warm skin on his cool scales. If you're not against it he’d enjoy you grooming him, it's relaxing.

He loves to have paintings of you made in different beautiful outfits in graceful poses amongst fantastical locations. He likes to sit with you as you pose for the artist and just talk. He adores this special time with you.

You’re the one in existence that has the right to join him in his hoard, and he thoroughly enjoys the time he spends with you in his hoard, which feels more complete with you amongst the jewels. If he had it his way, he would forget about everything except you and his treasures.

His Dark Tendencies

He has such a deep infatuation with you that he would do anything to have you. Though he doesn’t want to force the feeling onto you, instead he does it in secret, keeping up the perfect prince image for you as much as possible.

If he sees someone he deems a threat, he’d make sure they’re taken quietly and dealt with far away from you so there's no possibility you could ever see it.

Sometimes if they’ve made him angry, he’ll take the perpetrator to a private hunting ground so he can hunt them down and eat them himself, making sure not even the bones are left.

He had a wing built onto the castle just to house the thousand portraits he had made. He’s slowly overtime made it into a museum dedicated in all of your splendor. Glass encased objects of random things you had given to him, ranging from birthday presents to random cans of vending machine black tea.

He has stolen a few of your clothes, a uniform jacket or tie. He likes to fall asleep with your scent in his nose.

Diavolo doesn’t punish you at all, you can do no wrong in his eyes, only others can mislead you. He wants you yourself to fall in love with him, you have to learn by yourself how much of a perfect match you are.

Misc. Stuff

Despite being a Dragon with such fierce fire, Diavolo loves to fish in a sized down version of true form.

When he gets too excited his tail wags like a dog’s. He’s been known to have knocked over a few things with his tail when you or Lucifer came to a party or ball of his.

His eyes turn reptilian like in his humanoid form when he gets upset, or when he wakes up in the morning and is processing everything. It takes him a few moments of just staring at the ceiling to figure out he’s awake.

He has given the brothers a ride on his back as a dragon a few times, but sometimes he had flown a bit too fast making them fly off.

Barbatos

Appearance

His body is long and slender, reaching forty feet long. His scales are flat and smooth, black with a teal iridescence to them. If you look at them closely you can see a triangular pattern on his back in different shades of gray and black.

His tail however splits at the end perfectly in two symmetrical pieces.

His tongue is forked and long but he hides it well, however he does have teal coloration on the tip. Barbatos also has a few scale patches on his cheeks and just along his spine to his back hairline.

Barbatos has long perfectly trimmed claws that are sharp as a razor and grown out just far enough to start curving.

Being Cold Blood

Barbatos has to deal with the annoyance of being cold blooded, if he doesn’t heat himself in a nice warm place often enough he becomes lethargic; however no one has ever seen him resting let alone warming himself, people wonder how he always manages to be ten steps ahead of everyone while being cold blooded.

His secret is Diavolo, as he exudes a warm presence simply being near him provides enough heat to keep active for an entire day; and a pot of warm herbal tea to help jump-start his day.

He’s a type of Naga to use constriction against his prey, he has fangs but no actual venom. When he gets angry at the Little Ds you can find him constricting them and giving them a cold smile while scolding them.

Spending time with You

Barbatos just finds you so captivating and pure, he wants you in his arms. He wants to protect something so soft and warm, compared to him.

He loves to wrap his tail around you, around your waist, around your shoulders, he likes it even better if he can wrap it arounds your body completely just feeling the warmth of you on his skin.

He has a habit of spoiling you by bringing you everything you ask for. He always has breakfast in bed for you, he likes to bring you your clothes and always gets the chair or door for you.

He enjoys spending time in the garden with you, sharing a cup of tea and light pastries. Light rainy days are always his favorite just the sight of you in the green glow of the garden, the plump droplets catching the starlight above.

He likes to see you relaxed and happy, it makes his heart feel light and makes him proud to see how content you are. Sometimes he likes to lay with you and place fresh flowers around you and just admire you. He just loves looking at you.

His Dark Tendencies

He gets jealous fairly easily but he tries to not let it show in front of you. Just you smiling in front of someone else is enough to make his scales rise in anger.

He makes sure to find them and threaten them to stay away from you and says it while constricting them so much that they begin turning blue. All of his bottled up anger from everything that has happened, even events that don’t involve the victim, are being let out on them. Harshly and slowly.

He’ll very rarely punish you, if you go out of your way to escape from him he’ll make sure to chain you up and make you beg for him to take care of you, if you don’t you’ll be left alone without food or water.

He has a slightly sadistic want to make you cry. It looks so cute and beautiful to him, like the rain from the garden is dripping from your lovely eyes.

Misc Stuff

Most Nagas aren’t afraid to hunt pests, meat is meat, but Barbatos has a delicate palate and the thought of eating rats makes him ill. He also has a sensitive stomach so he can’t eat too much or anything too hot.

He loves to relax in hot baths but he never has time anymore helping with Diavolo and the Seven Demon Lords.

He likes to wake up early in the morning, put on an apron and start making pastries fresh that morning. Every morning is something new and always delicious.

I take NSFW and SFW check out my pinned post for my rules on requests Take Care - Stay Spooky

#obey me #obey me monster boys #obey me monster headcanons #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos

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omg-imagine · 4 years

Text

⊱ Forget Me Not (1/15) ⊰

Pairing: Keanu Reeves x Reader

Summary: After you wake up from a coma and realize that your memories from the last five years have been erased, Keanu works to bring back what you have lost.

Words: 2k

Warnings: Mention of car accident, injuries

A/N: This is my first attempt in doing a series and I’m super excited/nervous. Everything’s mostly outlined already and I’m hoping to post a new chapter every Sunday. If you’d like to be tagged in this, let me know!

As always, I hope you enjoy!

The heavy rain poured down from the dark skies, battering against the roof of Keanu’s Porsche like a hail of bullets. Loud roars of thunder filled the gaps of silence every few minutes, followed by bright flashes of lightning that illuminated the world outside. The wipers moved impressively fast as they tried to sweep the droplets of water away from the windshield. Still, they could barely keep up with the torrent of rain hammering the city of Los Angeles.

Turning down a corner, Keanu cursed under his breath when he realized that the road was flooded. He quickly made a U-Turn back onto the main street, his tires skidding across the wet pavement. He searched for an alternative way that he could take, but the chaotic storm only made it more difficult for him to do so. He could hardly see what was ahead of him, and he was beginning to lose his patience.

Fortunately, Keanu was able to find an access road leading to the freeway. He knew it wasn’t safe going twenty miles above the posted speed limit, but he had already lost too much time trying to navigate through the storm. All he cared about at that moment was that the faster he drove, the quicker he got to you.

He could still remember every word of that phone call from nearly an hour ago. It was from an unknown number, and initially, he didn’t want to answer it just in case you decided to call him back. But something in his gut told Keanu to answer, and he did. It had been a nurse on the other line saying that you were in an accident, and you were rushed to the emergency room in critical condition. As soon as he heard that you were hurt, he was already running out of the door.

His eyes glistened as he thought back to the moment before you had left your shared home in such a haste. Keanu blamed himself for giving you a reason to leave the house while a storm raged outside. He should have held back his tongue, took your car keys, and convinced you harder enough to stay. If only he had done just that, you wouldn’t be in this situation right now.

The rest of the drive to the hospital was a blur. After driving for fifteen minutes when it should have taken Keanu at least thirty, he finally arrived in front of Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. He parked his vehicle in a nearby lot before rushing towards the entrance, the pitiless rain soaking his hair and clothes in an instant. Reaching the glass doors, they parted for Keanu to step inside, and he immediately headed to the main desk ahead.

“Hi, I-I’m here for my partner, Y/N Y/LN,” he managed to say as he caught his breath.

The nurse nodded, checking her system for your information. “Yes, I was the one who called. Your name was listed as Y/N’s emergency contact. According to the last update on here, it says that she was wheeled into surgery about thirty minutes ago, Mr. Reeves.”

“Is she going to be alright?” Keanu asked wearily, hoping that her answer was what he wanted to hear.

It wasn’t.

“We don’t know yet, sir,” she replied sadly before placing a clipboard on top of the counter. “You can sit in the waiting room until the procedure is over. In the meantime, we need you to fill out these papers on her behalf.”

With a nod of his head, Keanu walked down the hall with the paperwork and a pen in hand. The waiting area was stark and quiet. The television mounted on the wall was playing a movie, not that there was anyone paying attention to it. There were a couple of other people scattered in the room, though most were asleep due to the late hour of the night.

Keanu took a lone seat in one corner of the room, ignoring the uncomfortable sensation of his drenched clothing sticking to his skin. He then pushed his long hair back, letting out a deep sigh. The adrenaline had finally subsided, and he had the opportunity to just breathe. He already knew that this was going to be a long wait, and he didn’t want to spend the whole time mulling about the things that he could have done to prevent this. As a start, he decided to concentrate on filling up the paper with your information first.

Most of the questions it asked were basic, nothing that Keanu couldn’t answer. After being together for nearly five years, he knew everything there was to know about you. He knew all of your favorite songs, the foods you liked and disliked, the names of your closest friends, and more.

You had been nothing but kind and understanding to Keanu from the moment you two met. It wasn’t an easy life living under the public eye because of his job as an actor, but you’ve always handled it so well. No other person he has ever dated had made him feel so happy and complete. To him, you were the most precious thing in the entire world, and he has never loved someone so deeply until you came along.

God, why did he have to screw up so badly?

Keanu set aside the clipboard and buried his face in his hands. He needed to call your parents and tell them what had happened. With a sharp exhale, he fished out his phone from his pocket and called your father. As the phone rang in his ear, he planned inside his head how he was going to break the news.

“Hi, Keanu,” your father greeted. He sounded as if he had just woken up, which he probably did. It was only five in the morning where they lived on the east coast. “Is everything okay, son?”

Son. Keanu was very close to your parents since the day you introduced him to them. They had quickly taken a liking on him, seeing that he was the first man you’ve dated that treated you right. Your parents loved Keanu as if he were one of their own, and it broke his heart knowing that this was all his fault.

“I’m sorry for waking you up, but...” Keanu began, his voice starting to break as he tried to find the right words. “It’s Y/N.”

“What? What happened?”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Keanu told your father about your current condition. As expected, your parents would be taking the first flight out of New York to be with you. After an exchange of reassuring words, the call ended, and Keanu couldn’t hold back any longer, letting his tears finally fall.

An hour went by, then another and another. The clock on display made time felt as though it was moving much slower, making the wait much more unbearable. Keanu would glance up, and in every instance, he swore that the second hand would linger an extra minute at every passing second.

The padded chairs didn’t bring much comfort throughout the night. Every so often, he would walk around the room, stretching his legs for a bit before returning to his seat. Despite exhaustion threatening to take over, Keanu pushed it aside for as long as he could. He was afraid that if he dared to shut his eyes, he would see the nightmare that was already haunting him even while awake.

Keanu did whatever he could to pass the time. He texted his mother and sisters about where you were, not expecting an answer right away because he was sure they were still asleep. He then attempted to read some of the outdated magazines available and watched whatever was on the television. He even resorted to simply staring at the window and watching the rain as it pelted against the glass.

But none of them were enough to distract Keanu. All he could think about was your well-being, and how you didn’t deserve to go through this. He didn’t want to lose you, and the mere thought of it was scaring him. You had so much life left to live, and it wouldn’t be fair for the universe to suddenly take it away.

Eventually, the storm relented, and the skies that were black shifted to blue, signaling a new day of life. The sun rose slowly yet surely, its natural light bringing a sense of calm to Keanu. For a brief moment, he basked in the peacefulness, only wishing that you were there with him to enjoy it.

“Mr. Reeves?”

Keanu turned around, his eyes catching sight of a doctor standing before him. He instantly pushed himself up from his seat, extending his hand for a shake.

“Keanu, and you must be Y/N’s doctor.”

“Yes, my name is Dr. Henderson,” the older gentleman introduced. “How are you doing?”

“I’m doing alright, I guess,” he replied with a slight shrug. “How’s Y/N?”

“Well, when Y/N first arrived, she was in bad shape, but we managed to stabilize her. The car accident caused a lot of internal bleeding that we were able to stop during the surgery,” Henderson explained as Keanu took in every word that was said. “Unfortunately, she’s not out of the woods yet. She did sustain severe head trauma, and as a result, she’s currently in a coma. We won’t know the extent of her injuries until after she wakes up.”

Keanu lowered his head, releasing the breath he was holding. “And when will she wake up?”

The doctor sighed, and that’s when Keanu looked up, seeing the uncertainty painted on the other man’s face. “I’m sorry, Mr. Reeves. We don’t know how long it’ll take. It could be days, weeks, maybe even months.”

“Okay,” was all that Keanu could say after a while. “Can I see her?”

Dr. Henderson gave him a sympathetic smile and a nod. “Of course.”

Henderson led the way as Keanu trailed closely behind. The walk to your room seemed endless. Every hallway they turned down to looked the same as the last. The blank white walls of the hospital felt cold, constricting and unwelcoming, it was becoming a place where a person like you shouldn’t belong.

Soon, they reached the foot of your door, your last name printed on a placard just below the room number. All Keanu had to do now was push down on the handle and open the door. His mind prepared him for what he was about to see. But as soon as he entered inside, it was worse than what he could imagine.

He crossed the room with cautious steps, afraid that if he were loud enough, it might disturb you. Your body was hooked on many machines, none of which he could possibly know what for other than they helped keep you alive. Once he reached your bedside, Keanu saw your delicate skin littered with the reds of your scratches and the blues of your bruises. Seeing you this way made his chest tightened, and if he could, he would trade places with you so that you no longer had to suffer.

Your body laid very still, and it was unnerving for Keanu to witness. Bringing a chair closer, he then sat down beside your bed, reaching out to hold your uninjured hand. He asked himself how you could look so peaceful after experiencing so much pain. If you had been awake, you would have surely given him a smart answer, and the two of you would then laugh about it.

Keanu felt the tears pricking his eyes as he continued to grasp your hand in his. He would do anything in the world just to hear the sweet sound of your laughter again. Though he was unsure of what tomorrow and the following days would bring, he knew that he would be right there by your side, waiting for you to wake up from your deep sleep.

Because despite everything that has happened, Keanu loved you, and he made a vow that he would never give up on you no matter what.

Part 2

Tagged: @penwieldingdreamer

#keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves imagine #keanu reeves fanfic #keanu reeves x you #reader insert #my fics #rpf

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katehuntington · 4 years

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Title: Changes - part two Word count: ±3000 words Summary “Changes”: Huntress Zoë Sullivan (OFC) crosses paths and swords with the Winchesters, when the brothers stumble on a case she’s already working. When complications arise, they are forced to work as a team. Summary part two: Four years after the demon attack, a young woman is playing a cat and mouse game with another supernatural creature. Only this time around, she’s the hunter. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Demon possession, supernatural creatures/entities. Smut, swearing, alcohol use/addiction. Kidnapping, mentions of torture and murder, illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Music: About A Girl - Nirvana Author’s note: I couldn’t be more excited to share Supernatural: The Sullivan Series with you. @coffee-obsessed-writer, @soupornatural & @mrswhozeewhatsis, who edited the early drafts, and my girls @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish & @winchest09 who are deciphering the recent version; thank you for helping me with this story and for taking it to a higher level. Everyone who encouraged me to go for it, you are awesome!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist 01x01 “Changes” Masterlist

Rochester, Minnesota November 24th, 2005

Rain falls during a chilly night in November. Thunder rumbles in the distance, as heavy showers dim flashes of lightning that jump from one cloud to the other. Several miles outside of the city in the wide-open spaces, the world seems deserted. The atmosphere is threatening as nature shows her power. Straight roads cross the farmlands, not a living soul using them. No one is on their way home or driving away from it. Then again, in this weather, who would want to be out on the road?

In the distance, a light appears and steadily approaches. A bright shimmer reflects in the water on the asphalt, the sound of an engine building as the vehicle gets closer. It’s not an ordinary engine, not even close to the sound that modern cars produce these days. Actually, it’s not even a car. A black Harley Davidson cuts through the night, roaring like a lion. The classic motorbike leaves a spray in its wake, the water catapulted from the back tire. The polished paint job shines proudly, catching even the smallest glint of light. Raindrops try to cling to waxed metal, failing miserably. It’s obvious the owner of this beauty takes good care of her. It’s the type of bike you would expect an old rocker to ride. The kind that listens to Metallica and is a member of a biker gang. A tough guy with a beard and big sideburns, who rides from roadhouse to roadhouse, consuming nothing but steak and beer. Nevertheless, this lucky Harley is ridden by a young woman.

The rider seems to be in a hurry; despite the slippery roads; she’s speeding down 75th street NW at ninety miles an hour. This woman and her Harley have reason to haste. The biker tries to focus on the road ahead, yet glances in her side mirror frequently, checking if she’s being followed. The sharp pain in her abdomen keeps her awake. She mutters to herself, biting down the pain. How could you be so fucking stupid? It’s your job to know what you’re dealing with, and yet you were caught off guard!

The suburb of Rochester appears in the south; she’s almost there. The rider bends over her bike, clamping one arm around her waist and applying pressure. “Fucking hell,” she curses. She refuses to look down at her injury and keeps herself together. Hopefully, it’s not too bad, she doesn’t have time to get stuck in the ER. It’s during moments like these she regrets falling in love with her ‘94 Harley Davidson Road King, because a faster bike like a modern Kawasaki sports bike would be much more convenient right now.

She follows the road, which is shadowed by trees on both sides, until she passes through a small town, called Douglas. Again, she checks her mirrors, but there’s nothing on her tail. In front of her, several cars and trucks are driving up route 52. A sigh of relief escapes her mouth; back in the civilized world. After turning right just before the highway, she speeds up again on the road running parallel to it. Finally, the motel appears in the distance, a building with a large neon number ‘6’ on the roof. The female biker parks her Harley in front of the motel and turns the ignition. Not nearly as graceful as usual, she gets off her bike and heads toward the entrance of the motel. With her right hand on her bleeding wound, she stumbles across the parking lot as she takes off her helmet.

A flash of lightning cracks the sky and reflects on the cars parked in front. For a split second, she thinks she sees a shadow standing in the rain. Quickly, she turns towards it, but it’s gone, yet her hand goes for the gun tucked behind her waistband, instinctively. On high alert, she scans her surroundings, her intuition telling her she’s not alone. Is she getting paranoid? He wouldn’t come out here and follow her by car, would he? That would be insane, he’d be too exposed. Her hand slips from the grip of the weapon and she makes a run for it. After hastily entering the motel, she closes the door behind her. It’s warm in the lobby, country music playing in the background, a huge contrast to the chilling weather outside. Standing in the bleak light instead of mysterious shadows makes her feel a bit more at ease.

The old man behind the counter looks up from his paper, peaking over his reading glasses. An empty soda bottle decorates his desk along with some paper wrappers which once held a Wendy’s cheeseburger. She stares at the wrappers for a moment. Fuck, she would kill for a burger right now. “You’re behind on your payment, Mrs. Johnson,” the old man remarks. She throws a Mastercard on the desk while closing her coat around her body, hiding her injury and keeping the hand she used to staunch the bleeding firmly against her side. The motel manager thankfully doesn’t seem to pick up on anything out of the ordinary and takes the card without thanking her. “I’m afraid I’ll have to charge you the extra night, too. It’s way past check out.” “No worries, book two more. I’ll be sticking around for a few more days,” she returns. “Business taking longer than expected, huh?” he assumes, while working the computer. “Something like that, yeah,” she answers shortly, not willing to elaborate. “Those two nights were the last slots. It’s busy this weekend.” The man behind the desk hits the enter button. “You’re in luck.” She frowns at the comment. Right, luck. Looks like luck got me fucking shot. Thankfully he doesn’t have any further questions, she’s not in the mood for a chit-chat with the fossil.

The restless woman scans the parking lot outside for the third time, slightly out of breath, her face tense. Every once in awhile the motel manager glances over his screen, observing his client. Her black leather biker jacket is soaked through, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. Brown hair falls down her shoulders, the tips escaped her helmet drenched from the rain. Her dark eyes seem worried, makeup slightly faded. A young woman, who - according to the information he got from her when she checked in - married early, apparently. How old could she be? Twenty four, twenty-five, maybe? She doesn’t really seem like the marrying type, and he has seen many folks come and go. The poor girl looks pale, too, as if she’s ill or carrying a heavy weight upon her shoulders. A lot of shady business has happened in his motel, so he knows the signs. Maybe it’s drug related, maybe she’s fleeing from an abusive relationship. Who knows? He doesn’t bother to ask anymore. It would put him out of business if he would. Besides, she doesn’t seem like the person anyone would want to mess with. He does make a mental note to keep an eye on her and make sure his motel doesn’t turn into a crime scene. “Here ya go.” He hands her back her credit card. “You know the way.”

The mystery woman nods, picks up her helmet from the desk, and turns down the hallway. While entering room number 82, she takes off her jacket together with her tartan wind scarf and strides to the bathroom. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, her gaze drops to her abdomen, where a bloodstain has darkened her grey shirt. She lifts it up, the fabric sticking to the punctured skin. Fuck, that feels anything but pleasant. She reveals the bullet wound underneath, several inches to the left of her belly button. “Shit, shit, shit.” Carefully she takes off her shirt, her breasts only covered with a bra. Still staring at her reflection, she ponders on her next move. Maybe paying a visit to the hospital isn’t such a bad idea after all. That bullet could have ripped through a number of organs. The small intestine, descending colon, she remembers clearly from the books and lectures. The inferior mesenteric artery branches out there too. “Would’ve been more blood if it was an artery,” she mutters to no one but her own lonesome mind.

The fact that the bullet bounced off the wall before it hit her, could mean that it didn’t sink too deep into her skin. She decides to give it a try and fish it out herself; if she can’t solve the problem, a doctor’s visit is always an option. The young woman grabs a clean towel and wipes away the crimson around the wound as she moves back to the bedroom. She takes a small briefcase from under the bed, putting it down on the table in the corner of the room. A sigh falls from her lips when she sits down on the chair, then opens the lid, revealing a wide range of surgical instruments and medical supplies. Gauze, suture thread, sterilizers, tape, syringes, catheters, and several small bottles with different substances ranging from morphine to epinephrine; enough gear to do minor surgery. She swallows apprehensively; this is going to get nasty. “Hell, I’m not doing this alone.” Next to her bed, a bottle of whiskey beckons her. With a moan, the injured woman gets up, grabs the Johnny Walker and the glass next to it. She turns on the radio on the cabinet, twisting the volume button all the way, and walks back to the table, halting to face the mirror inside the briefcase. Filling up the glass with alcohol, she grabs gloves, forceps, and other supplies she is going to need. In the background, the first tones of About A Girl by Nirvana comes through the small speaker. With the bottle of Johnny’s Black Label on standby, she clears her throat while putting on the blue latex gloves. Here goes nothing.

There is a sharp increase in pain as the forceps slowly enter her body. With her eyes focused on the reflection in the mirror, her jaws clamp together as she tries to reach the bullet. She groans, fighting the intense agony that almost seizes her attempt, struggling to contain herself and steady her breathing. Not wanting to draw any attention is the only thing preventing her from screaming at the top of her lungs. Finally, the forceps touch something solid. With tears burning in her eyes, she succeeds in getting a hold of it, then carefully pulls back and drops the bullet into the glass. Quickly, she grabs the whiskey and takes large swigs, wincing at the afterburn. “Fuck, that hurts,” she hisses, placing the bottle back on the table with a loud bang.

The worst part is done, but it’s not quite finished yet. Shaky hands reach for the disinfectant, but unfortunately, the bottle of chlorhexidine is empty. Stupid, she should have stocked up immediately after she used it all last time. Oh well, whiskey will have to do then. And so she takes the Jack and pours the last bit of whiskey over the wound. The alcohol needs only a second before taking effect. But when the stinging pain does come, she’s unable to tone down the growl leaving her throat. But you know what really pisses her off? Now she’s out of whiskey, too.

Frustrated, the young woman clenches her fist, waiting for the pain to fade until it’s bearable. After several minutes, she has finally calmed down enough to proceed. She takes the thread and stitch scissors and finishes the job. The pain from the stitching needle piercing her skin isn’t too bad; it almost feels like a tickle compared to the forceps. After ripping a sterile wound pad out of its package with her teeth and soaking it in betadine, she places it over the wound and tapes it to her skin. All done. Unfortunately, she will live to see another day.

