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minefield-of-a-ninja · 2 years

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Summary: A hot tip turns into a hot night.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V

Characters: Soldier Boy x unnamed female character/female reader (1st person POV) x William Butcher

Tags/warnings: explicit, tiny bit of angst?

Words: 1700

Author’s notes: Thank you again to the best beta ever @brrose-apothecary for your read-throughs and support and for being also on of the best friends I’ve ever had. Love you.

Gonzo journalism is an energetic first-person participatory writing style of journalism that is written without claims of objectivity, often including the reporter as part of the story using the first-person narrative, and it draws its power from a combination of social critique and self-satire. The word gonzo is believed to have been first used in 1970 to describe an article about the Kentucky Derby by Hunter S. Thompson, who popularized the style.

Butcher’s in the shower. After they snorted the rest of the Molly off every viable surface of my body, he took his phone and the extra bottle of whiskey to the bathroom, so who knows when we’ll see him again.

Soldier Boy’s wrapped around me from behind, languorously thrusting into me. His downside arm is looped under my neck and wrapped securely across my shoulders. His free hand is heavy between my thighs.

“You take it all like a champ, you know that? Not one complaint.” He murmurs against my ear, gently swirling two fingers around my clit.

I’ve come so many times today that I will never know the count. At this point, I’m humming with constant vibration and light. Maybe they infused me with V somehow and my superpower is that I’m perpetually orgasmic.

“I can’t imagine you getting complaints,” I sigh, and then immediately realize I’m being disingenuous — even if I didn’t intend to be.

Before this little adventure, I was like any other male-attracted individual who grew up in the 80s; I had a crush on Soldier Boy and carried that crush for decades. Then I became a journalist and was slapped in the face with the darkside of Vought and the equally dark real Soldier Boy story.

I promise this is not a Magic Cock trope, but in the time I’ve spent with Soldier Boy (and the kind of time I’ve spent) these past eight hours, he’s become real in his own right.

He chuckles, rolling me to my stomach, staying buried inside me, and spreading my legs with his knees. “Most women, they like the way I look,” he swivels his hips, “the way I fuck.” He leans forward and presses his lips to the side of my neck, making me shiver. (How can he still make me shiver?)

“But they don’t like me,” he continues, pushing upright, pulling my hips back with him, and picking up his pace. “And they’d take orders from me, but only because they were afraid of me, or so I was told, but you… you wanted it.”

I push back into him and moan. “I do,” I groan into the bedding, feeling him rattle my spine and the insides of my chest.

“Yeah, you do,” he murmurs, squeezing my hip with one hand and running his other from my tailbone to my shoulder.

I love sex, and sex with Soldier Boy has proven to be the best I’ve had in my decades of experience. In addition to being more attractive than any other person I’ve ever met, he’s utterly human, which may seem like a bland observation, but... he’s a supe. Furthermore, he’s skilled, inquisitive, and competent in a way that not many supes or humans tend to be. The latter qualities are more than likely what made him the perfect candidate for Vought’s 1944 trials.

“Shit, I don’t even have to try to make you come anymore.” Soldier Boy laughs quietly and breathlessly as I frantically squeeze him to follow my orgasm. “Really fucking wish you’d been around back in the day; probably would’ve had 10 kids by now.” He drops to his back, arms thrown wide, and stares at the ceiling.

I never wanted kids. Turns out, I couldn’t have them anyway so that tracks. Yet his words say less “I’d breed you ‘til you were nothing but barefoot in the kitchen” and more “imagine the possibilities”; because back in his day, that’s what you did when you wanted to appear successful and happy — you settled down, married, and had as many kids as possible, even if you desired something else entirely.

“What the fuck is taking him so long in there?” He grumbles over the whereabouts of Butcher. “It’s not like I didn’t fuck every ounce of libido out of him; he can’t be jacking off.”

I huff a laugh. “I’ll check on him.” I swing my legs over the side of the mattress and round the foot of the bed. Before I reach the bathroom, Soldier Boy snags my wrist.

“We get this last piece of intel, and you stay put, you hear me?” The intensity of his gaze and his demeanor lodges something in the center of my chest that I haven’t felt in years.

I suppose I should be offended that this virtual stranger firmly believes that he has every right to tell me if I can stay or go, but I’m not.

“I can’t do that. I came here for the story, you know tha-”

He stands, cutting me off with immovable resolve.

“And you’ll get it,” he reassures me. “We’ll make sure you get the story, okay? But no human belongs in the middle of a superhero pissing match, and I know he’s not giving you any of that shit to pump you up.”

It’s his tone of voice and his posture — he’s doing his perceived duty to protect me.

And I relent.

“You have to wear a wire or bodycam, or something so I can at least hear...”

He nods. “We’ll figure it out, but you’re not going up to that tower.”

“... and she made the ultimate sacrifice when she stopped the Russian-radicalized Soldier Boy.”

I stare at my screen with my cursor hovering over the option to ‘submit’.

