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boop-le-snoot · 3 years

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@buckyownsmylife hey babe! Remember that one time you threw that cool challenge? Here's my entry. Prepare to get absolutely ruined because daddy!Bruce is exactly that sort of man.

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emotional support nerd

Your best friend's dad, Dr. Bruce Banner, is hotter than you thought he would be. 6k words, NSFW. Kind of Alt!Reader - she refers to herself as 'goth' in one instance. Tony Stark makes an appearance because God forbid I write a fanfic without him in it.

This is filthy pron, ft. age difference (reader is college aged) daddy kink, throat fucking, dirty talk, praise kink, cream pie, possessiveness, belly bulge and ending with a hint at a threesome. I really crammed all I could from Eyre's wheel in here, didn't I. Oh well.

"How much longer, dad?" Lyra's annoyed voice struck a chord within me. I tried to hide my snickering - unsuccessfully might I add - causing my best friend to shoot me a hurt look, equally fed up with me as she was fed up with her forgetful adopted father. "You know what, we'll take the subway."

Lyra's father's voice, both agitated and apologetic, reached my ears in bitten-off phrases as the traffic noises around us grew in volume, NYC rush hour rapidly approaching its peak.

With a sound huff, Lyra removed the phone from her ear, staring me down with the most amount of petulance I've ever seen on her usually reserved, placid face. "It's twenty more minutes. Apparently he's driving Tony's car," she offered in the way of explanation, like it actually did anything to better the cold, wet situation we found ourselves in. "Please, and I can't stress this enough, please don't be weird."

I felt a flood of amusement at Lyra's pleading tone. "Darling, if you wanted a normal friend, you should have looked elsewhere," I gestured to my outfit. I looked like a goth boy's wet dream: chunky platformed boots, fishnets, heavy eyeliner. Of course, all in black.

"You know what I mean," she whined, waving off my pointing hand and fixing me with a hard stare. "The least my dad needs is someone that is terrified of him just because sometimes he turns into a big green monkey. It's not as exciting as internet thinks, anyway," the last part of the sentence was mumbled but I heard it nonetheless as Lyra stared out into the traffic, clever eyes looking for a particular car model.

What Lyra didn't know was that I was not at all considering to be terrified by the man who dosed himself with radiation and developed an advanced version of split personality disorder. I could be intimidated by him, sure, because he was incredibly intelligent, a world class scientist with more PhDs than I had zeroes in my bank account, but even despite his green problem, Dr. Bruce Banner was about as far away from 'scary' as a man could be.

The few scarce pictures of him on the internet showed a short, stocky man with kind eyes and salt-and-pepper curls, always dressed in un-ironed, crumpled button-ups with dorky patterns. Looking at him, I mused that there was a high chance he spoke with a stutter and that fact amused me to no end. Jekyll and Hyde, alright.

Lyra was much the same way. Shy and reclusive, with curly brown hair and doe eyes, she spent a good chunk of her first semester in college being avoided by everybody because of her last name; I, on the other hand, avoided everyone out of habit, I'd never been a social butterfly, but the way people subtly made sure to exclude Lyra from all the activities filled me with quiet, seething rage, and I stepped over my general distaste of people and removed my bag from the seat next to me so Lyra could at least study in relative peace.

Yeah, yeah, you've heard it all, I'm sure. Weird goth chick adopts a socially awkward, shunned nerd and they become best friends forever. I had to admit that under the shy exterior, Lyra was smart, witty and even funny sometimes. She was willing to entertain my crude jokes without moaning, at least, and I was perfectly okay with listening to her rant about science every now and then.

Rain banged on the slanted roof of the café we were hiding in, the autumn wind howled, making both of us shiver at the prospect of having to go outside, even if it was for a short moment to run to Lyra's dad's car. The day had started out warm and sunny, but much like a badly calculated chemical formula, it all went downhill a split second after we had set out to leave campus.

"There he is," the grouch in Lyra's expression had me once again unsuccessfully attempting to conceal my snorting.

Nonetheless, I followed her out into the rain, struggling to keep up with the brisk running in my platformed shoes, unceremoniously crawling into the car behind her without sparing a glance at the driver in my eagerness to get out of the freezing downpour.

"Hi, dad," Lyra's tired voice spoke up at the same time as I angrily shook out my hair.

"I've just about McFuckin' had it with New York," I was afraid the dye in my hair would bleed out into my clothes, or even worse, the nice, cream-colored car seats.

"Hello, ladies," the voice that greeted us was low, gravelly and apologetic to boot.

My eyes shot up, meeting an expression full of surprise and amusement. I stared at the shockingly handsome face of Dr. Bruce Banner like a deer in the headlights.

The fine mimic wrinkles had stretched into a resemblance of a smile, soft, plush lips revealing a set of straight, white teeth. The five o'clock shadow framed his jaw, giving it a sharp, defined edge, his clever brown eyes slid down my form, faltering on the pentagram on my belt and my fishnet-covered legs, settling on my chunky boots before hastily snapping back up to my face.

"Dad, this is..." Lyra's voice was full of suspicious bewilderment as she attempted to dissipate the sudden awkwardness.

"Oh, yeah, I'm Dr. Bruce Banner, but you can call me Doc or Bruce," he cleared his throat, turning himself towards the windshield and starting up the car.

"Nice to meet you," I busied myself with putting away any stray hair just to occupy myself with something during the time I needed to recuperate from being just... Looked at by Lyra's dad.

It sounds ridiculous, I know, but I was so taken aback by his handsomeness and his aura of a gentle but powerful man that the ride to Stark tower, however swift, went on in slightly awkward silence. The streets outside were, thankfully, noisy, and the lack of an attempt to have a conversation could easily be attributed to Bruce's need to focus on the road, but Lyra's increasingly concerned looks did very little to settle the sudden racing of my heart.

"C'mon, I'll give you some sweats so you can let your..." Lyra's vague gesture towards my upper body disappeared behind her side of the door. "Hey, Tony," she suddenly interrupted her sentence, very obviously addressing another person who I managed to miss as Bruce parked in the spacious garage.

"I've been told you're finally bringing your friend, Green Pea," a voice I'd heard a thousand times on the TV poked fun at Lyra.

She bent down to retrieve her bag, shooting big eyes at me and mouthing an exaggerated "Sorry!"

Tony Stark looked about a week in debt on sleep, a contrast to the way he usually appeared in public. The exaggerated eyebrow raise made me shuffle awkwardly in my spot; the Led Zep tee caught my eyes as I lingered on it, aware of my own Mötorhead top on display. He noticed it too, causing his face leave the snide territory.

"Wow, I didn't expect kids these days to have any resemblance of taste in music but you've surprised me, Corpse Bride," he gave me a quiet wolf-whistle, watching me through lidded eyes.

I felt my eyebrow crawl upwards at his attitude but Bruce spoke up before I could say anything: "Tony, no," so firmly, I had to raise both of my eyebrows. I felt a smile tug at my lips, the situation strikingly familiar in it's essence. Like father, like daughter...

"No," Lyra's identical expression, fond and annoyed, topped up with an accusing finger pointed in my direction had everyone snorting a giggle at the situation.

"Lyra," I whined, just so I could coax her grin that she was very obviously trying to conceal. "See, I told you, every crazy genius needs their emotional support nerd," I fixed her with a pointed look.

She promptly grabbed me by the arm, leading all of us to the elevator as the two men behind us shared a hearty laugh at my well-timed joke. It was either that or I would have completely embarrassed myself by gaping and drooling over both THE Tony Stark and Lyra's father.

The rush didn't stop there. I was promptly and generously offered not only a spare pair of pants but also a whole room to stay in after an invitation to dinner I simply could not refuse. Dr. Banner firmly coaxed me into staying overnight with his pleading eyes and a hearty seasoning of guilt tripping, softly crooning how he simply could not let a young woman to wander the cold, rainy night in NYC alone.

Tony added something too, in a tone way too surefire and patronising. I guessed he noticed my eyes lingering on Dr. Banner, being a genius and all.

In a short amount of time, I found myself seated at a dinner table next to a happy, giggling Lyra who'd downed a glass of wine and was well into her second. I found it adorable how much of a lightweight she was; not hesitating in the slightest to point out that fact when she made hands for a pitcher of water.

Tony was the first one to snark back something vague about his college days and all the wild parties he used to throw, booing Bruce upon discovery that he, in fact, actually studied in college in favour of partaking in various illicit activities. That had both me and Tony giggling with Lyra promptly joining in, both of us losing it over the running joke or her being either a test tube baby or the result of immaculate conception.

Bruce's face blushed scarlet. He sputtered, a few stray drops of his lemonade landing on the (ironed!) collar of his purple shirt, cough disappearing in the wake of Tony's truly amused cackling. Dr. Banner was well on his way to either choke on his Lo Mein or turn green; thinking quickly, I decided to defuse a situation by sharing a harmless, funny story that happened to me as a freshman.

"I went on a date with this guy who said that music was the most important thing in his life, and I thought, wow, that's so beautiful!" I began my story over Lyra's incessant snickering. "So we had dinner and went back to his place because I'm a whore," the whole table erupted in laughter at my deadpan remark, Tony reaching over to give me a high five.

"And as we got there, he put on one of his demos which was just a bunch of sampled and remixed Guns'n'Roses songs, and I thought wow, that's gotta be one of the worst things I've ever heard," I pointedly looked away as Lyra's cackling grew in volume, having heard the same story several times by now and the outrage I expressed at the situation first hand.

"But instead of that I said, wow, that's so cool! Then we did the thing and his whole bedroom was covered in Axl Rose posters and I'm sure at some point Mr. Rose stared right up my asshole," there were tears streaming down Lyra's face as Tony flopped his upper body onto the table and Bruce convulsed helplessly in a silent fit of giggles. "And then I thought to myself: wow, I would have to pretend to like his music if I dated this guy and I just couldn't do that..." I breathed out, succumbing to the mirth at the dinner table. "It was good but not November Rain good, y'kno?"

Bruce snorted loudly, sliding down his chair with a hand over his face. The table shook with the force of Tony's cackling; I didn't see his expression but the howling, rasping noises sent me into another fit of laughter, right on par with Lyra.

"Is this..." Tony rapidly inhaled the much-needed oxygen. "Is this why you keep wincing whenever I play the 'Roses in the lab?" Tony wheezed and Lyra nodded.

"I just... I can picture it, and I-" she made a vague, encompassing gesture and a face.

"Please, don't," I urged with a snort. "There are better ways to get disappointed."

Dinner went on by smoothly after that, everybody happily making remarks on my dating fail, the topic of Lyra's birth and Tony's college shenanigans dismissed.

I caught Dr. Banner's pointed look as we finished our dessert - he was studying me, eyes searching for something that he very obviously wished was there. From the damp roots of my hair to the soft, cotton top clinging to my chest, I wasn't left unscrutinzed and unexamined. Like one of the many specimens he studied on a daily basis, Bruce lingered on the many characteristics that made me stand out in the grey crowd.

"Would you like to see the labs?" He asked, appearing behind me without a single sound.

The freshly cleaned dishes clattered in my arms. I'd almost dropped them, startled, but Bruce's hand landed on the top of the stack right before the top plate would have slipped off and shattered into pieces on the cold tile of his kitchen.

Blood rushed to my ears. "I'd love to," my brain had briefly returned to reality, the rush of meeting both Stark and Banner succumbing to logic and reason. My and his fields of study briefly overlapped, the question he posed was more than reasonable. In fact, many people would cheat, lie and steal to be in my position.

Bruce smiled, opening a cabinet and taking half of the dishes I was holding to stack them up in their proper place. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, exposing wide, muscular forearms littered with dark, coarse hair.

I was sure my face was flaming. After waving off Lyra's attempts to put shoes on me and leaving her to watch her TV show, a wide, warm palm rested on the back of my waist, gently steering me towards the elevator.

I tried to keep my eyes off Bruce in the large mirror on the walls of the car as it swiftly moved down, scrutinizing my appearance instead. My throat bobbed, the elevator car suddenly too small and too hot.

His eyes left marks on me - invisible ones, the kind that I knew were there just from the scorching heat sizzling on my skin.

There was a certain je ne sais quoi about him. Perhaps, it was in the way he was acting - a polar opposite of what I'd had expected, Dr. Bruce Banner possessed a quiet confidence and his patience appeared to be endless, heartily doused with an appreciation for his closest ones. The way his eyes lit up in response to people smiling around the dinner table was hard to miss.

When Bruce spoke about his research - whatever wasn't classified, anyway - the spark expanded into a mischievous fire. I could hardly understand the nuances in his work, scratch that- I could not understand a single word he was saying, at all. The individual syllables registered as they should, but my traitorous brain could only focus on the way he licked his lips in between quickly inhaled breaths.

"You're not... Following, are you?" The corner of his mouth lifted upwards, clever brown eyes fixed on my face.

God, I hoped I wasn't drooling. But to deny the obvious would have been a stretch. "No, not really," I swallowed, willing my eyes to lift from the large veins on the hand that was pointing at a set of equations. Reasonably good at math any day, they looked like the scribbles of a madman to me at the time.

Dr. Banner sighed, letting silence creep among the whirring machinery in the lab for a brief moment. "I don't scare you?" He removed his glasses, cleaning them with the corner of his shirt.

The question reeked of self-doubt and, perhaps, insecurity. "No," I answered simply, not giving him the slightest chance to find doubt in my words. I was barely holding my voice from shaking, afraid he'd misunderstand my reaction to the sudden change in atmosphere.

He was closer to me than I recalled. My hip was almost brushing his, the bulk of his shoulder millimeters from touching against my bare skin, the smell of something herbal, like tea, and sharp chemicals clouding my senses. It was such a contrasting experience.

Bruce turned to me, an expression between hunger and regret forcing me to shiver and look him straight in the eye. A hand landed on my waist, holding me in place with gentle firmness. "I'm a monster, I could hurt you," he whispered, leaning into me like a touch starved kitten. The man screamed contradiction. "We shouldn't."

Vivid images of the Hulk and the rampages years prior flashed through my mind; the rubble, the collateral damage in the form of many lives. I barely remembered it, having been too little to really understand what was going on. One thing, though, I knew for sure: ever since the world became aware of Lyra's existence, there had been no incidents. Sure, the Hulk still appeared when there was a threat, but there were no documented incidents of the green creature running amok, accidentally.

"You won't hurt me," I spoke with conviction. Perhaps, I was bluffing just slightly but I wouldn't lie like that to myself. The variable, the... Twelve or so percent chance of things going... Awry, it made a small, malicious worm inside of me rejoice and fill my limbs with familiar adrenalised yearning. "You're not a monster. Far from it, actually," I used the hand that was not supporting me against the desk to gently cradle the side of his face, letting my fingertips brush over the rough five o'clock shadow on his cheek.

Bruce emitted a sound somewhere between an agitated grown and a pleading whine, sagging with the sound exhale, pressing himself flush with my chest. His face slipped from my palm, the warm tip of his nose running a steady line up my neck, sending goosebumps running wildly down my back as his hot breath tickled the arch of my throat.

"Baby," the nickname punched a stuttered gasp out of me with the intensity contained in just that one word. "I've been hearing all these amazing things about you," his voice dropped, low baritone rumbling straight into my ear. "I won't be able to hold back. I'll want you all to myself," his bicep flexed under my hand.

My knees would have bucked if I wasn't grasping onto Bruce for dear life after those words. I had some sense of personal pride in me, so while my body was an easy, traitorous thing, my mind was more than eager to participate in this game, to ping pong a little bit before... "Yeah? What things?" I breathed.

Teeth briefly closed around my tender skin, nipping for just a second. "You're kind, beautiful," his hand took a steadfast hold on the back of my neck, exposing my throat to his mouth. More skin to mark, more time to whisper. "Intelligent, bright and clever," the more he spoke, the fiercer he became. Bruce's grasp tightened until I was pliant in it, willingly following his silent commands. "A bit of a pain in the ass," a healthy dose of humour was added into the mix as my ass was roughly grabbed, our fronts pressed together at his insistence.

"That sounds about right," I didn't resist the sudden urge to snark, thoughts lazily floating in my head, like clouds on a bright sunny day, fleeting and sparse. None of them caught on. I was focused on feeling the need, on my need to feel.

A sharp smack landed on the plump of my ass, the sound resonating in the eerily quiet lab. The sounds of machinery had dulled at some point, leaving just the two of us panting our lust into each other's space. "I know you can be a good girl. Will you, princess?" His fingertips dug into my flesh, surpassing the soft sweatpants as if they weren't even there.

I could only nod, dumbly, overcome by the sudden rush of blood to my body. The life coarsing through me sang, demanding a release of the pent-up tension.

"What's that?" Bruce removed himself from my neck, catching my unfocused eyes with a crooked smirk on his lips.

"Yes," I swallowed, breathing through my mouth.

"Mmm," he hummed, running both hands over my sides, over the frayed edges of my Mötorhead top. He admired it, briefly, setting his eyes on the band logo that was right over my breasts. Having decided something to himself, Bruce promptly removed it, lifting it over my head with ease and leaving it right on the science lab table.

Taking hold of my hand, he walked over to a hidden set of sliding doors that revealed a rather large, frequently used bed, shutting them just as I walked in, wearing only my bra and borrowed sweats. My back was pressed to the door in mere seconds, hot palms chasing away the chill of the lab as Bruce slotted his lips over mine.

He tasted like something I've never had before. His lips - so plush and supple, took hold of the kiss with practiced gusto, sucking me in without a chance or the desire to escape. I drank from him, sucked on the bottom lip as his tongue explored my mouth, danced with mine.

The room was spinning, the ringing in my ears growing in volume. I was only partly aware of the sensation of sliding down the wall; our knees thudded on the carpeted floor simultaneously, heavy breathing the only noise I could distinguish.

"Breathe, baby, that's it," Bruce coaxed, gently stroking my nape. The soft cotton of his shirt crumpled under my fingers where I held onto him, desperately searching something to ground myself with.

The buckle of his belt clattered and then clinked again as he wrapped the worn leather around my wrists, bringing them together in front of my chest. I exhaled sharply at the intimate gesture, a whine bubbling up from my chest when Bruce used a single fingertip to raise my chin.

My eyes met his; a brown iris tinged with the faintest of green around the outer edge. "This okay, princess?" He sought my face for confirmation, for agreement, for anything.

I nodded, stuttering mid-gesture, remembering our previous interaction. My mouth did not want to cooperate but I forced it to, even if it came out as little more than a pitiful mewl. "Yes, daddy," the word, sweet and sticky like fruit syrup, poured from my lips.

My eyes slid shut as my conscience - or was it common sense? - took hold of the situation. I was on my knees in front of my best friends dad, a virtual stranger, and I'd just-

Bruce's soft chuckle stopped the negative spiral of my thoughts. "That's my girl," he sounded a tad more breathless now, a hairliner in his perfect façade of self-control. As if he'd sensed my indecisiveness, he tugged on the makeshift restraints, pulling me closer, closer and into his lap.

A warm, solid chest with a healthy amount of fluff greeted me. Bruce let my lax, pliant body fall into his arms, catching me effortlessly and bringing my face to his lips. "You have nothing to be ashamed of, you're my good girl," he peppered soft kisses all over my flaming cheeks, my twitching nose, my fluttering lashes.

"Please," I begged, shame giving way to the flood of arousal that seemingly hit me all at once. I was aware of the dampness collecting in my panties, the stiffness of my limbs from holding back the ravenous desire to paw at Bruce like a wild animal. "Please, daddy..."

"I know, I know, baby girl," he soothed, not stopping his tender assault on my face. "Daddy will make it all better. I know just what you need," Bruce finally pulled away. I heard the sound of him undoing his zipper and then the awkward shuffle of him shucking off his pants.

Somewhere in between of all that, he'd ended up sitting down on the bed, wearing only his boxers, his shirt hanging open. The red crawled down his chest, partially masked by the coarse salt and pepper hair; his lips were cherry red and his hair was sticking out in odd directions. Bruce looked sinful.

My eyes inadvertently landed on the impressive bulge in his boxers; in response to my widened eyes, he reached out for it, stroking the outline of his thick cock through his boxers. "Like what you see, baby?"

"Yeah," My mouth watered.

"Baby wants a fat cock?" He teased, sounding like he knew exactly what he was doing, testing my self-control like that. With a flick of his wrist, it sprang free, slapping against his tummy, coating the fine hairs with drops of clear, musky fluid.

I swallowed, feeling the taste of him from afar and yearning for more where I was parked between his spread legs.

In a gesture almost loving, he tugged on the belt still wrapped around my wrists, bringing my face to his leaking shaft and my hands to the base of it, letting me feel the weight of his balls in them. The cock throbbed, neglected, weighed down by the heaviness of his full balls.

"Go ahead, baby, suck my cock," the encouragement came with a gentle push to my head.

I obediently followed, wrapping my lips around the pink, moist crown of it, a hum beginning in the back of my throat. My God, Bruce tasted heavenly... I whirled and slipped my tongue a around his head, I dipped into the slit to drink the nectar right from the tap, idly coming to awareness of the broken, choked moans coming from the man above me.

Raising my head got me a view of his chin; head thrown back, the lax O of his mouth glistened in the meager light. My eyes slid lower, to the flex of his abs. Bruce fought hard to stay still. The desire consumed me, a sudden rush of power at having Dr. Bruce Banner's cock in my mouth and the man at my mercy; I inhaled, sliding my mouth further and further down his throbbing length.

"Fuck," I heard him mutter before his hands gripped the sides of my face. "Hungry, baby, are you?" His eyes glowed a faint green; I shuddered at the power he held within himself. Held back for me. "Tap my thigh twice," he spoke and I had no choice but to obey. "Okay. Do that if it gets too much, alright?" I nodded. He gave me a wide, beaming smile. "Good girl," he praised, experimentally bucking his hips into my mouth a few times.

In and out. I focused on my breathing, sharp, little inhales: his girth took up all the free space in my mouth, the tip of it barely fit into my throat. The burn, the stretch; I felt every tenth of an inch, every bulging attempt of my body to accommodate Bruce's huge cock. It was delicious, I couldn't help but crave the same stretch in my neglected, sopping wet pussy.

"Fuck, you're taking it so well," Bruce moaned wetly. "Your mouth... S'like heaven... Could fuck it all day, that's my good girl," the rambling increased in it's intensity as the pace of his hips hastened. Drool and tears flowed like a river; my chin was dropping with it, spit connected my face to his pelvis. "Oh," there was a brief pause to his movements; suddenly, he pulled out, fisting the base of his cock, staring me down with a ferocious gleem in his eye.

I must've looked a straight mess; my face like a crime scene, my clothes disheveled, covered in fluids and most of all - I was desperately grinding against my own feet, too focused on the glorious cock in front of me to notice the weakness of my own flesh. "Daddy?" I questioned, wincing at the grating of my own voice.

Without a word, the belt was tugged once more; in a set of movements just slightly north of acrobatic, I found myself laying on my back in the middle of the bed, my sweatpants suffering a haste demise in the corner of the room.