With a sigh, she strolls over to the bathroom while pulling her latex gloves off her hands. Again, the woman - who basically just performed surgery on herself - looks in the mirror. “Well hello, gorgeous,” she mutters sarcastically, registering the bags under her eyes, the run-down mascara and messy hair. She looks like a train wreck and that’s an understatement. But considering recent events, she's lucky to still be standing. After opening the faucet, she bends over the sink. The water feels refreshing on her skin as she washes her face. With her hands on the edge of the sink, she closes her eyes. Time for a moment to stop, debrief, and take a breath.

The fucking night she had.

What the hell happened out there? Where did this go wrong? She found a pattern, located the next victim. At least, she thought she did. Burdened, the brunette turns around and slowly walks back to the main room. The interior of the motel is rather boring, but the bed is comfortable enough and there’s a television. Normally she insists on more luxurious hotels, but with two big events happening in the city, this was all she could find.

By the bed, she halts. A puzzle of newspaper articles, pictures, books, and blueprints lay spread out over the mattress as some sort of mind map. An outsider would think this so-called Mrs. Johnson might be a special agent. That, or a psychotic killer, but neither is true. In fact, her name isn’t even Mrs. Johnson.

Biting her lip, she narrows her brown eyes and tries to find some sort of link, an explanation for what happened tonight. Terry Cliffer, the guy she expected to be the next target, turned out to be the bad guy. The bastard who shot her certainly looked an awful lot like Cliffer. Somehow the suspect was on to her and made a change of plans, but what was the trigger? She picks up two articles, both from the local paper, the Post-Bulletin. One is about a murderer with an ironclad alibi, the other a tiny report of a strange robbery. Both incidents took place during the same night, both suspects were caught on surveillance cameras, both claimed to be elsewhere at the time of the crime, and neither fit the profile of a killer or a thief. Two separate mysteries for the local police, one crystal clear case for a hunter. Until now, that is.

She mutters unintelligibly, annoyed with the fact that she’s one step behind. There’s another question poking at her subconscious, maybe one of even bigger importance: how the hell did it shift so fast? She picks up a book from her bed and rereads the passage she labeled ‘Shapeshifting’. ‘Shapeshifting is a common theme in mythology and folklore. In its broadest sense, it is a metamorphosis (change in the physical form or shape) of a person. Shapeshifting involves physical changes such as alterations of age, gender, race, general appearance, or changes between human and animal form.’ Still standing up, she leafs through the book, trying to find what she’s looking for. “Forms of shapeshifting, powers, punitive changes, needed items, yadda yadda yadda. Damn it, where is it!?”

Throwing the book back on the bed, she sits down, wincing, and pulls her MacBook closer on the table. Focused, she fires up the hard drive and opens her archives. After a bit of searching, the screen finally shows the information she’s been looking for. “Shifting process: The shifting process takes several hours, but can be hastened by the shapeshifter itself, by tearing off its own flesh - Oh, that’s just gross.” She shivers, disgusted, staring and rereading the passage just to be sure. It might be gross, but this is what’s happening. Something disturbed the monster she’s hunting, but did she mess up this job or did someone else blow her cover?

She has to go back to the roots of this case for everything to make sense. At least three people are connected to each other. Three people who don’t work together, who don’t live close by, but there’s one thing they have in common: they’ve all been seen at 110th Ave NW just outside Rochester this month. Traffic cams confirmed this, so the shifter must be hiding somewhere along that road. But where? She opens a satellite picture of the area on her Apple computer and observes the houses alongside the road. The estates are spread out and have long driveways. It would take months to figure out where the shifter’s den is, and the creature will be long gone by then. Yesterday, she thought she had a lead. She discovered the thing uses the sewer system to travel. More than fifty percent of the houses out there aren’t connected to the sewer system, but have their own septic tanks, so she could scratch those off the list. Only nine of the remaining houses are empty. The problem is, she already checked those homes and ended up with nothing.

“C’mon, what does your gut tell you?” she mumbles to herself. One house, deep in the forest, captures her eye. It’s not connected to the sewer system, but on the last drive by, she saw a ‘for sale’ sign by the side of the road. Good chance it’s empty. It wouldn’t make any sense for the shapeshifter to hide out in the woods, miles from the sewer, but she has a feeling something’s going on in that place. Her intuition is the only thing she’s going on, since there are no leads left to investigate. Why is a voice in the back of her mind telling her to go there when it makes absolutely no sense? “This is fucking insane,” she states out loud as she gets up to put on a new top. Insane, maybe. But she is not going to sit on her ass and watch this monster get away with more abductions. What concerns her, is the people of which it stole their identities, are now missing. They could be dead for all she knows, but they could also be held some place, and in that case, every second counts. This stops tonight; she has been hunting this fucker for way too long. Determined, she gathers her stuff and leaves the room, heading back to the hunting fields.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read chapter three here!

#Supernatural: the Sullivan Series #Supernatural series #Dean Winchester x OFC #Sam Winchester x OFC #Supernatural OFC #SPN OFC #Supernatural #SPN #Dean Winchester #Sam Winchester #Dean Winchester fanfiction #Sam Winchester fanfiction #Kate Huntington #The Sullivan Series #STSS #1x01 Changes

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alitheamateur · 5 years

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The Grind-Chapter 3

NSFW- Our Colton Ritter has been unleased, my loves. You’ve been warned....

(gifs from Giphy)

The Grind- Chapter 3

Tonight was the night. The big night. Our night. The tell-tale truth for Colton Ritter, and his chances against my stuffy, guarded, heart of glass?

We’d made text plans earlier in the week:

C: What’s your Friday night lookin’ like, Ms. Liv?

L: Take out & a bubble bath at this rate, Mr. Ritter. Unless a better off comes along.

C: Well, I was gonna suggest dinner. But, that bubble bath ain’t sounding like a terrible idea...

L: I think a cold shower is what you need!

C: Ok, ok. I’ll settle for dinner. This time... Pick you up at 7:30 on Friday. Your place.

L: it’s a date!

C: I’ll be on my best behavior.

I hurried around my now trashed apartment, stemming from the embarrassing amount of time I’d spent rummaging for an outfit that suited me. Colton didn’t seem like the shallow type who preferred a woman who spent over half her life decked in stilettos & a full contoured face. So, I kept it simple, and a bit edgy. Felling as if it suited his gruff, and tough mantra. Dark skinny jeans ragged at the knees that hugged my athletic bottom flatteringly, and a slinky round neck white t-shirt, finished off with feminine cut black leather jacket. I tussled my hair with relaxed waves, & topped my dry lips off with a swipe of pink lemonade colored gloss. I carefully gathered some essentials such as keys, phone, and tube of replacement lips gloss, and stuffed them neatly into a small clutch. I felt the un-used can of pepper spray tucked into the pouch wouldn’t be necessary for tonight’s outing, so I left it behind to make room for a pack of minty gum. Then, three delayed knocks at the door.

My stammering heart leaped into my drying throat as a shower of nerves rained over me. That feeling that takes you over when nerves, and anticipation collide with the unexpected, and intriguing. I opened the door to find his bulky form so cunningly rested upon the doorway, a toothpick pointed out of his always beautiful mouth. The splintered tip of wood he bounced, and situated with his tongue was more dangerous than a loaded six-gun. The innocent peck on the check he greeted me with took me by surprise as he leaned in placing his hand gently on the back of my head to guide me into him.

“Good to see ya’, beautiful,” his hot breath unleashed into the crook of my neck near my ear, and I could swear his lips may have grazed my sapphire earrings.

Any shyness left in my body dissipated as I instinctively took his slightly whiskered face into my hands, turning his mouth to meet mine, needing another fix of his touch. He let out a breathy hum of satisfaction, and a dumbfounded laugh giving into my kiss.

“And hello to you, too” I reservedly cooed, taken aback by the foreign boldness I had just displayed.

Stepping out into the striking night air, he positioned his hand slightly on my lower back. He’d slid it under the thickness of my jacket, and I could feel the heated Fahrenheit of his smooth skin nearly sweltering through my shirt. He escorted me down the stairs, and my eyes raised to see what I feared was my chariot for the evening. A matte, jet black motorcycle parked at the end of the stairwell, resting on its’ kickstand beside the painted curb. It wasn’t the “mid-life crisis” saddle bagged type with the wide seat on the back, lined with padded armrests. This was the “dangerous, sleek, sex on wheels” edition, fit for a king. My usual reserved demeanor awoken inside fighting to keep me from getting on the two-wheeled taxi with him, but, he had stirred something in my being during the time I’d known him. Things I’d usually view as reckless, or foolish, now seemed electrifying, and all the more naughtily seducing.

He glided over to his bike, lifting a helmet into each hand, gesturing me over. “Hope you don’t mind. I know it’s cold out, but with the snow finally melted for the time bein’, I’d thought we’d take the bike & enjoy the night air a lil’ bit.”

I’d never ridden before, but I wanted nothing more in that moment than to straddle the soft leathered seat & swaddle my arms around his muscular back.

“As long as you don’t mind me squeezing the near life out of you the whole way, I’m game,” I grinned.

The idea was riveting, but I couldn’t deny there was a shred of fear on the side. I shook loose the visions of road-rash and semi-truck collusions, and readied to toss my leg over the seat. He walked over to me positioning the scuffed silver helmet onto my head, carefully fastening the strap under my delicate chin, then I felt his heavy hand pat my shielded noggin.

“All set, girl. Gotta protect that pretty little head a’ yours,” he reassured, probably sensing some slight unease written in my reluctant, shifty smile.

He slung his left leg over the iron horse, and I followed suit. Settling myself tightly against his statuesque torso, I let my fingers wind tightly into the gray thermal shirt he wore under his heavy lined Carhartt coat. I could feel the carved core ripple as he reached to turn the key. Before he fired the rumbling, smoky engine, he turned over his shoulder to address me from his helmet-pooched lips.

“You look amazing, by the way, Liv.” He started the bike & a thunder worked up my body as we disappeared into the chilled night.

I was taken aback when we’d wheeled up to the sushi spot I had dotted over in a conversation we had week or so ago. I hadn’t pegged him for a guy who enjoyed raw fish, but he was definitely the type to pull out all the stops for the lady in his life. As if I had any skeptics on whether he was genuinely interested in me to begin with, I was fairly certain in that moment that Colton Ritter was about to become an incurable addiction in my life whether I liked it or not.

He, of course, left me to do the ordering for the two of us. I played it safe with a cooked roll, & an order of veggies & pot stickers on the side, concluding his eating habits probably didn’t consist of much eel, or wasabi. We spent a vast part of dinner laughing over the waitress of ours that had a very obvious soft spot for Colt, and his dimples. She’d barely even made eye contact with me one time through the meal in its entirety, & managed to spill his drink when she bent over unnecessarily to display her full chest to him while taking our order.

“So, this is what it’s like to be out with the guy who every girl in the room wants to be under.” His face cast a light pink shadow at the compliment, taking a long swig of his beverage to dismiss my observation. But, he had to know it was true. He had to know that every room he entered became his platform, and the crowd took notice of him within seconds. The perplexing shade of his eyes, the way his soft brown hair rested easily across his forehead. The way his stocky shoulders slumped forward a bit with his bowlegged sway. His undeniable command captivated the attention of all eyes in the room, whether he wanted it or not.

“Right now, I only care about the opinion of one girl in the room,” his gaze shot up.

“And clearly you’ve impressed her. She was so in awe of you she spilled water all over our table.” I teased him referring to the over-the-top server who’d been taking care of us, knowing full well his eyes only desired the vision of me.

“Look around this room, Liv. Ain’t a girl in here holdin’ a candle to you.” His armed slid across the table reaching for my now furiously sweating palm.

For a second, I wanted to crawl under the table and fall into a giddy, squealing fit basking in his endless praises. However, the sensible side of my brain alarmed me that those were the words of a man who had spoken to (among other things) a vast history of women in his twenty-something years. Was being another notch enough for me?

“Enough about me, mister. Tell me something about you. Something not related to cage matches, and meal plans,” I changed the subject and stirred the melting ice in my glass.

“Damn, girl. Ya’ can’t put me on the spot that way. Umm.. lemme think.. Well, I work at bike repair shop down on 8th street. I ain’t there much with trainin’ all the time. But, Bruce, the owner, is real cool about lettin’ me get some hours in when I’m hurting for cash.”

You, all greased up, sweating, in a ripped up jumpsuit, crawling under a motorcycle with a wrench in your hand? I made a mental note to find 8th street, and this motorcycle shop first thing tomorrow morning.

“You fit the bill for grease monkey, I guess. You any good with cars? I could use an oil change,” I kiddingly suggested.

“I’ll fix you right up, darlin. Free of charge,” the man winked with a single nod of his head.

“Is there anything you don’t do? The male population thanks you for making them all look like chumps.”

“There’s plenty I can’t do actually. And plenty more that I am good at… But you’ll have to hang around for that. I can’t go givin’ away all my secrets now, little girl.” It seemed more like a warning the way he said it. One I wanted to break, no doubt. But a warning nonetheless.

“C’mon, got one more place I wanna take ya’ if you’re up for it.”

Take me to the edge of the earth, Colton Ritter.

We’d driven about 15 minutes from the restaurant, the evening air had cooled drastically as time passed. He stopped the bike in somewhat of a slummy part of town, little traffic, sort of dingy, & parked the bike in front of a dark glass front building. The sign read “Mac’s”, with faded red letters, a set of what looked like boxing gloves hanging from the apostrophe.

“Here’s where the magic happens” he mocked, his crooked grin on full display. I hopped off the bike & he instantly swiped my hand into his, steering me to the door. He clearly spent a lot of time here, judging by the key he used to unlock the paned glass. It seemed he may very well have had the keys to the entire city, and potentially the keys to my bedroom if he played his cards right.

I stood cautiously at the entrance as he briskly stepped across the room the flick the light switches. It was dim even with the countless bulbs, despite being plastered entirely in hospital white paint. A tattered, clearly well used, ring stood centered in the room, stained with the burnt red remnants leftover from many a bloody battle. Backed into the corner hanging from the saggy ceiling, two black Everlast punching bags, secured by clinking chains. I was so distracted in scanning the surroundings, that I hadn’t detected Colton standing next to the bags, shirt discarded onto the cracked, tile floor.

There he stood in all his exquisite glory. Tattoos spread across his very well-defined stomach & chest, and illustrated story I wanted to uncover. His tattered jeans the only lone cloth remaining on his form, only hanging on by the loose buckling is his belt. His once perfectly placed hair now slightly disheveled from pulling the shirt over his head.

“This is where I spend most of my pathetic life, I wanted ya’ to see it. Figured it may help with your article.”

Throughout the growing amount of time we were spending together, the article had honestly been nearly forgotten altogether. I didn’t see him as a work opportunity, or a career advancement any longer, but instead a viscously charming human, who I could never tire of.

“Right, since this is where, how did you put it? The magic happens.” He began delivering bare handed blows to the punching bag, slowly, clearly pacing himself. Maintain composure, Liv. My knees weakened in admiring him from a distance, and I looked to my feet promptly, needing a palate cleanse from his overdosing sex-appeal. The minimal distance became more than I could stand any longer. I closed the gap between us little by little, but with clear purpose, marching one foot in front of the other toward my prize. The speed of his punches had accelerated already, causing a light sheen of sweat to glimmer off him, beads trailing over the ripples of his abs like a rocky, Hawaiian waterfall. He halted realizing my closeness, & wiped the perspiration from his furrowed brow.

“Sorry, I’m an ass. This was a bad idea. I dunno why I thought I should bring you here. This is a date, not a session. Let’s go, I’ll get you home.” He leaned over to grab his shirt from the floor.

“Actually, I’m good. Take as long as you need.” I said tucking my sandy locks behind my ear. The look of desire must not have been disguised from my face, because he stood straight & stalked toward me. His eyes looking at me almost like that of starving predator to a vulnerable prey. His hands reached me before his mouth, yanking my womanly, yet, toned hips into him. It wasn’t a gentle, friendly kiss, but rather zealous & hot, no question it’s purpose. He was feasting on my lips like a starved animal.

Hands flattened onto his scruffy chest, I slightly sunk my nails into him, feeling as if only peeling into his flesh would relieve the pent up pressure between my thighs. My hair was now a tangled knotty mess thanks to him, and my reapplied gloss smeared stickily between our mouths. Suddenly I felt him paw my back side, and within a millisecond I was off the ground. Legs constricted around him, and one of his hands pacing its way to my modest chest. We were moving now, mouths never detaching, making our way to the unoccupied platform in the room. He slid me seductively down his body for a mere second, only to climb through the black ropes onto the mat, holding them gapped for me to join. His manly hands carefully slipped under the sleeves of my jacket, pushing it persuasively off my shoulders, and it’s smooth leather padded weightlessly to the floor. He was drinking in the sight of me, almost as if he was taking inventory. Memorizing every curve, every dip, every freckle. He teased one finger down my now goosebumped arm, marking his territory with his natural born pheromone. He took a few painfully slow steps into me, closing the gap, our hot centers breathing into each other. I elevated my hands to his unearthly toned arms, and let myself gently outline the dark inkings sprinkled over him. The kiss that he brought to me next, would be the ringing bell to start off the main event.

A metallic taste of blood seeped onto my tongue stemming from my bottom lip he had taken the liberty of nipping between his teeth, and I gasped in sheer satisfaction at the foreign act. I wasn’t a virgin, but I certainly wouldn’t have categorized myself as experienced by any means. I hadn’t been with anyone since moving from Westfield, leaving a semi-steady boyfriend behind. Levi, being the guy I had shared my virginity with, wasn’t the type who knew the needs of his lover per say, but honestly what 17 year old boy did. But then, the second Colton’s hands fondled my sexually inexperienced body, I knew I was in for the ride of a lifetime. His lips had strayed from my panting mouth allowing me to suck in a much-needed breath, then trailed my neck, and were now headed anxiously towards my ear. I felt a slimy suckle on the lobe, causing my legs to nearly collapsing lifelessly beneath me. God, I’m going to soak myself before he even begins at this rate. Colton sensed my frail body giving way, and wrapped his arms around to the lower of my back to steady me.

“Stop me if I’m going too far, babe.” His polite seeking of my permission to continue his pursuit flattered me. His eyes searched mine wonderingly for the go ahead, but without giving a worded approval, I stretched my hand out opening the cold button of his jeans. He gauged my bold reaction, then dropped to his knees, eyes level with my sex. The snug, now nearly wet jeans of mine were being tugged seductively over the curve of my ass, only to be situated right above my knocking knees. He rubbed his nose to the bow delicately placed on the front of my black lace underwear, gifting a gentle kiss treacherously close to the second set of aching lips on my body. The pounding of my heartbeat I heard thudding in my ears was softened by the passing of a honking car horn as the clearly unlocked door of the gym whooshed open.

“What the HELL?” The withering, slightly feeble shadow of a hatted man, stood motionless just a few feet from us.

“Shit, Mac! What are you doin’ here this late, ya’ old bag?!” Colton wrapped a protective arm around me, sending me immediately like a flash behind his colossal form, mirroring that of a human shield to ensure the interrupting man couldn’t ogle my half naked body. Thankfully, this Mac character had turned a blinded eye and was now facing opposite of us.

“I uh, I’m sorry for intruding… Wait, the hell I am, I own this damn place! And I don’t believe this what I had in mind when I copied that key for you, Ritter.”

“I hear ya’, I hear ya’. This is Liv, by the way.” I peeped timidly around the arm on my date who for some reason felt like now was the appropriate time to introduce me to his friend.

“Um, hello.. Nice to meet you.”

“Liv, that’s Mac, he owns the place as he so rudely mentioned. He’s my trainer. And I think he was just leaving…..”

The shirtless fighter began to chuckle aloud at the messy situation, and not soon enough, Mac had finally left us be. Instructing we make sure to lock up, and advised me not to let the “smug little shit” keep me out too late. The heat of the interrupted moment easily rose in sensual temperature dangerously fast as Mac’s headlights became bleak in the distance.

Colotn knelt down again the second we were alone to kindle the fire that was flickering from moments ago.

“Now. Where was I?” Two pointer fingers slid in unison under the elastic waistband of my panties nearly ripping them in half in effort to assault the blooming bundle of nerves between my legs. My head dropped backwards and a groan of bliss bellowed from my chest, reacting to the talented tongue roaming my feminine folds.

Don’t scream, Liv.

Colton’s palms squeezed the rear of my thighs, the pads of his thumbs no doubt pushing bruises into me while he stilled my shaking stance, the speed of his mouth furiously increased. My hands had wound their way into his hair, tugging his boyish haircut occasionally out of enjoyment. His tongue excited my entrance, trailing erratic kisses over my inner thighs, up to the slightly perturbing bones of my hips. I almost protested, wondering why he’d left me without full satisfaction, but his eyes shifted upward seeking me, and a devilishly grin swiped across his face as two strong fingers slid inside me.

He licked over his puffy, swollen lips, searching for leftover tastes of me on them, and watched intensely as the contorted emotion of release danced over me. My skin set ablaze at the building voltage rushing through me.

“That’s what you want, Liv? You like that, huh?” He whimpered encouraging the inevitable explosion coming over me.

Seconds later, gritted teeth muffling my breathy moans, eyes sealed shut, I clenched around his middle, and index finger, granting his reward for the dutiful worked.

“You are… oh my god, definitely something, Colton Ritter.” I said to him shyly, slightly embarrassed about the climax he had just instigated.

“Oh, that’s just round 1, baby. You’re with a fighter now. You better be buildin’ up that endurance.” The dark charm of his voice that I grew to obsess over tickled my eardrums. He ushered me to lie down, my back resting on the contrasting coolness of the canvas mat beneath me. The man resembling Hercules himself towered over me, shed his jeans, and tilted his head curiously.

“You are a fuckin’ sight for sore eyes, Liv Elliott. You know that? How did I get you to even give me a second look, huh?” I wished for a bag to cover my head at that very moment. No one had ever sang such lavish approvals of me like that, especially not in the matter of appearance, and it had especially never come from a man who had been visual blessed as he had. That night, center stage for, what felt like, the world to see, Colton Ritter showed me he could do more than inflict pain with his fighting hands.

TAGS: @torialeysha @eap1935

#Tom Hardy #tomhardyfanfiction #tomhardy #elizabeth olsen #tomhardyfanfic #tommy conlon #tom hardy fanfiction #thegrind #tommy conlon fanfic

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wildmagicplant · 5 years

Text

The Adventures of Greenpeace

this is the result of me bugging all my friends from college to see if we could reconstruct the story of our dnd campaign from my senior year. i’m sure we missed things and that the order, especially in the second half, is a bit messy, but i’m pretty impressed with what we got. i’ve put it under a cut because uhhh it got long

According mostly to Prince Orlando Bloom’s notes, he and Lady Azalea arrived in Iljak (a small city on the Sea of Fallen Stars in Faerun) to discuss with Lord Pendleton Snyde (Snood/Sneed/Snode/etc) the diplomatic and economic relationship between POB’s kingdom and Iljak. Lord Snyde wasn’t there when they arrived, but a servant named Hank was, and he was pretty great apparently. This is when we learned that Iljak doesn’t have a zoo, aquarium, public beach, library, or museum, but does have an inn/tavern named the Lactating Lizard and a pirate-themed dinner restaurant. Iljak also had a temple, where they met a dragonborn named Surina who they encountered again later. It also, memorably, has a store named The Bob’s (“Bobs bobs bobs! Lamps lamps lamps! Bobs bobs bobs! Buy a fucking lamp!”). At the Lactating Lizard, they were entertained for the evening by a bard’s performance, and met Jerry the bartender, as well as a ranger, Shepherd Commander. That night, POB woke to discover Lady Azalea was gone, leaving behind a wig as a clue. He met Hector the Well-Endowed next door, and they went to report Lady Azalea’s disappearance (thus starting the endless stream of missing posters). POB went to see Lord Snyde again the next day, and he was having a party which was actually a gladiatorial-type thing, forcing slaves (including Bjorn and Karangalan) to fight animals for entertainment. Trevor Goldenthroat apparently appeared now as well after performing at the tavern the night before, and helped attack Lord Synde as a revolt was led by Bjorn. Shepherd joined in the fight as he couldn’t stand the cruelty of forcing animals to fight. His usefulness was questionable, however, as he fired his bow instead of his arrow. Lord Synde was killed with a vine whip from Bjorn, and chaos reigned for a little while before POB helped set up a democracy (including a constitution which has a full text somewhere). Fluffy also met them, presumably in the tavern. At some point, everyone went to the Black Market and Davian purchased an unusual and mysterious cube (“The black market is now open.”). The democracy was questionably popular, and other area nobles began investigating the killing of Lord Synde.