I value journalistic integrity. I’ve never lied or obfuscated what I found to be true. Working with William Butcher has always given me the kinds of jobs that I knew would allow me to produce a story with an angle unlike anyone else’s and without compromise.

This time is different, though.

I don’t understand what happened this time, even after seeing and hearing everything Soldier Boy saw and heard.

Homelander got to his son. (I learned after the whirlwind showdown that Victoria Neuman provided him with the safe house's location.) He used his son as a chess piece to win his own father’s affection, but it didn’t work.

I cannot fathom what Soldier Boy was thinking when that small boy came out from behind Homelander and called him ‘grandpa’, but I would have thought... I would have sworn he’d want to be with him.

Instead, he followed through with Butcher’s initial plan, to take down Homelander no matter what, not knowing that Ryan is just as important to Butcher as he is to Homelander if for different reasons.

And it all went to Hell, including the ear-piece and body cam I’d outfitted him with.

I’m disenchanted to say the least. I’m confused. I feel betrayed. Once the dust settled, Grace Mallory was the one who told me what happened; not Butcher. He couldn’t even do me the courtesy of calling me himself.

“Grace, where is he?” I asked, packing a bag to meet my airport-bound uber. I was determined to pick up where I left off with my own version of The Soldier Boy Story.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Come on, Grace.”

“He’s safe,” she paused. “And so are the people of New York City.”

“Bullshit. The public is not safe with Homelander and his son out there, you know that as well as I do.” I slung my bag over my shoulder and grabbed a jacket on my way out the door.

“Just trust me,” she pleaded. “Remember when you trusted me?”

“Grace,” I sighed as I pushed through the stairwell door to start jogging to the ground. I do remember when I trusted her, but those days are gone. “Does Butcher know where he is?”

“No,” she answered too quickly. In all the years I’d known Grace, she didn’t lie. She omitted things, but she would never put me in danger with lies.

I exited the building just as my driver rolled up. “Well, if you can’t tell me, I’ll have to find him another way.” Before waiting for her answer, I disconnected the call and dropped my phone in my bag.

I spun my wheels in New York for five days before finally giving in and flying back to DC. Every source I’ve counted on in the last ten years was terrified to give me anything, or they were dead.

I decided it was time to take a break. Maybe I’d get one of those AeroGardens, grow some tomatoes on my balcony or write my memoirs.

I bought a cactus and called it a day.

One Saturday morning, three weeks after my return home, I receive an anonymous file on my private server while sipping my third cup of coffee.

My heart rate picks up and my palms begin to sweat. I open the file to find two videos and a note.

He’s alive. Second one’s for your personal collection.

~ B

“Son of a bitch,” I whisper, opening the first video.

Soldier Boy is stripped bare and masked, probably being pumped full of novichok, as armed guards roll him into containment. Grace Mallory watches from an otherwise empty observation room. To her credit, she appears tense and discomfited.

Where are they? Who captured him and delivered him to her? Is she acting on behalf of the US government, or Vought? What do they plan to do with him?

And, on a personal note, how the fuck is he locked away and Homelander is allowed to roam free, lasering the heads off anyone who dares challenge him?

I open the second, much longer video, hoping that it holds answers to my many, many questions.

“…and this… is Soldier Boy, love.”

“She knows who I am, don’t you, princess?”

Butcher never confirmed that he’d set up AV to record our tenuous afternoon as we waited for Hughie’s call. I should have known he’d find a way.

“Of course, I do,” I purr from my laptop. “Why else would I be here?”

I was appealing to his base instincts and it worked. For all of us.

Then that deep, thick chuckle overrides the tinny audio, and reaches through space and time to grab me by the throat.

“I thought you were here for a story, but I can give you so much more than that.”

I secure my AirPods and turn on the noise canceling before settling in to relive that day weeks ago.

Who knows? Maybe it will hold some answers.

Fin.

Soldier Boy and/or Butcher

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#soldier Boy x reader #butcher x reader #butcherboy x reader #soldier boy smut

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modafinil-canada · 1 year

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hornime · 3 years

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watch and learn | iwaizumi hajime x f!reader x team japan

there were two things they all had in common: the growing bulges in their pants that they were urgently trying to distract themselves from, and the fact that their full attention was on you.

warnings: 18+, timeskip!everyone, BIG MANGA SPOILERS BASICALLY, exhibitionism, voyeurism, orgasm denial

w/c: 3.1k

a/n: now i don’t know if iwaizumi hajime (27) athletic trainer learned about female orgasms when he was studying sports science at irvine BUT he def knows how to show a girl a good time which is reason enough for me to write this. also, i read this article to prep for this piece and it was super enlightening, so i do recommend giving it a read if you’re interested!

in the middle of his morning run, iwaizumi slowed momentarily to check the repetitive buzzing of this phone, curious as to who was messaging him this early. when he’d left the apartment, you were sleeping, and you had the tendency to still be sleeping by the time he returned, so who else could it be?

he unlocked his phone, quickly finding the source of the notifications: the team japan group chat.