Bruce crawled atop me, leaving a trail of sloppy kisses on every inch of my skin he could reach, mouthing something inaudible into every pore of my body. As he drew closer, I discerned bitten-off phrases, stringing my desire into sticky, tangy mess at the apex of my thighs.

"My perfect baby girl," the words reached me; all tongue, he kissed me once more, arching into me as much as I arched into his hot grasp. A brief inspection of my face - he was satisfied with what he saw - and Bruce crawled back, settling in between my spread legs, breathing hot air on the lips of my sex still covered by a sopping wet piece of fabric.

"Oh fuck," I yelped, feeling him smooch it soundly, the hot wetness of his tongue penetrating the meagre lace barrier with ease.

He moved it aside anyway, with a single finger, giving my pussy a broad lick, moaning into my cunt like a man gone mad. It took a few more licks for him to feel sated enough to surface, all the while holding my hips down. I was so sensitive, I felt even the tiniest flicks to my clit, I was sure if I didn't cum then and there, I would explode.

"Such a pretty pussy, princess," his heavy breathing paused briefly. He nipped my thigh. "So wet, is that all for me?"

"Yes, yes, daddy," I rasped, pushing my cunt into his face, losing all shame and trepidation.

"So tasty," he continued the torture, outlining my lower lips before taking another nosedive right into it, swirling his tongue around every fold, sucking onto my clit.

Bruce ate my pussy until my thighs shook, until my core quivered and I could no longer hold back the choked, ragged screams starting somewhere in the low of my belly and coming out as unholy, all-consuming yowls filled with unadulterated lust.

"Louder for me, baby," he inhaled rapidly, and then, he sucked on my clit.

The world stopped, halted on it's axis, every muscle going rigid in my body and every nerve ending simultaneously coming alive. Faintly, I heard a chant, repeating two syllables over and over, it sounded like my voice - but I had no control over myself. All I could do was weakly grind my hips against Bruce's mouth, faltering when the crashing waves of my orgasm began to recede.

The infuriating overstimulation stopped; blinking hazily, I saw Bruce's eyes glimmer brown and green in front of my face. His nose and his chin was glistening with a thin coat of sticky fluid; disheveled and red, he looked a man on the verge of a revelation.

Something hot and blunt nosed at my cunt, bringing back the moment to me - I realized, with a great deal of impatience - how empty I felt. The decision was minute. "Daddy, fuck me, please, I want your cock," the words came easily.

"That's my girl," his eyes fluttered shut as the first inches squeezed through the snug of my cunt. I was sopping wet and as relaxed as I'd be, but even then, it was a stretch. "Good girl, good baby," the mumbled praise made me whine and my pussy clamp on his cock. "Relax, let daddy fill you up." Breathing through it, I consciously unwound myself around him, letting my palms rest freely on his shoulders. "Let daddy take care of you."

Like melted sugar, his husked words stuck to me inside and out. Short, sharp thrusts; Bruce was patiently burrowing himself inside of me, making his way to reach the deepest parts of me I didn't even know existed. His cock head pressed against something hard and spongy inside of me; stars burst behind my eyes I'd clamped shut on reflex.

I moaned weakly, tugging on his arm, pressing myself closer. It felt so, so good. Like a raw nerve had been exposed and he was stroking it, pushing that little switch with every stroke of his hips.

"I'm not gonna last," he muttered as once again, my cunt squeezed him snugly in place, just as greedy as I was to feel that tiny explosion spark up within me again.

"I want..." I panted. Bruce set in a punishing pace after that, a palm under my ass, squeezing it so hard there would definitely be bruising. I craved it, I needed to see the evidence this was not some elaborate fever dream. "I want... Daddy to fill me up," words came out garbled; it sounded like gibberish to my ears but Bruce - they spurred him on.

"Oh yeah?" That breathless, boyish cockiness was back in his voice again; despite how fucked out he sounded, I prepared myself for something truly out of this world. I just knew.

He sat back on his shins, dragging me by the hips with him, making me shiver and moan and twitch and clamp onto him again as his throbbing cock hit that special spot again. And again. And again.

"Look at me, baby," a hand on my belly and his eyes burning right through me. As they slid down, towards the apex of my thighs where he was still moving within me almost lazily, I saw it.

"Oh fuck," I couldn't utter much more than a two-syllabled profanity. There was a bulge in my belly, just above my pelvis, moving in rhythm with Bruce's hips. And then he pressed on it and I-

Something, someone, somewhere was screaming. The noise was loud and pitched, but even then, I could barely hear it though the neverending waves of bliss that enveloped my whole being. Gold and silver at the edges of my rapidly darkening vision; I was drowning in something that smelled and felt like Bruce. The safety of his arms, the warmth of his heated body, the rapid snapping of his hips-

Oh.

"I'm gonna, fuck," the last word was but a ghost of a human speech. Growling low and filthy, Bruce leaned into my ear, his breath hot and moist. "Mine," his hips stuttered, his cock nestled deep, the sensation bordering on painful, forcefully extracted pleasure. It throbbed with every spurt of his seed; each one felt like a solid punch in the gut to my abused pussy.

"Daddy," I mewled, my body jerking away from him but my mind and my soul yearning for more. His rapidly softening flesh made the idea of being separated unbearable.

"S'good, s'my good girl, m'so proud," he mumbled, looking slightly disoriented as he removed himself from me, immediately pressing me to his side and interwining any free, flailing limbs.

We laid in silence, each of us slowly coming back to Earth after the completely unreal experience we just had. I didn't know what to think, didn't know what to do as the realization set in, the post-orgasmic haze giving way to a sudden rush of clarity.

"I can hear you overthinking," Bruce's voice was fond.

Before I could muster up the courage to snark back, the divided doors opened, one very concerned Tony Stark standing there, armed with a tranquilizer gun in one hand and a pack of cookies in the other. His mouth, previously open to (probably) yell at us, remained as open when his eyes had registered the scene in front of him.

I stared at Bruce. Bruce stared at Tony.

"The noise," he offered in the way of explanation, dangling the pack of cookies, looking, for once - speechless. He recovered quickly, however, even if the remark was a thin ghost of his usual sass: "You pick the nerd over me? I'm hurt," he scoffed in mock irritation, although I was pretty sure I saw some satisfaction in there, too.

Bruce looked at me. I looked at Bruce.

A mischievous grin slowly crept up his face, an identical one beginning to appear on my own face seconds after.

"Hey, two nerds is better than one, right?" My response is what did it; or, rather, it was the evidence of my previous throat-fucking clearly audible in my voice... Tony dropped the cookies and then, the tranq gun.

Bruce Banner taglist: @pilloclock @mikariell95 @letsby @sleep-i-ness @toomanyrobins @persephonehemingway @mostly-marvel-musings @schemefrenzy @lillsxd @bluecrazedandbeautiful @slothspaghettiwrites @sapphicnoodle69 @couldntbedamned @xoxabs88xox @marvelsbanner @tripleyeeet @tatestripedsweater @stuckybarton

#bruce banner x reader #bruce banner smut #bruce banner x you #bruce banner x y/n #Bruce Banner #bun writes #I haven't written shit in a month and boom #6k words in three hours #i don't like the ending #I'm bad at them #okay #okay .

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crystalstar8 · 3 years

Text

Knights of the Night (ch 8)

Chapter 8aseball

Ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5, ch 6, ch 7, ch 8

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29139240/chapters/71536491

pairing: Jungkook x oc

genre: vampire au, college au, twilight, romance

word count: 2,668

warnings: blood (obviously), kidnapping, child kidnapping, needles, France

notes: vampires, vampire au, college, college au, so many twilight references, blood, needles, kidnapping, children, homelessness, dance, ballet, flashbacks, romance, slow burn, probably no smut, idk yet tho, France, French things, attempted genocide, inaccurate French history, bisexual main character, @strawberriewithchocolate-blog @mozy-j @daechwitad-2 @zobadak

summary: Catalina starts college in a small town all the way across the country. She doesn’t know anyone and isn’t exactly looking for friends. She just wants to focus on dance. But when she meets fellow dance major, Jimin, and adventurous, fellow freshman, Jungkook, Catalina ends up discovering a whole new side to the small college town; one that is dangerous but oh so enticing…

Catalina was no longer running, but she had yet to catch her breath. The room she was in was cement, and Jungkook lay in front of her. She tried to reach out to him, but as soon as she tried to move, her veins erupted into fiery pain. Her whole body seized, but just as fast as it came, the pain left, letting Catalina collapse to her knees. She crawled over to Jungkook and rolled him over onto his back. The wound on his head was scary.

“Kookie,” she whispered, trying to shake him awake. “Kookie, we have to get out of here. They’ll come back any second.”

Jungkook spoke without opening his eyes. He said, “When you become one of them, will you eat me too?”

The pain came back at full force, but didn’t last long as Catalina woke up in a cold sweat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So, you’re telling me that they’re actual real-life vampires,” Jimin said from the backseat of Jungkook’s car.

“That’s right,” said Catalina.

“That explains all that rotting food in the fridge,” said Jungkook. Catalina huffed as he cracked up.

“Yeah, never mind the fridge full of blood bags,” said Catalina.

“So, they’re real vampires,” said Jimin. “They could kill us if they wanted to, and we’re still hanging out with them?”

“I mean, anyone could kill anyone if they wanted to,” said Jungkook. He took a turn down a dirt road into the forest.

“They could do it so easily though!” said Jimin.

“They won’t,” said Catalina. “I really think they won’t hurt us.”

“Well, we’re playing baseball with them whether you like it or not,” said Jungkook. “God, I haven’t played baseball since I was seven years old, on that stupid little leagues team. Oh my god, I’m so excited.”

Catalina looked over at him with an eyebrow raised. He was practically vibrating in his seat. It was his idea in the first place. As soon as Catalina told him about her discovery, he asked when they’d get to play baseball with the vampires, vis a vis Twilight. To “reenact the greatest scene in cinematic history”. Catalina was just looking forward to spending more time with the four of them. She found them fascinating and there were so many questions she wanted to ask.

She snapped out of those thoughts as Jungkook took a side road. They ended up parking at the edge of a field. The sky was grey and thunder was rumbling. It was perfect weather for baseball. Jungkook seemed to think so too, since he was staring at the sky with a big smile on his face as he got out of the car.

There were two other cars parked in the field, a black BMW and a pink Jeep Wrangler with two yellow smiley faces on the roof. Jin and Jimmy K got out of the BMW as soon as Jungkook parked. Taehyung, Hoseok and Namjoon were already standing in the field, Taehyung practicing his swing. Yoongi was sitting next to the Jeep in a lawn chair, sipping wine from a glass. Catalina got of the car. She’s never played baseball before, so this should be interesting. Taehyung waved at them and ran over.

“You made it!” he said. “I’ve never played baseball before, but I did some research the last few days.”

“Meaning, he just watched some videos of ancient baseball games,” said Hoseok.

“There’s always a guy with the bat, and he has to hit the ball. And there’s the person who throws the ball,” Taehyung explained.

“I think everyone here knows how to play baseball, Tae Tae,” said Jimin.

“Jiminie! I’ve missed you!” Taehyung swept Jimin up in a hug. Catalina laughed but wished Taehyung hadn’t been interrupted. She really didn’t know how to play.

“I think I should just watch for a while,” she said. “I’ve never really played before.”

Jin sidled up to Jungkook and Catalina and whispered, “You said these guys were vampires?”

They nodded. Jin eyed the vampires on the field, then nodded, “Yeah that checks out. Normal people don’t look that good. Except for me, obviously.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Yoongi pulling open another lawn chair. She happily took the opportunity to skip over to him and sit down. The rest of the boys got set up on the field. Catalina wondered who the Jeep belonged to.

Being near Yoongi was different. He didn’t say or do anything, keeping his eyes on the field and sipping from his glass, but Catalina felt a dull aura of danger around him. She didn’t necessarily think he’d hurt her, but being around him wasn’t the same as being around the other vampires. There was definitely something different about him.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” Yoongi asked, startling Catalina out of her thoughts.

“No thank you,” she said. They both turned their attention to the field as the game began.

Jungkook was batting first, Hoseok taking his place in the center of the makeshift diamond as the pitcher. Namjoon crouched behind Jungkook as the umpire. Jungkook struck out the first time, but hit perfectly the second. He dropped the bat and took off running. Taehyung took off after him and caught him in an instant, tackling him to the ground. Instead of arguing that Taehyung’s supernatural speed was unfair, Jungkook laughed heartily as he pulled himself off the ground. This absolutely didn’t seem like something Catalina would like, but it was fun to watch.

The clouds began to darken and a slow rain began. Catalina pulled her hood up.

Taehyung was up to bat next, Jimin pitching. Taehyung flipped the bat, tapping the end and catching the handle. That was hot seeing it in the movie, but it was even hotter seeing Taehyung do it. She wondered if Namjoon could flip the bat like that.

“He won’t be able to flip it like that,” said Yoongi. Catalina’s heart skipped a beat. She stared at him as her mind raced.

“Can you…can you read minds?” she whispered. Yoongi chuckled and shook his head.

“No. But I’ve been around long enough to read people,” said Yoongi. “You were eyeing him in his too-tight t-shirt.”

“How old-“

The field erupted into laughter. The rain had picked up and the field was staring to get muddy. It seemed that Taehyung had tackled Jungkook again and they were rolling around in the mud, Jimin and Jin were laughing hysterically beside them. Their white t-shirts were practically transparent, clinging to their chests. Jungkook was more toned than Catalina expected…

Namjoon was up to bat next.

“Flip the bat!” Catalina shouted to him. “Flip the bat like Tae did!”

Namjoon tried to flip the bat, but ended up hitting himself in the face and dropping it.

“Told you,” said Yoongi.

“Whatever. It was worth a shot,” said Catalina.

The game went on and the rain got heavier. Luckily, Jungkook had the foresight to tell everyone to wear white t-shirts for the baseball game, because soon, everyone’s shirts were soaked and transparent. The ground was muddy and as Namjoon ran to home base, he slid across the ground, the mud splashing up around him dramatically. Jimmy K took the bat next. He was wearing shorts with his wet t-shirt, showing off his sturdy, oiled thighs.

“You’re drooling,” Yoongi said.

“Shut up,” said Catalina, unable to tear her eyes away from the game. She wiped her chin and sure enough, there was drool in the corner of her mouth. She couldn’t help it though. Everyone on that field was incredibly hot and they were all soaked. Their shirts left nothing to the imagination.

Catalina shifted in her seat. She wondered if Jungkook had checked the weather ahead of time and planned this. She made a note to ask him later. And if he did plan this, she’d have to thank him. She wondered if he knew what he looked like right now, with the wet shirt clinging to his abs and chest and hard nipples…

She only had to wonder for a moment though, because a few seconds later, Jungkook was lifting the bottom of his shirt to wipe the mud from his face, his eyes darting over to her. That son of a bitch knows exactly what he’s doing, Catalina thought.

Catalina was startled out of that train of thought as Yoongi stood abruptly, his chair falling backward. Catalina startled and looked at him with wide eyes.

“What? What is it?” Catalina asked.

“Shut up,” he said. His eyes narrowed as they darted around the tree line.

From the woods, three people strolled into the field. The boys stopped playing baseball and watched the three strangers approach. Yoongi joined them, Catalina close behind.

“I haven’t seen you four around, are you new to this town?” the man in the middle asked. He was big; tall and broad with a good natured smile on his face.

“No, we’ve lived here a long time. Are you new?” asked Namjoon.

“A bit,” the man said. “I didn’t realize there were more of us living around here. I figured we already met everyone.”

“Do you mind if we join your game?” the woman beside him asked. She was tall and blonde, a sinister red smile on her face. The third woman’s eyes flickered between the five humans.

“You even brought snacks,” she said. This woman had a thick Indian accent and dark skin. Her gaze was so piercing, Catalina felt as if the woman could tell what she was thinking just by looking at her. All three of them had blood red eyes.

“We were actually just leaving,” Namjoon said as he positioned himself in front of Catalina.

“No need to get defensive!” the man said, holding out his hands. His smile was still relaxed and charming. “We won’t take what isn’t ours.”

“Joon-ah,” Hoseok whispered. He was shuffling behind Namjoon, tugging on his sleeve. He looked pale and terrified.

“We can leave if you want us to, we just thought we’d introduce ourselves,” the man said. “We always love making new friends.”

Namjoon glanced at Hoseok, then looked back at the man with narrowed eyes. He didn’t say anything.

“My name is Makai,” the man said. He gestured to the blonde woman and said, “This is Amanda,” and then to the other woman, “And this is Mohati.”

“My name is Namjoon, and this is Yoongi, Taehyung, and Hoseok,” said Namjoon.

“You’re not going to introduce your human friends?” Mohati asked, sauntering over to Jungkook. Taehyung growled and stepped in front of him. Jungkook’s eyes were like saucers.

“I apologize for interrupting your game,” said Makai. “I can see you don’t need any more players, so we’ll be on our way. But here, take my card. Come visit us some time. We’re always on the lookout for fresh faces.”

He handed a business card to Namjoon then waved to the two women to follow him away. They left the way they came, into the woods until Catalina could no longer see them.

Namjoon looked at the card and said, “I think you guys should go home. Yoongi and I will follow you home. Taehyung, Hoseok, trail them to see where they’re heading.”

Hoseok shook his head furiously and said with a shaking voice, “No, no, nonononono we don’t have to do that. They’re probably not going anywhere, we can just go home and forget about it.”

Catalina looked at him with concern.

“Do you know those guys?” Yoongi asked.

“What?” Hoseok laughed the fakest, most nervous laugh Catalina’s ever heard. “No! Why would I know them? Let’s just take the humans home and forget about it!”

“Now, wait just a second!” Jungkook said, pushing past Taehyung and putting his hands on his hips. “Don’t we get a say in this?”

“No,” all four vampires said simultaneously.

“But there’s a mystery afoot!” Jungkook said. “They were sus!”

“Not a mystery for you,” said Namjoon. “We’re taking you home.”

“Yeah, I think I’m okay with just going home,” said Jimin, putting a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder. “This seems like too much for us.”

That was how Catalina found herself back in the passenger seat of Jungkook’s car with Jimin and Namjoon in the back seat. The BMW followed closely behind, the Jeep behind the BMW.

“Who do you think those people were?” asked Jungkook. His hair was drying, curling slightly at the ends. Catalina resisted the urge to run her hands through it.

“No idea,” said Namjoon. “I’ve never seen them before. There’s not many vampires this far south, so maybe they’re travelers? Or maybe they’re just new to town…”

“This is south?” said Catalina.

“Most vampire communities are farther north, like Canada and Northern Europe. Less sunlight.”

“What about Russia?” asked Jungkook.

“Russia is just as bad as France,” Namjoon spat the word “France” like the country had personally insulted his mother. “No one lives there. Anyway, they probably won’t hurt you since they saw you with us, but you guys should still be careful,” said Namjoon.

“Sure, whatever you say, mom,” said Catalina with a cackle. Namjoon didn’t look amused. “I’m kidding. I definitely don’t want to be their meal.”

They drove in silence for a while.

“Whose car is the Jeep?” asked Catalina. “Is it yours?”

Namjoon smiled and said, “No, it’s Hoseok’s. Taehyung bought it for him for his birthday last year, but Hoseok picked it out.”

“Are you guys all crazy rich? Like, the stereotypical vampires coming from royalty or whatever?” Jungkook asked. Catalina remembered what Hoseok told her at game night.

Namjoon laughed. “Yoongi actually did come from royalty, but not the rest of us. We’re just old enough to accumulate wealth.”

“Ah, to be old enough to accumulate wealth,” Catalina said with a dramatic sigh, fluttering her lashes at him, which pulled a laugh out the whole car.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Caleb waited for what felt like forever for something to change. He felt tired and cold all the time. The men came by every day to drop off some food and water, and then the needle went in for a while. Caleb hated that the most because it meant he’d get even more tired and cold. He didn’t even care about the needle prick anymore. The door was always closed, but Caleb remembered when he first came there, some of the doors were open. He wondered if he became too tired to move much, if they’d keep his door open. He would at least like to see what was happening outside of the little cement room.

One day, the door opened and some men set up another bed and blood bag stand on the other side of the room. Then the blonde woman came in. She was holding a lady in her arms, whom she laid down on the other bed. The lady was asleep. Caleb kept quiet as the blonde woman attached a needle to the lady’s arm, then left, closing the door behind her.

Caleb got off of his own bed and approached the sleeping lady. It was a bit difficult to move, he kind of felt like he was moving through molasses, something he heard his mom say once but never understood until now. The lady was pretty, she had dark skin and big curly hair. Caleb wanted to wake her up and warn her about what was going to happen to her, but when he shook her shoulder, she just twitched and stayed asleep. The men must’ve given her the sleepy water. They gave Caleb the sleepy water one day when he tried to pull the needle out and run away. He knew not to do that again, because the headache he had after he woke up was the worst pain he’d ever felt.

Even though the sleeping lady wouldn’t wake up, Caleb was glad to have a new roommate. And he was glad she was an adult. Maybe she could help him escape and get back to his parents.

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runningracingdancingchasing · 3 years

Text

SHAKESPEARE AESTHETICS :

ROMEO & JULIET:

suburban july. scraped knees. bruised knuckles. blood in your teeth. bare feet on hot concrete. restlessness. your high school’s empty parking lot. love poems in your diary. a window open to coax in the breeze. burning inside. an ill - fitting party dress. a t - shirt you cut up yourself. the time you tried to give yourself bangs. biking to your friends house. bubble gum. gas station ice. the feeling that you’ve met before. rebellion. a car radio playing down the street. cheap fireworks. a heart drawn on the inside of your wrist with a sharpie. switchblades. red solo cups. dancing in your bedroom. screaming yourself hoarse. running out of options. the forlorn looking basketball hoop at the end of a cul - de - sac. climbing onto your roof at night while your parents are asleep. flip - flops. a eulogy written on loose - leaf. the merciless noontime sun.

HAMLET:

speaking in a whisper. holding your breath. a browning garden. a half remembered story. furniture covered with sheets. fog at dawn, mist at twilight. losing touch. the ethereal space between winter and spring. the soft skin at your temple. the crack in the hallway mirror. things you’d say if you knew the words. uncombed hair. books with writing in the margins. books with cracked spines. books with lines scratched out. prayers on all souls’ day. a chipped ceramic bathtub. a cold stone floor. the uncomfortable awareness of your own heartbeat. the sparrow that got in your house. shadows. the creek you played in as a child. a dirty night gown. an oversized t - shirt. a collection of your favorite words. soil beneath your nails. ghost stories. the strangeness of your own name in your mouth. deep silence. exhaustion. a cliff with a long, long drop down.