The party met Kallista (alias: Kelly) at the guard station back in Iljak. At this point, Davian Goodfortune had shown up in place of Lady Azalea, but no one realized they were the same person. Bob of The Bob’s store gave the party a shipment of lamps to deliver somewhere else, and they set off to do that as it was becoming clear (possibly was already very clear) that they weren’t terribly welcome in Iljak anymore. At some point in this process, the group named themselves Greenpeace. Possibly as part of a delivery mission, possibly for some other reason, the party traveled into the woods and encountered a maze. The maze was easily navigated by virtue of meta-game knowledge, and in the maze, owlbears were fought, Shepard obtained his wolf companion, who he named Skoll, satyrs were befriended, and sentient plants attacked. POB found a very nice boulder. On the way out of the woods, the party ran across a temple with very unusual looking statues that they concluded were probably traps. They were absolutely correct, and managed to escape without too much incident.

They also encountered a troll in the woods somewhere who was minding his own business, but the party was worried he’d attack them, so they decided to go on the offensive. Karangalan created an illusion of fish near it; the troll was completely fooled and went after the tasty fish smell. The troll was alerted to the party’s presence, but it was conclusively defeated by the party conjuring vines to tangle it, horrifying whispers to terrify it, and a small gnome to poke it in the butt. Then the party killed it.

It’s unclear exactly when this happened, but the party ended up helping a lizardfolk person in an adulthood ceremony, possibly, and fought dinosaurs. At a similar time, the party killed a very young black dragon and stuffed its body into the bag of holding. (“It was a young dragon and it was malleable!”)

Not long afterwards, the party decided to set out for a larger city, Alaghon, taking to the seas to travel. While sailing, POB and Karangalan became best friends by way of friendship bracelets and hair braiding. Somewhere along the way, the ship was attacked by both werewolves (Shepard got bit) and orc pirates (where a particularly nimble orc managed to backflip over a magical thunderwave), and possibly someone in the party had trouble operating the ship’s cannon. The party managed to survive these encounters, and made it to a small sea-side village (possibly on the island of Ilighon and the small city of Sapra), where they were stuck for some time because of terrible storms surrounding the island. Some of the party attempted to find nets, which turned out to be more difficult than expected in a fishing village, but a small man who may or may not have been a goblin had some nets, and they were attemptedly stolen and then actually paid for- or possibly paid for with glitter transformed temporarily into money.

Having been tasked with retrieving a noble’s missing daughter, Greenpeace tracked her to a creepy hut. While the party attempted to prepare an ambush, POB knocked on the front door. It was inhabited by some hags, and after somewhat of a comical battle including capturing a hag in a net and then someone else cutting through the net to attack the hag, Surina (the dragonborn who traveled with the party briefly) killed one of the hags and the other was also dispatched. Davian also acquired a small pseudodragon he named Agatha around this time.

The storms that had forced them to land on this island showed no sign of letting up. Realizing they couldn't continue by ship, the party tried to explore through the woods. They heard a strange noise and saw a beast fly overhead clutching something familiar- their companion Fluffy. A battle was fought with the wyvern, and it was defeated, although Fluffy didn’t come out of that fight very healthy.

After continuing on through the woods, the party encountered a very stereotypical wizard tower, complete with absent-minded but well-read wizard. He requested that they deal with a cyclops that was eating his sheep before he would give them information on the storm that was still, after some time, surrounding the island. (Sheep were also painted at some point while staying with the wizard.) The party went to fight the cyclops in its cave, and while an ambush was being planned, Fluffy charged in and promptly missed the giant cyclops with a javelin. It was eventually defeated, and the party realized there was also a child cyclops that they convinced to come back to the wizard’s tower and the wizard would take care of it. The wizard was less than thrilled with this arrangement, but the party convinced him that the cyclops could be trained as it was still young, and he agreed. Probably. The wizard rewarded them with magical Rare Candies that allowed them to become instantly stronger and more experienced, as well as information about the storm.

After looking through his books, the wizard told them the storms were probably caused by an ancient being called an aboleth, which commands water and weather and is worshipped by lesser creatures called chuul. After telling the party more about aboleths and giving them magic to let them breathe underwater, they set off to defeat this aboleth. The party fought through a number of chuul before reaching the aboleth’s underground, partially-submerged lair. It attempted to throw the party off by giving them visions. A selection of some of the visions follow: -Kelly: caravan she deceived. defeated some skeletons by means of meta-game knowledge of greek myths. -POB: a vision of his father being disappointed. defeated by means of a bracelet from Karangalan and the power of friendship -Trevor: Duelling Banjos. -Davian: fighting an evil version of himself -Karangalan: fighting a few shadowy monks The visions having been overcome, the party began attacking the aboleth in earnest. After some potentially deadly missteps, including Karangalan being mind-controlled by the aboleth and Kelly accidentally turning herself into a potted plant, it was barely defeated. The party made their way back to the surface and returned to the wizard, who let them stay there for a night before they made their way back to their boat and continued on their way.

As the year approached Midwinter, Greenpeace took a short break from adventuring to celebrate by drinking, having a snowball fight, and watching the sunrise.

End “Season 1”

Somewhere else, a different adventuring party met in a tavern. They were approached by a rich looking man, somewhat suspicious, but nothing that set off their internal alarms too much, and he hired them to retrieve a magical sword from a tomb. They did such, although many of them died in the process (including a wizard being smothered by a magically animated rug). As those still standing exited the tomb, they were ambushed by their employer, and they realized he was actually a devil- a rakshasa. Despite one of them being a paladin, this was completely unexpected, and they were horrified to realize they’d given this magical artifact to such an evil creature, but he disappeared after trying to kill even more of them, so they hoped nothing would go too wrong with that in the future.

Begin “Season 2”

The storms gone, Greenpeace made it to Alaghon, where they stayed for a short time. They met up with Darvin Dundragon, the paladin from the other adventuring group, after a night of misfortune for him when he accidentally slept with a gnome who he killed with a lamp instead of any other, better option [“What do you mean, non-lethal damage?”].

While in Alaghon, the party decided to find someone to identify some magical artifacts they’d picked up, or to try and buy some, possibly. They were directed to a nearby mage college, where they were greeted by a very hyperactive wizard who offered to introduce them to other wizards, and just talked a whole lot, really fast. They also met the headmaster of the college, who was distinguished, and didn’t bother with them for long. Beyond the caffeinated wizard inventor, the person they interacted with the most was a divination specialist named Hope. He probably helped them on their quest somehow, whatever it actually was at that time, and he and Kelly also hooked up. After that, it was revealed that he could keep spying on the party whenever he wanted, and didn’t take no for an answer. The party’s actual tasks, whatever they were, in Alaghon accomplished, they set out by sea back to Iljak.

On the way, they ran into yet another magically dangerous storm. This one crashed their ship and left them stranded in a mysterious land that looked and seemed much different than what they were used to. After some exploring, the party realized they were now in the Feywild. They journeyed for a while and ended up following Bjorn, who broke slightly from his silent and mysterious ways to lead everyone to his relative, who turned out to be a very important Fey who the party immediately nicknamed Lady Grandma. They also met Prongs here, whose real name she kept secret for her own reasons. Prongs was set her apart even from the unique look of other high elves from the Seelie court in the material plane by a pair of antlers growing out of her head, which also was the origin of her nickname. Prongs joined the party, as she was on her own quest and could get more done with them, but before Lady Grandma would let the party leave, she asked them to rid a neighboring part of the forest of intruders. Fighting bandits of some sort that wanted to burn down the forest (and thus accomplishing the second of two environmentally good things Greenpeace ever did), as well as some displacer beasts along the way, they succeeded. The displacer beast hide made very nice armor for the otherwise vulnerable new party member, Prongs. Davian also succeeded in finding the last ingredient his parton wanted from him, although none of the rest of the party ever knew about any of that. Returning to Lady Grandma, she sent them on their way back to the material plane, with POB having obtained a pet fairy dragon.

Back on the material plane, Greenpeace returned to Alaghon. While in Alaghon, the party noticed posters for a Battle of the Bands upcoming, and Trevor convinced the others to participate. When it came time for the Battle, one competitor, Silverback, never showed up, but Greenpeace beat one group [whose name I’m pretty sure was a pun on Iron Maiden] before it came time to challenge the past winners, King. As it turned out, King was led by Trevor’s former mentor. The party defeated them, and Trevor reclaimed his magical instrument and a sense of accomplishment at beating his former mentor.

At another visit to the mage college, the party’s relatively peaceful shopping trip was interrupted by a portal to hell opening in the museum of the college. Greenpeace and a few of the wizards dealt with the incursion, but not before some devils made off with a few powerful artifacts. There was suspicion that this had something to do with the sword Darvin had accidentally rescued for the rakshasa, but the more immediate trouble was that the headmistress of the college seemed to have been in league with the devils somehow.

Greenpeace was eventually given a patch of land to create a home base as a reward for their good deeds. Or something. Through the use of magic (both arcane and druidic), they created a set of dwellings inside and around a cluster of several large trees. Everyone called dibs on rooms, and some roommate shuffling occurred, but eventually, it was settled as a new home base. Once it was fully grown/constructed, the party threw a housewarming party of sorts, with Fluffy creating signature alcoholic drinks for each member of the party and POB trying to dance with Prongs, which went very poorly.

While no leads were forthcoming with regards to the rakshasa, Prongs asked the other members of Greenpeace to help her find her brother. The party journeyed away, following a lead from Hope’s scrying, and were led to a mind flayer colony. They made their way underground to try and rescue him. The party was separated, causing trouble for everyone, and also letting POB and Prongs have a quiet moment alone, when POB told Prongs that he had written to his father and if anything happened to him, she should take her brother to the kingdom and POB’s father would take care of them. Fluffy almost had his mind eaten, some of the party fought a behir, Trevor’s use of Bigby’s Foot made an appearance, and they were nearly overcome by combined attacks from mind flayers and drow. However, back together, they managed to rescue Prongs’ brother, although he was weak from his prolonged capture. While some members of the party had an interest in keeping him around in a flirtatious capacity, Prongs and her brother, along with Lady Grandma, decided it would be best for him to stay hidden and rest. Since his capture had occurred after he seemingly murdered a giant elk, a sacred god of the forest, (which, incidentally, is how Prongs got her prongs) and the Fey community was still somewhat skeptical of his “I was under mind control” excuse, after he recovered, he went back to clear his name.

The party was led to a large temple, and when they snuck in to see what was happening, they discovered the rakshasa completing a ritual to transform a red dragon into a shadow dragon. They left, knowing they couldn’t fight it directly, but hoping to prevent this some other way.

On one of their adventures, the party was travelling through a swamp when they were ambushed by a horde of bullywugs. The bullywugs attempted to take them to their leader but through a lot of very dramatic fire magic, the unending swarms were defeated. Unfortunately, they ran almost immediately into a green purple worm and a swamp dragon with tentacles growing out of its back. These proved more of a challenge, but still no match for Greenpeace, who killed the monsters (Davian using Banishment to great effect, in particular). After defeating this strange dragon, they found its lair, and also its horde of erotic novels.

The missing band from battle of the bands re-appeared outside of Alaghon, revealing themselves to be a pack of good werewolves who patrolled the area. Their leader, Miranda, told the party about some strangely behaving fire giants in the mountains nearby. The party went with Miranda and her pack to go investigate, and Shepard talked to them about how to manage his case of lycanthropy, which seemed to have popped back up. The fire giants headed into the mountains and down into a tunnel. Greenpeace followed, and attempted to gain information from some of the giants without alerting the rest. Somewhat successfully, they made their way into the underground tunnels, and came out at a ruined underground building complex. While trying to sneak across the city, they ran into a horde of strangely dancing zombies (led by one notably familiar looking gnome with lamp pieces impaled in her dead body), and made it past them to what seemed to be an old temple or castle. Inside, they were confronted with a terrifying death tyrant. It was a long and dangerous battle, with the territory itself against them (lava pools in the floor and tentacles coming out of the walls), not to mention the death tyrant itself. Shepard managed to land the killing shot on the creature, but not before dying. He was revived shortly thereafter, but one of his arms was burned away in the lava.

In all the treasure Greenpeace found along the way, the most unusual was the few magical cards from a powerful object known as the deck of many things. While they didn’t find many cards, those they did had far-reaching effects. Bjorn lost all his worldly possessions, although he didn’t really have any to start with. Fluffy, having drawn two cards, had to duel an avatar of death and deal with a distant relation of a bartender he knew trying to kill him for no reason. Trevor, luckily, got a castle and a loyal manservant. In an unusual turn of events, Davian drew a card that caused him to lose his memories of the past months, resulting in him believing he was still disguised as Lady Azalea. Sadly, Shepard drew a card that made Miranda, now his love interest, go wild and try to kill him, forcing him to end her life. Prongs, meanwhile, drew a card causing her to take incredible pleasure in murdering people. Luckily, being a druid, she didn’t kill that many people in general, so it didn’t become an addiction as was feared, and was mostly managed.

Having realized the rakshasa was too dangerous to be left alone any longer, Greenpeace set out for where they thought his lair was. The sky overhead grew dark and colorless the closer they came to his mountain home, and they began to have some idea of what his plan might be. Talking to villagers in the small town outside the castle he seemed to be residing in, the party learned some of the story behind them, including that the castle used to be inhabited by an order of paladins before something went terribly wrong. Approaching the castle with no plan beyond trying to stop whatever was happening, the party used their often-resorted-to tactic of claiming to be travelling lamp salespeople to convince the lady of the keep to let them in. She introduced herself as Rachel, and led them up to the upper floor of the castle. It became clear that she was the rakshasa’s wife, and that she was a vampire. The rakshasa appeared and monologued about his plan: that he and Rachel had a child who would never be able to exist fully in the material plane due to its parentage, and so, he was trying to bring the darker planes into this one to give his wife and child a place they could live and survive. The party seemed mildly sympathetic to this, but also agreed that it couldn’t be allowed to happen for the sake of everyone else who already lived there. A battle began, with all the stops pulled out on all sides. In the midst of the fray, while POB was on death’s door, he and Prongs admitted their feelings to each other, knowing this may be their last chance before death, and there was a Big Damn Kiss. Rachel and the rakshasa were both formidable foes, and it seemed impossible until some clever tactics from Darvin led to the rakshasa’s defeat, and then Rachel’s soon after. The world was restored to normal, and Greenpeace triumphantly went home.

Months later, they gathered again, this time for a happy occasion: the wedding of Prongs and Prince Orlando Bloom. Bjorn, to everyone’s shock, showed up with his adopted daughter. There was much merriment, drinking, attempting to fire people in cannons, and also a very happy wedding. The story ends there. (Although Greenpeace (almost in entirety) agreed much later to go to the nine hells and defeat the rakshasa fully so he couldn’t return and wreak havoc once again.)

#dnd #the adventures of greenpeace #you never forget your first time playing dnd? i guess?#also rip the fact that i left out karangalan touching statue dicks #it was a good time :)#my stuff

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chalabrun · 6 years

Text

contra mundum, ch. 2

Word count: 3,731 Pairings: Ignoct, Nyxnoct, Ignyxnoct Rating: PG Warnings: N/A Summary: An exploratory story into what Final Fantasy Versus XIII may have been like, this story follows Noctis and his friends on his journey to not wed Luna, but to bring the war to Niflheim's door. Driven to be far darker than the source material, this tale seeks to give a dark, twisted tale based on reality.

The beginning is set in motion. Before everything fell apart, they were once close together.

( READ ON AO3 )

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

In caverns weathered by time, in a place forgotten by all but one, is a boy.

The boy was completely and utterly alone.

The room he is in is as high as a cathedral with a great dome in its center with mosaics of chipped heroes, valiant, charge into an endless race around the mosaic ring in pursuit of a demon, lost to the ravages of time and sits dejectedly among piles of rubble. The walls once held beautiful crystal sconces of unimaginable color are now dark with encroaching mold, their light stolen from them in ages past, like a speechless man. A rift in the ceiling is held steady by creeping roots with massive proportions, streams of light filtering through.

There is a massive wall of rounded stone, slate, and its base is an abyss that was once a contained well but the embankments of stone were lost lone ago and sits at the bottom of the shimmering, almost florescent abyss. The gluttonous roots have grown sporadic down the wall, creating a foothold on which the boy desperately clings to, like a feline to a tree.

Particles of dust dance the beams of light that manage to seep through, around fluted columns that bloom like lilies into the stone ceiling, in the wide center, and in the path of the hero of valor. The gnarly roots placidly hold the boy as he assiduously works, hair matted by sweat and brows creased in determination. He is perhaps in his eighth year, nearing the end of his boyhood, not yet ready to embrace the future.

His hands clench a stone with the fervor of one driven mad, soft skin torn and bleeding, but he is unaware. His long hair gleams like strands of metallic thread, halo moving in time with his rocking movements. His eyes like blood dart back and forth, studying this and righting that. Why is he working with such desperation?

This symbol is the key to your survival; remember it so that when the time comes, you will know. It shall protect you and lead you to greatness, an omniscient voice murmurs in that dream, that dream like a prophecy. The voice of a goddess, like a mother.

In that dream, he saw so many disconcerting things; ruined buildings corrugated by steal, shards of glass littering the streets. A horizon of complete and utter ruination plagues this familiar place, a restive moon donning a nauseating, bloody glow sickens the survivors of the mass destruction. The contemporary city would be lost to tragedy if it would not be stopped. But there is more to the dream; faces he's never seen, places he's never been, and a person familiar to him gazing at him with such reluctant antagonism.

There is a woman as well, who is very precious to him, whom he knows now and she is poised to fight, sad reluctance holding her back. And yet that brandished gold rapier goads his Engine Blade to action and they stand off.

No matter what, this cannot be avoided.

The boy weeps. It has yet to pass and already he is overwhelmed by emotion. He thinks of his friends, people so dear to him, and of that blonde girl, so precious to him. Must they be lost to an inevitable future?

He shakes away those thoughts and continues working, his carving and scraping making a dissonance in the abysmal place. This place is one filled with memories, of happiness and anguish, and yet he can see them as vividly as if it were happening now.

People strangely garbed flow in and out of the walls, luminous specters of the past. A time reel continuously flows and the boy is overwhelmed.

This is but a taste of what you will come to possess, the voice soothes, trying to quell his fears with company. You will find the strength to resolve the future. Why doesn’t he believe her?

Throwing down the worn, white stone, skittering into a dark place, the boy jumps from his perch. He furiously wipes his eyes, set with resolve, and gazes upon the symbol he has drawn.

A gyro of a language unknown to him swirls around a faded, curled wing. Many other symbols can be seen, but even the boy is unsur. In the pale light it takes on a celestial, fluorescent blue glow, but natural light shouldn't be able to do that. He gulps, unsure of what he has just scrawled upon the ancient wall.

Did I not tell you what it was?

The boy shakes his head, trembling. Dropping the stone, courage plummeting, the boy dashes from this grand room, down a narrow hall, charging deeper into the darkness more welcoming than an ominous future.

Hours later, Luna Parvulus, the Dukedom of Caliga, Galahd

"Prince Noctis! Oh bless my heart, I worried terribly about you! Where have you been? Come, come, let's get you all cleaned up."

Noctis, the boy, was trembling despite the warmth of the upper world. He had desperately bandaged his hands with old cloth in order to hide the wounds, but his keen-eyed guardian, Rosarum, had immediately caught on. She knew this boy from birth and she knew him well. At her side, his oldest and dearest friend, Ignis, waited with a pensive and worried look in his green eyes.

She was dressed in what looked to be a nun's habit, white and tan, although it was by no means for religious purposes. Her face was kindred with age, but her emerald eyes always had an intelligent gleam. She was fiercely protective of Noctis, who had become something of a son to her, and as thus she saw to it that he never stepped out of line. Rosarum glanced down at Ignis, placing a hand on the older boy’s shoulder. “And you worried dear Ignis, my dear.”

Noctis took Ignis’ hand, small fingers curled around like a lost child. He kept his gaze to the floor, eyes darting between the shoes that flicked out from under her long dress whenever she took a step and his own stumbling feet. “…Sorry for disappearing like that, Iggy.”

“It’s okay. As long as you’re safe, Noct.” He sounded so gentle.

The halls they walked through were high and narrow, rich white marble paving the floor and columns that blossomed into high domes were avoided. Between the recesses the columns made were large portraits of the rulers of old, people Noctis was related to, as well as entryways into similar halls, each containing a plethora of rooms. Clear windows overhead let in an azure sky while massive crystal chandeliers spiraled downwards like Turritella shells. Natural light made them sparkle every conceivable color of the spectrum, casting orbs of color on the floor and walls like playful faeries.

Caliga always had been a beautiful place. The seat of House Izunia, the precursor to the Lucis Caelums, its capital of Luna Parvulus was like something out of a fairytale and built exactly in style of Tenebrae, especially its own Fenestala Manor. A place founded a sort of wedding present to the first Oracle, Gentiana Fleuret, from Somnus Lucis Caelum, it had been the ancestral place of peaceful conventions between House Caelum and House Fleuret for generations.

At least, that’s what his grandmother, Aellai Izunia, had told him years ago before she’d passed away. Grandpa Mors had never really cared for history, she’d joked, but Noctis knew she missed him greatly.

“Hey, Noct?”

“Yeah, Iggy?” Noctis replied when the trio took pause, both training gazes on the older boy.

“Um…I’ll wait until you’re done, okay? I think Rosie wanted me to lay out some clothes for you, while you bathe and stuff.”

Noctis smiled at his friend and reached out to poke Ignis’ cheek. “Okay, Iggy! I’ll get done really fast, then!” He couldn’t help it; they were inseparable, after all.

“Oh, we hope you get done in time, little prince! I know how much you enjoy the bubbles!” Ignis gave a small laugh and Noctis made a face, embarrassed, but feeling happy.

Shoes echoing resoundingly, Rosarum briskly walked into a set of open, lacquered wood doors inlaid with curling iron designs with Noctis and Ignis in tow. Opening a secondary set the three of them entered the young prince's bedroom.

The room was circular in shape, domed like many others, hewn from warm beige marble. A cathedral ring of columns arched gracefully to touch the sky. There were recesses between each wall bound column that held in their depressions statues of the Archaean deep in thought and Shiva clothed in flowing robes in delicate pose, something out of the Genesis painting. The four poster canopy bed stood at the center, black curtains bound to their posts. The extravagant silk sheets were of muted cream and spared no expense of the young prince's comfort.

Ignis detached from them and began digging through the dresser and wardrobe for the prince’s clothing, leaving Rosarum and Noctis to the task of bathing.

Rosarum skirted around a large desk and wardrobe and flung open another set of elegant doors into a bathroom as large as the bedroom.

It, too, was circular in shape. A rounded, inlaid bath more like a fountain pool lay in the center, steaming and embanked by warm stone. A light fixture hanged from the zenith of the dome, metal and orbs of light twisting beautifully together and casting a warm glow on cordial marble. A ring of stained glass above was in the forms of inky fishes and rippling water of frosty blue glass, the sunlight casting scales of blue light below.

The marble in here was of a dull burgundy veined by white that seemed to grow warmer in light. A large mirror sat in one corner while a large sink, too large for normal use, sat in another. All was made from stone or marble, a trait overly common in what was supposed to be a modern utopia.

"Alright, m' prince, why don't you take off these ruddy clothes and get yourself bathed? I'll take them to the laundry quarters. If you don't take a bath, I'll know," she said, kneeling down to look Noctis at eye level. “Don’t keep Iggy waiting too long, hm?”

Complying, Noctis walked over to a hidden changing room and closed the door before removing all of the soiled clothes. He pulled on a long bathrobe and girdled it tight, then stepped out with the bundle of soiled garments in his arms. Rosarum gladly took them, smiling warmly at Noctis.

"I'll be back in a jiffy, alright?" she said before turning around, robes swishing as she closed the door softly behind her.

Glaring at the water, Noctis timidly stepped to its edge, frowning and testing the heat with his toe. Recoiling at the spike in temperature, Noctis frowned and his glare deepened.

"Why do I have to take a bath?" Noctis groused softly, swirling the glass-smooth water with his finger. Remembering the taunts of his immaturity from a close friend, Noctis puffed his chest exaggeratingly. He sat and submerged his legs up to his calves; he gritted his teeth in resolve. Slipping off the edge into the fairly deep water, Noctis splashed resoundingly, flailing his arms until they rested on a submerged ledge. Gasping for breath, hair limp and blocking his eyes (which he quickly moved aside), he took deep breaths, trying to calm his fluttering heart.