[06:43 AM] miya: hey @iwaizumi—you know stuff abt the human body right?

[06:43 AM] miya: cus like you studied it in college and shit??

iwaizumi rolled his eyes. i spent four years in america to earn my degree, came back home to support my country’s olympic team, and dealt with the biggest idiots of volleyball, only to get treated like this?

[06:44 AM] iwaizumi: yes, miya. i took many courses on the human body. in fact that’s the purpose of my job. to know the human body. because i am a fucking athletic trainer.

[06:44 AM] miya: okay okay i get it. dumb question

[06:44 AM] iwaizumi: why? is something up? you need help or anything?

[06:44 AM] miya: uhhh kinda

[06:44 AM] miya: @hinata i’m not fucking asking this

[06:44 AM] bokuto: bro just do it

[06:44 AM] miya: @hinata @hinata @hinata

iwaizumi cocked an eyebrow. what the hell are they going on about?

[06:45 AM] iwaizumi: so am i needed or...

[06:45 AM] hinata: YES

[06:45 AM] hinata: we had a question

[06:46 AM] sakusa: by “we” he means him, miya, and bokuto

[06:46 AM] suna: yeah don’t bring us into this

[06:46 AM] hinata: don’t listen to them! both suna and sakusa wanna know too

[06:46 AM] iwaizumi: okay. what’s up

[06:47 AM] hinata: we wanted to know how to make a girl cum

he chuckled in disbelief.

[06:47 AM] iwaizumi: you’re telling me that you guys are in your mid-20s, literal olympic athletes, and you don’t know how to make a girl cum

[06:47 AM] iwaizumi: have you never done it before??

[06:47 AM] miya: NO

[06:47 AM] miya: FOR THE RECORD IVE MADE MANY GIRLS CUM

[06:48 AM] bokuto: ME TOO

[06:48 AM] bokuto: i think

he laughed out loud, briefly startling another runner on the sidewalk.

[06:48 AM] iwaizumi: you guys are unbelievable

[06:48 AM] hinata: i mean she says she finished but idk what i did to make that happen

[06:48 AM] bokuto: ^^

[06:48 AM] hinata: so like i wanna know how to actually do it

[06:48 AM] suna: actually im kinda interested in this too

[06:48 AM] aran: i pray for your future girlfriends. this is painful to see. im out

[06:48 AM] kageyama: i’m with aran on this one. you guys are dumb

[06:48 AM] hinata: shut up. you suck.

[06:48 AM] miya: cmon iwaizumi, help a guy out

[06:48 AM] sakusa: it wouldnt hurt for you to give us some pointers at least

iwaizumi sighed.

[06:49 AM] iwaizumi: @miya @hinata @bokuto @suna @sakusa meet in the locker room after practice. ill give you guys a lesson in the art of pleasing a woman

to teach effectively, he needed a volunteer, though he was sure you wouldn’t need much convincing. you’d always loved the attention, and the biceps, of the pro athletes. he spun on his heel and jogged home.

you woke up to the sound of your apartment door opening, your boyfriend creeping inside, forehead damp with sweat.

“hey,” you said quietly, making your way towards him.

“hey, baby. sorry for waking you up, i was trying to be quiet.”

you giggled sleepily. “s’okay, haji. you spoil me too much anyway, always letting me sleep in for hours while you’re off doing god knows what.”

at that, his eyes crinkled in amusement, and as you tried to step into a hug, he shuffled back. “woah there, baby. i gotta shower, ‘m all gross from my run. and then,” he gave you a peculiar look that you couldn’t quite place, “i got a proposition for you.”

after his shower, he waltzed out of the bathroom, steam wafting out from behind the door. his tanned body made you feel things you definitely shouldn’t be barely an hour after the sun’s risen, and you reached out to massage the tension in his shoulders. “so, what’s your proposition?”

“well,” he hesitated. “it’s a bit... unconventional. the team asked me to show them how to make a girl cum,” he took in your intrigued expression. “and it’d be a lot easier to explain if i had someone to do a live demonstration with. so,” his eyes flicked up to you. “that’s where you’d come in.”

“a... live demonstration? like you’re gonna make me cum in front of them?”

“yeah, essentially.” he gave you a devilish grin. “you want that, baby? wanna show those boys how a real man treats a gorgeous woman like you?”

you rubbed your thighs at his words. “yeah,” you purred. “i do. wanna show them how good you are to me.”

and that’s how you found yourself nestled between iwaizumi’s muscled thighs, back pressed against his chest, completely naked, with five of japan’s best volleyball players staring at your body in awe.

practically an expert in his field, iwaizumi knew the human body inside and out. this had many benefits; of course it allowed him to catapult up the ranks and work with the country’s best athletes to keep them at the top of their game, but it also had a unique side effect: an overwhelming vault of knowledge on how to make a woman feel good anywhere.

you’d seen the proof firsthand; he knew exactly where to push, prod, stroke, and tease to have you cumming in seconds, over and over, as many times as you wanted. he was amazing, and you were well-aware just how lucky you were to have such a talented man in the sheets.