TWELFTH NIGHT:

wicker deck furniture. new england summer. large sunglasses and a blonde bob. a storm over the ocean. patio umbrellas. flapping in the wind. the smell of chlorine. muffled laughter. sarcasm. starched cuffs. day drinking. bay windows. the idea of love. love for the idea of love. love for love’s sake. hangovers. wandering over the sand dunes. a vagabond with a guitar. fishermen with tattoos. a pretty boy with a slacked tie. a lighthouse. growing too close. boat shoes. feeling yourself change. big, floppy sunhats. double - speak. a song you keep listening to. turning red under their gaze. margaritas drank on an inflatable pool lounger. string lights on a balmy night. sleepy june days. fights you’re unprepared for. hope you weren’t expecting. pranks that go too far. bad poetry. pining. becoming less of a stranger.

MACBETH:

the space where your grief used to be. a bird that’s lost an eye. old blood stains. heavy blinds. the smell of sweat. the stillness after a battle. a fake smile. a curse. the taste of metal at the back of your tongue. your house, unfamiliar in the dark. a dusty crib. the smell of sulfur. an orange pill bottle. streaks in the sink. a black cocktail dress. your hand on the doorknob, shaking. a chilly breeze. crunching from the gravel driveway on a moonless night. clenched hands. a rusty swing set. a flashing digital clock stuck on 12 : 00. a snake that crosses your path. an owl that watches you. a dog that runs when you approach. red smoke, dark clouds. cool steel. tile floors. footsteps in the hallway late at night. a baggy suit that used to fit before. visions. insomnia headaches. nursery rhymes. being too far in to go back now.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING:

the high drama of small towns. a pickup truck. military supply duffel bags in the hall, hugs all around. tulip bulbs. a wraparound porch. a pitcher of iced tea. a rubber halloween mask. someone on your level. ill - timed proclamations. stomach clenching laughter. rushing in. not minding your business. crepe paper. white lies. secrets written down and thrown away. southern hospitality. homemade curtains in the kitchen. a sink full of roses. hiding in the bushes. old friends. the wedding dress your grandma wore, and her mama before her. a dog - eared rhyming dictionary. chamomile with honey. the intimacy of big parties. lawn flamingos. gossip. a crowded church. friendly rivalries. unfriendly rivalries. shit getting real. love at five hundredth sight. not realizing you’re home until you’re there.

KING LEAR:

cement block buildings. power lines that birds never perch on. the end of the world. useless words. rainless thunder, heat lighting, a too big sky. arthritic knuckles. broken glass. chalk cliffs. the pulsing red - black behind closed eyes. something you learned too late. wet mud that sucks up your shoes while you walk. a cold stare. empty picture frames. empty prayers. the obscenity of seeing your parents cry. a treeless landscape. bloody rags. grappling in the dark with reaching hands. the sharpness at the the tips of your teeth. the blown out windows of a skeletal house. decay. jokes that aren’t jokes. biting your tongue. prophecies. aching muscles, tired feet. stinging rain. invoking the gods. wondering if the gods are listening. worrying that the gods are dead. white noise. shivers. numbness. the unequivocal feeling of ending.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM:

the smell of wet soil and dead leaves. listening to music on headphones with your eyes closed. wildflowers. the distant sparkle of lightning bugs. a pill someone slipped you. fear that turns into excitement. excitement that turns to frenzy. mossy tree trunks. a pair of yellow eyes in the darkness. night swimming. moonlight through the leaves. a bass beat in your chest. a butterfly landing on your nose. a kiss from a stranger. a dark hallow in an old tree. glow in the dark paint. drinking on an empty stomach. a twig breaking behind you. spinning until you’re dizzy. finding glitter on your body and not remembering where it came from. an overgrown path through the woods. cool dew on your skin. a dream that fades with waking. moths drawn to the light. giving yourself over, completely. afterglow. the long, loving, velvety night.

Tagged by: @xiaolindude Tagging: @carpemusa (Drakken) @goofymuses (Goofy) @nononsenselady anyone else who wants it

#meme

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jaskierrrrrr · 4 years

Text

the four times Geralt refuses to admit he and Jaskier are friends and the one time he does???? aka I have a lot of feelings about my boys?? enjoy

***

The first time they meet, Jaskier immediately opens his mouth and doesn’t shut it again for God knows how long. Geralt finds it hard to keep track of what he’s saying; the sentences pour from his mouth like wine from a pitcher. He learns his name is Jaskier, he’s a bard and his sworn enemy is someone called Valdo Marx, all in about 30 seconds, and all unprompted.

Despite his annoyance at the bard’s- Jaskier’s- incessant talking, there’s a part of him that’s actually happy that someone’s willing to treat him like a normal man. Where the other patrons of the tavern had moved as far away from him as possible, Jaskier has no issue sitting across from him, leaning forward as he gesticulates wildly, pausing only to pause for breath or to shift the strap of his lute back up onto his shoulder.

‘So,’ Jaskier says brightly, snatching a sip of ale from Geralt’s tankard and ignoring the scowl on the Witcher’s face. ‘Where are we heading off to?’

Geralt can’t help but smile in amusement as he rises from the table. ‘We?’ he asks. ‘I don’t remember inviting you.’

Jaskier jumps up, falling in step with a soft smile. ‘You didn’t need to. What kind of friend would I be if I let you go off to fight monsters alone?’

‘We just met,’ Geralt points out; they’ve reached the stables and he greets Roach with a soft pat. ‘And I’m not your friend.’

Jaskier rolls his eyes. ‘I never said you were. But I’m your friend, and I’m coming with you, so there’s no point complaining.’

Geralt has nothing to say to that, so he doesn’t bother trying. He mounts his horse and sets off towards the mountains, and if he’s going at a slower pace so that Jaskier can keep up, well, that’s between him and Roach. *** The next time, Geralt hears Jaskier before he sees him. The bard had been travelling alongside Geralt for a couple of months when he’d mysteriously informed Geralt he had business to attend to.

‘Don’t worry,’ he’d said, winking as he packed up his lute, ‘I’ll be back before you know it.’

And now here he was. As Geralt rounds the corner, rolling his shoulders that ached from his latest fight, he sees Jaskier perched on Roach singing merrily. To Roach’s credit, she seems to be tolerating it remarkably well- normally anyone other than Geralt trying to approach her causes… issues.

Jaskier catches sight of Geralt and his eyes light up. ‘Geralt!’ he calls, delighted.

Geralt just rolls his eyes. ‘I thought you knew by now not to touch Roach,’ he says, but his tone is mild.

Jaskier slips from the horse, amusement sparkling in his eyes. ‘Oh, I forgot the Golden Rule!’ he laughs. ‘So, my friend, are you ready to tell me the epic tale of your latest heroic deeds? Or would you like to hear my latest ballads first?’

Geralt snorts. ‘I think I need a drink before I’m subjected to that.’

Jaskier smiles and wrinkles his nose. ‘And a bath too, by the look of it. You smell worse than Roach.’

He pats Geralt on the shoulder. ‘Come on,’ he says, leading Geralt to a nearby inn, ‘I’ve got rooms for us here.’ ‘How did you even know where to find me?’ Geralt asks.

Jaskier shrugs his shoulders. ‘Consider it as just another of my numerous talents,’ he says mysteriously, and Geralt just sighs before following him through the doorway.

***

Geralt really, really doesn’t know how Jaskier’s managed to rope him into this. It seems to be a talent of his; Geralt’s gotten into more ridiculous situations in the ten or so years he’s known Jaskier than in the rest of his life. Which is why he finds himself leaning against a pillar in a spacious banquet hall filled with the sounds of laughter and life, keeping a weather eye on the bard, who’s currently serenading the wedding party with love songs.

He’d practically begged Geralt to come as his protection.

‘It’s not my fault that I’m so desirable,’ he’d sighed, throwing himself into a chair, ‘can I help being so handsome that people want to sleep with me?’

Shaking his head in amazement, Geralt had replied, ‘Jaskier. You slept with the bride and the groom. And neither of them knows about the other’s infidelity. And you want to play at their wedding?’

Jaskier had looked up with pleading blue eyes. ‘Yes?’ he’d said, and so now Geralt was standing awkwardly in uncomfortable formal clothes that Jaskier had decided to force him into, as if him just having to be there wasn’t bad enough.

He sighed in relief when Jaskier finished his final ballad with a flourish and roguish wink to the crowd. He makes his way over to Jaskier, who rolls his eyes at the scowl on Geralt’s face.

‘Oh really, it wasn’t that bad, was it? You just had to listen to your very best friend sing for a couple of hours. Sounds like a very pleasant evening to me.’ He grins up at Geralt, but then catches sight of something behind him that causes the smile to slip from his face.

‘Ah,’ he says, ‘we should probably make a hasty exit.’

Geralt raises an eyebrow. ‘Why? Is the bride coming to kill you?’

Jaskier gulps. ‘Worse. It’s her mother.’

Geralt rests his head in his hands. ‘For fuck’s sake, Jaskier,’ he sighs, already grabbing the bard by the scruff of his neck and dragging him towards the exit. ‘I don’t know why I put up with you.’

Jaskier laughs. ‘Cause we’re best friends, silly!’ ‘Hmm,’ replies Geralt.

***

Oxenfurt is a bustling and lively place, bright with its brightly coloured roofs and narrow cobbled lanes filled with students and scholars, but Jaskier’s smile is the brightest thing of all. It’s been a couple of years since Geralt last saw him; Jaskier rarely accompanies him on quests any more, always blaming his age. To Geralt, he was as young as ever- the crow’s feet barely noticeable when compared to the vividness of Jaskier’s eyes, the grey in his hair nothing compared to the youth he exudes whenever he sings or talks.

He tries to visit him as often as he can, happy to sit by the fire and tell Jaskier everything he’s missed, happier still to hear Jaskier’s stories of his students and research. This time, Jaskier isn’t expecting him, so Geralt wanders the halls of the Academy, idly listening to the chatter of students, until he hears the voice he’s seeking.

‘Geralt!’ Jaskier calls over the shoulder of the random professor he’d been in deep conversation with. He strides towards him, grin stretched wide across his face, and claps Geralt on the shoulder. ‘My oldest friend, how are you doing? Have you missed me? Come, tell me what’s been keeping you so busy lately.’

Geralt smiles. ‘I’m well, Jaskier. I trust you are too?’

They make an unusual pair, especially in Oxenfurt. There are a few whispers around them, not of malice, mostly just curiosity, as they make their way down the corridor, easily falling into familiar rhythms.

‘Of course,’ Jaskier replies, ‘although I would undoubtedly be better if you would finally call me your friend.’ There’s no anger in his tone, only the fondness that came with a well-worn argument.

The corners of Geralts’s mouth tug upwards. He’d missed how easy it was to just be around Jaskier. ‘Surely after all these years you aren’t still expecting me to say it?’

Jaskier meets his eyes, and there’s something in his expression that Geralt can’t read. ‘One of these days,’ he says softly, ‘you’ll finally be able to admit it.’ He pauses, his expression almost sad for a moment before a smile returns to his face. ‘And I will never let you forget it,’ he laughs triumphantly, and Geralt can’t help but join in, both their voices bouncing off the walls.

***

It takes another decade for Jaskier’s prediction to come true. It’s been a particularly cold winter, and the wind whips through Geralt’s hair as he follows the winding path. His cheeks are smarting by the time he reaches Jaskier at the top of the mountain.

He freezes when he sees him, struggling to find the words. After several long moments, he finally opens his mouth.

‘Well, here we are,’ he says. ‘I can’t believe I’m actually about to say it.’ He pauses, frowning. ‘Actually, I can’t believe it took me so long to admit it.’

He looks away, up at the clouds swirling above them and focuses on the few white flakes that have started to float down from the sky. ‘Jaskier. You are the best companion anyone could ask for. And I hope you know-’ Geralt’s voice cracks, and he drops his head, breathing in the cold air for several long seconds before he’s able to continue. ‘And I hope that you know, that I’ve always considered you my best friend. Even if I never said it out loud until now. I hope you know.’

Geralt raises his head and sets his jaw, nodding once at his friend before turning and walking back down the path, the cold freezing the wetness on his cheeks.

And as the snow falls like dust on his best friend’s grave, Geralt doesn’t look back.

#geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher #my writing #i made myself sad #i love them so much #geraskier #fic #sorry im posting so much

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fictionbyafangirl · 3 years

Text

Tundric Heart

Most shifts that Jill worked were uneventful. The co-workers that she shared shifts with were always the same. Clark was the cook, and if need-be, the bouncer. He was a large, middle-aged man that had served in the army for a few decades. Burly when he had to be, he could be intimidating, but to Jill, he was just the sweetest. Typically, the waitresses had around an hour or two of overlap, which usually meant Trina, a woman who worked three jobs while finishing up college. She was honestly an inspiration and Jill admired her hard work. Trina always set the brunette up for a successful shift. Her regulars were there nightly, without fail.

“Can I get you gentlemen a refill?” She’d usher coffee to Glenn and his brother, Jack, as they wrote up itineraries for their senior’s club right at the bar. The eldest brother, Glenn, preferred his coffee black and straight up. It was amazing how he could swallow the piping-hot liquid just as soon as it was poured. Jack, on the other-hand, liked a bit of sweetness and cream to his, a stack of half-and-half cups usually towered next to his saucer that housed his brew.

“Maybe one more before we go,” Jack mused aloud before placing a sticky note down in his planner. “It seems like a chilly night and I’ll need all the warmth I can get when I leave.” He was cheeky, and Glenn’s chuckle showed that he agreed. Jill topped their mugs off with her customary smile before saddling the pot once more to make her rounds.

“How are you doing over here, Miss Bernice? Need any refills or can I put in a to-go order?” Bernice, and her binder of papers scattered all across the table, did the books for her local church congregation. She had been born in the city and lived her entire life, practically knowing everyone that lived in the area. Her strawberry blonde hair had shifted to a pearlescent white over the years, with one streak of her natural color still weaving its way through.

“You know, I would love another glass of sweet tea, if you could, dear?” Bernice was sweet, grandmotherly in her nature as she smiled with her whole face, her eyes nearly disappearing behind the pleats in her matured skin.

“You got it,” Jill winked before departing from the table to her station with the glass in hand. With ease she punched the addition to Bernice’s order before finding the massive pitcher of sweet tea that Trina had stored in the fridge at the end of her shift. Within a minute, she had the refill back to the woman, glancing to her next table to tend to.. “All set, dear.”

Holliwell, or as she would become known as: Holli, would sit in her booth, solo, to work on her graphic novel. She wasn’t much of a talker, but was kind enough. Jill and Holli mostly stuck to a series of nods and hand gestures, particularly a thumbs-up, for their communication after initially serving her what she normally ordered. The gang of college guys that lived together always had their dinner at the diner, and they always were Jill’s source of entertainment. The group consisted of Matt, Jerome, Steven, Jared and Paul. They were lively, comedic and good-natured. The young men were roommates that rented a house a few blocks from the diner. As typical, collegiate bachelors go, they weren’t blessed in the culinary department and often found themselves at their usual spot with two tables pushed together. They inflicted some harmless flirting onto her, to which she respectfully declined and they would carry on with their stay.

The night would always entail the same, expected things and Jill was comfortable with that as opposed to the opposite. She had worked in a rowdy bar once while trying to make ends meet in her own school days. Between sports nights and events held at the bar, she was constantly having to take care of conflict. She had been thankful for bouncers and speedy policemen before she couldn’t handle the chaos anymore. Simple and quiet suited her as she grew in age, and nonetheless, she loved the relationships she had built with her regulars. Whether it was hearing about their prime or just simply what they had done that very day, she was a welcome ear to chat at. That evening that she worked, everything had been happening like clockwork, that is, until he walked in.

The moment he walked through the door, Jill couldn’t help but to keep an eye on him, subtly watching him take his seat. She hadn’t been the only one who’s attention was grabbed by him. Instantly, Bernice’s watchful eye was on him the moment she heard the chime of the door, casting her eyes back to the array of numbers she balanced, though occasionally checking on him. He was clad in all black like a walking mystery shrouded in secrecy. He was a mixup from her typical shift. Since he shielded his face with his hat, she wasn’t sure if she should approach him, but her better judgement told her to treat him as if he were any other customer. Jill topped off Glenn’s coffee, almost forgetting to pay attention as her focus was pulled elsewhere.

Thankfully, she regained her rights and made sure her current customers were taken care of before making her way to the mob of young adult men who were particularly rambunctious this night. She overheard garbled conversation of advancing to the state playoffs which filled in all the gaps she needed to know. With her order booklet ready, she made rounds. They typically didn’t venture from what they frequently ordered, which made Jill’s life a tad bit easier.

“Hey Jill, when are you going to let me take you out of this place to a real restaurant?” Paul smirked at her, having given similar variations of the same line to her in the past. The blonde man with brown eyes was a football player for the local college, hoping to make it big. In fact, they all played for the football team. Paul had always been the most vocal about his flirting, clearly having not been turned down in his hometown very often. Jill didn’t know if his jaw could drop any faster than it had the very first time he asked her out and she declined. He recovered quickly and played it off as though he had only been half-serious, but she could see he had been slightly jilted with the word ‘no’.

“When you can afford me, so… never?” She was quick and clever when it came to shooting them down. The boys had never gone beyond playful, to which she was thankful for. “So, who is next? Who’s gonna shoot their shot now?” Jill gestured for the next grab, though it was evident that she was being lighthearted with them. All were hysterical, always prompting laughter from the waitress’ lips. They varied in the degree of their attempt, Paul usually being the worst and Steven being the gentlest. Matt was from the Northeast with his evident accent that he swore he didn’t have. Jerome was from the south, vowing to make his mother proud with his grades and athletics scholarship. Jared was from the Northwest, a country boy that tended to the family farm but broke off with bigger aspirations in life. Steven was a lean Asian man that defied his family to play football. They had planned his life for him, which he didn’t dream of. Jill was proud of him for standing his ground to live his own life. He was, by far, the sweetest of the bunch with his pickup lines, which the waitress surmised was just to fit into the situation. Everyone else was doing it, so he figured he would, as well. It almost made her want to accept his proposal just to mess with his friends, but almost wasn’t enough to convince her of doing so. She addressed each one, waiting for the playful pickup lines before shutting them down with grace, poise and a smile on her face. It was flattering that they found her attractive despite having ten-or-so years on them. She took pride in how she kept herself together, applying extra effort when need be, but she took care of herself and apparently it showed.

As she jotted down each meal order, Jill couldn’t help but to feel as though she were being watched by a spectre in the corner. He had been so silent, so still the entire time. It was eerie, yet she wanted to see his face, which was beyond her. She wanted to find out the reasoning behind the masking. She wasn’t sure what to expect beneath the hat, nor did she know if she’d even get that far. Finishing with the young men, she took a minute to go pin the checks to the order wheel, momentarily shielded by the walls that formed the cook’s alcove. Using a small mirror, she used her fingertips to give her hair a tousle and re-apply her lipstick, a warm nude color, rubbing her lips gently together. The man was new to the diner and it was her job to ensure he had a pleasant time to return. Jill’s boss had confided in her the troubles the diner had hit so any customer was a step toward keeping the doors open.

Jill drew in a long breath that rooted itself in her stomach, her chest raising and falling as though weighted down with an anxious feeling before walking out toward the table that sat the cloaked gentleman. She couldn’t for the life of her figure out why she was so curious and intrigued about him. For all she knew he could have been a homicidal maniac just moments from breaking out in a murderous rampage. Yet something nagged at her, drawing her interest to him as her feet, quite literally, brought her physically closer to him. Each step was heavy in its placement, a specific destination lying ahead of her. The diner was typically kept at a pleasant temperature, with the exception of days with colder weather, such as the evening she was working, that the staff would dab the thermostat up a bit. With the cook’s ovens and burners constantly blazing and the hot coffee brewing into stainless steel carafes all day long, Jill always found the climate within the diner to be suitable for how she dressed. She had chosen the comfortable flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up after checking the weather before her shift, though she noticed as she neared the lone table against the glass that she seemingly became colder, a chill dancing atop her flesh. Bringing her hands briefly to rub over the top of the sleeves of her shirt to warm herself, Jill continued on her path.

The waitress pulled a deep, reassuring breath through her lips before approaching the table. The bill of the man’s hat had been pointed in the direction of the opposite side of the diner, never moving once he settled in. Without thinking, Jill took the few extra strides to move in front of his view, her hands moving to perch on the curve of her waist before speaking as she smiled though his face never once glanced up to acknowledge her. She could practically feel Bernice’s prying eyes boring into her back, shielded by the waitress.

“Hi, there! I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. My name’s Jill and I’ll be your waitress on duty tonight. What can I get you?” Jill added a bit of pep to her voice, her one hip subtly cocked out to place most of her weight on the corresponding foot. She tried, for the life of her, to figure out why she wanted to hear what his voice sounded like so badly in that very moment. Perhaps it was the classic trope of the good, innocent girl and the bad, mysterious boy but he was such an enigma to her. Her eyes followed his hand as he fumbled with the menu provided, but still, he didn’t move his head a single inch. She anticipated hearing him speak. She could see from his nose down to his chin and neck, which from what she saw was more than appealing, but he remained in the shadow of the bill of his hat. Jill wasn’t sure if hearing him speak would alleviate her curiosity or add to the mystery, but she still waited to hear him.

“Green tea. Iced.” His voice was low, yet smooth. A mixture of a whisper and coarseness. Jill felt every hair on her arms raise in reaction, her flesh prickling as a small shudder swept over her. His voice was far different than what she had imagined in her mind, but it wasn’t different in a bad way, based on her body’s involuntary response to three simple words. Yet, those three words, watching them leave his mouth, watching the details of his lips as he formed them was enough for her to forget for merely a moment where she was and what she was doing. Blinking hard to bring herself back to reality, Jill fumbled with her hands to grab her order pad and pen, giving one blunt nod before scrawling down his request.

“Iced green tea, coming right up. What’s uh… a name I can put on this order?” The waitress hoped she recovered nicely to not expose her nerves. Why on earth was she so timid and coy when it came to this man that she didn’t even know? Confusion didn’t even begin to touch the way she felt inside, knowing that this elusive man was simply another customer, yet still, there was a strange, baffling draw toward him. Jill’s teeth found the inner-edge of her lips, gnawing as the tension of the moment flared. At least she’d have a name for half of the face.

“Brian.” Faint and subdued, just as before, though she did detect a hint of an accent. More curiosities swirled around in her brain as she then began to wonder about where he was from, what brought him here, of all places. What he did. She just simply wanted to know him… though finally, she had a name. She thought of asking more, but instead, she kept her professional distance. If he had the capacity to peek inside her mind he’d surely be out of the door in an instant. Still, she wasn’t a moron as he definitely made it known through his demeanor that he surely didn’t want to be bothered.

“Right. Iced green tea for Brian, coming right up.” Jill held the book of paper and pen to her chest before twisting around on the balls of her feet, her hair swinging listlessly as she made the turn. Despite her wanting to keep in his company and continue asking him whatever popped in her mind, his disposition made her better judgment kick in.