Finally calm, Noctis removed the heavy and wet robe, having accidently dragged it in with him. The water cleansed his skin well enough as well as his hair, though he still went through the whole routine. Clean of all dirt, blood, and grime, Noctis heaved himself from the tub and toweled himself as dry as possible, hair still a little damp. He found another robe to wrap around himself and proceeded to the mirror.

Availing himself before it, he could see that his hair was still hopelessly spiky, springing back into place. It was a strange metallic blue, unusual from the browns and blondes of other people. His face wasn't sharp and angular like his friend, or more…developed like Ignis’; instead it was soft and still rounded, but was beginning to lose that trait.

"Oh, good, you're done, m' prince!" came Rosarum's jovial and warm voice. Noctis whirled around, a smile alighting his face. He ran to her and clamped on to her arm, face colliding with her shoulder.

"You've become very handsome; I can't believe you're not that sweet little baby anymore. Ah, you're such a treasure." Noctis looked up to his beloved nanny. “I’m certain little Ignis agrees, hm?”

"Please call me Noct, like you used to," Noct said, smiling warmly. “Like Iggy does!”

She burst into laughter. "Oh, you little rascal! I'll get in trouble if I do."

Noct looked thoughtful for a moment. "Prince Noct?" he reasoned. “Iggy does that sometimes, too!”

"Alright, I'll call you 'Prince Noct.'" Noctis let go of her arm, beaming.

"Oh! I almost forgot! Lord Ravus and Lady Stella are here. Aren't you excited? Come; let's get you all polished up."

Noct froze; Stella was here. His heart began thumping loudly at the thought of seeing his best friend who he recently began having a crush on. She was twelve to his eight and positively radiant. He adored her kind smile and lively personality. There was something else, like they had a deeper connection, but he couldn't reason why. Though he’d always been so close with Ignis, Stella was different. And he was going to see her, again!

Urging himself to calm down, he took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

Older Stella brandishing a gold rapier.

Noct shook his head, pushing away that awful thought.

"Prince Noct? Time to get dressed."

Noctis opened his eyes, and to his abject horror, Rosarum held a flowing, long emerald dress coat, stiff looking matching pants and a complicatedly designed shirt. He swallowed; he hated dressing formally almost as much as he hated taking bathes.

Ignis looked a little sheepish, having been the one to choose them in the first place. “Sorry, Noct, but your father wanted you to wear them.”

It was always his dad! Always so stuffy, even though he wore suits all the time! Why didn’t he have to wear the ceremonial robes?

Reluctantly taking the clothes into the changing area, closing the door, he removed the bathrobe and put on the appropriate undergarments before hauling up the suede pants, pulling over the long shirt and finally pulling on the ankle-length robe which wasn't supposed to be girdled. He tied on a pair of starchy black boots and laced them, toes being mashed together.

Exiting the room he groaned loudly, bemoaning the restrictive clothing.

Rosarum clapped her hands in delight and ushered Noct again to the mirror. The outfit made him look older, sure, but he wouldn't be able to do much. Ignis stood beside him and helped tug down this, tighten that, and brush away stray wisps of hair.

"You look even more handsome!" she squealed, soothing creases and invisible wrinkles with obsessive care.

Noct gave her a look of comic anguish, a shadow of despair hooding his eyes. Ignis looked paologetic, sincerely. Then again, he’d always had a superbly soft spot for his friend.

"You want to look nice for Stella, don't you?"

Noctis quickly changed his outlook, imagining Stella gushing over how cool he looks and immediately changed his outlook on the snazzy clothes. Well, almost immediately.

Rosarum laughed at his sudden change of heart, always seeming to know how to change Noctis's perspective on things. That, or the task fell on ignis. Barely keeping secrets from each other, Ignis almost always anticipated what was needed for Noctis. He was so, so reliable like that.

"Come along now; don't want to keep them waiting."

Noctis gladly acquiesced and flew from the room, Rosarum struggling to keep up.

“Oh, Noct?”

Noctis stopped dead in his tracks, skidding to a halt when his friend addressed him. He was always bound to listen where Ignis was involved. “Yeah, Iggy?”

“Uncle Jovian wanted to see me today. I’m sorry, but I can’t come with you to see Lord Ravus or Lady Stella.”

Ignis looked apologetic again, especially when he caught sight of the disappointment on his face.

“Oh, okay. I’ll tell them you said hi. It’s okay. Luna couldn’t come, either.”

Ignis looked grateful, if a little crestfallen. “Lady Lunafreya has her Oracle training to attend to. I’m pretty sure she’d love to be here with us, Noct.”

Rosarum smiled gently at the pair. “Don’t you either worry about anythin’. I’m certain today will lovely for all of you, regardless.”

“You’re right. Thank you, Rosie. And see you later, Iggy!”

The day was as beautiful as it looked through the windows.

The sky was a beautiful turquoise color, clouds floating aimlessly like leaves swept along a river. A massive lawn spanned before him, gardens of flowers of every variety planted and hedges trimmed with the utmost precision. Beyond the gardens was the border between lawn and forest, both kept immaculately in line. Cobblestone paths cut through the maze of flowers and small trees; the odd sculpture of some prominent figure of old standing in defiance to the sky.

The emerald leaves of the interminable number of trees chattered in the many warm breezes while dappled shadows rested on the forest floor below. The grand presence of the castle loomed before all, a sentinel of sentinels watching over wood and city. Luckily the sun's position in the heavens provided that the castle's shadow didn't overshadow the delightful gardens or the three young children who wished the gambol among the scenery.

Beyond even that, the Sea of Galahd scintillated on the horizon, reminding them they were still a ways from the Crown City of Insomnia.

Noctis descended the wide stone stairs, ignoring Rosarum's warnings to be safe. He practically ran down, eager to meet his friends below.

As soon as his foot touched green turf, the padding of feet over grass flew in his direction.

"NNNNoooooctiiiisssss!" came the stream of his name, sourcing from a pretty preteen girl, a mane of billowing gold in her wake as she ran. Launching herself to the young prince, Stella latched her arms around his neck, smiling childishly.

Noct, unable to speak coherently, gulped. He returned the embrace shyly.

"Oh, hey Stella,” he stuttered at last, patting Stella's back. Beaming, the older girl, already a bit taller, quickly released Noct so that he could regain his composure.

"I'm so glad to see you again, Prince Noctis! " she said, smiling genuinely. Her violet eyes caught the sunlight beautifully, entrancing the young prince for a moment. Today she wore an almost identical outfit to his, only it bore the colors of her kingdom, Tenebrae, and instead of pants she wore a skirt. “Luna says hello. She was sad she couldn’t be here, but she wishes you well.”

Aside from the fact that she was Luna’s fraternal twin sister, they looked almost exactly alike, save for her ash blonde hair and violet eyes that contrasted to Luna’s blonde hair and blue eyes.

Raucous laughter broke the silence, emanating from a a platinum blond youth. Ravus Nox Fleuret was prince from the kingdom of Tenebrae and Noctis's other best friend, and the girls’ older brother. His choppy, short hair was buzzed down, stormy grey eyes dancing in delight. He wore an outfit identical to Noctis's, again with the colors of his beloved forest kingdom.

He was the oldest of them at sixteen. Already his face was beginning to sharpen and become angular, voice not yet deep. He was a head taller than Noct and towered over Stella.

Yet that never deterred Stella from showing off her vivacious spirit.

"Ravus!" Stella cried, stamping her feet and crossing her arms. "Leave Noct alone!"

Noct waved his hands, as if trying to placate the fiery girl, only she proceeded to stomp over to Ravus and give him a piece of her mind.

"Sorry Stella, it's just that Noct—" he choked out between bouts of laughter "—he's really hilarious to me now for some reason!"

Stella scowled, hand reaching to grab a tuft of hair and yank it. Ravus yelped loudly, eyes locked with Stella's fierce ones.

"I'm sick of you bullying and teasing Noct! Go say you're sorry," she ordered, still clenching his short hair.

Awkwardly bent over, Ravus's grey eyes locked with Noctis's. "Stella, it's what friends do. We always—"A yank "—Okay! I'm sorry, Noct! You happy now?" his last words directed at Stella. She tossed him away, unsteadying Ravus, and smiled smugly.

Prancing over to Noct, she grabbed his hand. "Let's get away from him and this place," she whispered conspiratorially, glancing towards the forest.

"What are you doing?" Ravus.

"Now!"

Before Noctis could even blink, Stella was off him a shot, towing Noctis at breakneck speeds. They tore through the gardens and out to the border and into the darkening woods. Noctis could hear Ravus shouting after them to stop, but for once he was glad to be alone with Stella.

They ran quite a way until the castle receded and faded completely from view.

"Ah, alone at last." Stella ambled around a tree with great roots, humming delightfully to herself.

Noctis looked around nervously. The trees here were thick enough for several people to hug, hands touching. Long and wide branches thickened and split like a river delta, umbrage nearly blocking out the sun entirely. The canopy was thick with a ceiling of leaves that let in only fragments of sunlight, the rest of the ground cloaked in shadow. Massive roots spurt from the ground, interrupting the surface like coiling snakes, providing for unsteady walking ground. Noctis carefully picked his way around brambles and jutting roots, making way to Stella.

A deafening crunch suddenly filled the forest.

Stella clung to Noctis who put a hand to her back.

"I think we should leave, Stella." Her head pumped up and down in agreement.

A scuffling of weak roots heaved inwards, creating an abyssal drop. Noctis' arms flew around Stella and her's around him.

Both screamed with terrific might in the quiet forest as the ground gave away and they were swallowed by the black maw.

#noctis lucis caelum #Stella Nox Fleuret #ignis scientia #ravus nox fleuret #Final Fantasy Versus 13 #Final Fantasy Versus XIII #ffxv #final fantasy xv #final fantasy 15 #my writing

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guidedbygunpla · 3 years

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Gundam REDUX Side Story Chapter 3: Sins Against God and Man

“this country must’ve been beautiful at some point, feel kind of bad for having set half of it on fire” Dozle said with a laugh as their Gow flew over the Rocky Mountains, the remains of Salt Lake City below them, now looking like nothing but shattered glass strewn across the mountain. Zakus occupying the territory now, painted in stark white. Dozle, Char, Icelina and about 2 dozen crew men waited in the tiny room above the Mobile Suit hanger of the Gow, and watched as America drifted below them. The country had been ravaged during the Late AD and early UC by a monstrous drought and famine. A blight caused the great mono cultures of Corn and Soybean to die off, resulting in billions of farm animals being culled, the resulting food shortages resulted in hundreds of thousands starving to death. Poor water management in the south west caused hundreds to migrate elsewhere, and formerly rich and prosperous parts of the south west became completely abandoned. The country fractured in two due to political strife, in part due to arguments about how best to tackle the ecological disaster, resulting in the creation of the two countries the United States of Northern America and The Southern United American Republic in UC 0007. The North was able to barely survive the famine by switching to crops the blight wouldn’t effect, primarily potatoes and rhubarb. They tried desperately to genetically modify the corn and soy bean crops to be more resistant to the blight in the future, with only middling results. Resulting in food enough to only feed a quarter of their population. The south however was able to transfer largely to imported food, and fish, but they had a harder time dealing with the increasing desertification, the rampant dust storms, and the massive floods they were battered with year after year. Eventually, they became the first to honestly consider what so many other first world countries would in the coming years, they began the process of forcing their populations off world through the Federations colonial emigration plan, at first willingly….and then, as the years went by, and the droughts got worse, the famines got worse, and more and more people died. by force. the early days of the UC were like that though. The world was dying, and the only option left for so many was to leave.

With a smaller population the southern American Republic was able to stabilize their economy and began plans to help stop the desertification, as well as hopefully reverse it. However that would be dozens, if not hundreds of years down the line. The earth was sick. In the hundred years before the formation of the universal century charter, 2 world spanning wars, runaway pollution and the destruction of much of earths fresh water reserves, a series of small scale nuclear exchanges along with the ensuing sociological, and ecological pressures those put on the planet caused the amount of the earth that was desert to balloon resulting in vast areas of formerly agricultural land to be swallowed by the great deserts of the world. with crop failure, famine, water shortages, and societal collapse eating up much of the world. The Mojave stretching as far east as Missouri and as far north as Wyoming. The Sahara having swallowed up almost all the land as far south as Angola, and the Gobi going as far south as Qinghai. So much land lost to the great deserts of the world. What choice did they have?

The colony migration plan must’ve made so much sense back then, they must’ve thought they were saving so many millions of lives. if only they had known, Char thought to himself, that because of this all, one day, one of these colonies would come home, and crash into the earth so hard that it would split a tectonic plate in half. In a matter of months it would kill 3 billion of the remaining 6 billion people left on Earth. Through famine, floods and fires. Through volcanos, through tornados, through earthquakes. Life after life would end. All because of a want for power, a lack of caring about ones fellow man, about the world. A Want for control.

If only the people who wrote that damned charter knew what it might cause

If only people had taken better care of things ________________________________________________________________

The gow touched down near a large laboratory building. The smell of the sea strong in the air. Mendocino had largely been spared of the worst of the ecological collapse of the Country. It was lush and beautiful. A true paradise in hell Char thought to himself. “I haven’t really gotten to ask Dozle, why are we moving our headquarters to the Flanagan institute? “ he asked as the officers began the process of disembarking from the Gow

“orders from Supreme commander Gihren, we’re supposed to run some tests here and then likely we’re going to reassign you to a naval crew for a few weeks…..I tried to get you some time off the front line, think it’d do both of us some good to have some time to grieve” “Dozle, you don’t have to do something like that….really” “no, Char… I insist. My heart feels like its breaking everytime I think of Garma. I picture my Mineva, I picture Zenna. I cant imagine how you and Icelina feel. I can’t imagine how father is feeling, I pray his heart can take the stress. That’s why Gihren took charge of the military, he wanted to give father time to process this all. I think some fresh air, some time away from the front lines, it could do us all good.” char looked out at the beautiful scenery around the Gow

“you know I might take you up on that, make sure Icelina is taken care of here, she’s not just our Princess, she is still the daughter of the USNA’s president, who I believe is in power, even if its just in name.”

Dozle knodded at him as Char walked down the ramp to the ground below

The lab they were near was called the Flannigan institute for Zeonic Military Research. It had a… reputation. Soldiers got sent here, came back different. What went on inside the walls of the institute were classified. Char knew they would frequently send POWs here, and that a lot of their research resulted in new mobile suits and new weapons. “Mr. Aznable, please follow me” Char heard a voice call to him as he stepped off the ramp of the Gow “My name is Dr.Tonus, I am a researcher here at the institute, we have been reading over your exploits and wanted to show you around the facility and possibly run a simple test, just to show you what it is we research” “I’m really not the one you should be kissing up to, Commander Dozle is right there, if you are wanting additional funding I’d speak to him instead” Char spoke back in response

“sir this isn’t a request for more money, this is a request to show you, one of Zeons most decorated officers what is in our militaries future.

Char followed him into the building, there were people walking around the halls like in asylums of old, people who seemed confused, distraught, and lost just wandering the halls, dressed poorly and in various states of poor hygiene. It was revolting. The researcher led Char into a back room, where they could see into another room via 1 way glass.

“now Captain Aznable, watch our subject behind this glass. She will guess the cards that are shown on the television screen in front of you, that is showing us footage of a researcher in another lab who is acting as our sender”

Char looked into the room and a woman wearing a bright yellow dress, and of what he believed to be middle eastern decent was re arranging the cards on the table into the same pattern as the researcher on the television. “quite well, so she can perform simple card tricks…..fantastic use of Zeons resources” Char said dismissively

“eh, but watch this Captain Aznable…..I want you to imagine something, something concrete and real, something you know well, and hold that image in your mind” “Lalah, if you could can you read the mind of the man in the room with me, and tell me what it is he is picturing?” Char felt a wall of ice overtake him, his body tingling as if he was diving into a cold pool. The chill of it slid through his brain, feeling like a spear of ice rolled through his mind, peeling away at the layers of gray matter “he is picturing a man with dark black hair, they are in a bathroom with concrete floors and steel cabinetry. There is a smell of tobacco in the air” she said, her voice turning into a laugh towards the end as she realized what it was Char was remembering

“that’s enough. So what is this? Some psychic research program?” Char said turning and staring daggers in the researchers eyes

“…well, yes. Minovski particles make long range communication by radio waves too difficult, so we are researching controlling long range weapons through…..well less conventional means. And Lalah here has been the most successful of our experiments. She was brought to us from West Bengal, she was being used by a card shark there to help him gamble. When she grew obstinate, he abandoned her, and she was taken in to one of Zeons shelters in the area where our men found her, and shipped her back here for study.” “and the rest of the…..subjects, in this facility. Why are they so…..vile” “well, before Lalah, we had been experimenting with getting these abilities by grafting brains of clones of people with similar abilities onto the brains of POW and lower ranked officers, a super soldier program so to speak” “clones of people with similar abilities? Dr.Tonus, please elaborate….because what you are saying is making me want to pull my side arm out and personally shut this whole facility down right now….this sounds like human experimentation, and at that, forced human experimentation…..which as you know violates the antartic treaty as well as the teachings of Zeon Zum Deikun” “Captain, the war will be won by whoever can harness these powers first, and by who can harness them the best. As you have already seen, the federation has 4 pilots who can out pilot even you….surely they have already started to harness Newtypes for combat use” “Newtypes…..the people who Deikun said would be worthy of inheriting the earth, you think that means this? That it means psychics?” Char snapped at the man and pulled his gun, pointing it at the man

“yes sir, spend a few hours with Lalah, you will believe the same as we do, Newtypes…..they are worthy of salvation, we are simply trying to find a way to elevate the rest of us to their level” Char lowered his gun and looked back through the window, then at the small man, who said with no fear the evils he had committed……viewing them as aspects of Chars fathers teachings

“show me these clones…..I need to document this, send it back in a report to the high command.” “before we do that Captain, we do want to run some tests on you….we want to test a theory” ______________________________________________________________

Char found himself hooked up to a machine, a wreath around his head, and a blood pressure cuff on his arm “am I just testing the same thing that the woman from before was testing?” “yes Captain, I want you to clear your mind, and try to see what it is the woman in the room across from you is looking at” char looked at the cards in front of him, and thought about how stupid this all was…he did wonder though

He cleared his mind…and for a second he felt like he saw it, at the same time he felt it, there it was a line of ice through the middle of his brain, right into the top of his spine. he arranged the cards and the researcher knodded at him

“promising” he said as he took the cards away, and wheeled in a small box, with a T shaped item in it, the top bar balancing on a blade, like a knifes edge

“all I need you to do is to move the top part of this metal bar, so that it makes contact on either side of the case, this will trigger an electrical contact, and turn on a light in this office.” char emptied his mind and tried to slow his hands trembling and stared at the metal T

After about ten minutes just as the researcher started to walk towards the box to push it out of the room it tilted and made contact

“now…..now that we have finished your stupid tests, show it to me” Char said as he ripped the wreath off his head.

__________________________________________________________

Dr. Tonus walked Char into a basement, where all around him in vats were young women and men, all blond, all quite young. Dozens and dozens of them, tubes and wires hanging around them, and skewering their bodies.

“they are all clones of two children who were donated to the facility about a decade ago, we had been studying their abilities at that time, but our research wasn’t folded into the military until recently when Supreme commander Gihren decided that our research could be useful to the war effort.” char walked over to the tanks and looked at the faces of the children

“their features look familiar…who donated them?” “well…..unfortunately that is classified Captain Aznable….their lineage is unfortunately a state secret at this time” “ah, I see…..so they are his children, it’s unmistakable, the jaw line, the ears...they look just like Girhen when he was younger. Wonder who the mother was…that too is probably a state secret too isn’t it” Char said craning his neck to look back at the doctor

“well….yes…..unfortunately it is” “are the children, this mysterious man left here, are they still alive?” “yes they are taken care of in the eastern wing, they are about 13 years old now” “13, and how old are the children in these tubes? Surely they all haven’t been floating like this for 13 years.” Char said looking at the children, they looked to be in their late teens, early 20s, surely these clones weren’t so young. “well, we are injecting them Human Growth Hormone, a combination of Steroids and developmental enhancers and of course they are being dosed with sedatives so they are largely unresponsive, we really just need to get the brain to the right size so that we can excise the parts that we believe are responsible for the Newtype Phenomena. We then graft that part onto the brain of the test subject, though it has so far been unsuccessful…Lalah has been able to telepathically communicate with 2 of our test subjects who became nonverbal after the fact, and they seemed to have still been mentally capable, though we still need time to perfect the surgical process as well as the drug cocktail that will be required to prevent rejection of the parts of the brain that are grafted on” “I don’t understand…how would sticking someones brain matter onto your brain give you their powers?” Char said turning to face the man

“well, you see….this is difficult to explain, but when someone learns something often there is a physical region of the brain, a new organ that is grown. We noticed it in the late 20th century while examining Einstein’s brain. He had a knuckle shaped area behind his right ear, and we saw that same shape, that organ in people that had one thing in common with him, they were violinists. In a normal human brain, that region would be missing, just smooth gray matter but if they had studied the violin in childhood, there it was, the violinists knuckle right behind their right ear. A similar region we called the seat of the pianist would be closer to the center of the brains of those who had studied the piano. Our early tests were with excising those parts and implanting them in others, and surely enough often they could play the instrument in question after the surgery, though they lacked the muscle memory to properly coordinate their body with their mind. But the newtype phenomena is purely mental, we know if we keep experimenting we can uplift ourselves to their level. There is no muscle memory to overcome. “ char looked around, these were human beings

Their bodies were being harvested for war

They were being made into weapons, no not even weapons

Parts of a weapon

What happened to the child when their brain was harvested Casval wondered

Who thought up this monstrous idea

“who ordered this research? Who pushed for the cloning, the brain surgery” “well….Supreme Commander Gihren of course, and the use of them in military applications was further expanded by his sister, Rear Admiral Kycelia. She has begun production of Newtype use weapons to be used in the war effort, we just need to create a decent pool of soldiers for her to use first. “ “this is disgusting…” Char said as he turned away from the man. He began to walk out of the facility, Revolted. As he was about to reach the door though, he felt a line of ice sliding between the lobes of his brain once more. And a woman’s voice in his ears

“you saw the children in the basement didn’t you?” he didn’t know how to respond should he speak aloud, should he just think? Instead Char simply knodded

“it is monstrous isn’t it. I am scared every day they will come for me….that they will carve me up the same way they did those children” Char swallowed in fear as images of surgeons, doctors, and blood filled his mind, he felt like he was drowning in a horror movie

“please you have to take me away from here” Char stormed back into the building, past the lost souls that wandered the halls, and into the room where Lalah was still being studied, grabbing her by he arm he spoke aloud

“I am captain Charles Aznable, and I will be taking this women here with me, if you want to fight me on it, take it up with my commanding officer Dozle Zabi.” He then pulled the women with him out of the facility. Off into the sunny Californian afternoon they walked Lalah free from that horror

And Char burdened even further, knowing that his mission was to no longer hurt Degwin for the pain that he endured as a young boy, but now he had to kill them all, every Zabi had to die…..for this sin against god and man.

#charma #gundam #sidestory

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everlarkbirthdaydrabbles · 7 years

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Biggest Fan - Chapter 2

Way back in February, @peetabreadgirl had a birthday and her gift was Biggest Fan -- Canadian!Peeta and Texan!Katniss meet in the Marvel fandom and then have a real-life meet-up in Québec City. You can find the first chapter of this story on this blog. We've decided to stretch her birthday fun for five months and offer you this latest chapter. Enjoy!! Banner by @xerxia31

When the morning sun finally begins to glow behind his eyelids, Peeta is contentedly floating on a cloud of sheer comfort. The bed feels exactly right beneath him, his pillow cradles his head perfectly and Katniss is snuggled firmly against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder.

Never has a bed been so inviting.

He’s not sure when she migrated from her side of the bed to his, but he can’t say he’s sorry to start the day with her in his arms, her soft, steady exhales painting a warm trail on his pectoral muscles under his t-shirt. His senses are full of her; the sweet fragrance of her hair, the weight of her arm across his belly, her feet tangled in his. He leans down just enough to place a kiss on the crown of her head and is rewarded with a sigh from Katniss.

She stretches like a cat against him as her body comes to life. “Time is it?” she mutters.