“oi,” iwaizumi snapped his fingers, drawing each of the players’ eyes away from your glistening cunt. “pay attention. i know more than anybody that she’s hot as fuck, but you gotta listen to what i’m saying or else there’s no point to this.”

he lightly pressed his lips against your collarbone, slowly tracing them against your jaw, the contact making you squirm. “if you wanna make a girl cum, first thing you gotta do is make her comfortable. if she’s worried about how she looks or sounds or smells she’s gonna be too stressed to let go.” he moved his hands to grope your tits, his calloused fingers brushing over your hardening nipples. “so reassure her, tell her how irresistible she is, how pretty her moans are, how tasty her pussy is. shit like that. the sexier she feels the better it’ll be.”

he leaned into you, whispering into your ear. “feeling good, baby? we can stop whenever.”

you nodded weakly, afraid to open your mouth, barely holding in your whines as his palms worked wonders on your chest and stomach, sending shocks of heat wherever they touched.

you craned your neck up to observe the men before you. atsumu was flushed red, wringing his hands as if he was worried they’d do something embarrassing if he didn’t keep them occupied. hinata was bouncing his leg up and down, wiping his palms on his shorts as he took in the plushness of your thighs. bokuto was basically drooling, greedily tracing your soft curves with his eyes. suna maintained his indifferent expression, but the reddening tips of his ears showed that he was a lot more hot and bothered than he let on. sakusa stood quietly to the side, leaning against the wall, mask tucked under his chin as if he’d just realized how much the temperature had gone up in the room.

there were two things they all had in common: the growing bulges in their pants that they were urgently trying to distract themselves from, and the fact that their full attention was on you.

"make sure to try different things; there’s multiple ways to make a woman cum. only like a quarter of women experience orgasms just from penetration,” someone made a sound of shock. “yes, the number is that small, bokuto.”

his fingertip slowly trailed past your belly button, dipping into the mess between your thighs, causing you to slightly arch your back into the solid chest supporting you. “foreplay with the clit is your best bet; even stupid fucks like you probably wouldn’t screw it up too bad.”

hinata opened his mouth to speak, but iwaizumi anticipated his question and continued.

“i know you’re wondering where the clit is. it’s around here, under this hood of skin,” he slid his digit between your labia. “s’not gonna come with a label so you gotta explore a little bit. i know where hers is like the back of my hand, but for you guys, with your girls, you’re gonna have to move your fingers around. slowly. and pay attention to her expressions.” he began to rub in a circular motion around your clit, causing you to make small whimpers of pleasure and shift your hips to meet his movements.

“if she clenches up or twitches when you feel a certain spot, like this,” your legs flexed as he increased the pressure, “that’s the clit. be kind, it’s not a volleyball. be gentle n’ make small circles, whether it’s with your fingers or your tongue.”

he thought for a second. “speaking of which, oral’s important. very important. most women cum when they’ve been eaten out, so use your mouths for something more useful than just dirty talk. suck on the clit, maybe tongue-fuck her a ‘lil, but your main focus should always be the clit.”

he removed his hands from your sopping pussy, and you made a pathetic noise of frustration. “’m sorry, baby,” he muttered seductively in your ear. “don’t wanna have you finishing too early. lesson’s barely started.”

he turned his attention back to your audience, his lustful tone being replaced by a more instructional one. “there’s other places that’ll help a woman orgasm, too: her nipples, her neck, her ears—”

“her ears?” sakusa questioned. he blushed profusely as everyone turned to look at him, surprised that he’d opened his mouth. “what? we were all thinking it.”

“s’a valid question,” iwaizumi said. “yeah, you can lick ‘em if they’re sensitive. hers are.” as if to prove his statement, he licked a stripe on the shell of you ear, making you wiggle helplessly at the stimulation. “‘n leave kisses everywhere else. feels good for them just like it does for us.” he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him and forcing your movements to stop as he traced patterns with his tongue all around your neck.

“something you should know about an orgasm is that it’s something called a positive feedback loop.” he looked up and was met with five blank stares. shouldn’t have expected anything from these dumb jocks, he lamented. “basically that means that, once you start releasing sexual tension, things will feel better and better until you climax.”

“oh!” atsumu chirped. “like how my sets get better and better throughout a game.”

“no, not really,” he quipped. “your sets suck throughout.” atsumu frowned at that.

iwaizumi exhaled exasperatedly. “the general idea is that the body gets more and more sensitive, muscle contractions become more and more frequent, and touches feel more and more stimulating until you cum. all right?”

they all made noises of understanding except for bokuto and hinata, whose eyes had glazed over at the first mention of an academic term. whatever, iwaizumi thought. they’ll get it through example.