Jill found herself at her work station, entering her credentials into the kiosk. She gripped the edges of the table and bent over to release a long, shaky breath as it loaded the program on the screen. Her eyes closed briefly, unable to pinpoint exactly what in the hell was up with her that night. She never lost her cool, and more importantly, never felt so compelled to a stranger. ‘Get a grip, Jill. Snap out of it’. She was glad her brain still had a semblance of rationality. Bringing herself back, she lifted her head to punch in the order for the table before suspending it to make the tea. It wasn’t ordered often in the diner, but the task had seemed simple enough. She placed the tea bags into the cup, pouring half of the water from the heated spigot to allow it to steep. While she waited for the essence of the green tea to infuse with the water, she prepared a saucer with an array of sweeteners and a straw, making sure each placement was precise and to her liking in a circular fan-shape. She couldn’t figure out why on earth she was putting so much thought into it but still, she strived to make a good impression. Once the tea was ready, she added the rest of the cold water and ice to top it off. She placed the glass in the center of the display of paper packets and ushered it over to his table, swallowing hard as the distance between them closed.

“Enjoy, Brian... “ Jill smiled as she sat the tea down on the table beside him, though he couldn’t see her expression through the thick material of his hat, opting for a slight nod instead. Jill lingered for just a moment before pacing backwards slowly away, turning on her heel to check in with Holli, then next Bernice, and finally to check on the group of guys, occasionally casting a glance Brian’s way in hopes to catch a glimpse of his full-face. He was stoic as he sat, his hand only moving to take idle sips of the tea, opting to drink it plain. She hoped she had prepared it well enough to his liking.

He never ordered anything else. The entirety of his stay he nursed that tea and made it last throughout it. Jill had said her goodbyes to Glenn and Jack, sending them off in their usual manner before closing their tab and setting aside the same allocated tip they always left on their bill. It wasn’t much, but it was a nice gesture. The meals of the college students were ushered out swiftly. Next came her duties of refilling condiments, prepping for the next shift that would relieve her. It was all about helping out. She cleared Holli’s table after she had left, though Holli only ever ordered appetizers, keeping her table free of obstacles as her pencil was constantly on her sketch pad.

“Anything else I can get for you, or are you packing up for the night?” Next was the bookkeeper’s turn as she helped Bernice gather her things and return them to her orderly nature. The bookkeeper was growing older in age and appreciated all the help she could get. Jill crouched down to the elder woman’s level as she leaned in close, one defined brow among her wrinkly complexion arched in suspicion as she glanced toward the massive pane of glass.

“No, I’m doing just fine. But have you seen that fellow over there? I don’t know about you, but he seems up to no good… So very odd.” The woman’s voice was gravelly, yet quiet. Her deep, blue eyes fixated on him as though she were the watch-person for the diner. Truth be told, she was a nosey woman who loved to impede where she could. Shifting on her feet, still crouched, to cast a glance at the man in black. She couldn’t help the chill that trickled down her spine in the most exhilarating way. She captured her plump lower lip between her teeth, gently biting down in thought before turning back to the matronly woman.

“Oh, stop that, Bernice,” she said teasingly to her customer. “That doesn’t seem very becoming of you to judge someone you don’t even know. Besides, he’s probably just passing through and you’ll probably never see him again. Maybe he’s waiting on a car repair and has nothing but time to sit and relax? You just don’t know.” Jill was right and Bernice knew it. Her pride made the older woman turn her nose upward, her chest puffed as though she would rather appear courageous in her accusations than recoil in defeat. Jill gathered up the clutter after assisting the woman, though after Jill’s remark, she managed to finish cleaning up her things on her own. Pride could be unbecoming for some.

Jill brought the dirty dishes to the back to throw in the washer in her off-time before it was time to close out the group of friends and their order. She collected all their payment methods and returned with their corresponding receipts. They had always been kind tippers, despite being college students. Their mothers would be proud. She said her goodbyes, wished them safe travels and told them she’d see them the next night, just as though it were second nature. Her smile was bright as her eyes followed them toward the door, noticing Brian had left already without a trace. Jill’s eyebrow quirked as she made her way to his table to clear the untouched saucer and glass. He had finished the beverage completely. Lifting each item, she noticed the bill tucked beneath the condiment holder. He had left a fifty dollar bill to purchase a two dollar drink with free refills. The edges of Jill’s lips twitched upward in a smirk as she picked it up. She was more than flattered but knew she was undeserving of such a tip. As her eyes lifted to peer through the glass into the dark and rainy evening, they settled on the abandoned building outside, seemingly in a daze of hoping she’d left a good enough impression that he’d return.

Jill put the remainder of Brian’s money into an envelope to stow in her locker in the employee’s break room. If he’d come back, she’d kindly remit it back to him. She’d give it a month before accepting his generosity, though it was hardly something she expected with how impersonal he had been with her. Despite that, she still looked forward to his presence, should he show again, more than she should have.

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seiin-translations · 3 years

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2.43 S1 Chapter 1.7 - Young Yunichika

7. (COOL BUT WORST) PLAYMAKER

Translation Notes

1. The term used here, 球威, means “pitcher’s stuff”, which basically refers to how effective a pitch is at being the pitch it’s supposed to be

2. Refers to the popular myth/saying/action that writing the character for “person” on your hand and then pretending swallowing it will relieve stress

3. Some neat wordplay here. アタッカー並み means on par with an attacker, but 並みのアタッカー means average attacker

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He felt like he could see Haijima’s smug face painted on the raised set. It was after the opponent blocker fell for the decoy in front of the net and jumped. Kuroba jumped in from behind the decoy with a back-row attack. From the point of view of the opponent blocker, a new shadow suddenly shot out from above the decoy’s head. This was the combination they were best at, called a pipe attack, and it should have been already analyzed by the opponent, but it felt great to be given a face of astonishment that said, “How did you appear there!?” every time. This is the moment when I’m the coolest one on the court.

Haijima’s sets were completely different than his senpai setter’s sets from last year. Kuroba still couldn’t explain it in theory, but even though his senpai’s sets were a big arch that “went up and fell down,” Haijima’s sets “didn’t fall down.” The ball was thrown “straight” to the place where it could only be reached by stepping in the fastest, jumping the highest and swinging his arms at the highest point. If he didn’t stop it, it would just whoosh past him. In practice, he constantly missed the timing and missing the ball, which ended into arguments. While he became reckless everyday, desperate to stop the ball next time for sure—a strange phenomenon occurred today.

As long as he jumped and swung his arms with all strength, the ball would be there. The sets fitted into his hands so cleanly, like they were sticking to his hands, that there was not even a millimeter of deviation. All he had to do was to add power and hit it out with a nice feeling. He cut through the gaps in the opponents’ defense, who were unable to take a step, and landed after seizing the ball with his eyes until it pierced the court. “Yes!” he pumped his arm into the air, still on his knees.

“Yuni!”

“You were so cool!”

While his gathered teammates messed up his hair, he searched for Haijima. He caught a glimpse of Haijima, who was always on the outside of circles like these. Haijima smiled thinly and nodded.

The rotation moved once, and Kuroba came up to the front row right after he did a back-row attack in the back row. When Haijima went down from the front row to serve in exchange, they exchanged a low high-five as they passed each other.

July 26th. The first round of the boys’ volleyball division for the Prefectural Middle School Summer Games, taking place on the two courts of A and B in the Suzumu City Municipal Gymnasium. In the first game on Court A, Monshiro Middle already took the first set. For the second set, the other side came close in the middle of the game because of a disordered receive, but they didn’t allow them to form a comeback and extended a wide lead again to close out the set. It was a three-set match, so if they took this set, they would have a straight-set win.

Haijima moved back considerably in the service zone, almost to the wall, and got into the serve position. He put the ball in his left hand and extended his arm straight out in front of him. His narrow eyes were narrowed even more sharply and he stared at the other side of the net with a fixed gaze. For a moment, the stands that were cheering loudly fell deathly silent. Everyone held their breaths at the clear, intimidating something Haijima was clad in.

Taking just one second to lightly adjust his breathing, he tossed the ball up high without any perceivable jump and hit a powerful jump serve from a beautiful, textbook-like form. The gym became filled with cheers that bordered on roars once again.

But it was a bit too long. It’s out—Kuroba could see it in his eyes, but there was no time for the receiver to avoid it. The ball bounced up all the way to the ceiling with such tremendous power (1) that the receiver nearly fell over.

Ah——.

His body moved naturally before he could think about it, and he jumped. Above the net, he caught hold of the ball that returned directly and knocked it down to the opponent’s court.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

Since sixteen schools participated in the first round, the passages behind the gym were crowded with players in jerseys of all sorts of colors, teachers, and management staff.

“Somehow while I was in a daze…”

“We won!”

“With a team of only eight people!”

“Yuni, you reacted well to that direct one.”

“Well, I guess. For some reason, I feel like I can see the ball really well today. Also, when I see the opponent’s faces, I somehow know what they’re gonna do.”

“What the hell’s that, that sounds cool. I’m falling for you!”

“We should have talked to the girls from class more. All I could hear was the moms’ voices.”

“Agh, I was switching the moms’ voices with the girls’ voices in my head, but you just dragged me back to reality!”

Having finished their match in good time, everyone was still in good spirits, and there was a constant stream of excited chatter. It seemed that the match that started at the same time in Court B was carried over to the third set, so muffled cheers and the sound of the ball bouncing could be heard. When he wondered why this extremely stupid conversation never ended, he realized that it was because Haijima wasn’t there to chop through the mood. He was supposed to be with them when they left the court, but…

Their advisor, who had said he was going to drop by the management headquarters, came back just then.

“Sensei, do you know where Haijima is?”

“He went back inside. The second match in Court A is about to start soon. He said that he’s going to go watch it since it’ll decide who we face in the second round.”

“Eh…He didn’t have to go alone.”

If it’s for our next opponent, then shouldn’t we all go scouting them out, not just Haijima? A tinge of dissatisfaction sprouted in his heart as he thought that he should have at least called out to them.

“Didn’t Haijima want to give you guys a break because he was worried? You’re fine now, but if you get too excited, you won’t enough energy for the second round.”

Haijima worried about them? It was a phenomenon that seemed like it wouldn’t happen even if the heavens and earth were turned upside-down. It was exactly a phenomenon. It was equal to a natural disaster that only happened once every few hundred million years or so.

But, it was true that playing two games in one day was unfamiliar terrain for them. Although everyone seemed to be in good condition right now, it was hard to predict how tired they would be in the second game.

“But, you know, I knew Haijima had volleyball experience, but I didn’t expect him to be that good. Even when I stopped by the headquarters earlier, teachers from other schools kept coming up to me and asking who that player was.”

“Hey, what about me? They didn’t ask about me?”

“Hmm? They didn’t.”

“Tch. My efforts always get overshadowed by Haijima.”

When he pouted and grumbled that, he was soothed with “You’ve got this from now on.”

“Keep this up for the second round. Don’t get too worked up about it and just have fun with everyone.”

He thought he was in good form and stood out quite a bit, but he guessed that Haijima’s skill was so outstanding that his own level wasn’t enough to leave an impression. He couldn’t believe that he was getting noticed by the volleyball team advisors from other schools, who was probably much more discerning than their own advisor.

“We’re gonna win”—Haijima was extremely confident, but at the same time, he was a realist. He never gave lenient assessments to himself or others, and he wasn’t the type of guy who would say soft and easy effort goals like “It would be nice if we could win.” He said that back then because he had a serious expectation that was possible.

He had a feeling now that it really might not be a dream if Haijima was there.

If they won four times, they won the championship. They had already cleared one match. Three more to go.

We can…reach it…?

I want to win, he thought. I want to win next time too. And after that. And then if we win after that—. When he heard it in June, he felt a lot of bewilderment, but now for the first time, he definitely wanted to win. His heart began to beat fast.

***

Right when they entered the venue since the time for the second round’s official practice was approaching, cheers similar to an angry roar rose up, and the entire team leaned back in the same direction despite themselves.

A horizontal banner—which wasn’t there in the first round—with the words “Monshiro Middle School Boys’ Volleyball Team” written with excessively good handwriting was hanging from the second-row bleachers. And next to that, there was a square flag with “Spread your wings! Kuroba UNIVERSE!”

His face turned hot.

“Wow. Yuni’s cheering squad is amazing.”

“It’s like we’re at Koshien.”

His teammates were more taken aback and put off rather than being jealous. Their parents formed a small cheering squad for the first round, but it was just a modest thing where they cheered for their children on the spot, with no bells and whistles or anything else. The huge cheering party that newly appeared completely swallowed that up, sounding their megaphones loudly and as for his relatives, they were shouting in voices that couldn’t be called refined.

“…That’s Grandpa’s writing.”

On a pure-white cloth, the words “Monshiro Middle School Boys’ Volleyball Team” were written in bold, stirring letters like a rampaging dragon in all black ink. Come to think of it, when he went out this morning, his mother was in a hurry making phone calls to here and there. It would have been better if his family had just come here modestly instead of taking the time to organize something like that and be late for the first round.

The other one, “Spread your wings! Kuroba UNIVERSE!”, had a black background and decorated with sparkly gold tinsel, and it was a lot more lowbrow than his grandfather’s single brush stroke. Right above where that deathly embarrassing flag—which he thought of as more like harassment—was hanging, he saw Itoko shouting into a huge megaphone. …If she had the time to prepare that, she could have come for the first round. You should have seen that really nice back-row attack in the first round.

Yorimichi…didn’t seem to have come. He couldn’t spot him as far as he could see. He was sure he would have heard that there was a game today through Itoko.

“Oh, Haijima, your grandma came. I wonder if my mom also invited her.”

He tugged on Haijima’s uniform and whispered that into his ear. “Huh…” Haijima didn’t look all that happy as he looked up at the stands, straining his eyes as a wrinkle formed between his brows.

“Can’t see her.”

“Right there. She’s above ‘team.’”

“Even with contacts, my eyes aren’t as good as yours. It’s fine.”

He immediately gave up and returned his eyes to the court.

“Concentrate, Kuroba.”

He said in a low tone. He can see Haijima’s consciousness narrowing and condensing. As though saying that the world he needed only existed inside that nine-by-eighteen-meter court, he raised his awareness by shutting out outside gazes and cheers. He could feel that the power of his concentration that made his skin tingle just by being next to him.

“Y-Yeah. Got it.”

Kuroba responded vigorously with all his might, but even if he took his eyes off the stands, he couldn’t get rid of the feeling of being surrounded his relatives’ faces, faces, faces from 360 degrees.

The rotation started with Haijima on the right back as the server and Kuroba “diagonal” to him on the left front. The rotation was made so that Haijima, who was strong at serving, got to serve as much as possible, and either one of the tall Kuroba and Haijima was always in the front row. There were six people, so there were three pairs of players connected by diagonal lines, and one’s partner was called one’s “diagonal.” The diagonal relationship was always maintained even when the rotation moved. However, when he became absentminded, he sometimes lost track of his current position, which was quite confusing.

Back-row players weren’t allowed to jump up to block, and they could only spike by doing a back-row attack from behind the attack line (the line three meters from the net).

As though saying that victory went to the one who made the first move, Haijima smashed in a jump serve with all his might from the very beginning. A jump serve was hit with a lot of force, and consequently had a high risk of error. In practice games, Haijima used a low-risk jump float serve, but right when he wondered what he was going to do in the official match today, he was actively using a jump serve.

Regrettably, it went behind the end line and was out, giving their opponent their first point, but the air in the opposing court was frozen for a moment.

“Don’t worry about it!”

His teammates called out to him, but Haijima didn’t seem to care about the mistake in the first place and unashamedly responded lightly with one hand, staring over the net with a brazen expression as though that was his substitute for a greeting. Even though it didn’t result in a point, he had successfully planted the seed of fear in them that made them think, “What would happen if that had gone in?”—Their amount of experience was different by one or two orders of magnitude. And more than anything, the fearsomeness of Haijima was that he had such nerves of steel.

Haijima was making the game in a literal sense. As a setter, he didn’t just set up his teammates’ offensive, but also controlled the mood in the opponent’s court. He of course knew that the difference between their amounts of experience couldn’t be filled in overnight, but he felt strangely impatient.

He felt like it took an awfully long time for his own first serve order to come around. He impatiently waited for the rotation to move, and when he went down into the service zone and was about to receive the ball,

“…ba! Kuroba!”

Haijima’s voice burst into his ear, and he jumped. He was so out of it that he didn’t hear him, as though there was a membrane around his head. He looked and saw Haijima pointing to the right position of the front row with an unusually anxious look on his face.

The color drained out of his face. The rotation was wrong. He was in the front row for one more time. Nagato, who was in the original service order, was standing confused in a halfway place.

“S-sorry.”

“No, it’s my fault too. I thought I got it wrong when Yuni moved back…”

He talked to Nagato and hurried back to his defensive position. Haijima was about to go to him to say something, but the whistle prompting Nagato to serve sounded. The cheering squad was noisy in the stands, probably because they didn’t understand why the server was suddenly changed.

Something’s wrong…I can hear the voices from the stands well, but the voices on the court are distant. He almost felt like he was standing in the bleachers right now, not on the court.

He felt the rotation was moving quickly, contrary to earlier. His sense of time wasn’t stable. The wrong service order came around this time, and he ran to the serve zone and received the ball. He stood facing the net and took a deep breath to try to calm down, but couldn’t breathe in deeply.

Haijima’s first jump serve suddenly replayed in his mind. Kuroba also practiced the jump serve. He was getting able to hit the ball squarely more and more, and practice could be exhilarating sometimes. It would no doubt feel good to carry out that kind of thing successfully in a game. He would be able to show the cheering squad his good points, but of course his accuracy was not yet usable, so he made sure to do a jump float serve as usual…

Huh? Which foot do I usually step forward with? What’s the timing for the toss? What’s ‘usual’?

His usual way of doing things had completely slipped out of his mind.

Beep—.

The whistle sounded.

He didn’t immediately understand what the signal meant. Something was wrong. His own court was in a panic. After the referee showed the opposing team’s score, he made an “8” sign with his fingers.

An eight second violation!?

The spectators were buzzing once again about the point loss that was difficult to understand to the layman’s eye. If you didn’t serve within eight seconds after the whistle sounded, your opponent scored. It wasn’t like he didn’t hear the first whistle. And yet, he himself had absolutely no idea why he made such a basic mistake.

Haijima made a hand gesture towards the bench, and the advisor, who received it, hurriedly requested a timeout.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

“You’re nervous, aren’t you.”

Haijima poked him above his heart with his fist. He didn’t seem angry, but he was definitely fed up. A series of careless mistakes that had nothing to do with the play itself.

“Do you have stage fright or something?”

“Ugh… I’ve never really been in a situation where I’ve gotten stage fright, so I don’t know.”

Was he nervous? He was aware that he was overly concerned with unnecessary things. During the first round, he was able to see the court so well and concentrate on his own task. He knew what he should do without thinking about it and his body moved. It was as if he was being made use of by being incorporated as a part of the organic matter that was the game Haijima finished weaving. He wasn’t displeased with that at all; rather, he felt euphoric. And yet, after they entered the second round, that feeling suddenly stopped, his field of vision abruptly narrowed, and only the voices in his mind increased.

Haijima sighed at him.

“Write down ‘people’ and swallow it.” (2)

“Can’t, can’t you give better advice?”

“I’ve never been nervous. I could tell you all about play, though.”

He felt like he was being shown the disparity between them again. “Can’t be helped, Yuni. If that many of my relatives came, I’d get nervous too. Don’t worry about mistakes.” Though everyone else encouraged him, the sigh Haijima alone had given him weighed heavily on him.

The thirty second timeout went by in the blink of an eye. In the end, he noisily dashed back to the court without putting his feelings in order.

Anyways, there was nothing to do but to recover from here. Right when he moved back to the rear, he immediately got a gesture for a pipe attack from Haijima. It was a fast back-row attack from the middle using the center’s A-quick as a decoy, which was the source of their points in the first round. The shocked face of the opposing blocker who was drawn in by the decoy and jumped at it when he jumped in from over the center’s head was so satisfying—.

“!?”

This time he kept blocking. The do-or-die expression of the opposing blocker appeared from the other side of the net that was like a towering wall, blocking the course. How—!? The ball crashed straight onto the block and was knocked down onto his own side. While falling on his behind from the excess momentum, words such as “What?” came out of his mouth.

As he let his mind wander for a moment and stared at the opposing court, where there were fervent roars, from beneath the net, his teammate was held out in front of him. After he borrowed that hand and stood up, he reflexively drew back his hand when he saw that it was Haijima.

“Sorry.”

An apology slipped out of his mouth. For what? Getting blocked? Drawing back his hand?

“It’s fine. There was no helping that. They’ve already guessed that you’re the only one who could hit it properly. We should have marked them thoroughly.”

Haijima seemed to have accepted the former’s apology. His eyes never left the opponent’s court, where they were exchanging high-fives and celebrating, and spoke quickly. If the only decent hitter was Kuroba, and he was marked for it…then what were they going to do?

Haijima gave him a sharp side glance. He looked fed up again.

“I told you not to let it show on your face… Shake off the guy blocking you as much as possible. However, don’t think you’re not being marked, stay calm and watch the block. I told you about straight and cross. They’re not at a level where you can’t get rid of them.”

Well, from Haijima’s level, middle school volleyball in a rural prefecture like this would seem like a piece of cake. The prefectural finals in a place like this was probably the same size as a subdivision preliminary in Tokyo. It was no consolation for him, as it only deepened his inferiority complex.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

Haijima scattered his sets to other attackers, but Kuroba always had a block on him whether he hit or not. The opponent seemed to think that as long as Kuroba was suppressed, the rest of the team couldn’t hit too hard, so they could respond with receives. Unfortunately, it was an effective strategy.

Although the team was able to score some modest points with Haijima’s skillful direction, they still were unable to score consecutively due to the lack of a decisive blow. The seesaw game where stress accumulated continued. No, in terms of overall team morale, the flow was completely on the other side. There were more and more situations where the receives were so disordered that even Haijima had trouble covering them, and when he couldn’t get the set, the rest of the team couldn’t do anything.

Far from regaining his composure, Kuroba was experiencing the sensation of gears steadily becoming less and less aligned. Even though his mind was panicking, his body wouldn’t work together with it. It was like his head and body were doing on their own thing on this side and the other side of the court. While his spike success rate had decreased, moreover, at the beginning there were many times where he would slam the ball into a block and get shut-out, and it became noticeable that he was making the mistake of getting it caught in the net himself, let alone hitting the ball into the blocking.

“Just stop looking at the blocks. It’s better not to. Don’t think about avoiding them, just hit it where it’s easy to hit.”

Haijima pulled on his uniform and whispered that, but he was only extra confused by the change in instructions. Didn’t he say “Watch their blocks” earlier?

Did my jump power go down? Aren’t my legs getting tired? The instant he realized that this is what it was to play two games in a day, his body suddenly became heavy. Are my knees okay? Don’t I feel more burdened than usual? He suddenly started to worry about the growing pains that should have been unrelated to this. What if that thing that hurts so much I couldn’t sleep at night hits me during the match? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do——?