“I’m not sure, about eight? Practically mid-day for a baker.”

The sound of his voice seems to bring her back to herself more quickly. Her grey eyes widen and a pretty flush paints her smooth cheeks as she notices the way they’re practically wrapped around each other, and the fact that they’re both nestled on his side of the bed.

“Sorry,” she squeaks, and in her haste to push away from him, she discovers just how awake Peeta is. He emits an involuntary hiss.

“Oh God,” she drops to her back and slaps a hand over her eyes. “I’m sorry again.”

Peeta can’t help it. He laughs. “It’s not like you hurt me, Katniss.” He rolls to his side, hoping it will provide some slack in his pyjama pants. She parts her fingers and peeks out at him. “Morning wood’s a pretty ordinary thing for a healthy guy, especially if he’s been curled up with a pretty girl all night.”

She snorts and her hand drops from her face in exasperation. “I may beta smut instead of writing it, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t teach you a few things, Cap.”

That line sends his mind careening in all sorts of different directions. His cock throbs for relief.

Her puzzled voice forces his train of thought off its rather sordid track. “Wait a minute. You think I’m pretty?”

He’s forced to shake his head in amazement. “Kat, I thought your Google Docs avatar was pretty. In real life, you’re so much more than that. Beautiful, yes, but there’s just something about you. It’s….” He stares at the ceiling searching for the right word. “Magnetic.” When he chances a look over at Katniss, her face is pale, her front teeth pillowed in her bottom lip.

“I’ve got to take a shower,” she whispers. Then she bolts for the bathroom, snapping the lock behind her.

Peeta lies in bed, bewildered by the turn of events. Wondering if he’d gone too far calling her beautiful. After their nice evening together, and especially after waking up with her in his arms, he’d thought they were on the same page. Now he’s left trying to figure out what’s real and what’s not.

He can hear the water running behind the bathroom door. A mental image of Katniss standing under the spray, her long black hair wet and cascading over smooth olive flesh flashes through his head, and he groans softly. Knowing she’s naked just a few feet away isn’t doing anything to help rein in his dirty thoughts. It’s taking every speck of his restraint not to take himself in hand. It wouldn’t take long. He’s so hard from being this close to her, she’d only have to breathe on it and he’d come.

Fuck, did he really just think about her lips near his cock? With a decisive kick, Peeta knocks the bedcovers aside and shoves his pants down his hips. He exhales in relief when he wraps his hand around the hot flesh, twitching in anticipation. It's not the first time he's stroked himself to thoughts of Katniss Everdeen.

But it’s the first time since he’d held her in his arms, learned her scent and the exact shade of her pink pouty lips. His hand circles his cock, his thumb sweeping over the weeping head to gather the moisture and ease the movement of his fist, slipping slowly downward from tip to root. He imagines those perfect lips enveloping him, slick and wet, taking him deep into her mouth. A quiver of excitement passes through his body and his breath quickens as he envisions Katniss’s grey eyes, dark and cloudy with desire, staring up at him from his lap. A moan rumbles from low in his throat and his strokes quicken, his hips flexing in time with the movement of his hand.

In his mind’s eye, Katniss’s perfect breasts bounce with every pass. She’s riding him now, his cock buried deep within her, the walls of her pussy tightening around him like a silken prison he has no wish to escape. The pleasure builds higher and higher, bringing him closer to what he craves. Every muscle in Peeta’s body tightens and strains as the pleasure mounts within him. He can see her, head thrown back in abandon, needing this, needing him the way he burns for her touch. He bites down on his lip when the familiar tingle begin in the base of his spine, sending bliss sparking throughout his body. And in the moment when his mind flies free and his body follows, he releases onto his belly, her name a whisper on his lips.

It’s only when he’s wiped himself clean with his t-shirt and thrown it to the floor, that he can focus on Katniss’s reaction and what, if anything, he ought to do about it.

He pulls up his bottoms and climbs out of bed, tossing his dirty shirt into his duffle bag. Effie had said something yesterday about breakfast being delivered to their room in a petit panier. Sure enough, he discovers a picnic basket just outside the door. An array of fresh baked pastries, fruit, cheese, yogurt, and juice are tucked inside.

He’s just closing the door behind him when Katniss emerges from the bathroom, still in her tank and sleep shorts, her hair wrapped in a towel. He must have taken her by surprise because she gapes at him.

“Breakfast,” he smiles, holding up the basket and crossing to a small table beneath the window. “It looks amazing. I can’t wait to try these croissants and see how they compare to mine.”

Peeta fishes out a little card that states Gracieuseté de l’Hôtel du Vieux Québec. “A beautiful day is desired to you," he reads aloud. “It’s signed by the manager. Huh. I’ll forgive her English if she tolerates my high school French I suppose. It was nice of her to personalize it, don't you think, Katniss?”

“Katniss?” He turns to find Katniss still standing near the bathroom door, staring at him intently. “Would you like some breakfast?”

Her tongue darts out over her lips and she gives her head a shake. “Uh, yeah, sure. Just let me get dressed real quick. I, uh, forgot my bag earlier. I just need to, um, grab a few things.”

He nods and turns back to the basket. But reflected in the window, he can see Katniss still staring. A slow grin spreads across his face as comprehension dawns. Katniss Everdeen is checking him out.

He can't resist showing off a little. Though there's nothing wrong with the basket’s position, he hefts it into his arms, knowing it'll make the muscles in his back - toned and sculpted from years of lifting hundred-pound flour sacks - ripple and flex.

“OK Kat, you go ahead and get dressed. I’ll take good care of this breakfast basket.”

In the window, he watches her eyes snap off his back to shoot arrows at the back of his head. “Oh,” she sneers, “I don’t think so, Cap.”

He snatches a croissant from the basket and, turning to face her, tears into it with his teeth. His mouth is full of its flaky, buttery goodness when he smirks at her. He swallows. “That’s delicious.”

“Fine,” she harrumphs. “I’ll eat.”

They settle down at the tiny table, the morning light streaming through the window, enjoying the contents of their basket. The fruit is juicy and perfect. They sample ripe melon and strawberries, bits of pineapple and delicious raspberries. Katniss sinks her teeth into what appears to be an apple danish and sighs contentedly.

Peeta fishes an apple out of the basket, breathes on it slightly and is about to shine it on his shirt when he remembers that it’s sticky and buried in the bottom of his bag. Feeling Katniss’s eyes upon him, he shrugs playfully and mimics shining the apple against his chest instead. Katniss’s eyes follow the action, her rosy lips slightly parted. “See something you want?” he asks.

Her eyes round and return to his face. “What?”

“Just wondered if you wanted my apple,” he replies innocently, the rosy flesh of the apple now masking his grin. Katniss flushes and declines. With a shrug, Peeta brings the apple the remaining distance to his lips, the apple providing a satisfying snap as his teeth dig into its tart flesh.

It’s possible, he concludes as he chews, that the attraction he is feeling for his writing buddy is mutual. It’s just too bad that he’s fallen for a girl who’s every bit as shy as she is stubborn. If he approaches her directly, she’ll be on the first plane bound for Texas.

He’ll just have to convince her it’s all her idea.

→ thg ←

By mid-morning they’re both dressed and ready to face the crowds of Carnaval. Hôtel du vieux Québec faces out on the busiest street in the downtown core. The crowds have already begun to gather as people wander in and out of the quaint shops along the narrow streets in the historic city.

Peeta watches in amusement as Katniss takes in her surroundings, eyes wide, head snapping this way and that. The narrow stone buildings, the ancient churches, the snow-encrusted trees -- he sees all of them with fresh eyes as he observes Katniss’s awe. Several times, as they walk towards Carnaval, she’s distracted enough to nearly bump into someone in the thickening crowd.

It’s one of those quintessential Canadian winter days, brilliant sunshine streams across the frozen landscape, setting the snow ablaze in diamond-bright sparkles. But the sun’s intensity belies the breathtaking cold. And while Peeta is accustomed to the weather, Katniss, bundled up in her borrowed down coat and the boots and the snow pants Peeta brought in from the car that morning, has already started shivering.

Peeta tugs her close and gives her upper arms a brisk rub. “Cold already?” At her frantic nod, he tugs the firm trimmed hood of her coat over her bare head. “What have you got on for gloves?”

“These.” Katniss holds up her hands and Peeta clucks his tongue at the thin leather that covers them.

“We’ll have to do better than that,” he decides, and points to a little shop a bit further down Rue Saint-Jean. “They’ll probably have something in there,” he tells her. “Here, tuck your right hand into your pocket and I’ll hold your left in mine. It’ll help you stay warmer.”

The two of them weave their way through the jolly crowd meandering along the sidewalk, their breath freezing in puffy clouds before them as they make their way to the store. The warmth of the little shop is a welcome relief from the crisp winter cold and Katniss immediately lets go of Peeta’s hand to blow heat onto her own. “So cold!” she gasps as she stomps her feet and covers her ears with her hands.

Peeta can’t help but laugh at her reaction. “You’re no winter soldier, KatsEye.”

She scowls at him. “Shut up, Cap. It was 82 degrees in Texas on Thursday. I had lunch on a patio in my flip flops.”

“And now you’re a Katsicle.” Her silver eyes roll skyward and he reaches out to squeeze her hand. “Come on,” he urges, changing the subject. “What better Canadian souvenir than a pair of mittens?”

The kitschy little souvenir shop is plugged with shelves of stuffed moose and beavers in Mountie uniforms. Peeta spots bottles of genuine Quebec maple syrup lined up on a shelf near the cash and a whole display of magnets shaped like maple leaves and fleur de lis. Near the back of the store, they finally find a thick pair of navy mittens with “Québec” embroidered upon them in white stitches. They snatch them up and are soon back out into the cold, making their way towards the Plaines d’Abraham where Carnaval is held each year.

Katniss’s newly mittened hand is clasped in Peeta’s once again when he spots l’Escalier Casse-Cou. The steep concrete staircase descends between historic buildings and patios to the lower part of town.

“Why don’t we go this way,” he suggests as they stand at the top, admiring the view over the snow-topped roofs of the centuries-old buildings below. It reminds him of a medieval village. “This is the oldest part of the city, founded in the 1600s by an explorer called Samuel de Champlain. There are some fantastic galleries down there.”

“Are you sure? We could break our necks walking down these steps.”

“Well, they call it the Breakneck Staircase, but I’ve never heard of anyone actually breaking their neck. I’ve never been down it in winter before, though.”

“Maybe we should get a selfie before we fall to our deaths,” says Katniss, pulling her phone out of her coat pocket, but her mittens are so thick she can’t swipe the screen to unlock it. She curses in frustration and pulls off the right one before sliding her finger across the screen. “The ice was just starting to thaw from my fingertips,” she mutters.

“It’s a Canadian hazard. Come here and stop complaining,” laughs Peeta, and holds out his arm. Katniss snuggles underneath it, her arm around his waist, but she can’t angle her camera high enough to get both their heads in the shot. “It’s a good thing you’re cute,” Peeta teases as he seizes the phone from her. They’re still laughing when he takes the picture. It’s a good one. They’re wrapped in each other; rosy cheeked and smiling brightly with the Quartier Champlain in the shot far below them. “Send me that, will you?” Peeta asks, and she nods, making a few quick swipes on the screen before slipping it back in her pocket.

“Together?” Her navy mitten reaches for his gloved hand.

“Together.”

The trip down the stairs is surprisingly uneventful. The wrought iron handrail is every bit as sturdy as it is decorative and before long, they’ve stepped farther back in time, wandering the narrow cobblestone streets and peeking into the mottled glass windows of the historic buildings. The wooden signs that swing by the doors of the various storefronts boast of artists and artisans of every kind. Peeta points out the textile artists and the painters. Music and delicious smells waft through the doors of the various pubs and restaurants as their heavy wooden doors swing open and closed.

He’s telling her a story about the founding of the city more than four hundred years ago when she stops suddenly, nearly yanking his arm from its socket. “Wait,” she says, leaning towards a window display, her mittened hand hovering over the glass.

It's the kind of combination gallery and souvenir shop that's ubiquitous in Quebec, so he's not sure what's caught her eye. She tugs him closer, silver eyes alight. "My sister," she says, and Peeta nods. If there's anything Katniss talks about more than Bucky Barnes, it's her little sister, Prim. "She's studying marine biology. She'd love that." Peeta squints through the glass and finally understands. In the middle of the handmade mukluks and miniature inukshuks is a soapstone seal, its glossy green surface glinting in the spotlights. “Can we go in?”

Like he could ever say no.

His hand delicately resting on her lower back, Peeta guides Katniss under a garland of greenery, festooned with tin cups and snowshoes, and into the warmth of the shop. It’s small, even smaller than it appears from outside, and jam-packed with Aboriginal art. Katniss heads straight for the window display, but Peeta is distracted by the framed prints that fill every inch of wall space. Until, that is, he realizes the shopkeeper - an older man with greasy hair and bloodshot eyes - is speaking at Katniss in rapid-fire French while she stares, wide-eyed and silently pleading for him to intervene.

“Monsieur,” Peeta says, pulling the man’s attention from his horror-struck companion. “Est-ce que vous pourriez nous aider?”

“Aie, mon homme, viens ici une seconde.” Peeta struggles to keep up with both the speed of the shopkeeper’s speech and his strong accent that suggests he’s from the Outaouais region of Quebec. “J'veux te montrer un p'ti truc qui va sûrement te rendre chanceux avec ta blonde ce soir,” the shopkeeper continues, grinning, and Peeta can feel the heat flooding his cheeks. He’s exceedingly grateful that Katniss doesn’t speak French. He can’t imagine she’d be thrilled to know that a greasy huckster thinks buying this piece of Inuit art is likely to improve his chances of scoring with his beautiful friend. “Check ça mon gars, une super beau phoque.” He gestures to the seal sculpture in Katniss’s hand, and she jumps back, eyes widening further. “J'te dit, c'est un vieux eskimo qui a sculpté ce phoque - il a soixante-quinze ans!” Peeta snickers at that, carved by a seventy-five year old Eskimo. Yeah, that’ll increase the price for sure. He glances back at Katniss, and his amusement recedes. She’s full-on scowling. The shopkeeper clearly doesn’t notice, because he wraps an arm around Katniss’s shoulder and continues. “Tu trouve pas que ta blonde aimeras ça? T'sais déjà comment elle adore ce phoque!”

Peeta slips between Katniss and the older man before she has an opportunity to eviscerate him. Bright red splotches stand out on her cheeks and her jaw is tense, he can practically hear her teeth grinding. Peeta didn’t think she understood French, but he knows she speaks Spanish, so maybe she’s catching more of the shopkeeper’s lewd suggestions than he’d hoped.

“J'te laisse pour cinquante pièces. C'est bon? Tu va me remercier, c'est sûr,” the clerk says, waving toward the small sculpture and winking at Katniss. And while fifty dollars is highway robbery, Peeta is anxious enough to get out of the store that he’ll pay pretty much anything.

“Oui, nous allons le prendre, s'il vous plaît,” he says, sliding the sculpture from Katniss’s clenched fist and pulling out his wallet while Katniss huffs beside him.

By the time they emerge from the shop and back out onto rue Petit Champlain, Katniss is absolutely seething. “Hey,” Peeta says, reaching for her as she attempts to stomp away in the wrong direction. She shrugs him off, spinning to glare at him. Her anger is a lot scarier when it’s aimed in his direction.

“What the hell was that?” she spits, and Peeta struggles to guess which part of the entire strange transaction she’s referring to. “How could you let that guy talk about us like that?”

Peeta stammers. “Katniss, I’m sorry. I was just trying to get us out of there. I didn’t know how much of the conversation you understood.”

"Understood?” Katniss throws her hands in the air, her eyes afire. “What was there to understand? That guy dropped more f-bombs than IronMutt in a smut scene!”

“F-bombs?” Between the colloquial French, and the tension in the shop, Peeta is certain he missed a few words, but he doesn’t remember any f-bombs - French or English - in the shopkeeper’s pitch. He’s just about to argue with Katniss that the salesman - while incredibly lewd - hadn’t actually cursed, when the realization hits him. Phoque sounds a whole lot like fuck to the untrained ear. It was a source of endless joking back in middle school, but Peeta hasn’t thought about it in years.

He snickers like the middle school boy he once was, and Katniss growls. “It’s not funny, Cap,” she says, her voice only slightly below a yell. She’s so pissed that she looks ready to explode, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek hard to tame the giggles. “I thought you Canadians were supposed to be polite?”

She tries to storm away again, and it sobers him. ”Kat- Katniss, no, wait,” he begs, grabbing her arm to halt her escape. He can see her body stiffen, but she doesn’t pull away, turning to face him with fire in her silver eyes. Peeta is struck by the thought that she looks good in flames. Very good. He pulls back, rubbing a mittened hand over the back of his neck, attempting to derail the lustful train of thought his mind is trying to take. “I’m sorry,” he says, a bit breathlessly, and her expression softens a little. “Phoque,” he says, drawing out the vowel sound slightly, “is the French word for seal.”

“It… wait, what?” Katniss scrunches her nose up in confusion, and Peeta bites his cheek again because he wants to tell her that she’s adorable, and he doubts she’d consider it a compliment. Not right now anyway. “Really?”

“Really. The conversation would have sounded a lot different if you’d picked a polar bear instead.” Well, it would have to her, anyway, Peeta thinks. The greasy clerk would probably have been just as convinced of the seductive powers of an ours blanc if it meant freeing another fifty from their wallets.

“Oh,” Katniss says softly, watching him with that cute wrinkle between her brows, as if she’s not completely sure whether to believe him. Peeta wants so badly to kiss that little line. He shakes his head slightly to clear away the image. She has no idea, the effect she has on him. But if he’s learned anything in his eighteen or so hours with Katniss Everdeen, it’s that he has to be patient.

“Yeah, oh,” Peeta smiles, unable to resist teasing her just a bit. He winks to soften the sting. “Let’s continue,” he says, tugging her elbow gently. “There’s so much more to see and daylight’s wasting.”

She huffs, but relents, and they fall into step again, walking the snowy cobbles in silence.

“Ah, there it is,” says Peeta, and points to the end of the street, where the word “Funiculaire” is posted in huge letters on an old house.

“There what is,” asks Katniss, her voice still showing traces of temper.

“The Funiculaire. Our way back up,” Peeta explains. They halt in front of the doors of the house and Katniss cranes her head to watch the little white car slowly climbing the track up the cliff.

“Oh lordy,” she mutters. “Just what, exactly, is a Fun-ic-yoo-layer?”

“Huh.” Peeta purses his lips and screws up his face as he thinks it over. “Well, if an elevator had sex with a ski lift, the Funiculaire would be their love child.”

Katniss looks at him incredulously and then bursts out laughing and squeezes his hand. “You’ve written some crazy analogies over the last year, Peeta, but that one takes the cake.”

Peeta grins sheepishly and shrugs. “Hey, cake is never bad.” He thinks he hears her snort, but is too busy thinking about how natural it seemed for her to take his hand to be sure.

“Come on, let’s go before I change my mind,” she orders, tugging him down the street. “You’re paying for the ride in this death trap, beeteedubs.”

A few minutes and six Canadian dollars later, they are slowly riding up the cliff. Katniss snaps a few shots of the city from the air as they slide towards the summit. When they get to the top and exit the green gazebo-like terminal, they find themselves at the foot of Quebec City’s largest, and possibly most famous, landmark; the Château Frontenac, its turrets pointing to the sky and each one of the pristine windows in the brick towers glinting in the icy glare of the winter sun.

“That is literally the biggest castle I’ve ever seen,” Katniss murmurs. “Not that I’ve ever seen one before.”

“It’s actually a hotel,” Peeta explains. “The oldest in Canada. I would guess that royalty has probably stayed there, but it’s never been an actual castle. I think it has something like 700 rooms.”

“Have you ever stayed there?” She wanders the path in front of the Funiculaire exit and snaps a few pictures with her phone.

Peeta wonders if he should have tried to get them a room there. “No. My parents have, a few times, I think. It’s very swanky.”

“It’s a beautiful building, that’s for sure, but I bet they don’t serve breakfast in a basket.”

Peeta watches her pocket her phone and wonders whether she could be any more perfect for him. Her grey eyes are dancing when she links her arm with his and they start to stroll along the boulevard beside the hotel. “How much farther to the Car-na-val?” She lingers over each vowel sound, attempting the French pronunciation. It’s so adorable he can hardly stand it.

Instead, he points to the noisy park just a stone’s throw away. “We’re almost there. Can you see the ice castle? That’s where Bonhomme lives.”

“Who’s Bonhomme?”

“The King of Winter,” Peeta explains. “Come on. We’ll get our effigies and we’ll go find him.”

“Effigies? What kind of carnival is this?”

Peeta laughs. “Relax. It’s like an ornament. Of Bonhomme. It’ll get us in and out of the carnaval.”

When they get to the gates, Peeta requests, “deux passeports de Carnaval, s’il vous plaît.”

“Quatre-vingt-dix pièces, monsieur.”

Peeta reaches for his wallet to pay for their ultimate passes, but Katniss stills his hand. “No way,” she insists. “You paid for the hotel room. You paid for dinner last night. You bought the phoque.” Her upper lip curls when that word slips past her lips. “You’re not paying for this too.”

He sighs, knowing there’s no point in arguing with Katniss when a line is forming behind them. “Fine. I asked her for two Carnaval passports. It’s $90.”

Katniss pulls her wallet from her pocket. “Lemme get my Monopoly money out. So, I need a pink one and two green ones, or one brown one, right?”

He can’t help it. He snorts, but gets out of her way while she pays the ticket seller. The look on her face when a plastic bag filled with goodies is shoved back through the window is so priceless, he laughs aloud. They make their way through the gate and Peeta pulls her aside, whipping the fleece-lined souvenir toque from the bag, and tugging it down over her ears before flicking her nose with one of the bright red pom-poms that swing from a braided tassel.

“I look ridiculous,” she huffs.

“We’ve got a second set for me, so we’ll look like tourists together. Now shut up and put on your scarf.” He pulls the brightly woven scarf from the bag and ties it snugly around her neck. He pins her effigy to her coat and stands back to admire his work.

“Canadian is a good look on you,” he decides. “Plus, now you won’t be cold.”

He pulls off his own toque and replaces it with the official carnaval hat, then ties his scarf around his neck and pins on the little plastic snowman. There are six tickets in the bottom of the bag that he passes to Katniss, asking her to tuck them in her wallet. He stuffs his old hat and scarf in the bag, tosses in the infamous phoque sculpture and takes her hand back in his own before tugging her towards the giant ice castle.

“C’mon. I want a picture of us at the castle,” he insists, “all dressed up in our matching gear.”

Peeta drags her past vendors and activities. She points to snow rafting, an ice slide and a petting zoo and begs to stop, but he keeps going until they are standing in the shadows of l’Assemblée Nationale du Québec where an enormous castle made of ice glistens in the afternoon sun. “

You people sure like your castles,” she drawls.

“This is Bonhomme’s house,” he explains. “It’s our best chance to see him, but first I want that picture. Peeta pulls his phone from his pocket and positions himself behind Katniss with his arm around her waist. He waits for her to pull away and can’t help but feel a surge of pleasure at the way she relaxes against him instead. He whips off his mitten and aims the camera for the perfect selfie. “Now smile,” he orders.

When he lowers the camera, he can’t help but smirk at how couple-y they look in their matching gear, wide grins and cozy pose. The tips of their noses glow and their eyes sparkle in the sun.

Katniss pulls out her phone and waves it at him. “Send me that,” she orders, and he obliges. She flicks her finger across the screen and a satisfied smile spreads across her lips. “It’s a good one.” She flicks and taps the screen a few more times to save the image and then tucks the phone back in her pocket. “So, are we going to meet this snowman or not?”

Hand-in-hand, they join the queue for Bonhomme’s home, shuffling as it snakes slowly forward and stamping their feet to keep their toes from freezing. When Katniss starts to shiver, Peeta wraps his arms around her.

“Bonhomme, Bonhomme sais-tu jouer ? Bonhomme, Bonhomme sais-tu jouer ?” Peeta’s song is more than little off-key but she laughs as he bounces her back and forth in his arms, so he keeps going. “Sais-tu jouer de ce violon-là ? Sais-tu jouer de ce violon-là ?”

“Peeta, what on Earth are you singing?”

“The Bonhomme, Bonhomme song,” he chortles. “The Ontario education system tortures us all with it. Bonhomme, Bonhomme, tu n’es pas maître dans ta maison quand nous y sommes!”