"don’t worry about it too much if you don’t get it, that’s just an orgasm on paper. in practice, though, this is the crucial step: listen to her. she knows what feels good. never forget that you’re just an idiot with a cock.” he took a breath, gathering his thoughts before proceeding with his lecture.

“if she tells you to slow down, you slow down. if she tells you to go harder, you go harder. if she tells you to keep doing what you’re doing, you...”

“keep doing what you’re doing”, they all chimed in at staggered times.

“that’s right. don’t go faster or else you’ll mess up the rhythm and she won’t cum. and you wanna make her cum, don’t you?”

they nodded simultaneously.

“so if you keep up the tempo and force that feels good to her, you’ll be fine. questions?”

suna spoke up. “what about,” he choked on the word. “penetration?”

hinata hummed in agreement and bokuto jumped in. “yeah, what if i wanna make her cum on my cock?”

iwaizumi made a weird face. “that’s some pretty advanced stuff, but i guess i can go over it. when you try it, though, you have to be patient. with both of your bodies. s’not rocket science but s’not always easy. also it depends on the woman but sometimes she physically won’t be able to finish from penetration alone. just make sure you’re communicating.”

his swirled two fingers over your hole before shoving them in, your wetness making it easy for him to thrust in and out as your entrance stretched to accommodate him. “f—fuck!” your eyes flew open at the intrusion and you body lurched forward, but you were held back by his strong forearm. “ohmygod, oh my g—ah! feels s’good haji, s’good!”

“i know, baby, i know. you’re taking it so well.” he turned his attention back to the men, each of who were gulping heavily. if that didn’t signal to you that they were evidently affected by your moans, the way they shifted in their workout shorts did.

“boys, focus.” he curled his fingertips, brushing at the spongy spot at the top of your walls, ripping a pleasured wail from your throat and causing tears to prick at your eyelashes. “when you’re fingering her, you’ll feel an area inside that’s a bit soft and squishy. that’s the g-spot.”

you trembled in his arms as he mercilessly struck the same place over and over again with his fingers. “when you’re fucking her, try to keep the pressure building there, but it’ll be harder to make her finish since you can’t see what you’re doing.”

your breath hitched as iwaizumi’s incessant movements brought your body tantalizingly close to your release. he suddenly stopped and you almost sobbed in disappointment, until he plunged his fingers impossibly deeper.

a guttural scream of ecstasy came from within you, and your eyes rolled back as he began playing with another part of you, your body putty in his hands. “hngh, haji, ah! so good, s’good...” you threw your hands back around his neck, nails digging into the skin as you desperately tried to keep yourself grounded. your soft moans filled the air.

“stop clenching,” he hissed. “can barely move my hand.” you tried to relax but failed miserably as the tips of his fingers grazed your cervix.

“holy fuck,” suna muttered. “you’re a god.”

“she sounds so pretty,” atsumu said in amazement.

“i wanna make a girl feel good like that, too!” bokuto sulked.

“you can do it, bokuto!” hinata hit him on the arm. “just listen to iwaizumi. clearly he knows what he’s talking about.”

their eyes refocused on your figure, writhing in pleasure, prompting white hot waves of arousal to pool in their stomachs.

“yeah,” sakusa said. “clearly.”

“stop talking,” iwaizumi ordered. “and listen. beyond the g-spot is the cervix, which is basically the end of the vagina. if you’re long enough,” he briefly scanned each of their faces, “which i’m sure you are, you’ll be able to reach it if you bottom out.”

“haji—hajime, please.” the stimulation was coming absolutely unbearable, and you could tell he was sadistically holding you at the edge, refusing to give you the satisfaction of finishing. “lemme cum, please. please lemme cum, please, please, i can’t—i can’t take it ‘nymore!”

“what was that? you can’t take it anymore? gonna cum?” you helplessly bobbed your head up and down, hoping that he’d give you permission. “well,” he growled, “we can’t have that happening, can we?”

he abruptly halted his thrusts, pulling his fingers out of you with an embarrassing squelch and popping them into his mouth. pearly tears rolled down your cheeks as you grieved the loss of contact and relief.

your viewers looked on in horror, feeling immense sympathy for you; you just looked so dejected from being denied yet another orgasm.

“why didn’t you—why didn’t you let her cum?” bokuto asked.

“why do you think?” iwaizumi snapped. “don’t want you guys to see her when she does. that’s for me, and only me.”