Haijima was saying something from his diagonal position to him. But he couldn’t hear his voice. He could probably hear him physically, but his heart was blocking his ears. Listening to Haijima’s just reasonings now was of no use whatsoever.

Do you, who's completely disconnected from nervousness or agitation, have the words that I want, the words that will help me? I don’t think so.

He didn’t remember at what point—Haijima turned away with a look of resignation on his face. Ah, if Haijima has given up, then this was already a complete loss, he thought.

For some reason, only a small click of his tongue and the word “useless” reached his ears without being cut off.

***

“Get in line, Yuni.”

It was only when Nagato called out to him that he realized that the game was over. A smattering of applause came down from the stands. When he absentmindedly looked at the score board that was still standing on the court, he saw that the set count was 2-0, and the winner—Monshiro Middle School.

…Wait, what? Did something…happen…? I have almost no memory of touching the ball…

Even when he looked over the faces of his teammates standing in a line along the end line, he didn’t actually feel like they had won at all. Were these really the faces of a winning team? The atmosphere was not as merry as it had been when they won the first round, and everyone looked somewhat apathetic and subdued. And maybe it was just his imagination, but the applause from the stands seemed like it was just done out of politeness.

When he was about to line up next to Haijima, who was standing there with his expression erased, he recalled it along with the flashbacks of some scenes—it was all Haijima's doing.

Haijima’s play changed after that tongue click and badmouthing.

The jump serve was of course incredible, but Haijima’s original domain was at the net. At the net, the control of the ball was not passed over to anyone—neither opponents nor even his own teammates. Rather than entrusting the set to the attacker, the cases where he hit the ball by himself by performing dumps increased dramatically. A dump was a surprise attack where the setter pretended to set the ball and returned it to the opponent’s court with their left hand, but the power of the dump released from the left hand of the ambidextrous Haijima was not confined to the level of a surprise attack. He smashed it into the opposing court with the same power as an attacker spiking with all of their strength. It should have temporarily made the opponents agitated and close the score gap considerably.

However, it was from there that Haijima showed his demon-like true power. When the opponent marked his dumps and started to block it, he switched from hitting hard to deliberately hitting the ball lightly at the head of the block where they jumped with power in preparation for a strong hit to make it drop to his own side. He pulled off the feat of getting down low to pick up the rebound that gently dropped down without a moment’s delay and swinging it to a nearby teammate with an underhand pass and the instructions “Give it to me!” This time, he used his right hand to smash the ball that was set to him by his panicking teammate into the opponent’s side.

The venue was stunned by the powerful spike that was on par with an attacker’s, or even stronger than an average attacker’s (3), and even the referee’s whistle was a beat late.

How was he able to do that…? It was technical, but more than that, what kind of nerves did he had that enabled him to play in a way that overturned the foundation of team sports like that in front of people?

To be honest, Haijima, you’re…disgusting.

When he heard “Thank you,” he hurriedly matched them in a small voice and bowed. For an instant, he felt as if the shadow of Haijima standing next to him broke out of its human shell and swelled up into a warped shape, and a shiver ran down his spine.

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#2.43: Seiin Koukou Danshi Volley-bu #2.43 translation #2.43 book 1

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klarsynt-arc · 3 years

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· ¨ ┅ ✦ . dash games ; SHAKESPEARE AESTHETICS :

ROMEO & JULIET:

HAMLET:

TWELFTH NIGHT:

MACBETH:

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING:

KING LEAR:

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM:

TAGGED BY: stole it from @shesdaylight TAGGING: anyone who wants to

#〖 AESTHETIC: I FIND BEAUTY IN THE MOST COMMON DREAMS 〗

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flyingupward · 3 years

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SHAKESPEARE AESTHETICS

ROMEO & JULIET suburban july. scraped knees. bruised knuckles. blood in your teeth. bare feet on hot concrete. restlessness. your high school’s empty parking lot. love poems in your diary. a window open to coax in the breeze. burning inside. an ill - fitting party dress. a t - shirt you cut up yourself. the time you tried to give yourself bangs. biking to your friends house. bubble gum. gas station ice. the feeling that you’ve met before. rebellion. a car radio playing down the street. cheap fireworks. a heart drawn on the inside of your wrist with a sharpie. switchblades. red solo cups. dancing in your bedroom. screaming yourself hoarse. running out of options. the forlorn looking basketball hoop at the end of a cul - de - sac. climbing onto your roof at night while your parents are asleep. flip - flops. a eulogy written of loose - leaf. the merciless noontime sun.

HAMLET speaking in a whisper. holding your breath. a browning garden. a half remembered story. furniture covered with sheets. fog at dawn, mist at twilight. losing touch. the ethereal space between winter and spring. the soft skin at your temple. the crack in the hallway mirror. things you’d say if you knew the words. uncombed hair. books with writing in the margins. books with cracked spines. books with lines scratched out. prayers on all souls’ day. a chipped ceramic bathtub. a cold stone floor. the uncomfortable awareness of your own heartbeat. the sparrow that got in your house. shadows. the creek you played in as a child. a dirty night gown. an oversized t - shirt. a collection of your favorite words. soil beneath your nails. ghost stories. the strangeness of your own name in your mouth. deep silence. exhaustion. a cliff with a long, long drop down.

TWELFTH NIGHT wicker deck furniture. new england summer. large sunglasses and a blonde bob. a storm over the ocean. patio umbrellas flapping in the wind. the smell of chlorine. muffled laughter. sarcasm. starched cuffs. day drinking. bay windows. the idea of love. love for the idea of love. love for love’s sake. hangovers. wandering over the sand dunes. a vagabond with a guitar. fishermen with tattoos. a pretty boy with a slacked tie. a lighthouse. growing too close. boat shoes. feeling yourself change. big, floppy sunhats. double - speak. a song you keep listening to. turning red under their gaze. margaritas drank on an inflatable pool lounger. string lights on a balmy night. sleepy june days. fights you’re unprepared for. hope you weren’t expecting. pranks that go too far. bad poetry. pining. becoming less of a stranger.

MACBETH the space where your grief used to be. a bird that’s lost an eye. old blood stains. heavy blinds. the smell of sweat. the stillness after a battle. a fake smile. a curse. the taste of metal at the back of your tongue. your house, unfamiliar in the dark. a dusty crib. the smell of sulfur. an orange pill bottle. streaks in the sink. a black cocktail dress. your hand on the doorknob, shaking. a chilly breeze. crunching from the gravel driveway on a moonless night. clenched hands. a rusty swing set. a flashing digital clock stuck on 12 : 00. a snake that crosses your path. an owl that watches you. a dog that runs when you approach. red smoke, dark clouds. cool steel. tile floors. footsteps in the hallway late at night. a baggy suit that used to fit before. visions. insomnia headaches. nursery rhymes. being too far in to go back now.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING the high drama of small towns. a pickup truck. military supply duffel bags in the hall. hugs all around. tulip bulbs. a wraparound porch. a pitcher of iced tea. a rubber halloween mask. someone on your level. ill - timed proclamations. stomach clenching laughter. rushing in. not minding your business. crepe paper. white lies. secrets written down and thrown away. southern hospitality. homemade curtains in the kitchen. a sink full of roses. hiding in the bushes. old friends. the wedding dress your grandma wore, and her mama before her. a dog - eared rhyming dictionary. chamomile with honey. the intimacy of big parties. lawn flamingos. gossip. a crowded church. friendly rivalries. unfriendly rivalries. shit getting real. love at five hundredth sight. not realizing you’re home until you’re there.

KING LEAR cement block buildings. power lines that birds never perch on. the end of the world. useless words. rainless thunder, heat lighting, a too big sky. arthritic knuckles. broken glass. chalk cliffs. the pulsing red - black behind closed eyes. something you learned too late. wet mud that sucks up your shoes while you walk. a cold stare. empty picture frames. empty prayers. the obscenity of seeing your parents cry. a treeless landscape. bloody rags. grappling in the dark with reaching hands. the sharpness at the the tips of your teeth. the blown out windows of a skeletal house. decay. jokes that aren’t jokes. biting your tongue. prophecies. aching muscles, tired feet. stinging rain. invoking the gods. wondering if the gods are listening. worrying that the gods are dead. white noise. shivers. numbness. the unequivocal feeling of ending.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM the smell of wet soil and dead leaves. listening to music on headphones with your eyes closed. wildflowers. the distant sparkle of lightning bugs. a pill someone slipped you. fear that turns into excitement. excitement that turns to frenzy. mossy tree trunks. a pair of yellow eyes in the darkness. night swimming. moonlight through the leaves. a bass beat in your chest. a butterfly landing on your nose. a kiss from a stranger. a dark hallow in an old tree. glow in the dark paint. drinking on an empty stomach. a twig breaking behind you. spinning until you’re dizzy. finding glitter on your body and not remembering where it came from. an overgrown path through the woods. cool dew on your skin. a dream that fades with waking. moths drawn to the light. giving yourself over, completely. afterglow. the long, loving, velvety night.

TAGGED BY: @impssible ( thank you! )

TAGGING: anyone who wants to!

#M ROBINSON ✩ aesthetic | if there is anyone on this planet that can figure this out it’s me #today on im a theatre major and now im going to be thinking about maureen and shakespeare until i fall asleep

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buoyantsaturn · 4 years

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Bring On The Monsters (1/?)

summary: A rewrite of the percy jackson series? starring solangelo instead? it's more likely than you think

word count: 2455

read on ao3

Some things happened too fast for Nico to register. Bianca often talked faster than Nico could process the words, and he couldn’t play a lot of action-heavy video games because his character always died before Nico ever saw the attacks coming. Other times, time seemed to drag on around him, like he was the one moving at the speed of light, but the world wasn’t turning beneath his feet. He didn’t know which feeling he hated more.

It always felt so unnatural whenever he seemed to move out of sync with time itself. Like his mind was straining to either speed up or slow down, but it couldn’t figure out which was which. Eventually, when he finally figured out why he had felt this way, he couldn’t decide if things had really made more or less sense.

See, his father - a man Nico had only met once or twice that he could remember, but even that seemed to get foggier and foggier the more he tried to think about it - had decided to send Nico and Bianca on a little vacation. A week in some hotel a few blocks down from the hopping Vegas Strip, supervised but only the dead-eyed employees who wouldn’t let them so much as crack a window in their bedroom for fresh air.

When they finally left, it wasn’t their father that picked them up, but his lawyer - a grouchy woman with her hair pulled into a bun so tight that it lifted all of the wrinkles she should have had. She had ushered the children into a car without letting them enjoy the sun and the breeze for even a second, and refused to answer any question the two of them had (like: “How did they build so many new hotels so fast?” and “Why is everyone dressed funny?” and “Where are we going?” and “When can we see our mom again?”)

Even outside of that hotel, with wind blowing through his hair from the cracked-open car window, Nico felt like he was moving outside of time. Nothing looked familiar anymore, besides the green grass on the roadside and the blue sky above. The cars were smaller and shinier than anything Nico had ever seen, and every inch of roadside was covered in advertisements. Somehow, without him noticing the passage of time, they’d wound up in New York, speeding down country roads as the ground started to shake behind them.

Nico turned around in his seat and knelt on the cushions so that he could look through the back window. It was dark outside, and it had just started to rain, so he couldn’t make out any distinguishable figures - until lightning struck. The flash was so bright that, for just a second, Nico could a hulking shape a few hundred yards behind them - like a man who took bodybuilding too seriously, or a bull that learned how to run on its hind legs.

Nico grabbed his sister’s shoulder and began to shake it. “Bia, look! There’s something out there!”

Bianca glanced over her shoulder, but turned back around soon after. “You’re seeing things, Nico.”

“You didn’t even look!” Nico argued, tugging on her shirt sleeve. “It’s like a giant guy running after us! He was right there, I swear!” Lightning flashed once more, and Nico saw the figure again, closer, clearer, spotting two pointed horns on the top of its head. “There it is! It’s closer now!”

That made Bianca move. She turned around, mirroring her brother’s position, and stared out the window. “Nothing can run as fast as a car, Nico, you know that. And I don’t see anyth--” Another flash, and Bianca screamed. The creature was right there, almost close enough to touch, and it jumped. It tried to grab onto the back of the car, but the rain-slicked metal left nothing to hold onto, so the creature fell, but not before taking off the back bumper.

The car swerved for a moment, and the lawyer shouted, “Children, in your seats!” The car picked up speed, but it wasn’t much - that creature could easily catch up again.

Suddenly, the back window shattered, and the bumper was wedged in between Nico and Bianca as they screamed. The car swerved again, this time going off the road and colliding with a tree. Nico’s head hit the back of the seat in front of him, leaving him dazed, the ringing in his ears overpowering the shouting going on around him. Somebody grabbed his arm, and he was pulled underneath the bumper and out the opposite side of the car. He thought he heard the lawyer shout, “Up that hill! To Percy’s tree!” but he was starting to think this was all a dream.

His feet carried him close behind Bianca, but he couldn’t feel when they hit the ground beneath him - not until he slipped on the soaked grass and fell face-first into the mud. Bianca tugged him up again. They kept running. He glanced over his shoulder, watching as the bull-man figure approached the abandoned car, and the lawyer jumped out - except, no, he didn’t remember the lawyer having wings.

She scratched the creature with hands like talons, but before she could fly away, a big, meaty hand reached out and pulled her down by a leg. The lawyer was slammed against the round, and Nico watched her dissolve into a coppery powder.

He was dreaming. He had to be.

Bianca continued onward, up the hill toward a giant pine tree. If it hadn’t been for her vise grip on his hand, Nico never would have been able to catch up. He kept slipping and tripping, and his head was starting to pound. He flinched at every flash of lightning that seemed to burn his eyes.

Then that thing caught up.

It grabbed his leg and pulled him away from Bianca, raising him into the air. It took a moment to sniff him - gross - before Nico was dropped. He managed to catch himself on his hands before his head hit the ground, but something in his arm snapped with an audible crack!, so painful that Nico’s vision blacked out.

“--and I mean, Chiron said that the two of you are probably going to be really powerful, but I don’t think I was supposed to hear that. But, you know, maybe he shouldn’t talk to himself so much when just anybody could be waiting around the corner, right? But, like, I mean, your sister killed the Minotaur, with her bare hands! That must mean you two are powerful, but I just wish Chiron told me what was going on, you know?”

Nico didn’t know where he was, or who this blond boy was that kept rambling at him, but since Nico didn’t know what to say, he found himself, for the first time, speechless.

After probably five minutes of listening to this kid, the boy finally looked at Nico to see that his eyes had opened. “Oh! You’re awake! Let me get you some water!”

He jumped out of his seat and turned his back to Nico, filling up a glass of water from a pitcher that sat on the other side of the room. He helped Nico sit up before handing him the glass. “How are you feeling?” the boy asked as Nico drank. “You had a concussion, and I’ve never fixed one of those before, but I think I did okay, you know, since you woke up again. So? Does your head hurt?”

Nico shook his head. “Um. What happened?”

The boy frowned at him. “Do you have memory loss? Maybe that concussion was worse than I thought. What’s your name?”

“Nico.”

“Do you know where you are, Nico?”

He shook his head again.

“You’re in the infirmary at Camp Half-Blood. Do you know what year it is?”

Nico hesitated. “Um. 1939?”

The boy looked shocked for a second, then laughed. He had a nice laugh. “Okay, I get it, you’re messing with me. You and your sister were fighting the Minotaur last night, but you got knocked out. I treated you for your concussion, and now you’re caught up!”

“Treated me? But you’re just a kid.”

He grinned at Nico. “So are you.”

Nico frowned. “What about my arm? I thought I broke it.”

“Oh! You did! I fixed that, too.”

“In one night?”

“Yeah, I’m good like that,” the boy said, looking awfully proud of himself.

“What’s your name?” Nico asked.

He looked surprised at the question. “Me? I’m--”

“Hey, Will,” somebody else called out, stepping into the doorway - he looked like he could be the boy’s older brother, with the same freckles and blond hair. “Chiron said to tell him as soon as this kid wakes up. You promised me I could trust you on this one, right?”

“You can!” the boy - Will, Nico figured - exclaimed. “I was just making sure his concussion was healed! We’re going right now, I swear!” He jumped up and grabbed Nico’s hand, tugging him out of bed. “C’mon, Nico!”

They brushed past Will’s brother and out of the building until they were on a large, white porch that seemed to wrap around the side of a house. Will pulled Nico around the bend and up to a card table, at which three of the four seats were filled - one by Bianca, the other two by a couple of grown adult men.

One of them, a man with a friendly smile and a brown beard, says, “Ah, Nico! You’re finally awake. Please, take a seat. We need a fourth for Pinochle.”

Nico hesitated, then let go of Will’s hand and sat down in the open chair, next to the other man who was covered in leopard print from head to toe.

“Will,” the first man said, “please go to Cabin 11 and make sure Luke has prepared enough space for Bianca and Nico.”

“Yes, sir!” Will said, and turned on his heel to leave.

The bearded man folded his hands on the table and turned his attention to Nico and Bianca. “Now, I’m sure the two of you have plenty of questions. Where would you like to start?”

Nico couldn’t wrap his head around any of it. He was supposed to believe that he was the child of a god? He was going to have crazy powers and learn how to fight with a sword? Don’t get him wrong, it was the coolest thing he’d ever heard, but how could it be real?

Bianca had gone off to make friends as soon as Chiron had finished explaining things to them, but Nico couldn’t make himself leave the Big House. If he stepped out into that world, then everything would become real. So instead, he sat on the porch steps, arms wrapped around his knees, and watched the campers around him.

After a short while, someone came to sit next to him. It was Will, who immediately started picking at a bandaid on his scraped knee. “It’s crazy, right?”

“Huh?” Nico was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about a little bit of peeled skin.

“The whole gods thing. You understand what’s going on, right?”

Nico huffed. “I get it. I don’t think I like it.”

“Yeah, it’s a lot to take it. I hear it gets easier once you’re claimed.”

“Claimed?” Nico repeated. “What’s that mean?” “It’s like… So, I know who my mom is, because she raised me, but I don’t know who my dad is, because he’s a god. But I don’t know which god. So claiming is, like, when my dad finally tells me who he is. Once you get claimed, you get to move into the cabin where all of your siblings are, and you get to do your activities with them, and you get to learn how to use your powers - if you have any.”

“Like you have. You healed me.” Nico said. “So you have healing powers, right? Who’s your dad?”

Will blushed and looked away. “Okay, so, I might have...lied to you about that. See, I really, really want my dad to be Apollo, because then I’ll get to hang out in the infirmary all the time and learn how to heal people, but… Lee actually healed you, not me. All I can do is give people ambrosia, and even then I have to have Lee portion it out for me.”

Nico frowned. “But… You and that other guy, you look so much alike. I thought you were brothers.”

That seemed to perk Will up again. “You think so?” Nico nodded, and Will’s smile brightened. “Okay, who do you think your parent is?”

Nico shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“I can help you narrow it down! Is it your mom or your dad?”

He tried to think, but it was like something was blocking his memories. He couldn’t remember who had raised him. He tried to remember his mother, but the only face he saw was Bianca’s. Did he even have a mother?

“I...don’t know.”

“Oh. I mean, that’s okay! Let’s go through your options.” Will reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small deck of cards. “Have you ever played Mythomagic?”

Nico shook his head.

“It’s this game where you can fight using the gods as your weapons. Kinda like Pokemon, you know?”

Nico didn’t. He nodded anyway.

Will started laying out cards between them, naming gods and explaining their basic roles in the universe. Nico noticed that Will had called Zeus and Poseidon Big Three gods, but after he’d laid out the twelve cards for the twelve cabins at camp, Nico never heard the third name.

“Who’s the third Big Three god?” Nico asked, frowning down at the cards between them.

Will started searching through the remaining cards in his hands. “Oh. I mean, there’s like, zero chance that you’re the child of a Big Three god, because they made this pact that they would never have children again. Because those kids are way too powerful, you know? And the last time the pact was broken by Poseidon, well…” Will’s eyes drifted toward the edge of camp, and Nico followed his gaze, but all he saw was a standalone pine tree at the top of a hill. “It didn’t go well.”

Will placed the thirteenth card on the step between them. “The last of the Big Three is Hades. He doesn’t have a cabin here because he doesn’t have a throne on Olympus. He’s kind of the black sheep of the family - the god of the dead and the Underworld. He hasn’t had kids since World War two, I think. So, it’s more than likely not him. Besides, you kinda look more like an Ares kid to me, you know?”

[buy me a coffee] | [more solangelo stuff]

#solangeloweek2020 #solangelo #will solace #nico di angelo #mine #my writing #garbage site doesn't support html but am i surprised? no

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needtherapy · 4 years

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soaring, carried aloft on the wind...continued 3 / 4

A story for Xichen and Mingjue, in another time and another place.

The Beifeng, the mighty empire of the north, invaded more than a year ago, moving inexorably south and east.

In order to buy peace, the chief of the Lan clan has given the Beifeng warlord a gift, his second oldest son in marriage. However, when Xichen finds out he makes a plan.

He, too, can give a gift to the Beifeng warlord, and he will not regret it.

The story continues...

Part 1: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / ... HOME

It’s on AO3 here if that’s easier to read.

NOTES: This story starts out G but will eventually be E for Explicit.

Chapter 3

The boy accompanies him through the encampment, talking non-stop the entire way, but Xichen isn’t listening. He’s observing this army with a commander’s eye. It helps him to pretend that he’s a spy, not a slave. He notes the neat lines of tents, the clean smell despite hundreds of horses, the smiles on the faces of the soldiers—men and women. This is not the bloodthirsty and chaotic rabble he had expected.

Who hasn’t heard stories of the Beifeng? They have devastated even the strongest clans, whose swords and magic were no match for the Beifeng archers and cavalry, not to mention their own unknown power. Some of the clans retreated into the hills, some sought sanctuary in the Cloud Recesses. And the man Xichen has just met—just kissed—is the demon they fear the most.

Xichen can’t believe all the stories. No man can disappear and reappear at will, nor fly to the top of a building, nor drive an arrow through the heart of a soldier a full li away. He does not have wings or fangs. He is certainly tall enough to be fearsome, Xichen thinks with irritation, if less hideous than reported. His broad shoulders must make him as dangerous with a sword as he is known to be with a bow, but surely no more deadly than Xichen himself.

They reach a tent larger than the rest, hung with colorful panels of embroidered linen. Despite his churning fear, Xichen evaluates the workmanship and the cost of the dyes with favor. He sees purple and gold mixed with blue and less expensive yellows and greens, yet somehow the riot of color is pleasing. It is a far cry from the grey and white serenity of Xichen’s home.

Not his home anymore.

“This will be your home while you are here,” the boy announces, gesturing to an exquisitely embellished panel hiding a doorway, stitched in a beaded pattern of clouds that almost seem to be drifting in the wind.