By the time they make it to Bonhomme’s front door, Peeta has challenged Bonhomme to play the violin, the flute and the drums and Katniss is begging for relief. But she’s not shivering, so he counts that as a win.

Just inside the door, an eight-foot tall snowman awaits them.

“Holy frick, what is that?” Katniss breathes, her head tilted upwards to take in the giant’s red toque and maniacally grinning face. Her head leans against Peeta’s chest, the pom pom of her Carnaval hat tickling his jaw and he almost sighs with how good it feels.

“That,” Peeta says, unable to resist the urge to pull her a little closer, “is who we’re here to see. Meet Bonhomme Carnaval, the king of winter.”

“Hello! Bonjour!” calls Bonhomme to the crowd. The voice booms through the ice castle, but Peeta finds the whole effect to be a bit strange since the snowman’s mouth can’t move in his plastic face. “Bienvenue! Welcome to my home. Do you want to see my kick?” The giant kicks his leg high into the air.

As the snowman carries on with his antics, someone taps Peeta on the shoulder. He turns to find one of the festival workers grinning broadly at him. “Veux-tu que je prenne un photo de toi et ta blonde avec Bonhomme?”

“Absolument,” Peeta replies. “Merci.” He tugs Katniss’s hand. “They’re going to take our picture with Bonhomme.”

“Peeta, he’s creepy,” she hisses as they approach the front of the line.

He agrees, but can’t resist teasing her. “Who were you expecting, Frosty the Snowman?” When she sputters in outrage, he gives her hand a tight squeeze while handing his phone off to the attendant. When he’s sure no one is listening, he leans over to whispers in her ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from the weird cultural icon.”

Just then, Bonhomme steps between them and throws his arms around their shoulders. “So, you want a photo with Bonhomme? Bon! Un joli sourire pour le caméra. Un, deux, trois!”

The flash on Peeta’s phone goes off and they are hustled away to make room for the next group. The attendant meets them with a grin and passes the phone back to Peeta. “Je crois que ta blonde n’est pas une fan de Bonhomme,” he says gleefully.

No, Peeta thinks, gazing down at their latest picture. Katniss, her face twisted into a suspicious grimace, certainly isn’t a Bonhomme fan. “Elle est Américaine,” he confides, causing the Carnaval staffer to burst into laughter. The other man nods knowingly as though Katniss’s nationality explains everything. “Joyeux Carnaval!” he calls out, slapping Peeta on the shoulder before they make their way out of the castle.

Once outside, Peeta realizes the day is slipping away. “How about a hot chocolate?”

Katniss looks at him in relief. “No more weird snowmen?”

“Not today,” he chuckles. “We’ll sip hot chocolate, check out the snow sculptures and then go back to the hotel. Sound good?”

Before long, they have traded two of the tickets in Katniss’s wallet for steaming cups of hot chocolate. Katniss hums happily as she takes her first sip and the warmth Peeta feels around his chest has as much to do with the smile on her face as the chocolate in his belly. Arm in arm, they stroll around the Plaines d’Abraham, admiring the sculptures that are strategically positioned between the other attractions.

“The snow sculpture contest attracts artists from all over the world,” Peeta explains as they gaze at a mythical horse rising out of the snow, it’s mane unfurled around it. “It’s one of the biggest snow sculpture competitions in the world.” Their next stop is a giant lizard, his long tongue stretching across the snow, seemingly ready to lick unsuspecting passersby. A man of snow lies on the ground, fighting off a pack of wolves. Each design is more fanciful than the one before and Peeta and Katniss find themselves weaving elaborate stories about them.

“What do you think about this one?” Peeta asks, as they admire a sculpture of a woman, gowned in an elaborate dress, her hands outstretched in a frozen plea. Her wings tower high above them. “An angel?”

Katniss shakes her head vigorously. “No way. She’s a warrior. Check out the arrows on her back.”

Sure enough, Peeta spots the strap of her quiver carved into her dress and the fletchings peeking out over her shoulder. “I guess she’s an avenging angel, kind of like you.”

Katniss peers at him incredulously. “Are you kidding me?”

“C’mon Katniss. You know you love the underdog the best. You’re not afraid to fight for what you believe in. You even shoot. And I think she looks a little bit like you.” His companion scoffs. “No, really. Look. Long hair, pointed chin, big eyes that are impossible to resist. She’s stunning. Like you.”

Katniss gazes at him silently over the rim of her cup for a few seconds, then downs the rest of her hot chocolate. “You about finished?”

Peeta nods slowly, swallowing the now-cold dregs of his cocoa and watching her carefully. He’s observed - and catalogued - a wide variety of different Katniss expressions over the past twenty-four hours, but he’s not sure he’s seen this one before. “Sure,” he says. “Shall we head back to the hotel?” He knows she’s cold. He is too, and a little tired.

“How about we get some food?” There’s something about her soft smile that makes Peeta think she’s not talking about maple taffy, or frites from one of the food vendors around Carnaval. “There’s, uhm. There’s a little restaurant at the hotel. I peeked at it this morning,” Katniss says shyly, and Peeta can’t help grinning. They don’t have reservations, but he’s prepared to grovel, or maybe bribe the maitre d’, if it means seeing Katniss’s shy smile again.

They toss their paper cups in a bin, then Katniss’s mittened hand curls around Peeta's again.

The sun sets early in Quebec City in the winter, so when they pass Bonhomme’s house once more, the towering ice castle glows an almost otherworldly blue in the fading light. “It’s beautiful,” Katniss breathes, and as Peeta looks at her lovely face bathed in the ice-diffused spotlights he can’t help but agree.

A comfortable silence stretches between them as they stroll in the twilight, until they’re only about a block away from the hotel. “Hey,” Katniss says, her nose wrinkling in that way that Peeta can’t resist. “How are we here already? Where’s the foo-nic-yoo-lair?”

Peeta laughs, a silver-mist cloud of delight. “We took the scenic route this morning. I figured you’d want to get back to warmth a little faster tonight.” Katniss shrugs, but her hand squeezes his more tightly, he thinks maybe in gratitude.

Once they reach the hotel, Katniss heads directly to their room while Peeta pops into the restaurant to see about a table. It turns out he doesn’t have to beg or even take out his wallet; once he gives his name to the host the man smiles and tells him to come back in an hour. Peeta can’t help marvelling at his luck that Bistro Tournebroche can fit them in, even though it’s Carnaval time and the city is crazy busy.

He bounds up the stairs two at a time, anxious to tell Katniss the good news.

Katniss is sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the gas flames in the small fireplace. She’s taken off her winter gear, reddened fingers and stocking-clad feet stretched out towards the warmth. And for a few moments, all Peeta can think is how perfect a picture she makes, how much he would love to see her similarly perched in front of the fireplace in his Toronto condo. But he shakes away the mental image. Too soon, he chides himself.

When Peeta clears his throat, Katniss turns from her contemplation of the blue flames, and lifts an eyebrow. “They can fit us in at six-thirty,” he says. “Just enough time for a hot shower, if you want?” Peeta wouldn’t mind one himself; despite the breathtaking cold, all of the day’s walking has left him sweaty and with an epic case of hat-hair.

“Perfect,” Katniss says, standing gingerly. “Maybe that’ll thaw out my toes.”

They manoeuvre around each other in the small room like two people perfectly in sync, taking turns in the washroom, sharing the lone mirror. When Peeta emerges from the bathroom refreshed and fastening the cuffs of the deep blue button down shirt his father talked him into packing, Katniss is waiting. He freezes, jaw dropping. “What, too casual?” she asks.

“God no,” he breathes. She’s wearing the same slim jeans she wore yesterday, the ones Peeta already knows cling to her curves in the most incredible way, but she’s paired them with a slinky silvery top that hugs her perfect breasts. “Wow,” is all he can manage.

Katniss snorts, and the sound shakes away the fog, forces him to lift his eyes to the cascade of black hair, unbound and framing her face. To her lush lip, trapped between white teeth as gazes at him with trepidation, waiting.

“You are absolutely beautiful,” Peeta says sincerely. Her silver eyes briefly light up in pleasure, but she shrugs off the compliment.

“Right, okay, let’s go before I starve to death.” She tries to push past him, but Peeta reaches for her hand, tucking it firmly into the crook of his elbow.

The restaurant, like the hotel interior, is modern and cozy. They’re seated by one of the large windows, the perfect place to watch the flock of tourists who still stream by, lit by the street lamps. “Bonsoir madame, monsieur,” a young man in a waiter’s uniform greets them. “Puis-je vous apporter quelque chose à boire?” he asks, gesturing to the expansive wine list on the table.

“What do you think,” Peeta asks, skimming the list. “Would you like wine, or there’s a nice selection of local microbrews?”

The waiter, it turns out, speaks English, like many in the tourism industry in Quebec do. When he returns with their drinks - red wine for Katniss, beer for Peeta - he seems quite happy to translate the menu for Katniss and answer her questions. Peeta sips a very pleasant bier de blé while listening to him explain to Katniss the various organic offerings on the menu, the farms they’ve partnered with, the garden and beehives on the hotel’s rooftop. As Peeta watches her animatedly discuss ethical farming, he marvels at how perfect she is for him, how easily her interests align with his own.

And he knows-- she’s it for him. He’s completely head-over-heels in love with her.

It's the best date Peeta's ever been on, and he's not even sure it's a date. He's utterly captivated by the way the candlelight plays in Katniss’s ebony hair, crowning her in fire. He's lost in her silver eyes, imprisoned by her musical laughter. She's the most attractive person he's ever seen, the most appealing, the most dynamic. But beyond that, she's still his KatsEye, his best friend in the world. She still makes him laugh and think; still amazes him, only now the thoughts that enthrall him aren't lines of text in a chat, but actual words murmured in her husky voice, accompanied by a wrinkled nose or a bemused smirk.

They linger over coffee and crème brûlée, never once running out of things to say. Only when Katniss stifles a yawn does Peeta become aware of just how long they've been huddled together in the dim restaurant. “I guess we should call it a night?” Peeta’s reluctance is clear in his voice. But Katniss only nods.

Hand in hand, they ascend the stairs to their room. When they pause at the door, Peeta is struck by how much it feels like walking a girl to her door after a date. Except this isn’t just any girl, this is Katniss Everdeen. And he won’t be leaving her at the door.

He closes the door behind them, then turns to find Katniss stopped just inside, looking up at him with a mischievous glint in her steely eyes. “I had a really great time today,” she says, just barely loud enough for him to hear. “Thank you.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” Peeta smiles. He knows this day will live forever in his memory as one of the best of his life. Then Katniss reaches up, fingering the collar of his dress shirt, and he swallows hard. He wants to kiss her so bad, the impulse nearly consumes him, but he reins it in; even as her thumb brushes against his jaw, catches the day’s stubble, making him erupt in goosebumps. His hands find her tiny waist seemingly of their own volition, but even then he holds back. Peeta knows how skittish she is, knows that if he pushes things she’ll run, and he just won’t risk that.

But then Katniss smiles, beautiful and blinding, and before Peeta even realizes it, he’s leaning down. And she’s standing on tiptoe, her fingers winding in the curls at the nape of his neck. Time seems to stop at they stare, unblinking, lips only a breath apart. Fuck it, he thinks. She flew all the way here, she’s already been bold. Now he has to be too. And with that thought, his eyes drift closed and he places a gentle kiss on those lips that are just as soft as he imagined.

He pulls back a little, but she chases him, then they’re kissing like they really mean it, a delicious exploration. Home, Peeta thinks as Katniss nips his bottom lip, then soothes the sting with a swipe of her tongue. He’s home, and he never wants to leave.

Each slide of her lips against his fuels his hunger, each soft sigh a lightning bolt straight to his gut. As many times as he’s fantasized about kissing Katniss, the reality is so much better. Her shuddering breaths against his cheek. The heat of her skin where her top has pulled up just an inch, smooth under his twitching fingers.

They’re both breathing heavily when Katniss pulls back, eyes still closed and licking her lips as if she wants to savour every last taste of him. Peeta drops his forehead to hers, their noses just brushing. “Wow,” she whispers, and he puffs out a soft laugh.

“Wow,” he echoes

→ thg ←

While yesterday there was a sweet awkwardness in climbing into bed with Katniss, today there’s a crackling tension. Yesterday, the tank and tiny shorts she sleeps in were adorable, today they’re excruciating.

Peeta managed, barely, to get himself under control while Katniss was changing in their shared bathroom. But as she clicks off the light and slides under the comforter, her bare legs grazing his flannels, it’s all he can do to keep his dick in check. She’s gorgeous, she’s six inches away, and he now knows what her perfect peach pout tastes like. It’s the most delectable torture. But her post-kiss escape to the bathroom convinced him that they needed to slow down. For now.

He lies on his back, watching bits of light from a crack in the curtains play across the ceiling and listening to Katniss squirm as she tries to get comfortable. The distance between them feels intolerable, he wants to touch her, just to remind himself that she’s here, that she’s real. So he reaches out, tugging her closer. She stiffens, just a bit at first, but then she sighs and rests her head on his chest, right above his heart. And Peeta’s world realigns itself.

“Peeta?” It’s been quiet for so long he thought she was asleep. His fingers still where they’ve been doodling designs on the soft skin of her bare shoulder.

“Mmm?”

"What does tablon mean?”

“Tablon?” He searches for what she could be asking, coming up blank.

“I heard it a lot today. The crazy seal guy said it. The guy with the scary snowman. Even the waiter tonight. And maybe I’m wrong, but I think they were calling me tablon?”

Peeta’s breath catches. She means ta blonde, and yes, those men were definitely referring to her when they said it. “Ah,” he says, uncertain how she’s going to react. “Ta blonde, it, uh. It means ‘your girlfriend’.” He holds his breath, waiting for her to yell, or slap him.

“Oh,” she murmurs. “Ta blonde.” Her lilting accent makes the endearment sound like music. Then she nestles more snugly into his chest and he swears he can feel her smiling.

#peetabreadgirl #xerxia31 #burkygirl #smutketeers

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moonraccoon-exe · 7 years

Note

The Chocobros going to the chocobo moogle carnival! (bonus if it's their first time attending one)

Actually, today was my very first time in the Chocobo Moogle carnival, as well! So I totally keep those bonus points. That you didn’t say were bonus points but I’m taking as bonus points anyway. Cause I can. Yay for first time in the carnival!

(Beware Keep Reading line for mobile users)

The first impressions when walking up into the carnival.

Noctis:

“Wha- what is going on now…? Look at all these people…( ‘’’o﹏o)”

Gladio:

“HOORAY, this means a lot of food, yo, guys! Betcha all I’ll get more prizes than you. o(○｀ω´○)9 ”

Ignis:

“This seems like an unnecessary waste of money to me. But it does look like good entertainment. （￣︶￣）”

Prompto:

“AAAAAH, IT’S CHOCOBO HEAVEN, GUYS! (ﾉ´ヮ`)ﾉ”

They tried to stay together at first.

They failed.

But let’s see what they did manage to do together first.

There was a happy, calm walk of the four around Altissia to look around, entertained and satisfied enough with only that.

Noctis was asked by someone in a Moogle costume to go do the moogle dance.

Noctis…is not a good dancer.

Prompto recorded everything.

Ignis is trying not to laugh and failing a bit because

Gladio’s bursting in laughter.

“Enough, you all! -`д´- “

Noctis won’t get a break from the guys constantly bringing it up as they continue going around.

They’re still walking just to see what pops up.

PrompTO’S GASPING.

*GAAAAAAAAASP*

“GUYS”

“What is it!? Troubles!? The Empire!?”

“IT’S MOOGLE CHOCOBO CARNIVAL OUTFITS! ヽ（゜ロ゜；）ノ“

Ignis is in denial and lectures Prompto on how innapropiate and childish and silly that is and-

They end up buying identical outfits.

Ignis will never forgive them for making him wear that stupid hat with the fake pompom.

Ignis secretly loves his pompom hat.

There wasn’t a shirt Gladio’s size, but they still bought the biggest they found.

This is Gladio walking around in a tight crop top that’s not supposed to be a crop top.

It’s chocobo races.

Prompto wants to go first because he thinks he’s the best on it.

Prompto’s currently in the water. He fell off the chocobo mid-race.

They all insist Ignis gives it a go, but the man insist of refusing.

Ignis decides there will be no harm on trying once.

Ignis is not allowed back in the chocobo races because he just broke an impossible record and the kids are upset no one can beat it.

Do you have an idea of how many moogle theme stuff Gladio’s going to buy for Iris?

It’s ridiculous.

It was too much, Noctis has to start saving all the souvenirs in his magic storage.

The guys meet this guy that lost 15 baby chocobos and asks them to track them.

“CHOCOBO” (୨ ●ꇴ●)୨

That was Prompto.

The party is going around Altissia looking at stalls and chocobos and different stuff while keeping in mind they’re searching for the little fellas.

They find one and it goes fine! ^ᴗ^

They spotted the second one across the water and on a lower level than the one they were in.

Noctis suggested he warped to make it quicker.

Noctis took too long chasing the chocobo.

The guys decided to catch up with him.

They got lost.

Needless to say, when Noctis warped back they were gone.

While looking for Noctis, Prompto spots another chocobo.

Prompto’s tiptoeing towards it to catch it.

Gladio and Ignis are busy talking about what to do to find Noct to notice their other son friend is tiptoeing away.

Prompto ends up chasing the chocobo in silence for so long he doesn’t notice he goes too far away.

He gets lost.

It’s a mess.

Gladio and Ignis worry for a moment.

They get easily distracted with moogle-shaped and chocobo-shaped cotton candy.

They also get distracted at some game stalls in which Gladio’s endlessly breaking more records and winning endless plush toys and other souvenirs.

Ignis’ arms are full of stuff and toys.

They stop only for a moment while Gladio’s helping him with all the things.

“Hm…”

“What is it, Iggy?”

“You know, Prompto’s lost on his own…Noct is wandering around on his own as well…and we two are together looking for them, with you on the lead and I following close.”

“So?”

“It feels…oddly familiar.”

None of them can remember or say why, so they easily shrug it off and continue their oh so desperate seach for the other guys.

…they’re stopping at every game stall they find.

They’re also taking a gondola just to relax and stare at the beautiful city and carnival.

Day off from those two, thanks the astrals.

Noctis did try to look for the guys.

He ended up distracted cause a kid lost her ballons.

Noctis warped to recover them for her, but spotted another child in the same distress.

Noctis has somehow ended up gifting balloons.

“Isn’t this supposed to be somebody else’s work…?”

Noctis still tries to look for his friends.

He ended up too tired (mentally) to do that.

He’s too lazy for this shit.

Noctis is sat at a dock, fishing.

He doesn’t care anymore.

Prompto did catch that chocobo and made it return with the guy by the fountain.

Prompto tried going back on his steps to see if he found Gladio and Ignis, but no luck.

Prompto’s a bit stressed.

Prompto’s asking around if they’ve seen “A huge guy with a tiny shirt, a man of glasses with this ‘scary dad look’, or a black haired guy that can’t dance.”

Some people tell him Yes and send him places, but Prom doesn’t catch up in time with the others.

Prompto’s actually putting effort in looking for his friends.

But he’s very easily distracted by the baby chocobos.

His search for friends makes him inevitably walk up into the chocobos, and he loses time into catching them.

Prompto doesn’t know how to hold this many chocobos.

Prompto bought gyshals for them and gave each a try so they can stick to him without needing to carry them.

Prompto is currently walking around Altissia with a baby chocobo army walking behind him in a straight line.

Prompto became Chocobo mom.

Chocomom. Momcobo. He’s Mamocobo. Chocomama.

Hahaha, chocomama, that sounds like the worst Final Fantasy rapper name ever.

Prompto’s not noticing he’s become a main interest point.

This blond guy with this carnival outfit walking around with like 10 baby chocobos walking behind him all lined up, omg, mom, take a picture! .A.

Prompto really is trying to find his friends, but now he’s also distracted by the people that walk up to him asking for photos.

Prompto spots Noctis later on.

The man already caught 20 fishes, 15 of which had prizes to them.

Prompto was so excited about finding him that he didn’t stop to think Noctis could warp towards him safely.

Instead, Prom threw himself to the water and swam over to him.

The chocobos are following.

They swim better than Prom, tbh.

Noct and Prom team up and start looking for the other pair.

They’re distracted by this guy in chocobo costume that asks Noct to do the chocobo dance.

“Why do they always ask me…?”

Prompto just recorded that too.

Noctis really can’t dance.

Prompto’s taking his turn.

The guy is ROCKING the chocobo dance.

Prompto’s adding his own movements.

Prompto just became main attraction again, dancing professionally with the guy in chocobo costume, with these other 14 chocobos around him.

“We’re supposed to be undercover, you know that, Prom?”

“And we are doing a FANTASTIC JOB! ╰(・∇・╰) “

Prompto really hasn’t noticed he’s like the star of the carnival.

Noctis is recovering balloons for so many kids, somebody help this man.

They find and chase the 15th chocobo.

It was a mess.

They ran, fell, stumbled, screamed, ran into glass doors, against walls, Noctis fell off a bridge into the water, Prompto ended up hanging from an edge, and the chocobo is enjoying of this.

But, hair messed, a hat lost, dirty and bruised, they recover the damn little ass.

They go give it back to the fountain guy, hoping maybe Gladio and Ignis are waiting there.

They weren’t.

The guy was grateful and gave them tokens, but Prom is just SO SAD right now.

The chocobos were so cute, he was Chocomom for a day, he misses the little idiots. (◞‸◟；)

Noctis feels bad for him.

Noctis is taking him to see the big chocobos.

Prompto’s frantically taking photos of everything, lots of selfies with Noct and chocobos, and enjoying of the sight.

“CHO CO BO HEAVEEEEEN ヽ(´∇｀)ﾉ”

Noctis tries to be the best friend and win a chocobo plush for Prom.

It’s a shooting game, you can’t expect Prom to stay still.

By the time Noct wins the chocobo plush for his friend and turns to see him, Prom just won 10 of those for himself.

It’s getting late, so they decide to keep looking for Gladio and Ignis.

Prom and Noct, still messed, soaked, dirty and bruised, catch up with them.

They’re in a restaurant.

Ignis is smiling.

Gladio’s busy chomping and chowing down this huge dish, while Ignis watches him saying something about being “impressed, this is your fifth dish, I’m not sure if I should be amazed or terrified”.

“…hey, guys.”

Gladio and Ignis turn to look at them and entirely freeze.

Gladio has this huge trail of noodles hanging from his mouth.

There’s an awkward silence.

Noct and Prom look at the huge bag filled of toys and badges, at Ignis hugged to this moogle toy, wearing a pair of toy, huge ass chocobo glasses, a bigger pompom hat, funny moogle face paint, and Gladio still with half-his-bite hanging from his mouth, bigger hat as well, brand new shirt, chocobo face paint and the hair braided with flowers.

“…a-ah, Noct, Prompto, we were so worried… (⌐▨_▨) ”

“Yeah, it looks like you were exhaustingly looking for us.”

“Oh yes, you have no idea, thank the gods we found you already.”

“Ignis, WE found you two.”

“AND in case you’re wondering, we fell into the water, got lost, wandered alone, chased a chocobo that made us run into walls and fall off bridges, while we’ve been looking for you two this entire time.”

There’s an awkward silence.

“Oh yes, we…were desperately looking for you two as well. We…won these…this is…all these are…to…sell…so we could set Missing posters up and…the dinner is…because…we were so worried…that…Gladio almost passes from the worry, and needed some-”

“The time is still counting, gentleman! You’ll be the first to finish the trial of all five dishes in only an hour and earn this dinner all for FREE! Don’t stop!”

Ignis is staring at the waiter in silence.

There’s awkward silence.

“…we may have gotten a little distracted, I admit.”

Gladio and Ignis spent the entire evening very nicely, tbh.

Well, the guys are reunited now.

So it’s time to visit THE ARENA!

Gladio’s first to try the one game of hitting the cactuar (sorry, non-english speaker here, not sure what the game’s called for you).

Gladio thinks it’s going to be easy.

Gladio requested they set the REAL cactuar and not the one for fair display.

Ignis is currently attending a 1000-needleed Gladio.

Noct tried with the for-entertainment-use catcuar.

He damn rocked the game.

The shooting game.

Of course, the guys sent their best player.

PromptO’S ROCKING THE DAMN GAME

Maybe he got a bit too excited.

Maybe he just broke the mechanism out of excitement and accident.

BUT he won candies for all the gang!