“oh, okay,” he responded, disgruntlement clear in his voice.

iwaizumi’s glare could cut glass, it was so sharp. the possessiveness that had enveloped his mind made him hyperfocus on just one thought: being alone with you. “so, any other questions? if not, we’re done here.”

you pouted at that, not wanting the demonstration to be over. “but haji,” you mumbled into his collarbone. “i di’nt get to cum. and i wanna.” you looked up at him, eyes wide with want. “please make me cum.”

iwaizumi sent a harsh glance to the players that nonverbally communicated his message loud and clear: get out. they shuffled awkwardly out of the locker room due to the hardness between their legs that they would most definitely need to deal with soon.

your boyfriend turned his attention back to you. “’m sorry, i know i had to deny you a bunch of times. i just really hated the idea of anyone but me seeing the cute way you look when you cum.”

you made a small noise of acknowledgement and a little whisper of it’s okay, haji. he looked down, sensing the way your poor, desperate cunt was pulsing around nothing, the erotic sight injecting him with the pure need to ravage you.

he shifted his head to kiss you passionately. “why don’t i make it up to you?” he breathed between your parted lips before picking you up by the backs of your thighs, forcing you to lock your ankles around his waist.

he delicately situated you onto one of the recovery beds at the back of the room, before murmuring something that made your pussy throb in anticipation: “i’ll make you cum whichever way you want, however many times you want, all right? all you gotta do is lay back and take it.”

#kinky.inky #haikyū!!#haikyuu smut #hq smut #haikyuu iwaizumi #iwaizumi smut #iwaizumi x reader #atsumu smut #hinata smut #bokuto smut #suna smut #sakusa smut #iwaizumi #sakusa #bokuto #hinata #suna #atsumu

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theamberwriter · 3 years

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Always Be My Hero [Pro! Eijiro Kirishima]

A/N: I read THIS by @dreamy-writings and was inspired to write this, lol

Warning: Angst, cursing

Pair: Pro Hero! Eijiro Kirishima x gn! Reader

Word Count: 1.6k+

*~*~*~

"Oi, you need to talk to shitty hair," Katsuki snapped, throwing a bunch of flowers on your bed.

Mina sat on the edge of the mattress, took your shoulders in her hands, and gently shook you. "Please, [Name], Eijiro has gone off the deep end."

"I'm sure just Ei is just a little stressed," you tried to sound soothing. "He's been working a lot -"

"We wouldn't be here if we didn't think it was serious," Denki urged.

"He's going to hurt himself," Katsuki growled. "Don't need both you idiots out of commission."

"We know, after everything, we shouldn't be bothering your healing time. But…. Eijiro needs you." Mina hung her head in defeat.

Just what was going on? When your fiance was home, he was as cheery and bright as you'd always known him. Was he different at work? With his friends?

"Shitty Hair thinks this -" Katsuki gestured to your broken arm and leg, the bandages around your head, your sprained ankle and broken ribs, the numerous bumps and bruises, the multiple hairline fractures and surgery incisions, and the antibiotic drip the hospital sent you home with. "Is some how all his fucking fault. That damn idiot won't listen to us! He's been working the hell out of himself. Spends hours beating himself up."

You felt like you cracked in half. Like a bit of you shattered. Not the ones from being thrown into buildings and trampled on by a giant villain. But deep down in an untouchable place. You felt like you broke apart.

Knowing you caused your beloved so much anxiety and stress had boiled up in him. Maybe you should've seen it. But he was just so happy. Glued to your side, helping you bathe, helping you get to the bathroom, changing the bandages on your head - assuring that he still thought you extremely attractive, even though you were going to have a hell of a scar going from the middle of your hairline down under your left ear. He was always smiling and joking when he was with you.

"The wheelchair they gave me is in the closet," you muttered, eyes on where your hands were balled around the blankets. You had to be strong. Normally, Eijiro was your rock. Now the tables had turned.

Mina pulled out the wheelchair while Denki and Katsuki helped get you out of bed. Luckily you'd asked Eijiro to help you into sweatpants and a decent t-shirt before he left for work. You asked for one of your shoes to put on your uncasted foot (which was wrapped in an ace bandage instead). Then unhooked the IV and pinched the line. The bag was nearly done anyway.

"I'm ready when you all are," you muttered. A silent tremor passed through the room. Then you all were out the door.

In his agency training facility, Eijiro was giving all he had to a punching bag. Sweat poured from the hardened ridges in his skin. He felt the solid bag meet his fists, but none of it was satisfying. None of the hits eased the guilt.

No amount of punching had shaken away the image plaguing his mind. You lying in bed, barely seeming to hold on. The doctors said you had internal bleeding, a concussion, then listed off all the broken parts. A bit of himself broke with each word.

Eijiro had bawled hysterically when the doctors left and he was alone with your unconscious body. He gripped your hand, begging to anyone who would hear him. Asking them to let you pull through. That, in exchange, he'd get stronger. No matter the cost.

Eijiro was determined to keep your spirits up. To not let you know how much he'd been suffering. You couldn't imagine the wells that wanted to overflow the first time your eyes opened. The first kiss you gave him after waking up. He felt like bursting, you'd been returned to him.

In exchange, he'd train himself raw. He'd push himself past his limit. It didn't matter what Katsuki, or Tamaki, or even Fat Gum had to say. Eijiro was going to protect you next time. For now he'd train. Then go back to you at the end of the day with a smile, no matter how much he hurt or how tired he was. Coming home to you, hooked to an IV and barely able to move around the house - that image drove him.