Xichen’s stomach clenches at this small reminder of the Cloud Recesses, and he’s instantly nauseated. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe away the bile, flinching when he feels a touch on his arm.

“Zewu-Jun, please come inside,” the boy implores, and Xichen lets himself be led through the tent flap.

“If you need to throw up, there’s a basin in the corner.”

Xichen’s eyes fly open, staring at the boy, whose eyes are dancing with repressed laughter. It makes Xichen furious that this child can find his distress so hilarious, and some of his feelings must be evident on his face, because the boy takes a step backward, hands up.

“I meant no harm, Zewu-Jun. The negotiations with your family ensured your safety, but you would be treasured regardless. Whatever comforts you need, please ask.” “Ask who?” Xichen snorts, more acerbic than he intends.

The boy’s grin turns his face into a dancing butterfly, light and carefree, and again, Xichen wonders who he is to the warlord.

“Me, of course. In your language, you can call me Huaisang. I will see you daily, whenever I can, but you can always ask your guards for me. Just say my name. They’ve been informed.”

Xichen looks around him. He has been given every luxury as far as he can see. The tent is warm, thanks to a covered brazier sitting on a ring of stone tiles. There are overstuffed cushions to lounge on, light blankets for summer, heavy wool blankets for the approaching autumn chill, paintings hanging from the tent ribs, a small but sufficient desk stocked with paper, ink, and brushes, and a table he assumes must be for meals, because it holds a pale blue tea service, plates, and bowls. Furthest from the door, next to the thing he will not yet acknowledge, is a wash basin, pitcher, and an unnecessarily large copper bathtub.

It is all exquisitely made: the wood masterfully carved, the pottery glazed to a mirror shine, the artwork elegant and refined. The finest prison Xichen has ever seen.

He looks in a trunk near the tub, and surprise escapes him in an involuntary gasp. It is filled with books. He hadn’t realized what they were at first because they are wrapped in dark leather with no identifying marks on the bindings. He touches them reverently, opening some of their covers to reveal histories, books of folklore, even musical notations. Some he knows, some he doesn’t, but they are all beautiful. Tears sting his eyes and he inhales, rolling his eyes upward just enough to stop any drops from escaping.

“There’s a guqin too,” the boy—Huaisang—offers, pointing to a wooden case in the corner. “We understand your clan values music and learning. Elder Brother wants you to be comfortable.”

As comfortable as any concubine or sex slave, Xichen’s harsh inner voice reminds him, and he finally looks at the bed that dominates the tent. At home, this bed would be an extravagance. Even in the emperor’s palace, Xichen guesses, although he’s never been there, this bed would be excessive. It looks easily big enough for four people to lay in and never touch, and the thought heats his cheeks. The bed sits low on the ground, but its tall, carved posts are draped with silks thin enough to see through, and the mattress that looks soft enough to sink into is covered with a creamy blanket woven in a blue pattern Xichen would know anywhere: the graceful, curving seal of the Cloud Recesses.

This has all been made for him.

No, he remembers. Wangji.

It was made for Wangji.

Chapter 4

In his twenty-two years, Xichen had never knowingly broken the rules of his clan. It had been something he was proud of, that obedience and propriety came so effortlessly to him. It made his life uncomplicated, and it allowed him to protect his brother’s small, secret rebellions from notice.

Now, it made it easy for him to deceive without being questioned.

He asked to see the letter his father was sending to the Beifeng warlord, to check it for errors, because there could be no mistakes to disgrace Wangji. His father was grateful for the assistance. He even apologized awkwardly to Xichen for not telling him what they were planning.

“We knew you would resist, Zewu-Jun, and there was too much at stake for your soft heart to interfere.”

Soft heart. As though that was all Xichen was. As though he did not earn his military title at the age of fourteen, two years before his father did. As though he had not defended the Cloud Recesses successfully until he reached his majority and switched his focus to preparing to lead his clan. As though his kindness and integrity were not regularly praised by all his family’s allies.

What his father meant was, you would have told us we were wrong, and we did not want to hear it.

His father would have been right. He would not have agreed to give away his brother—Wangji, who did not like to be touched even by people he was acquainted with—to be what? A warlord’s concubine? A servant? Xichen was filled with a rage he had never known before, and it blazed like a funeral pyre.

No, Xichen would not be ashamed of his soft heart, no matter how it sounded in his father’s stern voice.

It was far too simple to imitate his father’s hand and rewrite the letter accepting the warlord’s terms, changing the names and some of the details like his age and accomplishments. Truly, the warlord was getting a better bargain than he intended, Xichen thought. The first jade instead of the second. The heir instead of the spare. In light of the trade, he altered the letter to ask for Yunmeng’s safety as well, rationalizing that it would be suspicious to give a greater tribute than had been asked for.

He gave the letter back to his father, rolled in leather, scented with jasmine, and placed in a bamboo tube, already prepared for travel. His father accepted without suspicion. Xichen hid his smile with practiced ease. Perhaps there was some value to living a life above reproach.

The only thing Xichen regretted was that he could not tell his brother. He knew Wangji’s stubborn pride too well, and his brother would never let Xichen sacrifice himself, even if it was for Wangji’s own happiness.

Under the plum tree, he had wiped the tears from his brother’s cheeks and reassured him that he would tell Wei-gongzi anything Wangji wished. He could deliver a letter to the Yunmeng camp, if that would make it easier, and it strengthened Xichen’s resolve when his brother’s usually impassive face lit up.

The letter Wangji gave him the day before he was scheduled to leave was heavy, several pages thick. Xichen wondered what you told your soulmate when you had been sold in marriage to save your clan and maybe even your region from being overrun and destroyed.

Xichen had no way of knowing. Now, he never would.

He added Wangji’s letter to one he had written and hid them both under a floorboard in their mother’s empty home on the edge of the great forest. She had laughingly explained that as a healer, she needed to be closer to nature, so it had not been a scandal when she had moved away from their father so many years ago. But Xichen remembered the difference in her smiles before and after and the way she seemed to take fuller breaths here in this little house. It was a place he knew Wangji visited regularly, and the only place he could think of where his letter explaining what he had done and why, would be safe.

And then he prepared to get his brother drunk.

Xichen hated to lie to him, but by now, it was just one more promise he couldn’t regret breaking. His brother would leave at dawn in a caravan of horses, mules, and guards that would convey him and his dowry north to the Beifeng camp on the southern border of Lanling. The night before, Xichen invited Wangji to his rooms to share a hot pot of aged white tea, one of the oldest their family possessed.

“If there was ever a time to drink the best tea,” Xichen said, the misery in his voice unfeigned, “Today is the day.”

It was a family joke, Wangji’s intolerance for alcohol. Xichen had put in just enough so the taste would be masked by the sweet, rich honey flavor of the tea, but it would still put his brother to sleep. He was developing a talent for subterfuge, he thought, staring down at the limp form of his brother, sprawled across the table. Wangji’s face had lost the hard planes that masked his emotions, and he looked exactly his age.

It was easier than he expected to disguise his brother as himself, undressing Wangji down to the silk underclothes they both wore, switching their hair ornaments, and turning his face away from the door. Xichen pulled the blankets high around his head, and reinforced his brother’s sleep with a brush of magic. He felt a twinge of sadness to leave his beloved Shuoyue behind, but he couldn’t very well take the sword. Someone would definitely recognize it by his side, and he didn’t want to deprive his brother of Bichen. What would he do with a sword where he was going anyway?

He put a note on his door with a single angry word—no—and hoped it would be enough to keep anyone from entering for a while.

“I am sorry, and I love you,” Xichen whispered before he left. He told himself it didn’t matter if Wangji didn’t hear him.

The last thing he did, a risk he couldn’t help but take, was to visit the library. His library, as he always thought of it. He breathed in the smell of leather and ink, touched the bindings of books he loved and scrolls of poetry he would never see again. He tried not to think about the music he had not yet committed to memory. Some of these books were ones he had bought himself, when he used to travel to other clans to contract and trade. Some had belonged to his family for generations. Next to his brother, this library was the thing he would miss the most.

Xichen was ready to leave at dawn, waiting on his horse before anyone else was awake to see him off. It felt strange to be riding again. He had not left his city in years, not since he had traveled to Qishan for the grand wedding of the Wen clan chief mere months before the Beifeng invaded. After they invaded, of course, he was too valuable to send into battle, despite his experience.

“You are too valuable to risk being ambushed and lost,” his father had said, but what Xichen heard was, your life only has value inside these gates.

He wore a heavy riding coat with a tall collar and a plush scarf—too warm for late summer— that covered most of his face. He refused to look at any of his family, disdaining them as he knew Wangji would have done. He wasn’t sure if he was grateful or offended that no one, not even his father, noticed the change.

Notes: This story is about 40k words, so if you want to follow along, it’ll be on my pinned post, and tagged with #soaring au. It’s also on AO3 (same title).

#the untamed #cql #the untamed fic #soaring au #nielan #mdzs #nie mingjue #lan xichen #nie huaisang #the untamed au #after this the chapters will be mostly one at a time #and after this the conlang starts #not sure how i'm going to do that on tumblr #your guess is as good as mine

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tenacityreturns · 3 years

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SHAKESPEARE AESTHETICS

TWELFTH NIGHT wicker deck furniture. new england summer. large sunglasses and a blonde bob. a storm over the ocean. patio umbrellas flapping in the wind. the smell of chlorine. muffled laughter. sarcasm. starched cuffs. day drinking. bay windows. the idea of love. love for the idea of love. love for love’s sake. hangovers. wandering over the sand dunes. a vagabond with a guitar. fishermen with tattoos. a pretty boy with a slacked tie. a lighthouse. growing too close. boat shoes. feeling yourself change. big, floppy sunhats. double - speak. a song you keep listening to. turning red under their gaze. margaritas drank on an inflatable pool lounger. string lights on a balmy night. . sleepy june days. fights you’re unprepared for. hope you weren’t expecting. pranks that go too far. bad poetry. pining. becoming less of a stranger.

tagged by: not @redheid that’s for sure tagging: anyone i dont know who’s active anymore sjhdsjdhjh

#studies.#hcs.#uhh tags... anyway #the bitter betrayal of not being tagged for an aesthetics post @ tumblr user redheid #me who is online only once a year

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corpse--diem · 4 years

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An Offer You Can’t Refuse | Felix & Erin

When: Very shortly before Big Felix Featuring: @streetharmacist Summary: During a drink to celebrate a job well done, Erin and Felix decide they’re not quite finished after all.

It wasn’t a conventional location by any means, but the way Felix saw it, they had left convention behind a few miles back. Dale was dead. Bea was alive. There was plenty of reason to celebrate. And what better way than watching humans embarrass themselves at the Siren’s Serenade? With an Absinthe Hemingway in hand, he sat at one of the tables farthest from the karaoke stage. He didn’t mind a spotlight or two in the slightest but...time and place. It could come later. Roy Chambers. The name Erin had mentioned. It made sense why it lingered in his dome for so long. It was a familiar name. The kind that bears repeating. A few utterances invoked the spirit of old connections and he was nonetheless eager to share. If only to see where the threads all went to. Felix took a sip and eyed the door as he waited. The way things were, it was a matter that certainly demanded to be discussed.

Finding Felix in the Siren’s Serenade crowd didn’t take long. Hard to miss the only guy in the place with sunglasses and Erin made a mental note to sensitively bring that up someday. She took just a moment to ready herself, straighten up, shake the tension from her shoulders. The job had been taken care of - Dale was dead. No cops were breaking down her door. Felix was being paid in full again. Generally speaking, things were that surface-level kind of okay that made meeting up for drinks not nearly as terrifying as it could have been. “Some real beauts in here tonight, huh?” She greeted him with a warm grin. Thank God he’d picked a table far, far away from that mess. The whiskey she ordered when she passed by the bar came as she settled into the spot opposite him, and was quiet otherwise until the plucky server left them alone. “How’s business?” Erin asked over the top of her glass, watching the curve of his lips in lieu of black glass. “Running smoother, I hope? Now that you’ve got that big ol’ bald roadblock out of the way.”

“You really missed out on a winner earlier,” Felix said as he sat up a little straighter as Erin approached the table. “Just when you thought folks got tired of Bohemian Rhapsody, bam, there it is again. Just a pitch higher and a pitcher more drunk too. You gotta love it.” He adjusted in his seat, propped an ankle up on one knee as he settled. At her question, he smiled and took a sip of his absinthe. “Business? Well, it’s business and business is booming. I think it’s the encroaching summertime. Really gets the people in a certain sorta way, y’know?” It wouldn’t do to mention how much he and Blaine had discussed how sad the youth of White Crest could be. It was an off time for most and when that was the case, it was an on time for them. At big ol’ bald roadblock, he gave a loud laugh and set his glass down. “Well heck, I can say that the push and pull is making a lot more sense and that’s always real nice to see in my line of work,” he admitted with a tilt of his head. “And yours? It’s not, ah, going under, is it?” He smiled. “Surely it’s not. Certainly not after a loss like that, huh?”

Erin spared a glance at the travesty on stage and immediately winced. “Does that mean that A Whole New World duet I was looking forward to with you is off the table?” She asked playfully, trying hard not to watch his smallest gestures and movements with too much scrutiny. Something had changed. She wasn’t sure what exactly, and it wasn’t something she’d be quick to call it trust. Maybe she should have been more unsettled by how easy it was to joke with a man who was basically an accomplice to the murder she organized. “Yeah? Glad to hear it. I’ll take it that means all is well.” She shook her head, eyes dropping to watch the ripples slam against glass. Oh boy. She’d need an emptier glass before she asked him to shine a light on any of that. Wouldn’t be good. She looked up again at his question. “Well, losses are my gain, generally speaking,” she shrugged. She sat back, tapping her finger against her glass as she contemplated her next words carefully. “Honestly? Retirement is starting to look pretty damn good right now and I gotta tell you--the packages available in our line of work? Not great. I know our buddy Dale would agree.” Warmth flooded her cheeks and suddenly she swore she could feel the heat brimming from the crematory chamber that very same man had left this world in. She paused, pushing past it and ease into another smile. “I’m hoping maybe you do too.”

“Oh, I won’t turn down a duet but let’s see how things are a few weeks from now, huh?” Felix said, mouth more in a curved line of knowing than anything close to a smile. “I’m nothing if not in it for a chance at some old-fashioned theatrics.” He loved his shadows without question but put the right spotlight on him and even a guy like him wanted to shine. And on the off chance it was the light of an interrogation room, he could make do. If he were someone else, gifted with the same knowledge, maybe they’d be put off by the way Erin smiled post-murder. Maybe even by how he did. They’d certainly be put off by the way they laughed and clinked glasses. Their stomachs wouldn’t handle it. Some people were just hungrier. A fact of life that his teeth fit around just fine. He could smile around it and he did so. “Oh yeah, very well but things could always be better,” he said with a thoughtful hum. “But ain’t that just how it is? Place like this, with what it has going on, it’s hard to ever really be satisfied since the work is never really done. I mean, you get it, right? All things considered, you got job security for life.” He tipped his glass towards her with a low laugh. As she spoke, he considered what she said carefully. There wasn’t any buzz in his chest other than the absinthe on his tongue. Words were everything to fae. They meant the slimmest difference between being in or getting out of a bind. “Hoping I do too, huh? Sounds to me like you’re looking for a newer, better deal. Very FDR of you, I dig it,” he said as he leaned forward intently. “Since we’re on the subject and all, I’ve got some information you might like to hear. About the ol’ bossman of yours.”

Old-fashioned. Erin had to laugh at that. Seemed to be this guy’s MO. It worked for him. “Why am I not surprised by that?” But he wasn’t wrong, about any of it, and part of her wondered if Dale had done them both a favor. He’d been the catalyst, the wild card that had spurned all of this on. Pissed Felix off enough to darken her doorway that fateful evening, stirring up tempers and trouble for them all. She could admit she’d grown comfortable, almost complacent in her rage, stewing and simmering. Now it was boiling over almost recklessly. It’d brought her here. If there was any hope to be had, it was right in front of her. Felix was quick. More knowledgeable than he let on. And sharp. She could tell that much already. Judging what side of the blade she fell on here was harder to distinguish but she knew she wanted to one the right one. “There’s always a better deal,” she nodded at his words, matching his dry smile. “Just ask any of my vendors though--I’m a hell of a negotiator.” Her eyes jumped from her drink to his sunglasses, momentary uncertainty flickering across her well set poker face at the mention of her boss. So much for that. “Do you? And how much is that gonna cost me?” She asked, shrugging nonchalantly. If she’d learned anything, it was that nothing came free. “If it’s worth anything at all. If you’re about to remind me that he’s a son of a bitch, trust me. I’m well aware.”

“You’re not? Dang, I gotta keep working on my front then.” Felix said with a smile as he unfolded an old matchbook and lit himself a cigarette. He waved the match out, breathed in nicotine, then breathed it out the side of his mouth. The karaoke choice shifted to something poppy that he didn’t recognize. It was bold what he and Erin were doing. Discussing dark things in the dim light of a karaoke bar. That was half of the thrill, really, the likelihood of being seen by the forces they discussed. Even if they were, no one would think anything of it right then. They were just chatting. See them now, but when the knifepoint touched to a neck with a pulse that hammered so hard the knife trembled, they might have wished they looked harder. Death granted a keen hindsight to the dying. One last gift. “Oh, I believe it. Death is an awful expensive business and while dirt naps are cheaper sometimes, can’t fault someone for wanting to rot in mahogany,” he said as he pulled the cigarette from between his lips and tapped it against the ashtray. “But gotta say, it’s good to know that you ain’t satisfied with all this business yet because I ain’t either. I think we can get dealt a better hand here.” He smiled. Erin was sharp. Quick. That was good. He appreciated the kind of company that could cut thin but cut deep. “Not much,” he admitted vaguely. “As for what I know, this guy, Roy Chambers? He ain’t just here. I’ve got some fellas in New York that know the name. He’s got his fingers in a lot of pies. A lot of pies that other people have made. Now that? That doesn’t sit right with me at all. Between you and me, guys like that shouldn’t have so much. It’s unseemly.”

There was something so incredibly appropriate about Felix lighting up that cigarette. Shadowy booths, shady conversations, smoke billowing around them in the dimly lit bar. Theatrics, case-in-point. Erin shook her head slowly, barely suppressing the smirk that lifted the corner of her lips. All they needed now was a black and white filter and a costume change to truly set the mood. “New York?” she echoed, raising her brows. Shit. This guy was a bigger deal than she anticipated with a reach like that. She could practically see the cogs and wheels spinning behind Felix’s glasses. “Of course he did. He probably thinks he’s the Elon Musk of White Crest,” she said, rolling her eyes. Didn’t surprise her though. Greed fueled monsters like Roy Chambers. He was a glutton, and a comfortable one. Constantly hungry, constantly devouring. Already trying to take bites out of her with her mother’s bones still stuck in his teeth. Her jaw set tightly and she glanced up from the napkin corner she was picking apart. “That’s a lot of pie, though. Sounds like you’re thinking about taking a few slices for yourself, yeah?” They were tiptoeing around it but there was no mistaking what Felix was implying. “If you’re offering--I could eat.”

Felix nodded through the smoke. “Yup. Makes sense. White Crest isn’t exactly a hub for this kinda work. Not really,” he said as he raised a hand and spread his fingers out. “He’s got a nice web here, sure, but a guy like this, it’s always bigger.” He smiled to himself then as he shifted forward and lifted himself from the shadow of the wall. He grinned. Erin got it. He had a feeling she would. She was tired of it and when people got tired of bullshit, they got restless. Proactive, even. And they made it known in ways that wouldn’t readily be forgotten. “Precisely, precisely.” His word manufacturing slowed as he got to thinking, his tongue pressed against the top of his mouth. “You see, I’d be fine taking a figure off or two, free up some space,” he admitted with a shrug, his tone easy. “Could do that, sure. It’d make things a little easier, you know, for you and me.” He gestured between the two of them. The grin he wore lessened by the second. “But I don’t think we’d be satisfied. Half-measures don’t sit right with me. Half-measures get you right back where you started.” He shook his head and looked at Erin. There wasn’t any concern or doubt in him. She got it. “Nah,” he said as he stabbed his cigarette into the ash tray. “We take off the whole fucking hand.” He laced his fingers together and sat up. “These debts you inherited? A couple Roy phalanges ought to cover it. With interest.” Money was a motivating factor in plenty but getting a guy back, that went further. It lived longer. “We do this? Really do this? We’re square for life. So yeah, Ms. Nichols, I’m offering.”

There it was--the proposition Felix had been inching toward since Erin had sat down across from him. At some point she knew it was coming. Maybe he needed someone low on Roy’s radar, capable of stomaching the hard jobs with a motivation matched his own. He sure as hell looked at her like he’d found someone to fill that slot. She could do it. He just needed to say the words and make it real. When he finally did, something dangerously close to hope woke with a hard start beneath her ribcage. She hadn’t expected that but she couldn’t pretend that it didn’t feel good. Her mind had been made up long before she finally spoke.

“Let’s really do this, then. Let’s cut off the hand. I’ll take the whole damn arm if that’s what it takes,” she answered without hesitation. Bit back a big, sharp grin. If they failed, they died. That wasn’t lost on her for a second. She’d been in survival mode for so long now though that it was easy to forget what she was doing now was purely existing. It didn’t sustain or nurture. Just kept her alive enough to trudge through the next day. It was time. She was ready to live again, even if trying was the last thing she ever did, and she met Felix’s hand halfway across the table. “I’m all in.”

#wickedswriting #chatzy #chatzy: felix #an offer you can't refuse

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chelsfic · 4 years

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Chapter 9 - Inherited - Dracula/OFC - Dracula 2020 fanfic

Summary: Dracula has emotions and ruins everything.

A/N: Listennnn, it’s actually @dracula-s-bride‘s fault for giving me the idea to ramp up the ANGST! Also, in case you’re interested (??!): I actually took the detail about Emilie being able to smell the time of day from science. Alexandra Horowitz, of the Barnard College Dog Cognition Lab, has conducted studies on canine olfaction and she theorizes that they can smell the passage of time (i.e. tell time by their snoots). She’s brilliant and fascinating and if you’re at all interested in dogs I highly recommend her books.

Dracula slept. His body lay on the ground, perfectly motionless and half-buried in the cold, sheltering dirt beneath the ruins of the Abbey’s old chapel. His pale face appeared carved from marble; his lips were stained a shocking red from the blood he’d gorged upon before going to his rest.

The butcher’s boy… the butcher... and a tinker he’d come upon on the road out of town. He’d been senseless and crazed in his need for blood. In his entire long life, Dracula had never felt Death’s pursuit so close at his heels as he had after offering himself to Emilie. He was afraid...and furious.