Prompto’s going to be taking selfies of all four of them across the evening/night.

They’re having so much fun, omg, Square Enix, please let them be this happy forever.

Prompto’s also taking pics of them while they’re not seeing.

He likes to capture the real reactions/emotions.

He has this picture sequence,

Noct is smiling to the camera, Gladio’s giving his back.

Gladio’s turning around.

Gladio’s accidentally hitting Noct with the huge bag he’s carrying with souvenirs and toys.

Noct is falling back and Gladio’s waving at the camera.

Next picture is Gladio alone dropping the bag and trying to catch Noctis, who’s missing in the photo except for the tip of his foot that’s poking from behind the edge of the bridge.

Next picture is Gladio’s butt and legs at the edge of the bridge.

Next picture is nothing.

Next picture is Ignis laughing and pointing at Gladio and Noctis coming out of the water in the background.

Next photo is a selfie of Prom and Ignis laughing and pointing at Gladio and Noct still in background unaware of the photo, arguing.

These guys are a mess.

The fireworks!

The guys are pretty excited, sharing convos on the experience of the day.

Ignis is cleaning his glasses during all the gondola ride even though they’re already perfectly clean.

He doesn’t want to miss a single detail of the colors and lights.

The fireworks start.

The chocobros sometimes laugh in awe or clap or let out a little ‘Wow’, but there’s almost no words sharing between them.

Too busy looking at the stunning fireworks.

Prompto takes his camera out, but stops midway through putting it up.

Prompto snapped a picture of the fireworks, an individual photo for each of them, one of the bros without him, and a selfie of them all.

But that’s it, he put the camera away.

“Oii, Prompto” it’s Gladio speaking “this is so good, I’d thought you’d be dying to take photos of every second.”

“Nah, man. These are enough. I’d like to look at them myself, now. :)”

The chocobros are all in the most comfortable and bonding silence, looking up at the sky.

It’s stunning.

Best damn day EVER.

Lots of fun for the Chocoband! ヽ(´∇｀)ﾉ

#chocobros #moogle chocobo carnival #ignis #noctis #prompto #gladio #headcanons #i guess?#ffxv #final fantasy xv

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xiaobaemoon · 7 years

Text

Moon: A Taeil Au Part Six: Anemoia

A/N: I’m so happy with how this part turned out! There are around two parts to come and I’m so thankful for everyone sticking around and reading my writings. Please appreciate Taeil, that’s why I write this story. I might not be this accurate , but I try my best to be, so you can see what a great person he is. Have a nice day!

Word Count:1.886 Words

Anemoia: Nostalgia for a time you've never known.

Imagine stepping through the frame into a sepia-tinted haze, where you could sit on the side of the road and watch the locals passing by. Who lived and died before any of us arrived here, who sleep in some of the same houses we do, who look up at the same moon, who breathe the same air, feel the same blood in their veins - and live in a completely different world.

It rained again. The fall had started and a strong wind was blowing through your city. You walked next to your boyfriend. He was holding a black umbrella in one hand and your hand in the other one. His hand was as cold as the wind around you, yet you appreciate its heavy feeling in yours. “I will miss the rain” Taeil sighed. “I love the salty smell of it. The air seems so fresh afterwards.” A smile appeared on his face. He’d had to leave in a few weeks. You leaned your head against his shoulder. You wanted to feel his body as often as you could. It was hard for you to imprint the feeling of his skins against yours, but you tried your best. “Let’s go and grab something to eat. I’ve reserved a table.”He placed a soft kiss on the top of your hair and closed the umbrella to open the huge wooden door of a restaurant you’ve never visited before. You knew that Taeil was full of suprises but you never imagined he would actually organize something for your sake.

The smell of freshly cooked sauces and fried vegetables caught your attention. The restaurant looked elegant and expensive. The seats were white and sparkling gold chandeliers were hanging down the ceiling. In front of you was standing a tall man in a suit. His mustache was well styled. “Welcome in our restaurant. Did you reserve a table? ”He asked with a deep, yet gentle voice. Taeil nodded and took a small paper out of his jacket. The man looked at the paper, nodded and smiled. “Please go that way. A waitress will come soon. Bon Appétit“ The both of you walked into the direction he showed you. A small round table was in front of you. White tablecloth was laying over the table. On it was a vase with one single red rose in it. Taeil helped you out of your coat and helped you to seat down on your white velvet chair. “This seems so expensive Taeil. Are you sure this is the right restaurant?”You were confused. Your boyfriend was a student with a part-time job at a small library, he would never have enough money to reserve a table, or to invite you to a meal at this place. Your eyes wandered around the room. Elegant dressed people were sitting everywhere and were chatting. Classical music was playing in the background. The smell of well cooked food was beguiling. All the women were dressed in beautiful long dresses. You looked down at your jeans and white off-the-shoulder button up blouse and felt out of place. “Just relax, baby.” Taeil commanded. “You look as beautiful as always. I saved a lot of money to invite you for a meal here, so please enjoy every second of it. I wanted to give this to you as a gift, before I have to leave.” His cold hand reached after yours. His slender fingers stroke over the back of your hand. You looked at his smiling face and nodded. His deep eyes were shining. You could see how much this meant to him.

He laughed and took a look around too. “Damn, I should have dressed myself up a bit. Not everyone is blessed with beauty like you or the fake French guy with his mustache. This isn’t even a French restaurant” he added. This statement made you blush and laugh at the same time. He seemed to think the same way about the guy as you did. Speaking of him, the tall man appeared a few seconds later with a notebook and two menu cards in his hands. “Do you know what you want to drink?”His deep voice tried hard to sound charming, but his facial expression painted a different picture. He looked rather exhausted. The both of you order two bottles of sparkling water and looked inside of the menu cards.Taeil let out an impressed sigh. He decided himself quickly, as always. You needed a bit more time. The menu was full of foreign food and specialties. Everything was so expensive too! Taeil ordered a grilled fish with chanterelles and you ordered baked asparagus with a tofu-crème. You never tried asparagus before, but you always imagined it as something extremely tasty.

It’s needless to say that everything tasted even better than you had imagined. While you were so enchanted by your phenomenal dinner, Taeil could not stop talking about his food. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted” he would mumble between two bites. When you finished yours, you decided to observe your boyfriend. He had trouble cutting the fish into pieces, but very bite he managed to get, he enjoyed with his whole being. Taeil would close his eyes and make a rather quiet but definitely satisfied sound. You couldn’t stop yourself from smiling. He looked cute without even realizing it.After he had paid the French impersonator, you decided to go to the park. Since it was a windy fall day the park was quite empty. There were only a few children running around with hand-glides, while their parents sat on the wet grass or run after them. The both of you sat yourself on the edge of a fountain and looked into the sky.

“I love this color of the sky” you said and pointed at the endlessness above you.”It’s a mix between blue and gray. Between the darkness and the mystical light” Taeil followed your finger and looked at the sky. “You are right” he agreed.” We don’t see any colors on the moon. Our sky contains of light or darkness. I always enjoyed looking at the sky. I will miss that too.” You took a look at the face of your boyfriend. For your surprise he was still smiling. Whenever he talked about his home he seemed so happy. He must have missed it really much. He never seemed sad when he talked about leaving.

Suddenly a sharp cry echoed through the park. A small girl with piggy-tails had been falling on the ground, right in front of you. She was around five years old. Within seconds Taeil took his head out of the clouds and looked at the crying child. This was the first time he did not look happy this day. With a fast motion he grabbed the little girl and seated her on his lap. “Please stop crying. Where does it hurt?”His raspy voice sounded calming. He looked concerned. The girl looked as surprised as you did. Who would have guessed that he would like children? The girl pointed at her leg, but did not end her crying. Taeil looked at her small chubby leg, and blew. The girl stopped crying and looked at him. You looked around instead. Where were her parents?

Taeil made funny faces for her and a high, but beautiful laugh seemed to lighten up the world around you three. Suddenly the girl wiggled, put her arms around the neck of your boyfriend and fell asleep. “That was easy.”Taeil smirked while brushing through her dark brown hair. Out of nowhere a beautiful young woman and a small man in a tracking suit run to you. “Mai! Thank you so much for taking care of her! She saw a butterfly and run away and we weren’t fast enough. I’m sorry for the inconveniences “the woman panted. The couple bowed and gently grabbed their child. When her mother touched her, Mai woke up and smiled sleepy. The couple thanked you again and walked away. You were glad that the child had found her parents again, but Taeil looked kind of serious. His eyes were dull and his mouth was a small line. “Let’s go home. I totally forgot I have stuff to do. I’m sorry, y/n”. His voice sounded pressed and unusual for him, but you agreed. What was going on with him?

Around 11 pm you finished your homework and walked to your window to close the curtain. You just had grabbed the red silky cotton when you noticed a silhouette sitting in front of the school. The person had his head in his palms. Its hair was messy and the figure made a miserable impression. You watched the figure slowly lifting his head, showing its side profile. You recognized it immediately and run out outside. This was not good. “Taeil, what are you doing here? “you called your boyfriend. Within seconds he turned his head in your direction. His eyes were wide open and the closer you got to him, the more details you could see. His eyes were not only deep and wide, but also teary. He was crying. You got on your knees and hugged his upper body. Taeil pressed you soft against his body and cried. You did not ask, you just let him empty himself. Sometimes this is the best thing you can do for a crying person and you knew that.

”I’m sorry, y/n” he started after finishing his cries. Your bodies were still entwined. “When I say this little girl today, I had to imagine how it’d be if the both of you would be a family In the future. I asked myself how it would be with a small child looking like you and me running around. Those thoughts made me so happy I started crying. I miss this time without it being even real. Is this a thing? “You listened to his words and buried your head deeper into his chest. You were flustered by the way he thought of your relationship. You wanted to have a family with him. He’d be a great father, but it would never happen. “I asked if there is any way I could stay her, but I can’t. We have something like an economy crisis. They need everybody who can work. I’m so…frustrated.”He sighed. “I love you, y/n. I say this all the time, but you are so precious to me. A year ago I wanted to leave this place as fast as I could, but now I want to stay because of you. You’d be a great mother, I know that. You have a caring heart and I’m so fucking thankful for everything. “You never heard him swear, but when he did you started to tear up yourself. “ I love you too. I will miss you so much, moon-boy. I don’t know what I will do without you”you whispered into his chest.

Taeil gave you a loving kiss on your head. “Don’t call me like that. Let’s stop crying and stand up” he said. You could hear him smiling.” We should appreciate the last few weeks together, okay? No more crying till I’m leaving. “You looked at his angelic smile and stood up. “Alright” your voice was still a bit shaky. “No more crying.”

#nct #nct u #nct 127 #nct taeil #moon taeil #kpop #kpop fanfiction #kpop series #nct scenarios #moon series

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fy-soukoku · 7 years

Text

The Holy City

Remember that Shin Soukoku No. 6 AU I promised ya’ll? Well... this is why I’ve been virtually nonexistant on Tumblr recently. So I hope you enjoy.

Atsushi is placed with the Elite when he is six years old.

He doesn’t know why, or what exactly earned him the spot. He’s anxious, quiet, and just a little too odd to fit in with the crowd. But apparently his interest in biology propels him to a new level, where he’s surrounded with toddlers breeded for success, every single one having a purpose above the mundane lives lead by the rest of the community.

His mother is ecstatic, scooping him up into her arms and spinning him around, smiling so wide he can see the dimples in her cheeks. He doesn’t understand why this is so important to her, but she looks so happy that he nods and pretends like it is just as joyous for him.

They move into a new apartment, one at the higher end of the city, made of glass and stainless steel. Atsushi has a big room to himself, one where his kitten can curl up in his lap as he does his homework for the day. Algebraic equations, history lessons, scientific vocabulary he has to memorize. He wonders how in the world he can store all of this in his brain, which feels like its about to explode from the information being barraged into his mind.

He flops back onto his bed, stares up at the ceiling and watches the light from the nearby security drone sparkle over the blank white paint. It’s a soft blue, shimmering artificially and capturing Atsushi’s eye. He kicks one of his homework sheets away, and begins to count the stencils on the ceiling, tries to find the flawless in the city’s perfect architecture.

Of course, there are none.

Atsushi sighs. Even at six, he can’t stand the perfect carving that is the Holy City. “Crafted by the hands of the gods themselves,” teachers at school often said. He doesn’t understand why the gods would make something flawless. Without flaws, there is no strife. Without strife, what is the point in living? Growing? Changing?

Atsushi simply turns on his side, mind reeling with thoughts too weighty for his tiny body. His eyelashes flutter closed, and he finally drifts to sleep.

----

At ten years old, Atsushi is alone in the world.

His mother, with her bright smile and beautiful eyes, has died. They never tell him how, or why. He simply comes home to red and blue lights flashing over the glass of his house, a tall man with dark skin leaning down and gripping his shoulder with a calloused hand.

“I’m sorry.” He says, and Atsushi deflates.

The Holy City doesn’t have many orphans, but they do what they can, passing him from foster home to foster home. Legally, the city is his parent, caring for him through the hands of the less fortunate.

He meets new people - woman with broken smiles, men who are just a little too rough in handling him. Siblings who stare at him in curiosity but never utter a word.

Atsushi watches his life develop from a seat in the back row. He does not choose his next family, he does not get to determine where he works. As a Gifted child, he has his whole future mapped out, all loose ends stitched together with fishing line, unyielding to his own wishes. But it’s the norm for this city, to not be given a choice when you prove useful. Atsushi knows that from the second his test results came in, he was nothing but a puppet to be strung up by agile fingers and flung around at someone’s whim.

At ten years old, Atsushi has his whole life planned out. At ten years old, Atsushi forgets how to live.

----

He turns twelve on May 5th, watching his digital alarm clock slowly tick minute by minute. The blue glows against his skin, which is pale from hours spent trapped in computer rooms and science labs.

Lucy gives him a sweater, blue and stitched with black lines all over. The tag is still intact, and Atsushi clips it off with rusty kitchen scissors when her back is turned.

She smiles and hands him a cupcake, her red hair twinkling underneath the vibrant lights of her house. Lucy is smart too, Atsushi knows. She understands what being an outcast is like, what having your world manipulated is like.

She walks Atsushi home after school under a red umbrella. He watches the black outline of raindrops trickle down the sides, land on the immaculate gravel road, and roll down the gutters that decorate the streets.

He promises to see her tomorrow, shakes the water from his black hair, and gives a simple nod to his foster parents as he strides up the staircase, explaining he has homework to complete.

His room is dark, empty of all except a bed and a simple desk to work on. He pulls out his tablet, pressing his palm to the center and lighting up the electric blue screen. It shines through his skin, accents the veins in his hand.

Behind him, the rain is thundering against the balcony windows. Atsushi wonders what it would feel like to have water roll down his arms, not held back by fabric or glass or steel. To just let the rain hit his skin and feel the chill in his bones.

His tablet pops up with multiple notifications, most of them from the school. His fingers hover over the email icon, but his eyes stay locked on rain that curves against the windows, making watery shapes that fade as a new wave comes. It’s addicting to watch, and he finds himself letting the tablet slowly fade to a black lockscreen, standing to open to sliding doors.

The rain is wonderfully cool against his skin, beating down on him with the ferocity of a caged tiger. He shivers as some water drops down the back of his shirt, rolling over the bumps in his spine.

Warning, temperature regulation will automatically close the doors in one minute.

Atsushi groans. He should have remembered about the stupid security systems. He can’t really bring himself to care whether or not he gets locked out, but knows that his foster parents will be aggravated if they have to call a guard to get him off the balcony. He clutches his fingers on the railing as tight as possible, lifts himself, and screams into the wind, letting it whip his voice away until all that remains is the echo of his vocals, bouncing over invisible plains that are covered by a smokescreen of gray.

He pants, setting his feet back on the ground, and resolves to go and shut off the systems. He’d risk a cold if it meant feeling something touching him that wasn’t a social worker’s hand.

He turns to input the code, when the balcony doors slam anyway. He groans, and goes to grab a towel and mop up the mess.

But he can’t, because he’s being pressed against the wall by a pale hand.

Atsushi manages to choke before his head gets too light to focus on anything but the deep black eyes that are staring up at him.

He kicks against the wall, wraps his hands around the arm pinning up up. The boy is slim, pale, even sickly looking. He’s in nothing but rags, nothing but a ragged set of clothes that are torn and stained brown. The sleeve over his left arm has a slight swell of red creeping over the fabric.

Blood? Atsushi wonders, and begins patting the boy’s hand.

“I can stitch you up.” He manages to croak out, though his mind is all foggy.

The boy tips his head to the side, watches Atsushi gasp and slide down the wall as he releases his hold. Atsushi’s hands press along the line of his throat, feels the tender spots where bruises will begin to form, creating perfect row of black roses on snowy white skin.

“Stitch me...” The boy murmurs. He’s small, Atsushi notes. A tiny frame and a thin face, his skin a type of pale that would almost be elegant if it were not tainted with the green overlay of someone inflicted by sickness. He has a cute, if somewhat strange, face, with a small nose and thin white lips. His hair is longer, it grows out to his chin, in a feminine bob, the tips soft and white, the roots dark and shadowy at the top. Atsushi looks at those coal black eyes, which flick about the room in doubt, watches surprisingly long eyelashes brush against skin dusted with pale freckles.

“Yeah,” He says, managing a smile. “Let me get my kit and I’ll take care of that.” He gestures to the wound on his arm. “That looks nasty, after all.”

The boy hesitates, watching Atsushi’s eyes like he’s trying to read his mind. Atsushi does his best to meeting him boldly, but the furrow of the boy’s brow has him too worried to be harsh.

“Okay.” He finally responds.

----

He sits the boy on the ground, holding up a thin needle that he had found from his bathroom.

“What the hell is-”

“Shush.” Atsushi manages. “This is supposed to numb your arm when I begin sewing the wound.”

The boy grumbles, but doesn’t even flinch as Atsushi sinks the needle into his skin. Instead he watches Atsushi with apprehension, studying the lines of his face. “What’s your name.”

“Atsushi.” He replies without hesitance. “How did you get this wound?”

“Bullet.” He said in a clipped tone.

Atsushi raised an eyebrow, “People shoot in the city?”

The boy glared at him. “How naive are you? You don’t ask for my name, don’t know anything about how your precious little city works.”

“What is your name?” Atsushi responded, curious.

The boy sent him a flat look. “Akutagawa.”

“I like that.” Atsushi mumbles, and sticks the sewing needle into his pale skin. Akutagawa barely moves, though his brows wrinkle slightly at the sharp press of metal to his arm.

They’re silent in the dim light of the room, save for the quiet rise and fall of Akutagawa’s chest and the sweat of concentration that rolls down Atsushi’s forehead.

When Atsushi has successfully closed the wound, he wraps it in a bandage, presses the pads of his fingers on the hollow of his wrist. “Are you hungry? I can get you some food.”

Akutagawa quietly looks up at him. His eyes glint in the dark, like black diamonds. Finally, he says, “Don’t tell anyone I’m here.”

Atsushi finds that fishy, sure, but he can’t find himself to care when this boy’s eyes are locked on his own. Even if he’s covered in dirt and sweat, draped in rags, painted with blood, he still has an attractiveness about his sharp cheekbones and big eyes.

“Sure.” He responds, and makes his way to the door.

The bright living room lights make him blink rapidly, barely catching the outlines of his foster mom as she types on her desktop. He pads to the kitchen door, hoping to stay from her sight.

“Are you joining us for dinner, Atsushi?” She asks. He freezes, pressing his hand on the hinge of the door, and glances back at her.

“No,” He lies, though the words roll out as smooth as the truth. “I have a project to finish, if that’s alright with you.”

She nodded. “Sounds good. Just don’t forget to eat, alright?”

“I was just grabbing myself some food!” He chirped, and slipped onto the ceramic tile of the kitchen.

He snags a bowl, and some soup poured in a mug, hoping to disguise it as tea - not so uncommon, as he often had green tea to soothe his nerves - and even snagged a sweet little pastry his foster sister had made the day before.

“Get some sleep, too.” The woman called, not even glancing up from her desktop as Atsushi made his way back to his dim lit bedroom.

Akutagawa was waiting on his bed, fingering the soft material of his sheets. Atsushi quietly slipped next to him, sliding the tray he had acquired next to the brunette.

“I’ll take the mug.” Atsushi explained, taking a sip of warm soup, letting the rich flavour absorb and pool into his stomach. Akutagawa took the bowl without question, bending down to examine its contents. It was then that Atsushi saw his neck.

His smooth, pale neck.

“Where’s your monitor?” Atsushi asks.

“It, uh, got taken out.” Akutagawa explains, and manages his first spoonful.

“There’s no scar,” Atsushi points out, “It looks like you’ve never had one. I thought that if you lived in the city, you needed to-”

“Look, it’s none of your business, alright?” Akutagawa snapped. “I just never got one.”

Atsushi knew what that meant. Akutagawa knew that he knew.

“You’re...”

“Look, you can kick me out if you want, but I’m going to take that pastry with me.” Akutagawa growled, his shoulders tensing in defense.

“You can stay here.” Atsushi says. Akutagawa’s shoulders stop bunching up, his wide black diamonds eyes fixating on Atsushi in shock.

“What?”

“You can stay here.” Atsushi repeats. He takes a long sip from his mug. “You’re only twelve. Whatever you did to make yourself a criminal couldn’t have been that bad, really.”

“You really are naive.” Akutagawa comments, rolling his eyes.

Atsushi shrugged. “I guess.” He puts his mug on the nightstand, and reaches back to touch his own monitor - a small gadget attached to his cerebral lobe that recorded his emotions, his perceptions of the world around him. It was given to the Elite, given as a way to track their potential.

“Does it hurt?” Akutagawa asks.

“Not really.” Atsushi admits. “It feels like a part of you. Which is good, I’ll have it until I’m of age.”

Akutagawa scoffs. “Like a dog on a leash.” He lays back on Atsushi’s bed. “I’m going to sleep here for a little bit, alright?”

Atsushi looks at the slim body of the brunette, curling into a ball among the gray sheets of his bed. Atsushi’s cheeks flame up, aware that there was a stranger on his sheets.

“Okay.” Atsushi moves onto his back, inches between their bodies.

“What are you doing?” Akutagawa cracked one eye open. The black flickered under the leaking moonlight, soft and enchanting.

“Going to sleep.” Atsushi said, slowly. “Is that... not okay with you? I can go on the floor.”

“I could strangle you while you’re asleep.” Akutagawa states bluntly.

“Oh.” Atsushi exclaims, soft in the empty air. “Well, I doubt you will.”

“And why not?” Akutagawa questions.

“Because I gave you food,” Atsushi mumbles, already drifting to sleep. “And you know they say that the way through a man’s...” His words trail out into the air, with only Akutagawa to catch the remaining syllables that linger.

Akutagawa watches the moonlight brush over his features, over his soft cheeks and the shadow of a dimple in his cheek.

He allows himself to fall asleep, his fingers barely brushing the cloth if Atsushi’s shirt.

When Atsushi wakes up, Akutagawa is gone.

#bungou stray dogs #shin soukoku #atsushi nakajima #ryuunosuke akutagawa #my writing #fanfic #the holy city

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thesundanceghost · 7 years

Text

Out of the Black and Into the Blue Chapter 2

<<Notes: There are definitely some differences here from the book. Steve technically fills Mike’s role, and I know Mike hadn’t published his book in the novel, but I liked the idea so I rolled with it.>>

Chapter 1 here

Read on AO3

Chapter 2: Jonathan Byers spills some paint

“Shit, come on,” Jonathan muttered, as he scrubbed at his shirt. He glanced in the mirror, staring hopelessly at his light blue shirt in the mirror which was now covered in bright red paint.

It’d been a stupid mistake. Working in an art classroom meant being on constant alert for spills and other such messes. But the phone call from that morning had thrown everything off. He’d been walking through the room in a daze, his mind still stuck on hearing Steve Harrington’s voice for the first time in over a decade, he hadn’t seen his student turn from her work station and walk straight into him with a tray of paint.

Steve would laugh at him for this. That in of itself was a weird thought, seeing as he hadn’t even thought of Steve’s name in at least fourteen years. And now he was here thinking about that idiot’s laugh.

Steve would laugh, but Nancy wouldn’t, at least, not for long. Nancy would help, Nancy would tell Steve to shut up, Nancy--

“Oh fuck,” Jonathan groaned. Thinking about one of them was already overwhelming enough, but remembering both of them… he squeezed his eyes shut, blocking them out.

He ran the washcloth under the warm water again, trying to squeeze the excess paint from it.

Suddenly his mind registered the thin coat of red covering his hands, dripping down the porcelain sink. He dropped the washcloth, watching as it covered the drain, causing the pink water to pool around the bottom of the bowl slowly. His eyes flitted up to the mirror, staring at the stain of red around his torso which suddenly looked less bright and acrylic and instead dark, and clotted. He could practically smell the metallic tang in the air, feel the warm blooming over his stomach

(Jesus, Jesus, Nancy, call 911, call Hopper, call somebody!)

and then he blinked.

Something warm touched his hand and he jumped, realizing the sink was quickly filling up with water, and he grabbed the cloth, allowing it to drain once again. Looking down at his shirt, he sighed in relief as the paint stood out bright and shiny once again.

There was no way he was getting this clean. Might as well give up and go home.

Home.

Shit.

He made it back to his flat in a blur, handing some half-assed excuse to the principal about having thrown up in the bathroom and darting out of the school before hailing a cab.

As soon as his front door was open, he yanked off the soiled shirt, throwing it to the ground as he began to rummage through his closet, pulling out clothes and throwing them on the bed.

“Jonathan, that you? Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” Jonathan glanced over to to see his neighbor, Rosa, frowning at him from where he’d left the door open. He wasn’t surprised. New York meant thin walls, which in turn meant nosy neighbors.

“Um, yeah, I uh. Change of plans.” Jonathan explained quickly, turning back to his things.

“Like, you quit your job change of plans, or you murdered someone and have to flee the country change of plans?” Rosa asked. Jonathan cast her a bewildered look and she pointed to his pants. He glanced down, groaning when he saw that the red paint had splattered across his thighs without him noticing. He didn’t want to deal with anymore flashbacks or memories or whatever the hell that had been so he just unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them off, leaving him in his boxers.

Rosa raised his eyebrows at him. “You’re not disagreeing with that last statement--”

“No, Rosa, it’s just paint,” he shot back. “I just have to fly to Indiana.”

“What the hell is in Indiana?” Rosa laughed in surprise, sitting at the edge of his bed.

“What indeed,” he muttered under his breath as he began to stuff his things inside a suitcase. Rosa watched with a raised eyebrow before she sighed and began to help him fold things. He gave her a grateful look, pausing to pull on a clean pair of pants. He ran to the bathroom and grabbed his toiletries before spotting a small bottle of scotch on the kitchen table. He gave it a long look before grabbing it and pulling the cap off, taking a long swig.

“Are you sure everything’s alright?” She asked, eyebrows drawing down in concern as she looked out from the bedroom. He glanced at her. “You look terrified.”

“I’m fine,” he answered back steadily. “I’m not scared.”

“Oh yeah?” She asked challengingly. She crossed to him and took the scotch out of his hands, handing him a shirt instead, and he realized he was still waltzing around half-naked. “Because I’ve known you for six years and I’ve never seen you drink before noon. Not when you were twenty six, and not now.”

Jonathan ignored her comments and pulled the T-shirt on, making his way back to the bedroom. He threw a few more things into the suitcase before closing it up and pulling it off the bed. “I’m headed to the airport."

“Now Jonathan, I know I’m just your neighbor, but really, somebody has to look out for you up here. So tell me what’s going on!” Rosa exclaimed, throwing her hands up and glaring at him intensely.

He looked at her, a for an insane moment wondered what would happen if he were honest with her.

(You can tell someone, but they’re not going to believe you. You know that.)

“It’s just family stuff, that’s all.” He explained easily, giving a sad smile.

“I thought your whole family lived in Pennsylvania,” she pointed out accusingly. “You’ve got family in Indiana?”

“It’s a sort of family,” he corrected, unsure of how to explain it.

Rosa was still frowning, but she gave a small nod. After a second she reached up a pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Well, they’d better take good care of you. God knows you’re shit at it.”

Jonathan gave her a weak smile and hugged her gently before pulling away. “Bye, Rosa.”

The airport was calmer than usual, since it was a Thursday in March. He managed to buy a ticket easily enough, and before he could catch his breath, he was flying to Indianapolis, Indiana. He slept on the plane, like he always did, but he dreams were restless, full of memories and old faces and glimpses of fire and fear. He was more than grateful when the stewardess woke him, explaining they were about to land.

He passed by the airport bookstore as he made his way outside when a familiar name in the window caught his eye. He stopped, frowning through the glass. The black book was sitting innocently on a shelf, hidden behind several fantasy novels and vampire books. The author’s name was small, and Jonathan wondered how he’d managed to see it in the first place.

On second thought, Jonathan didn’t like wasting his time on questions like that anymore. There was no real explanation for how any of it happened. It just did. He’d learned that a long time ago.

He huffed a breath before strolling in and crossing straight to the shelf, pulling the book down from where it sat. It was a simple cover, a black cover embossed with small gold lettering, much simpler than Jonathan would have expected from the author.

“Hawkins: An Unauthorized Town History” by Steve Harrington

Jonathan traced his fingers lightly over the indented name before stalking over to the checkout desk and setting it down.

The cashier frowned at it. “Huh. Didn’t know we had any more copies of this. It wasn’t very popular.”

Jonathan stopped from where he was fishing out his card, frowning up at the older man. “Have you read it?” He asked curiously.

“Yeah,” the old man-- Ron, according to his name tag-- with a snort. “It’s weird stuff.”

Jonathan managed a smile. “That’s why it’s unauthorized, right?”

“Of course, of course, but still,” Ron waved a hand dismissively. “I feel like that guy’s got a whole basement full of maps and news clippings and yarn on walls full of that stuff.”

Knowing Steve Harrington, Jonathan couldn’t really find it in himself to disagree with that. “So you think it’s made up?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Ronald finished ringing up the book and held it over, raising his eyebrows. Jonathan paused, waiting for him to continue. “You from Hawkins?”

Jonathan blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah, technically. I was born there.”

Ron nodded. “Same here. I’m guessing that book will make perfect sense to you. Just wait and see.”

Jonathan nodded slowly and took his receipt, meeting Ron’s eyes one more time before slipping the receipt inside the book and exited the store. He was able to hold in his shudder until he was out of the doors.

Despite his curiosity, Jonathan kept the book firmly shut until he reached his motel room. The cab ride was long and boring, but he wasted his time listening to the radio and watching the unfamiliar landscape of 1990’s Indiana fly past him.

He reached the King’s Motel on Sullivan Street before he knew it and checked in easily. Being back in Hawkins put a terrible taste in his mouth, and he felt like he held his breath until he was safely inside his own room. He locked the door behind him and glanced at the clock. He was supposed to be at the restaurant tomorrow at 3, and it was already 11:30 PM.

He sat back on the bed and flipped open to the first page.

Can an entire city be haunted?

The opening words shouted at him from where they sat on the page, and Jonathan swallowed hard. It was going to be a long

#im sorry to post this literally an hour after chapter 1 i dont wanna crowd the dash!!!#but i need to get it out here #stoncy #jonathan byers #stranger things #emma writes

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The Chase Files Daily Newscap 2/4/2019

Good MORNING #realdreamchasers! Here is The Chase Files Daily News Cap for Monday 4th February2019. Remember you can read full articles for FREE via Barbados Today (BT) or Barbados Government Information Services (BGIS) OR by purchasing by purchasing a Daily Nation Newspaper (DN).

A TIME TO PRAY – Two men of the cloth yesterday took different views about the recent upsurge in crime and violence as the island concluded its Weekend of Prayer. A third has called for a “deeper investigation” into how guns and drugs are finding their way into Barbados. However, Prime Minister Mia Mottley stressed that Government, in partnership with the church and other social groups, could turn the country around. “We have, as a nation, to ‘hold each one’ and the Government has enough resources, but we’re sending piece there and piece there instead of bringing everybody into a single mission – to save our families. If we in Government, in partnership with the church and groups with similar minds, are prepared to save our families from St Lucy to St Philip, we can turn this country around and shun the forces of evil which want to take over,” she said. She was speaking at Sanctuary Empowerment Centre, Country Road, St Michael, where Bishop Dr Marlon Husbands anointed her head and feet with oil, and held special prayers for her as well as for the country. (DN)

ABRAHAMS PLANT BACK TO NORMAL – The South Coast Sewerage Treatment Plant at “better than pre-crisis” levels. But eventually, said Minister of Water Resources, Wilfred Abrahams, the entire sewerage system would have to be overhauled. Abrahams made the comments during a press conference on Saturday at the Barbados Water Authority’s Pine, St Michael headquarters. It was in December 2017, that the then new general manager, Keithroy Halliday, had described the hundreds of gallons of raw sewage, which had been spilling onto the streets of the South Coast from late 2016, as a “national crisis”. On Saturday, Abrahams painted a picture of a Graeme Hall Swamp whose water quality was good and where fish had been reintroduced in the wake of the cessation of pumping raw sewage into its waters; of water levels in the swamp which had stablised as a result of the creation of an outfall, negating the necessity of opening the sluice gate and closing Worthing Beach; and of the much maligned disposal wells which have not been used since last December. (DN)

ANOTHER SHOW OF SUPPORT FOR GUAIDO – For the second time in a week, scores of Venezuelans living in Barbados turned out at Rockley, Christ Church, in support of the head of the National Assembly of Venezuela, Juan Guaido, who has proclaimed himself president and disputed Nicolas Maduro’s legitimacy as the leader of the South American country. Guaido and many others have accused Maduro of being a dictator in the wake of an election last year which they said was not free or fair. On January 23 Guaido was immediately recognised as Venezuela’s president by several nations, including the United States, the Lima Group, and the Organisation of American States. “We are here to show support for the president of the National Assembly . . . . But we are trying to do everything as legally as possible and abiding by the constitution to avoid bloodshed,” Myrna Hughes said. Things came to a head in Venezuela due to shortages of food and medicine which severely impacted living standards and led to protests in 2014. Those protests escalated and resulted in numerous deaths and an exodus of people to other South American and some Caribbean nations. However, Hughes said too many people were trying to cover up the issues. “Our foreign affairs minister was here yesterday and it was incredible to hear that man saying that everything is normal. That is totally outrageous when people are dying of hunger and because there is no medicine,” she said. Minister Counsellor at the Venezuelan Embassy in Barbados, Alvaro Sanchez Cordero, said the chaos was being promoted by the big media companies and that the US’ involvement was illegal. “All this noise and psychological warfare is taking place digitally, through CNN, Reuters, BBC. It’s a whole show for the international community for public opinion to cement the idea that Venezuela is in a complete state of confrontation or civil war to make it seem that something needs to be done,” he said. (DN)

TRUMP SAYS U.S. MILITARY INTERVENTION IN VENEZUELA 'AN OPTION,' RUSSIA OBJECTS – U.S. President Donald Trump said military intervention in Venezuela was “an option” as Western nations boost pressure on socialist leader Nicolas Maduro to step down, while the troubled OPEC nation’s ally Russia warned against “destructive meddling.” The United States, Canada and several Latin American countries have disavowed Maduro over his disputed re-election last year and recognized self-proclaimed President Juan Guaido as the country’s rightful leader. Maduro, who has overseen an economic collapse and the exodus of millions of Venezuelans, still maintains the powerful backing of Russia, China and Turkey, and the critical support of the military. In an interview with CBS on Sunday, Trump said U.S. military intervention was under consideration. “Certainly, it’s something that’s on the - it’s an option,” Trump said, adding that Maduro requested a meeting months ago. “I’ve turned it down because we’re very far along in the process,” he said in a CBS “Face the Nation” interview. “So, I think the process is playing out.” The Trump administration last week issued crippling sanctions on Venezuelan state-owned oil firm PDVSA [PDVSA.UL], a key source of revenue. Tens of thousands of people thronged the streets of various Venezuelan cities on Saturday to protest Maduro’s government. France and Austria said on Sunday they would recognize Guaido if Maduro did not respond to the European Union’s call for a free and fair presidential election by Sunday night. Russia, a major creditor to Venezuela in recent years and an ideological ally to Maduro, quickly urged restraint. “The international community’s goal should be to help (Venezuela), without destructive meddling from beyond its borders,” Alexander Shchetinin, head of the Latin America department at Russia’s Foreign Ministry, told Interfax. Maduro in comments on state television promised peace for the country without specifically responding to Trump. “In Venezuela, there will be peace, and we will guarantee this peace with the civil military union,” he said in the company of khaki and black-clad soldiers who were earlier shown carrying guns and jumping from helicopters into the sea. Venezuela’s ambassador to Iraq, Jonathan Velasco, became the latest official to recognize opposition leader Guaido this weekend. Air Force General Francisco Yanez in a video also called on members of the military to defect but there were no signs the armed forces were turning against Maduro. Venezuela has as many as 2,000 generals, according to unofficial estimates, many of whom do not command troops and whose defection would not necessarily weaken the ruling socialists. The police have also fallen in line with Maduro. A special forces unit called FAES led home raids following unrest associated with opposition protests in January, killing as many as 10 people in a single operation in a hillside slum of Caracas. Latin American governments with the help of the United States are seeking to deliver humanitarian aid to Venezuela, which is suffering medicine shortages, malnutrition and hyperinflation that has led millions to emigrate. Guaido on Sunday was expected to make an announcement regarding international humanitarian aid that would come through Colombia, Brazil and a Caribbean island and said he was counting on the armed forces to help bring it into Venezuela. “The USAID (U.S. Agency for International Development) is working hard to help the people of Venezuela with humanitarian assistance such as these tonnes of Ready-to-Use Supplementary Foods for malnourished children,” USAID Administrator Mark Green tweeted on Saturday, posting photos of boxes piled up. It is unclear whether Maduro’s government, which denies the country is suffering a humanitarian crisis, will let any foreign aid through. (Reuters)

TEEN ADDICTS ON THE RISE – More people are turning to Verdun House and its sister residential treatment facility Marina House in St John for help with their adolescent drug addicts. However, says chief executive officer of the Substance Abuse Foundation (SAF) Marietta Carrington, both Verdun and Marina have been forced to turn them away since the two facilities only cater to those 18 and older. But the CEO said while SAF would be ramping up its outpatient counselling, there was an urgent need for a reform of child care laws to deal with the issue. Carrington told the NATION the Foundation had noticed an increase in the number of people wanting help for adolescent drug users. “But we cannot take them into residential care. Just recently, we were having a conversation on how not to turn away the adolescents. There is an outpatient treatment facility in Barbados which provides some support but that is not, in my view, adequate enough for a growing adolescent population,” she said, explaining they were getting requests for children who were 15 or 16. (DN)

DISBARRED – Attorney-at-law Joyce Griffith has been disbarred. The decision of the Court of Appeal was handed down on January 30, ruling that Griffith was guilty of misappropriating the proceeds from a sale of property for a client. No money had been paid to the client more than five years and evidence showed it was used to pay medical bills. In addition, the court ruled that Griffith must pay $128 770 along with interest at a rate of six per cent per annum, dating back to August 2012, plus costs. Griffith had been engaged by Ordeen Bishop-Broomes to act for her in the sale of property situated at Holetown, St James for $300 000. The sale was completed, and the complainant’s brother, who was jointly entitled to the proceeds of the sale, received $128 778.70 representing his net share of the proceeds. Bishop-Broomes discovered that her brother had been paid whilst she had not. (DN)

JASON HOLDER BANNED FOR THIRD TEST - West Indies captain Jason Holder will miss the final Test against England after being banned by the International Cricket Council. The all-rounder, 27, will serve a one-match suspension for his side's slow over-rate in the 10-wicket win in the second Test in Antigua. The third Test in St Lucia starts on Saturday, with West Indies 2-0 up in the series. Holder is the leading run-scorer with 229 at an average of 114.50. He has been a central figure in West Indies securing a first series win over England since 2009, and their first over any side other than Bangladesh and Zimbabwe since 2012. Holder was named man of the match after making an unbeaten 202 and taking two wickets in the 381-run win in the first Test, a performance which took him to the top of the ICC rankings for Test all-rounders. Holder claimed 4-32 to help bowl England out for 132 in Antigua on Saturday before West Indies sealed victory with two days to spare. He missed the second Test in New Zealand in December 2017 after being banned for a slow over-rate offence. (DN)

TWO PACE VACANCIES – WEST INDIES could be looking to a new-look fast bowling attack for the final Test against England. Amidst reports that captain Jason Holder will miss the Test because of a one-match ban for the team’s slow over-rate, there is also uncertainty surrounding the availability of Alzarri Joseph following the death of his mother. The development surrounding Holder comes on the heels of West Indies completing a second crushing victory against England that guarantees them the series ahead of the final Test. While several media outlets, including ESPNcricinfo, BBC and Reuters reported yesterday that Holder was slapped with a suspension, cricket governing’s body, the International Cricket Council did not provide confirmation. ESPNcricinfo reported that 20-year-old Guyanese allrounder Keemo Paul will come into the squad in Holder’s absence, with vice-captain Kraigg Brathwaite to take over as captain for the match at the Daren Sammy Stadium in St Lucia. (DN)

SIMMONS SERVES NOTICE – Competing for her club Jump Start, Simmons was in a no-nonsense mood after dismissing the field to win both the Under-13 Girls’ 600 and 400 metres in two separate timed finals. She was literally running against the clock on both occasions, speeding away from her closest rivals to take the 600 in one minute, 46.84 seconds before clocking 1:05.26 to take the 400 metres. It put the cap on a wildly successful day for Jump Start, who topped the meet with 12 wins, including two from promising Under-9 talent Jasmine Hurdle. She, too, was unchallenged on the day after taking the 50 metres sprint in 8.60 seconds and then clocking 12.72 seconds in the ensuing 80. Unfortunately, spectators were robbed of the anticipated matchup between St Michael School speedsters Samiya Dell and Skye Spencer-Layne, who were put in opposite heats of the Under-15 Girls’ 75-metres hurdles. (DN)

MASTERS PLAYER COLLAPSES AND DIES – THE CARIBBEAN UNITED masters football team has been thrown into mourning following the sudden death of player Miguel Nurse. The 38-year-old Guyanese national complained of feeling ill during his side’s match against Weymouth Wales at the Barbados Lumber Company’s Waterford, St Michael ground on Saturday night, in the Claytons Barbados Masters League before collapsing in the fifth minute of play. According to reports, there were a number of attempts by emergency personnel to perform cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR) by the time ambulance officials arrived, but they were unsuccessful. It is understood that Nurse passed away en route to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital (QEH) and was pronounced dead on arrival. The match was abandoned as well as all games scheduled for last night. When contacted yesterday, manager of the team, Rafeek Jhalu, recounted the untimely passing. “It was so tragic, especially because we were actually playing a game at the time. He told the player that was marking him that he was feeling bad and he fell,” he told the NATION. (DN)

FARMER NAPPY RESPONDS TO BAJAN CRITICS: MY SONG IS A CLEAN SONG – Farmer Nappy is defending his song ‘Hookin Meh’. Responding to critics in Barbados who say the song is promoting domestic violence, Nappy said the song is far from that. During his performance at Old Hilarian’s All Inclusive on Saturday night, Nappy, real name Darryl Henry, said the song was written by Nadia Batson and he has produced all his music in Barbados for the past 13 years. He said, however, there are some radio announcers in Barbados who say the song promotes violence. “All they see in the video is me holding a knife and singing. I just have bad table manners, that is all,” he said. “The writer of this song is Nadia Batson and one of the things Nadia will never give me is a dirty song, all my music is clean music.” Stating that his music is about uplifting women, Nappy said any man who hits a woman is a coward. “Anytime you put your hand on a woman, you are hitting your mother. We don’t deal with violence,” advising men that anytime a woman puts their clothes in a garbage bag, leave in peace. Writing in Barbados Today, columnist Marsha Hinds said the song glorifies possessive and obsessive tendencies in men and confuses them with markers of love. She said the video highlights disturbing images as well. “Past the lyrics, there are also some alarming and, in my mind, insensitive images in the video to the song. Machel Montano brands the woman a trophy in response to an image that Nappy sends of her. This reinforces the objectification of women and diminishes her worth as anything other than an appendage that is to look pretty and not cause her owner any stress. “What looks to be the male child of the couple portrayed is present through some of the ‘adult’ conversations in the video. He is also pictured dragging the father’s bags back in when his mother puts them out. Again, the suggestion that the child gets between the father and mother and upholds his father’s wishes is problematic. The child is portrayed as an upholder of the toxic masculine traits of obsession and possession. He is ‘another generation of man in training’.” (LOOP NEWS)

CHEF DISHES ON COOKING CAREER - Trevon Stoute’s hands are dusty with flour as he deftly moves them. He is prepping for the next course he is about to serve on the menu at Pavao, the increasingly popular restaurant at Sweetfield Manor in Brittons Hill, St Michael. Trevon’s rise to becoming the executive chef of Pavao was no easy feat. His story is an admirable one. In fact, many would say his is the perfect success story. “I didn’t grow up with a gold spoon in my mouth. I give a lot of thanks to God for bringing me a long way. It is a blessing to be in the position I am now. I had to fight for a lot of things. I had to fight to get out of certain situations. I was born and raised in Haynesville, so I know what it is to come from the rough,” the 24-year-old told EASY magazine. (DN)

NEW ANGLICAN BISHOP PRESIDES OVER FIRST CONFIRMATION SERVICE – Bishop of Barbadian Anglican Diocese, Reverend Michael Bruce St John Maxwell held his first confirmation service this morning urging the confirmation candidates to continue to walk the path of righteousness. At the service held at the Cathedral of St Michael and All Angels, Reverend Maxwell confirmed 15 parishioners from the St Michael’s Row, Bridgetown church. He reminded them their journey with God was ongoing and did not conclude with today’s service. He noted that quite often parishioners did not return to church following the service. “There is the unfortunate trend that many after they have been confirmed see it as a validation to leave the church,” said the Bishop. “Very often there is the tendency that you have been instructed, you know the faith, you have been brought up and you don’t need any more nourishment but no, you need every bit of nourishment every Sunday to continue to nourish you in the faith,” he said. He encouraged the congregation to pray regularly and to attend church every Sunday as it was the ideal means to “experience God in a special way”. “We should always have that great longing, that great desire to come to church to come in the Lord’s house, to assemble regularly with fellowship of other believers, for this is what is best for us,” Reverend Maxwell stated. He urged the confirmation candidates to “always hunger or desire” to spend time with God and set aside time for worship. “I love church because coming into the special presence of God reminds me of who I am and whose we are as a family of God and it also reminds me of who God is, that God is in control of my life, the one who I can depend on [and] the one who can strengthen us, who is there for us when others are not there for us,” the Reverend said. (BT)

GIRLFRIEND EXPO AND ARTS FESTIVAL CONTINUES TO GROW – The annual Girlfriend Expo and Arts Festival, now in its In its 10th year, has achieved a regional reach with exhibitors from St Lucia, Martinique, St Vincent and Jamaica in attendance. Events director Kimtara Clarke says the annual festival had some 90 entrepreneurs and approximately 40 new businesses participating. Held at the Garfield Sobers Gymnasium for the first time, Clarke said that the growth of the exhibition has been “tremendous” having started with 30 booths in 2009. She noted that the increase in innovation and enterprise could be linked to the island’s economic standing and a large number of Government layoffs. “People are trying something new. They are starting new business and a lot of unique businesses as well. I guess because of the economy people are trying something on their own,” said Clarke. The exhibition is all encompassing featuring beauty products and service, interior and events decorating, fashion, cuisine, insurance and more. Following this year’s theme of Africa, the organizer incorporated food, music and entertainment from countries such as Nigeria, Kenya and Senegal. Some of the patron-favorites were the head-wrapping and hair demonstrations and the ‘femi-nars’ [seminars targeted towards women]. Also in attendance at the expo was Minister of Creative Economy, Culture and Sports, John King who lauded the creativity and specialized products showcased by exhibitors. “I am glad that our women are in the forefront of being there and the innovation and empowering themselves and by extension empowering the entire society with these initiatives,” King said. (BT)

CLASSES RESUME FOR STUDENTS AT COLERIDGE AND PARRY SCHOOL - Classes will resume at the Coleridge and Parry School from tomorrow, Monday, February 4. The Ashton Hall, St. Peter School was closed from Tuesday last week to allow authorities to address an environmental problem there. (BGIS)

For daily or breaking news reports follow us on Instagram, Tumblr, Twitter & Facebook. That’s all for today folks. There are 330 days left in the year. Shalom! #thechasefilesdailynewscap #thechasefiles# dailynewscapsbythechasefiles

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