The blood revived him but at the creeping sensation of dawn’s approach he grew weary again. He knew the thin layer of soil beneath his feather mattress would not do enough to restore him. And so he’d sought out the cold embrace of the earth beneath the abandoned chapel. In only a matter of hours he would be made well again. Then he would see Emilie… see her healthy and vibrant, her skin flushed and warm with the life he’d given...or had she taken it? Stolen it from him? Stolen...offered… His thoughts and emotions were tangled in confusion in the aftermath of the blood frenzy. His lips slowly curled back in an angry snarl. Emilie…

***

Emilie woke to a new world. She felt the brush of each individual thread in the sheets that covered her, her nostrils flared as she took in a banquet of scents: fresh coffee from the kitchen, grass, flowers, mold from the garden outside her window, the sweet, homely perfume of her mother’s personal scent. Somehow she could smell the time of day: the dry, still warmth of midday.

When she opened her eyes she found her mother slumped over asleep in a rocking chair beside her bed. Emilie smiled faintly and reached out to take her hand. Mrs. Andrews came awake abruptly, looking about her in confusion for a moment before she recalled where she was.

She smiled down at her daughter and moved over to sit on the edge of the bed, “How are you this morning, better?”

Emilie frowned trying to remember the details of everything that happened yesterday. She remembered feeling unwell...going to the Count’s bedroom...feeling desperately that she needed him but also fearing to wake his monstrous side. But she felt perfectly fine...better than fine now.

“I’m...wonderful, Mama,” Emilie replied, sitting up against the pillows. “I feel wonderful. How do you come to be here? Did the Count send for you when I was ill?”

Emilie’s tone was doubtful. She’d never known Dracula to correspond with her family other than forwarding payments to them through his solicitor. Mrs. Andrews shook her head.

“I came up with the doctor. You don’t remember? You were quite unwell, we really feared the worst…” she trailed off and her eyes looked troubled. She squared her shoulders and resolved to prod for the truth, “Count Dracula was concerned. Very concerned for your health. I’ve never known him to be so solicitous towards his servants before, Emilie.”

Emilie’s cheeks blushed a deep shade of pink and she directed her gaze down at her hands clasped together in her lap, “He has been very kind, mama….Can I have some water, please?”

Mrs. Andrews got slowly to her feet and Emilie felt a flash of guilt. She shouldn’t have avoided her mother’s obvious curiosity, and she shouldn’t let her wait on her like this. Her mother had a weak disposition and staying up with her all night must have exhausted her.

“No, mama, I’m sorry! Sit back down and I’ll get the water. I really do feel amazingly better.”

Mrs. Andrews sent her a grateful look as she took her seat again in the rocking chair. She watched Emilie spring from bed and pour two glasses of water from the pitcher on the nightstand.

“You look amazingly well, child,” Mrs. Andrews remarked. “Do you remember what it was the Count did to cure you? When he asked me to leave the room you were still looking frightful but only moments later he stormed out and your fever had broken…”

Emilie froze for just a second as she handed a water glass to her mother and moved to sit back in bed.

“Why...I’m sorry, mama. My memories are all hazy. I was very feverish…”

Mrs. Andrews narrowed her eyes but let the subject drop. She nodded toward the small wardrobe in the corner and quirked her head inquisitively, “Where are all of your clothes, darling? Your wardrobe is nearly empty. Have you left them in the laundry room?”

Emilie choked on a swallow of water and spent a moment clearing her throat and vying for time to think. She knew her mother would always be able to read a lie on her face as soon as it was uttered. She supposed they were past the point of concealment.

“My clothes are in Count Dracula’s bedroom, mama,” she said with only the slightest tremor of nerves. To admit to sharing a bed with a man out of wedlock was bad enough. For that man to be her employer...and the dark creature who had held her family’s indenture for a century….Well, Emilie was worried about her mother’s response.

“Oh, Emilie...you...he...oh, dear,” Mrs. Andrews drew in a long breath and took a moment to compose her thoughts. “I cannot reprimand you, dear daughter. Not after asking you to set aside your fear and morality in order to carry on your family’s duty as you have done...But I must caution you, Emilie. Count Dracula is many things but when it comes down to it he is a man. A powerful man. Men of power may play with our lives, our affections as they wish. Please, be careful…”

Emilie reached over and placed her hand over her mother’s, “Mama, you don’t need to worry. Vlad--Count Dracula cares for me. I know he does.”

And she did know. For as she’d sat there listening to her mother’s worries she’d searched her mind trying to call up memories of last night. Suddenly her mouth flooded with the phantom taste, the rich pooling of his blood on her tongue and she remembered. She’d drunk from him again. This time he’d given her much, much more than usual. The taste was overwhelming. It was all cold, eastern skies, mournful wolf cries in the night and the cut of winter air on bare skin. But there was more: there was the reflection of warm candlelight glowing on her skin, her cheek dimpled in a smile and the soft, vulnerable feel of her body under his. He loved her. It was a fact that she knew in her bones just as she knew that the sun would rise and set each day. Count Dracula loved her.

***

Dracula rose as the sun’s light extinguished below the horizon. He climbed out from the hastily dug grave and brushed the soil from his clothes. Sleeping in the earth had fully restored him after the near fatal drink last night. He crept out onto the lawn and made his way toward the house.

When he entered he found Emilie and her mother in the dining room eating supper. He still smelled of rot and mold and his white shirt was stained and unkempt. He stepped forward, his every move radiating danger and took a seat beside Emilie and across from her mother.

“I’m glad to see you looking so...lively, Miss Emilie,” Dracula drawled, drumming his fingers on the table and eyeing his lover with a sharp gaze.

Emilie was caught off guard and unsure how to respond, “Count, thank you for taking care of me yesterday. I’m feeling much better today.”

She was wearing one of the gowns he’d purchased for her. Emerald green silk that clung to her curves without being overly revealing. His Emilie was adorably modest even after he’d so thoroughly debauched her.

“Taking care of you...certainly. Although it seems you were the one taking, darling. Don’t you think?”

She furrowed her brows at him and shook her head quizzically, “Are you well, Vl...Count?”

Dracula’s eyes swung from daughter to mother knowingly. Mrs. Andrews didn’t seem surprised to see her daughter supping at her master’s table rather than attending it. He realized Emilie must have taken her into her confidence. He felt...he did not know how to quantify the emotions swirling within him. He felt soaring joy to see her well and eating. It gave him satisfaction that he had been the means of her salvation. He should be her salvation, her master, her everything. But he was also unavoidably disturbed that he had allowed himself to become so weakened for her...by her. He had wanted a bride, a deathly wife, to serve him and belong to him forever. He had not intended for the bond between them to take this form. She possessed him now as much as he possessed her. Count Dracula was unaccustomed to being in anyone else’s power and he lashed out against the very thought. It sparked anger, fear and hostility in his blood. He felt the edges of his self flare over into monstrous intent.

“I am well, Emilie. I have recovered my strength as you see,” he turned to Mrs. Andrews. “Mrs. Andrews, I must ask you to leave now. It’s really not appropriate for my housekeeper to invite her family to sup at my table. I’m surprised at you, Emilie.”

Emilie flinched away from him as if his cruel behavior had landed a physical blow. Mrs. Andrews narrowed her eyes and replied coldly, “I believe there is some new arrangement being worked out here, Count Dracula. My daughter is your housekeeper no longer.”

Dracula’s lips widened into a leering smile as he asked in a tone of false confusion, “Well, then, if she is no longer my housekeeper whatever can I be paying her for? Emilie...what services have you been rendering me of late to earn your salary?”

Mrs. Andrews gasped furiously but before she could respond Emilie sprang from her seat and struck Count Dracula in the face. Her strength could never match his but the infusion of his blood had improved it and his head snapped to the side as her palm made contact with his cheek. Emilie stood over him, fists clenched in anger and breathing rapidly. It was done in the matter of a second and she stood there feeling fury and fear warring within her. She knew that Count Dracula was powerful and dangerous. She could admit to herself that she was drawn to that part of him. And her demeanor was so naturally sweet and obedient that to defy him sent a wave of panic through her. But in that moment she reacted as she thought she must. She might be submissive and adoring, but she was also her mother’s daughter and her grandmother’s granddaughter...and she was brave.

“How...dare you?” she demanded. “I have been nothing but pure kindness and devotion and you would insult me this way in front of my mother?”

Dracula sat motionless, his head tilted to the side from her slap. He locked eyes with Mrs. Andrews and growled, “Leave now, Mrs. Andrews.”

The woman balked, “Now, I don’t think--”

“Now!” he roared, leaping across the table and grabbing the woman by the collar, dragging her out of the room. Emilie ran after him uselessly, unable to keep up with his preternatural speed. He reached the front door and tossed the woman out onto the gravel drive, slamming the door shut and rounding on Emilie.

“It’s my fault, really,” he mused, stalking toward her and shepherding her back into the dining room. “I see I’ve given you too much. Too much leniency, too much freedom, too much...blood.”

Emilie’s back came up against the wall and she watched him approach with eyes wide in fear. She held her hands, palms out as if to ward him away, “Vlad, you’re not well. You need to...to eat and then I think--”

“Are you offering?” he taunted, finally reaching her and caging her in his arms. His fangs elongated and his eyes began clouding over scarlet.

Emilie’s eyes filled with tears and she cringed away from him as if hoping the wall would simply swallow her up, “No...Vlad.”

Her scent spiked with fear, souring the air between them. Dracula grimaced in distaste, the surprise brought him slightly out of his frenzy. Emilie was flinching away from him, her eyes scrunched shut and her mouth open in a sob of horror. And suddenly he was flashing back to the last time they’d been in bed together. The soft touch of her skin, the beauty of her surrender, her trust in him. The contrast with the current moment made him want to gag. He turned away from her, pacing to the other side of the dining table, putting distance between them. He stood there, holding his head in his hands, grasping for control.

He could hear her crying behind him. And then her footsteps, hesitant at first and then more confident as she walked toward the front hallway. The door hardly made a sound as she closed it behind her.

Tags:

@charlesdances @mr-kisskiss-bangbang @dracula-s-bride @haleyea @irrelevantwriter @felicityofbakerstreet @festering-queen @kaddis-world @leah-halliwell92

#dracula x ofc #dracula x oc #dracula imagine #claes bang #bbc dracula #dracula 2020 #dracula netflix #count dracula #count dracula x ofc #count dracula x oc #dracula fanfic #chelsfic

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tealvz · 5 years

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Make Like a Bubble (And Fade Away)

(AO3) Summary: Despite everything, Remy finally makes a friend. He tries not to let this one slip his grasp too. Warning(s): Near drowning, vomiting, bullying(??) Pairing(s): Remile (platonic or romantic it’s up to you lol) Character(s): Remy, Emile, Deceit (Ethan in this) Word Count: 7188 A/N: sooo uhh here’s the story i said i was writing like 3 months ago sdhfsjkdfjkdsfh sorry it took so long, i got kind of self conscious about it… but now enough time has elapsed so that i dont really care that much anymore lmfao also… just a reminder… i dont really write that much so dont bully me too hard ple ase dssdhfjkdsh hope you enjoy tho! :)

A yawn escaped Remy’s mouth, and he held a hand over it in a feeble attempt to disguise it.

Today it seemed like the lights in the coffee shop were especially bright (he supposed it was due to the gloomy weather outside), so he’d opted to wear his glasses inside as well. Business was slow, since the hellish rush that were the hours after school let out had already passed. Remy found peace in the quietness of the shop, his only other companions being an old lady with tea chatting quietly with her husband and a college student clack clack clacking away at her keyboard in the corner next to the fern.

The bell atop the door jingled as someone walked in. Remy shut off his phone and stood up from the stool he was crossing his legs on, placing the device under the countertop.

“What can I get for you, cutie?” Sure, this method of greeting had gotten him in many heated conversations with his manager over the years, so he dialed it back from using it on every single person that entered the store to cute old ladies and cute boys.

And boy was he cute. And boy did he stand out. Remy had never met a person with dyed pink hair before (although he did have a period in middle school where he seriously considered it), but the vibrant color was fading so that it gave way to his natural brown. He was wearing a cardigan, and, perhaps most pressingly, was soaking wet.

The boy took off one of his earbuds, digging around in a pocket of his cardigan with a tongue sticking out. He was creating puddles on the hard wax floor that Remy would have to clean up (read: leave it for the next guy to deal with). “I’ll just take a large black coffee!” He chirped, seemingly unfazed by the nickname. Remy quickly punched the order in.

“Can I get your name?” Remy asked once more.

“It’s Emile,” The stranger said. Remy typed in ‘Emil’ into the machine and allowed a white sticker to print out.

A faint purple glow surrounded one of the large cups stacked near the register. It grew in intensity as Remy levitated it towards his person, slapping the sticker onto it lazily as it spun away from him. He was counting the $2.57 he’d have to give back in change to Emile as a similar purple aura lifted the coffee pitcher behind him.

“Oh… Wow,” Emile mumbled, causing Remy to glance up. His light brown eyes were trained on the scene unfolding in front of him, coffee pitcher pouring into a white cup all by itself. Streaks of yellow light accompanied the purple aura occasionally.

The finished drink landed in his hand alongside a lid to cap it. He settled the coffee pitcher safely on the table as he handed the drink and change to Emile.

“What’s your size cap?” Emile asked, leaning in ever so slightly as he took the items. “My mom has powers too, but they don’t look nearly as pretty as yours!”

“Well, I don’t do cars,” Remy listed. “I think the biggest it’ll go is people,” He omitted the fact that the only person he’d done it on was himself.

“My mom’s can only go up to jars… Things like that. Hers don’t have any colors though,” Emile nodded, more to himself than to Remy he supposed. “Imagine you could levitate buildings and stuff? Li-Like freaking Superman?! How awe- I mean, I guess it wouldn’t be that cool now that I think about it...”

“Nah, I think it’d be pretty cool,” Remy absently tapped his finger to his chin. “Lifting up the Statue of Liberty and just dunking it into the sea for kicks. That sounds kinda rad. But I guess it’d suck if it were some kind of like… Maniac.”

Emile nodded again solemnly. “With great power comes great responsibility,” He said. “In the wise words of Uncle Ben.”

“Sounds like a nice guy,” Remy conceded.

“... It was a reference,” Emile laughed to himself quietly. “Anyways! Thank you, I don’t want to keep you away from your work for too long!”

Remy glanced around the near empty Starbucks. The elderly couple were getting up to leave. “No, it’s okay, you really aren’t. It usually doesn’t get too busy unless it’s like, 3 or 4 o’clock.”

A grin spread across Emile’s face. “Ah! Good thing I usually stay behind a little later then,” He laughed to himself again, looking down and one hand playing with the wires on his earbuds. “Will you be here again tomorrow?”

“All week, babe,” Remy responded.

“Cool! That’s cool,” Emile mentioned that he had a bus to catch soon, and he apologized for not sticking around longer. Remy in response told him not to worry about it, and truth be told he had never met anyone who apologized for not being able to hang out with him more. Most of his friendships had ultimately ended with the other party always slowly but surely trimming him out of their life.

So Remy sat back down on the stool as Emile left the shop, bell jingling to signal his departure. His phone sat forgotten underneath the table as he leaned into the palm of his hand. Remy watched the fluorescent lights of the Starbucks filter into his vision as his glasses slipped further down his nose, raindrops falling against the clear windows allowing him to close his eyes…

As Remy fell into the depths of the ocean, feeling his body catapult deep into an underwater cave, light entered his vision.

The dream ended as soon as it began, and Remy stirred at someone gently shaking him awake. He blinked sleepily from behind his glasses, and he used them to hold back his hair as he looked around in bewilderment. Various objects were hovering in the air surrounding him, a few couple cups, lids, spare change and a Sharpie. The purple glow surrounding them faded as Remy became more aware of his surroundings, and they all dropped to the floor.

“Wha’ time,” Remy mumbled, rubbing his right eye as he looked to the person who woke him up. The lights were way too bright, lines and starbursts nearly blinding him. He put his glasses back on.

“Almost 6,” His coworker responded. He had a disinterested expression on his face as he tied his green apron around his waist. “I’m guessing it wasn’t very busy?”

Remy felt hot all over. He abruptly stood up, the world spinning slightly before everything stabilized. “No, I don’t think so.”

He left before he could hear his coworker’s reply. As soon as he collected his bag from the back room, Remy realized he’d forgotten to bring an umbrella. While this elicited a strong swear from him (mentally), Remy decided not to dwell on it for too long and proceeded to exit the establishment only mildly annoyed with himself.

It wasn’t pouring, but it wasn’t drizzling either. Remy took a deep breath, holding his leather shoulder bag over his head as he lightly jogged towards the bus stop. He was not going to look like an absolute clown sprinting and slipping on a puddle. Or worse, just flat out passing out in the middle of the sidewalk. No ma’am. Not today.

As he rounded the corner however, a familiar stranger sitting on the bus stop’s bench made his jog slow.

This wasn’t a stop with a roof covering the bench, so the boy with pink hair was even more soaked than when he’d come into the shop for the first time. He was holding a mint colored umbrella with his knees, shielding not his head but the yellow notepad he was scribbling furiously on. Remy wondered how he could see with his glasses dripping water down the lenses like that.

“Hey,” Remy announced his arrival, pace slowing to a walk as he approached. Emile jumped at his voice, turning to look at him with wide eyes as his pen finally stopped writing. However, as soon as their gazes met the tension in his shoulders relaxed, and he gave Remy a sheepish smile.

“H-Hello again!” Emile said cheerfully, like he was desperately trying to hide the shaking of his voice. “Gosh, what abhorrent weather, huh?”

“True that,” Remy plopped down on the bench next to him and shifted his bag so it rested on his lap. Raindrops dripped down his dark hair. “Bus never came?”

Emile laughed to himself and rubbed the back of his neck. “Um, no it did. Several times probably. I think I got a little carried away…”

Remy glances down at his notepad, filled with lines and lines of tiny text all squished together as to conserve space. He seemed to be almost running out of pages. “You don’t say?”

“I-It was important, so!! I just wanted to take a little extra time-“

“An hour.”

Emile blinked in bewilderment at him. “Excuse me?”

“You left the shop an hour ago,” Remy elaborated.

Emile swiftly checked the time on his (waterproof) watch and groaned loudly. “Ah, dangit, mom’s gonna kill me! … Oh, wait, do you need this?”

Remy stared at him as he scooted closer to him on the bench, putting his notebook back into his bag (it was shaped like a cheeseburger, Remy realized. A really soggy cheeseburger). He lifted his umbrella from between his knees with one hand and held it up over the two of them.

Although, truthfully, it wasn’t working that well. The umbrella only covered Remy’s right side as the left was exposed to the relentless rain, but he still gave a soft thank you regardless.

After a moment’s silence (Remy checked his pocket for his phone, except it wasn’t there. He cursed his forgetful brain for the second time as he now had to settle for staring awkwardly at the cars passing in front of them), Remy opted to speak up.

“... What were you writing?” He asked.

Emile gave a noncommittal shrug, shifting the umbrella so that it was covering Remy more. Remy frowned at this, pushing Emile’s hand back to where it was hovering between the two of them.

“It’s kind of dumb-,” Emile cut himself off with a sneeze.

“Bless you,”

“Tha-”

“And nah, I’m sure it isn’t,” Remy reassured him. “Anything that makes a guy stay outside in the rain for an extra hour probably isn’t that dumb.”

It seemed as though this was enough for Emile’s expression to brighten, and he immediately sat straight up on the bench while unknowingly bumping Remy in the glasses with his umbrella. “Well!! If you must know,” Emile began. “I actually write just a teensy, weensy bit,”

He emphasized this with a pinch of his fingers before he leaned backwards on his free arm. “Basically, I thought of this idea where a girl named Elizabeth gains the ability to travel through different dimensions as a result of her ingesting some bad salmon! On her journey, she meets a cute girl who, plot twist, is actually a fish! And then, they’d both get married in a meadow on another dimension’s Mars, and she’d have salmon as a part of the catering on their wedding day which is where Fish-Girl, horrified, would be disgusted with Elizabeth due to the very notion of consuming salmon because of her ancestors, who-”

Emile took a deep breath of air, red coloring his cheeks as Remy tried to retain the information that had just been spilled out in front of him. Elizabeth was a constant, there was a fish in there somewhere, multiverse…

“Elizabeth doesn’t know she’s a salmon,” Remy asked.

“Well, actually, salmon isn’t a specific type of fish. It encompasses a wide variety of them (I read that once on Buzzfeed), and no, that revelation comes in the second act,” Emile pushed up his glasses. “It’s kind of a metaphor on how you may not know your partner as well as you do, and the value one should place on communication in a relationship.”

It seemed as though pure, unadulterated happiness was radiating off the boy next to him, and it took everything within Remy to keep his smirk at bay. Emile seemed content, despite him sniffing occasionally (because of the rain) and his fingers twitching (because of the cold) as he played with the sleeve of his cardigan.

“It’s okay if you didn’t follow that,” Emile laughed hollowly, tone suddenly turning self deprecating. “I know my words are ah, kinda a handful! To keep track of that is.”

“I don’t follow anything anyone says,” Remy blurted out. “Like, ever. So it’s cool.” Emile blinked, opening his mouth to respond before a bus suddenly pulled up in front of them as though it materialized out of the raindrops. It wasn’t Remy’s bus, but Emile stood up from the bench and tugged his school bag over his shoulders.

“Oh! Here, you can have this!” Emile exclaimed abruptly. He jerkily shoved the umbrella towards Remy, who only stared at him for a few moments in bewilderment.

“Uh, what?” Remy said dumbly.

“You can have it! I’ll just tell my mom I lost it,” Emile looked off to the side, rain cascading down his face in rivulets. Remy thought he looked like he desperately needed it more than he did. “I-It’s as thank you! For talking to me.”

Remy began, “I don’t really need it-” He was cut off by Emile all but throwing the umbrella towards him as the bus driver honked loudly.

“I’lltakeitbackfromyoutomorrowbye!” Emile sprinted up the steps of the bus and Remy was left fumbling to gain a grip on the mint colored accessory, it clattering to the ground as the bus pulled away.

Remy stretched out his cold, numb fingers towards the umbrella. Upon closer examination, there was a little tag that looked suspiciously like a yellow Post-It note stuck to the inside with clear tape, the words “Emile Picani! =)” scrawled across it in barely legible handwriting.

Ah… There was an extra ‘e’ at the end of ‘Emile’. He’d keep that in mind for next time.

Remy’s head slammed against the underside of the countertop when he woke, and he let out a hiss of pain as he dropped back to the floor again. His glasses, hovering in the air in front of him, promptly fell onto his face and proceeded to clatter to the floor. A couple other items followed suit, including but not limited to: An old Sharpie, some spare change, and Emile’s umbrella.

“Good morning,” A voice called curtly. Remy, not moving from his spot on the floor, turned towards the darkness under the countertop and let out a groan.

“Oh, don’t even right now, Ethan.”

Ethan shrugged, slipping off of (Remy’s) barstool easily. He stepped towards Remy, crouching down and picking up the umbrella. “Didn’t peg you for a teal kinda guy,” Ethan said, turning it over in his hands.

Remy snapped his attention to Emile’s umbrella, and hastily began trying to scramble to his knees. “P-Put that down, man” He huffed, gripping the edge of the countertop as the world spun around him. Ugh, he got up too quick. “That isn’t mine.”

A frown appeared on Ethan’s face. “You… Stole it…?”

“No I- I didn’t,” Remy wobbled over to Ethan, grateful for the fact the only customer in at the moment being the same college student from yesterday. With a quick hand that totally wasn’t shaking at all, he snatched the umbrella from his hands with a scowl.

His scowl, however, quickly softened into an expression of anxiousness. He bit his lip as he leaned against the counter. “Hey, you didn’t see a guy with pink hair come in here, by any chance?”

Ethan shrugged. “I just got here. They totally shouldn’t give me more hours for the afternoon when the only guy working here keeps passing ou-”

“Ah ah ah!” Remy jabbed the end of the umbrella at Ethan’s shoulder. He let out an offended hiss in response. “That’s enough outta you, sis.”

As though he hadn’t just assaulted his coworker, Remy continued, “He had pink hair and glasses,” Remy explained this by making circles in front of his eyes to imitate glasses, as though he wasn’t already wearing a pair. “And his school bag was, like, a burger or something. He-”

“By any chance was his name Emile?” Ethan interrupted.

Blinking, Remy nodded. “Wow, that was easy.”

“Yeah, he totally blends in at school,” Ethan said bluntly. “Like, I barely ever notice him.”

“Really?”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“Whatever, just,” Remy, exasperated, shoved the umbrella towards him. “Give this to him, please? He was supposed to come in today but I think I missed him.”

Ethan eyed him warily before saying, “He wasn’t at school today, so I’m guessing he probably didn’t come in anyways,” Although he took the umbrella from Remy regardless.

A sudden pang of concern hit Remy as he recalled the boy’s creative episode in the rain the day prior. Maybe he should have thrown the umbrella back at him (Wait, no, it would’ve just hit the bus instead…).

“Does he skip a lot?” Remy asked, trying not to let the worry show from behind his glasses.

Ethan kept feeling at the handle of the umbrella, like rubbing it was going to unearth some ancient rune that he needed to discover. “Hm… I don’t think so. He cares a lot about his grades, definitely,” Ethan, smile suddenly appearing on his face, turned the umbrella once more. “Wow, this is bumpy.”

“... Alright I’m gonna go now,” Remy said, walking into the back room. “Make sure he gets it.” He added, only slightly threatening. “Like, seriously.”

“Yeah, yeah, definitely,” Ethan mumbled. His attention was diverted from the umbrella to a customer walking into the store, his voice fading into the background as Remy walked, “Hi, how may I help you…”

Remy shook his head, pushing open the door to the back room. Well, it wasn’t like Ethan was totally untrustworthy or anything.

The next day it was raining again (Because of course it was, it was Florida), but Remy was, surprisingly, not fast asleep when Ethan walked in for his shift.

The first thing he noticed was the mint umbrella in his hand, and Remy’s neutral expression very quickly turned into a frown.

“Hey-”

“He said I could keep it,” Ethan explained cryptically.

“He what-” Remy, who had been busy questioning Ethan’s moral integrity all day already, tried not to scream as his coworker briskly entered the back room to deposit his things. Because his mind was already going to the very imperative questions of Well, why didn’t he come in today? Didn’t he give me the umbrella? Am I being #clingy right now?

“Also, he had to monitor for a teacher after school for parent teacher conference, so he couldn’t come today.” Ethan emerged from the back room, in the middle of tying his apron around his waist. “He told me to tell you that.”

“Are you two friends or something?”

Ethan moved to the register after tying his apron and pulled out his phone. “Eh… We just have Latin together.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. He already has a bunch of them, so I’m sure he’s fine without me.”

For some reason that statement made a knot twist in Remy’s stomach, but he ignored it. Because jealousy was not a good look, and Remy would not be caught dead looking so desperate for friendship he saw in a dude he’d only known for one day.

So he made himself a coffee (so that he wouldn’t fall asleep waiting for the bus) and ended his shift. He glanced back at Ethan as he neared the front door, still toying with the umbrella handle under the counter while on his phone, and realized that he’d once again forgotten his umbrella at home.

Emile came back in for a black coffee. Remy spelled his name correctly.

They talked briefly, Remy questioning his decision on the umbrella, and Emile just gave that same nervous laugh. He was wearing a sweater today, with a cartoon cat on it shaped like a cookie.

“He seemed to like it a lot, so I thought I’d give it to him!” Emile heaved his backpack up so that it rested more comfortably on his shoulders, smiling so brightly at Remy he felt like he needed to put his glasses back on. “I didn’t know you two worked together!”

Remy smiled. “Small world.”

He couldn’t stay for long this time, because he was going to be hanging out with his friends, Remy learned. They were going to be studying for a test together at the library, which didn’t sound that fun to Remy, but Emile seemed rather ecstatic about the whole thing.

Before he left the shop, Emile paused at the front door and turned his head around. “Oh! I almost forgot to tell you! I was working on the story again yesterday: Elizabeth and Ella (her girlfriend) make up afterwards! But the story leaves off at a cliffhanger when a meteor strikes the wedding reception. Whether or not it was premeditated is still to be determined.”

Remy took a long sip of his coffee as Emile was talking. “Love that for them.”

Emile grinned, pushing up his glasses and waving as he exited the coffee shop. Remy decided to begin wiping down the counter while waiting for his shift to end.

“You haven’t seen Steven Universe?!”

Remy picked at the inside of his ear with a pinky finger. “I mean. I’ve probably seen like, half of an episode. Or something.”

“Ohmygosh, you have to watch it-” Emile abruptly cut himself off, realization dawning on his face. A wide grin spread across his blank expression, and he pulled the hem of his sweater down to gesture at it.

“Look! Remy, this is Steven Universe!” Emile animatedly went through the effort of pointing each colorful character out on his sweater, going as far as to explain their faults, character arcs, backstories…

“I like this one,” Remy said as Emile was taking a breath, and pointed at a girl in large comical glasses. “She looks pretty cool.”

“That’s Connie,” Emile continued, Despite him being in the middle of explaining… One of the colorful ones before Remy interjected. “She’s very inquisitive yet cautious, and I think one of the most interesting traits about her is her feelings of loneliness.”

Remy quirked an eyebrow at him, absently rubbing the countertop with a cloth. “She doesn’t look very lonely here,” He said, poking at the character on his shirt. She was grinning with her eyebrows set in a determined expression. Also she was carrying a huge sword.

“Well, due to her father’s job, there is a lot of instability in her life,” Emile elaborated, leaning forwards so that his elbows were on the counter and a hand was propping his chin up. “Simply put, her family moves around a lot, and thus she finds it difficult to hold onto friendships.”

“That’s… Kind of depressing,” Remy said, an odd knot of sympathy forming in his throat. “For a kids show.”

“Well, I guess, but it’s just so… So frickin cool how realistic that is,” He sighed dreamily, and he let his head rest on his forearm instead of his elbow. “Gosh, I love cartoons! Do you have a favorite show, um…”

Emile blinked at him owlishly, straightening up. “Wait, I don’t know your name.”

“Oh.” Was Remy’s only response to that.

“Gosh, that’s so rude of me!” Emile squeaked, the onset of embarrassment on his face so fast that Remy almost had whiplash witnessing it. “I-It must have slipped my mind! I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Remy said with a smirk. “I was just worried you’d never forget it if I told you.”

“Don’t keep me in the dark any longer!” Emile gasped, leaning forwards suddenly. “What’s your name? Or I’ll just keep referring you to as ‘Starbucks Guy’ in my head.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It could be.”

After a drawn out pause as Remy sipped his iced coffee, he responded with a simple, “Remy.”

Emile stared at him for a moment, before a squeal escaped his mouth and he clamped his hands over his lips. “Li-Like from Ratatouille!! Remy and Emile, oh my god!!” He exclaimed loudly. A woman on the phone in the corner of the establishment sent him an odd look that Emile didn’t notice.

“Like… From France…?”

“Ratatouille!” Emile repeated. “Please tell me you’ve seen Ratatouille.”

Remy took a guilty sip from his coffee. “It’s probably a TV show?”

“It’s a Pixar movie,” Emile took out his phone and typed something into Google (He didn’t have a passcode it seemed) and showed him various pictures of a 3D cartoon mouse. In a chefs hat.

“Wow, she’s cute,” Remy deadpanned. “Glad that reminds you of me.”

“He’s great! It’s a great movie!” Emile smiled despite the sardonic slight. “You should watch it sometime! Oh, you have Netflix, right? It’s probably there.”

“Totally,” Remy lied.

“Awesome! Um…” With his gaze stuck on his phone, Emile trailed off, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. A look of horror then struck his face, and he immediately shoved his phone in his pocket. “Shoot! I was supposed to meet up with them like thirty minutes ago! Ah-”

Emile gave him an apologetic look. “Sorry I can’t stay for much longer, I’ll see you on Monday, though!”

“Why Mon-” Oh, yeah, the school week ended on Friday. “Yeah… Yeah I’ll see you then.”

Emile waved as he bolted out of the Starbucks, and Remy all but sagged onto the countertop, glasses sliding off the bridge of his nose as he glared at a speck of dust in his peripheral vision.

He probably should have asked for his number… Or was it too soon for that? Ah, whatever.

One nap, his boss yelling at him for it, and an hour later, Remy had officially clocked out. He didn’t have much else to do for the night, since he had finished his homework the day prior, so Remy settled for the grim reality of going home to watch a rerun of The Office before he inevitably fell asleep halfway through the episode.

On the way to his bus stop, there was a bridge he had to walk past. It laid across the polluted river, shitty paint job and all. Graffiti consistently covered the underside of it (somehow), and Remy never spared a second glance towards it.

Well, the reason why this insignificant, minute detail in his own insignificant, minute life was suddenly relevant was due to the head of pink hair on the bridge.

It was a group of about five people, including Emile. His bright, pastel colored sweater was tinted to a pretty shade of dark periwinkle due to the sunset over the bridge. He stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the group of individuals wearing mostly earthy, warm colors.

Remy catapulted himself behind a building, sticking his body up against it and digging out his phone. He was just going to check Instagram really quick. He definitely wasn’t eavesdropping, nope.

“... ile, isn’t that show like, for little kids?” A voice drifted from over the bridge. Remy adjusted his sunglasses. This was stupid. He should just keep walking. Pathetic how attached he grew to one person even after knowing them for a grand total of three days at most.

“Well,” Emile’s voice was loud. There was a cartoonish quality to it that Remy couldn’t place, maybe it was the way he said his e’s. It might’ve been an accent, but Remy could not place which one for the life of him. Despite this, his voice didn’t seem to carry as much authority as the speaker prior. “I just thought it was fun, I guess.”

A bubble of bitterness welled up in his throat at Emile’s tone, because it was softer than when he had spoken to him at the bus stop. Like he wasn’t using it to its full potential.

Whatever, Remy conceded he’d leave it alone. This was kind of bad, wasn’t it? To be eavesdropping like this. #Clingy! Blared in his mind as he walked slowly away from the scene, towards his bus stop.

“That’s weird, Emile,” Another speaker said. “Don’t you watch any, like, real shows?”

“... I don’t really watch that much TV.”

Remy awoke with a start, much like he always did. Though this time he was floating above the ground, drool pooling in a puddle on the countertop.

The barstool clattered to the ground as Remy scrambled to get a grip on the countertop before he fell off of it. He heard snickering, and whipped his head around to glare at Ethan.

“Your shift’s over, princess,” Ethan said. He sprayed whipped cream into his mouth, setting it back down before his attention returned to his phone once again. Remy sighed, rubbing his still groggy head before clocking out for the day.

The sky was clear, though there were a gaggle of looming rainclouds near the horizon. Remy didn’t mind, however, since he found the sunset was freaking gorgeous today. Definitely Instagram-worthy.

So he decided to take a picture of it before heading to the bus stop. Who knew when he’d get another opportunity like this, especially since it was rainy season. Maybe the bridge would be a nice photo-op?

As he passed by the old, graffiti-littered bridge, Remy’s steps slowed.

It was Emile again. While Remy didn’t find it odd to witness highschool students being outside during the weekends, the odd thing about this was that Emile was completely alone.

He had an elbow on the railing of the bridge, propping up his chin in a way that he looked almost serene, gazing out over the polluted water. The oranges and angry yellows of the sun made his beige cardigan look more like a deep red-brown.

Remy’s hand lingered over his hand. This was probably the most perfect photo he could ever imagine for his Instagram, but of course he wasn’t going to take a picture of someone just standing there. That would be weird, right? Should he forget about this now? Go up to Emile and talk to him? The lack of an expression on his face didn’t suit him well, Remy noticed.

In his other hand, hanging by his side, was the yellow notebook Remy had witnessed him writing into many days ago.

As Remy continued debating whether or not he should go up to him, Emile had shifted his position. He was walking backwards from the railing, face set in a determined grimace. His grip tightened on the notebook so much that his fingers were smudging the ink and the pages were wrinkling in his grasp. He seemed to be psyching himself up for something, clenching and unclenching his fingers as he kept his gaze on the water in front of the bridge.

Then he swung his hand back, and flung the notebook into the river.

Similar to how people, quote on quote, had their lives flashing before their eyes upon their deathbed, Remy only saw his friends. Or lack thereof. The empty birthday parties, the pitying stares from other students, a teacher extending a hand to him as he laid asleep on the floor…

And it was probably then that he realized he hated being alone. The feeling clawed inside of him like a vice, and yet he could never seem to hold onto anyone before they faded away from his life. He didn’t want to feel that way again.

He felt his feet moving before his mind could wrap itself around the situation. It was like a primal instinct had taken over, and suddenly Remy was vaulting over the railing with a strength he never knew he possessed, extending a hand towards the yellow pages that were half submerged into the water.

And as he let the notebook float gently into the air, his familiar purple aura surrounding it, Remy felt his knees give way.

A mute scream bubbled from his throat as his grip slacked on the railing, body falling into the water despite his mind yelling at him to move, to regroup, to do something-

A rush of cold water hit him like a ton of bricks, and Remy felt dizzy as all the breath from his lungs left him despite himself. He felt the familiar haze of sleep cloud his mind, and he thought ruefully that he had never fallen asleep in a river before…

As his vision went darker and bubbles filled it, he saw the stream of light from the sunset, a soda can surrounded by purple float to the top of the river, and there was something pink coming towards him… He was fading, fading...

Emile Picani watched as the Starbucks barista, the one who always knew to get him a black coffee, vaulted over the railing of the bridge. He watched as his powers made his notepad levitate into the air, and watched as the barista’s legs seemed to freeze up, hold on the railing slacking all of a sudden. And he watched as he plummeted into the polluted river, notepad still floating with a pretty spark of purple surrounding it despite it all.

He was stunned! Flabbergasted, floored, er… He didn’t really know what to do. Emile was still standing and staring at where the man had disappeared under the water… And he wasn’t floating back to the surface… Oh no-

Things suddenly started shooting to the surface, a soda can, old shoes, a couple fish and a hair dryer. That was probably what spurred Emile to lurch himself over the railing as well to dive into the water.

It was murky and hard to see- And oh god why was everything brown?! Emile resisted the urge to gag as his heart raced, eyes squinting to make out anything in the water atop the bubbles escaping his nose. There were still things rising to the top of the water, a phone, a ring of keys, glasses…

Emile’s eyes focused on a hazy blob of darkness lying on the river floor, and he quickly shot his hands out to grab at it. By now he was very quickly running out of air, and it didn’t seem like Starbucks was going to wake up at any point either. So Emile gathered as much of the man’s jacket as he could in his hands, panic pooling within his stomach as he felt a large amount of air leave his nose through bubbles.

Okay, okay, it’s fine, this is fine, fine and dandy, Emile heard his voice scream inside of his head. He tried not to gasp at the darkness fluttering in and out of his vision, trying to kick his way back to the top of the river. But his movements were growing sluggish, and everything was suddenly covered in a haze that wasn’t there before. And Emile was sinking, sinking…

Floating…?

He felt a light feeling overwhelm him, and looked down to see his hands surrounded in a purple aura. Was Remy… Doing this?

Emile’s hands were in a death grip on Remy’s jacket, squeezing his eyes shut as his body was shooting to the top. Bubbles were escaping his mouth, but soon enough, his head broke the surface and he was gasping for air.

Sweet, sweet oxygen invaded his lungs and Emile allowed himself to cough up the water he had accidentally swallowed while resurfacing. His attention snapped to Remy, still submerged in the river and he quickly brought the other boy up to the surface while trying to kick to shore at the same time.

As the effects of Remy’s powers wore off, Emile had gradually reached the shore. He all but threw Starbucks onto the shore, and laid himself down next to the sleeping barista atop crushed soda cans and sharp plastic. His arms felt like they were on fire, and his heart wouldn’t stop beating like he was running from a known serial killer… Man, maybe he should start working out more.

Then, Emile’s attention refocused onto the matter at hand… Oh god, Remy probably swallowed a gallon of dirty river water or something. Emile quickly scrambled to his side, looming over him as he surveyed the condition of the unconscious teenager. Would he have to perform CPR? Oh no, Emile wasn’t qualified to do that!! Maybe if he looked it up on Google he’d have a better understanding- Oh, but he’d lost his phone in the river…

As soon as the feeling of helplessness welled up inside of him, it popped like a bubble. Remy’s eyes cracked open, squinting against the harsh rays of the sunset. His fingers twitched as he tried to sit up.

“Wh-” Remy began, voice hoarse, but as soon as he started his face turned a sickly shade of green and he turned his head to vomit up river water. Emile kindly looked away from the scene, grimace present on his face. “Um,” Emile started, but a strange feeling overwhelmed him, made his eyes water and the back of his throat burn. He’d realized that most of what happened was mostly because of him, and his little stunt back on the bridge. If he hadn’t been so stupid, Remy wouldn’t have…

“I’m sorry,” Emile couldn’t stop the tears from flowing down his cheeks, and he was pointedly looking away from Remy as well. “I-I, oh gosh,” He mumbled wiping at them with the sleeves of his cardigan despite them also being soaking wet.

As Remy opened his mouth to respond, another torrent of river water escaped him and onto the shore. He held out a hand, motioning for Emile to wait a second and spoke after vomiting.

“Do-Don’t apologize,” Remy muttered, wiping his mouth sheepishly. “I think I dropped it anyways. Your notebook.”

All that statement did was make him cry even harder, and he curled in on himself, hugging his knees and burying his head in them. He tried saying that he didn’t care, it really didn’t matter to him, because the fact of the matter was that his actions nearly caused another human being to die. Not only that, it was Remy, someone who had been nothing but kind to him through the brief interactions they’d shared together.

Remy was patting him awkwardly on the back. “Sor-Sorry, yi-yikes, it’s kind of cold out, huh?” He said, laughing.

Emile didn’t respond, and Remy opted to draw his hand away from Emile to sit cross legged on the shore line. He reached down to extract a soggy piece of paper from one of his leather boots.

“So… I kind of fall asleep sometimes,” Remy blurted out suddenly. Emile blinked at him, furrowing his eyebrows in questioning. “Like, it’s really random.”

“Huh,” Emile said. “That’s why you-”

“Yeah. Um,” Remy scratched the back of his head. “It gets really strong when I fall asleep. My powers, I mean. I’m usually not strong enough to lift people or anything.”

Emile thought back to when he was surrounded in a purple aura, the feeling of weightlessness as he floated to the top of the river despite him sinking just a moment before… “Ah.”

“Sorry if that’s weird,” Remy laughed bitterly. “But I just thought I should tell you ‘cause… You know.”

He didn’t know, but Emile suddenly wondered what Remy’s life must have been like living with a condition like that. He wondered if he had a hard time connecting with other people too, he wondered if he was lonely too.

“It-It’s not,” Emile remedied. “I mean, kinda but I don’t care… You’re great, I-I just don’t know why you… Did that.”

He wondered if it was the lighting or if Remy’s face had grown red. “I just… I know it means a lot to you,” He answered. “And don’t give me that crap and pretend it doesn’t matter. I know it does.”

Emile tried to pretend like that statement didn’t make a new wall of tears well up in his eyes. “Y-Yeah,” He whispered, hugging his knees closer to his chest. “It does.”

So they sat together on the shoreline, Emile trying to ignore the chill that came with a gust of wind. Looking up at the sky above, Emile wondered if there would ever come a day where he’d make a friend that he could show his writing to without the debilitating anxiety that came with being judged. Maybe a friend he could watch cartoons with without them asking to change the channel to something like a reality show instead. He wanted someone who would spend time with him that didn’t come at the expense of having to do a project together for AP English.

Then he looked over at the barista, staring blankly out at the water, dark hair plastered unflatteringly to his forehead while squinting. Was it too bright? Was that why he wore sunglasses indoors too? It seemed like Emile was learning something new about him every time they interacted.

A hopeful feeling ignited in his chest, and Emile wished that he could learn more about Remy with time.

“This is my number!”

Remy quirked an eyebrow as he took the post-it note. “Uh-”

“I lost my phone because of, you know,” Emile waved his hand vaguely, but Remy already knew the incident he was talking about. “So I had to get a new one.”

“... Thanks,” Remy said. He furiously engraved it into his skull to remember to text Emile, because he’d probably never forgive himself if he forgot. “I’ll text you after my shift’s over.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course!” Emile said flippantly. “I just wanted to say thanks for the other day… I was kind of- heh, kind of a wreck! Emotionally, haha.”

“Yeah, it’s cool,” Remy thumbed over the new cracks on his phone- He referred to them as battle scars in his mind though. “I’d nearly drown in a shit-filled river anytime for you, babe.”

Although he was kind of joking, Remy was delighted to see a nervous smile on Emile’s face. Much better than tears for sure.

“Haha!! Um, I uh, hah,” Emile squeaked, putting a hand to his red face. “Gosh, it feels like Agrab- You probably don’t know what that is! Haha!! Anyways!”

He unceremoniously dumped a shoddily wrapped parcel onto the table. The wrapper was a repeating pattern of cartoon characters he didn’t recognize.

“It’s the Loud House! Okay, uh, happy Saint Patrick’s day, bye!”

With that, as soon as he came he was gone. Remy watched mutely as Emile bolted out of the shop, though not before nearly tackling an older gentleman making his way in and apologizing to him profusely as he colorfully swore at the retreating teenager. A genuine snicker left his mouth, and he looked down at the gift in his hands.

He’d open it after his shift ended, Remy decided. Using his powers, he levitated it so that it rested underneath the counter, hidden from view. Remy smiled at the older guy and adjusted his glasses.

“How may I help you?”

#remy sanders #sleep sanders #emile picani #dr emile picani #remile #remy x emile #sanders sides #thomas sanders #cartoon therapy #sanders shorts #deceit sanders #he's in this for like 2 scenes lmfao sorry my boy #writes

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