Eijiro had been so excited to have you home. But every time he looked too long at your casted arm, or uncovered the puckered gouge on your head. Everything reminded him he hadn't been there to help. To save you. Deku had been, he lifted that gargantuan off you like a pillow. Eijiro didn't think he'd ever have been able to do that. So he was going to train until he could.

You hadn't complained once since you'd been home. Only grateful when you'd gone out a few days after to greet your fans. There were so many who thanked you for saving them. Each felt like a bit of a hit to him. You'd saved all those people and he didn't even manage to save you. Was he truly a hero if he couldn't protect those he cared about?

It didn't matter to him that he was a five hour plane ride away when it all happened. Eijiro had gone to do some publicity stuff with other heroes. He had to hear it from an insensitive reporter who asked how he felt knowing his fiance was in the hospital. But he hadn't. He didn't know. His fellow heroes outraged at the question and Eijiro was on a plane back to you within the hour.

He swore he'd be there next time. That he'd never let anything like this happen again. Eijiro had gone in the plane bathroom and had a good deep cry a few times. When he saw the videos, read the articles, saw all the people asking Where was Red Riot? He hadn't been there. He'd let down the one person he never wanted to. It broke his heart into a million bits. He didn't think he'd ever be able to repair himself.

Eijiro cried as he punched. No one would be able to tell through the sweat. But each and every punch got harder, and so too did his tears.

Pitying looks were passed your way as Katsuki pushed you through Eijiro's agency. You stopped in briefly to talk to Fat Gum. He looked so put out and desperate. He said he'd tried everything. But everyday, Eijiro had been in the facility's gym. Working himself until he bled or passed out.

Katsuki pushed you, Mina and Denki in tow, down the halls to the gym. You heard the blunt hits long before you saw the doors. Each one grating into your mind. You were never going to forget the hot guilt that bit at you with each thud.

Katsuki pushed you to the gym door way. It was empty, except where your beloved stood hardened to the max, shirtless. You saw a bit of blood dripping from his back. The punching bag was losing sand and stuffing. A defeated one laid in a lump on the floor already. You watched a long minute. Then you realized each grunt turned more into a cry or a wail.

You turned to Denki, and held out your hand. He gave you the crunch he'd been carrying. Luckily the arm and the leg you'd broken were on the opposite sides of your body. You hauled yourself up, your friends helped steady you. Then you limped your way across the gym. Finally, you came into view in the mirror in front of him.

A few spots on Eijiro's face were bleeding. His eyes were blown out. His features scrunched up in….there wasn't a word strong enough to explain the pain. The anguish. The despair. His eyes met yours and, all at once, he broke down.

Eijiro collapsed to his knees. His quirk finally releasing him. Sobs still wracked his shoulders, they shook violently. But his sobs were silent now. Though you didn't miss the tears that dripped onto the floor.

"Eiji," you cooed and lowered yourself to the floor.

He shook his head. "You….sh-should be-e….hom-m-me. He-healing."

"You need me more." You put a hand on his shoulder. Eijiro latched on to you. You didn't care about the blood, sweat, or tears, or how much sitting that way hurt. You just needed to get him to breathe now.

"I -" he hacked. "I'm not strong enough. I'm not….I'm not manly enough. Even now. What if you get hurt again - or worse? Because I couldn't….I can't…."

You shook your head and kissed his damp hair. "Eijiro - honey, listen to me, it wasn't your fault. Really. This was me being overconfident. It was my own fault. You're an amazing hero. Thousands of people look up to you. You have to stop beating yourself up. You're being the best hero you can be. And I love you for every bit of who you are. No matter what happens to me, you'll always be my number one hero."

Eijiro sobbed harder, gripping you closer. You didn't complain at the protesting throbs of pain screaming all over your body. You sat a while longer. When he was finally feeling better, he carried you back to your chair. Then he took a quick rinse in the shower before pushing you home. Your friends had prepared everything for a movie night when you got back; movies, drinks, takeout.

You could see the relief in their faces.

You still caught him giving you long, guilty glances. You would only lean over and kiss the look away. But you could never know the weight of what you said. He wanted to eat, sleep, live, and breathe by that creed.

You'll always be my hero.

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha #mha #bnha imagines #mha imagines #bnha headcanons #bnha fanfiction #mha fanfiction #mha kirishima #kirishima #bnha kirishima #kirishima eijirou #bnha eijiro x reader #bnha angst #mha angst #angst to fluff #kirishima angst #theamberwriter

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kingfrumpkin · 3 years

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harrow & schizophrenia

i was asked to elaborate on my "harrow is schizophrenic" post and im more than happy to! i dont see this talked about a lot and it makes me sad & i hope theres more talk about it as time goes on

without further ado, here is harrow and her schizophrenia symptoms

the DSM-V outlines 5 symptoms of schizophrenia, which includes (1) hallucinations, (2) delusions, (3) disorganized speech (4) disorganized/catatonic behavior, and (5) negative symptoms. one only has to have 2 of these symptoms to get a diagnosis for schizophrenia, given they have lasted longer than 6 months and are not caused by drugs

let's go through these symptoms individually in regards to harrow:

1) hallucinations

there is no doubting that harrow suffers from hallucinations, as mentioned several many times throughout harrow the ninth. her hallucinations are mainly auditory (hearing doors close or people walking) and visual (the Body, hallucinating cythera's body, implied past hallucinations in her dream-river scape.) even in the first book there is evidence of harrows hallucinations, mainly when her and gideon are sneaking around hallways and have to stop constantly for "no reason", according to gideon

2) delusions

delusions are a little trickier to show examples of because the books are rarely from her POV, but i would consider her relationship with the Body a delusion. the Body has no special relationship to her and is incapable of feeling love to her, however harrow believes that they have this deep relationship. technically this could be considered a "religious hallucination" where "someone might think they have a special relationship with a deity" (WebMD). this delusion feeds into her hallucinations of the Body.

3) disorganized speech

harrow has no known disorganized speech patterns or confused thoughts. she has no problem talking/following trains of thoughts accurately

4) disorganized/catatonic behavior

this would be under the category of movement disorders in terms of schizophrenia which, again, is hard to gauge with everything that goes on in the books. however, there is one key line that mentions how harrow would lose track of time simply staring at/being with the body and waste hours doing this. if still at the time, this could be considered catatonic behavior. however, that is possibly a stretch

5) negative symptoms

negative symptoms is a little broad so let's break it down a little.

flattening: "When they talk, their voice can sound flat, like they have no emotions. They may not smile normally or show usual facial emotions in response to conversations or things happening around them" (WebMD)

we don't really have many descriptors of harrows inflection, or lack thereof, when speaking except when in moments of stress or upsetting circumstances, like with harrow witnessing the mercy/john/august sandwich. it could be said that harrow has a severe lack of facial expressions in response to normal day-to-day conversations

withdrawal/apathy: "This might include no longer making plans with friends or becoming a hermit. Talking to the person can feel like pulling teeth: If you want an answer, you have to really work to pry it out of them." (WebMD)

this is another obvious symptom that harrow has. she wants to work with no one and prefers to spend her times alone. she almost refuses to go to the dinner that magnus and abigail have and is uncomfortable the entire time. it is very hard to get answers out of her as well, as gideon is unable to do so and constantly gets frustrated with.

struggling with the basics of daily life: "They may stop bathing or taking care of themselves." (WebMD)

this is another obvious symptom. harrow rarely takes care of herself and has to be forced to.

other symptoms/schizophrenic behaviors

there are links between certain behaviors and schizophrenia that are worth going over, outside of the officially recognized symptoms

this section will be worked in examples of harrows behaviors

harrows rituals

rituals are important to harrow and is stressed in harrow the ninth. in flashbacks, she describes a series of rituals she practices and her strict adherence to them.

obsessive compulsive tendencies are found linked with schizophrenia in multiple cases. in an article in psychiatry MMC, several authors state: "Although OC symptoms in schizophrenia were once thought to occur rarely [...] recent studies have shown greater prevalence". case 1 of this article outlines a man with OCD-type rituals

harrow's paranoia

it is obvious harrow is a very paranoid person with her constant wards and sneaking around in the first house. paranoia is a symptom closely linked with schizophrenia, usually due to delusions/hallucinations

and at this point ive hit the character limit so UHHHH YEAH TY FOR READING

#harrow the ninth #harrowhark nonagesimus #gideon the ninth #locked tomb trilogy #the locked tomb #i hit tumblrs character limit so i couldnt put my works cited at the end :(

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wigglesforsquiggles · 2 years

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@hecksee you asked and enabled this thank you

also sorry i'm on mobile so i can't add read more feel free to scroll past quickly

so basically 2 days ago i was like: hm ive been wanting to see how insane lewis hamilton's career has actually been,, but i'll need to compare it to others

however, this is more complicated than it looks, due to the point scoring system in formula one changing drastically over the years, from a 10,8,6 system to a 25,18,15 system, causing drivers in later seasons to seemingly do much better than all time greats.

so i decided to use the wikipedia articles from each season to see hamilton's result from each race from 2007 (his debut) till 2021 (last complete season), and recording the points he scored using the 2021 point system

this took like 45 minutes bc manually transcribing 17-22 races worth of points over 15 seasons, having to check which place gets which points takes some time. luckily i got quicker overtime, and can now see 4th place and go 12 points instantly

i then did some fancy excel calculations to work our the adjusted points total for each season, and the average points he scored per race in a season.

then as a bonus, because i was wondering what effect the summer break had on drivers, i calculated the average points scored from each race in a season (i.e. 1st race average X points, 2nd race average Y points, etc)

I then repeated this with Sebastian Vettel and Max Verstappen (all three world champions), to see the similarities and differences with them.

This took around another hour, as Verstappen has only been in 7 seasons compared with Hamilton and Vettel's 15

Then I decided to see how many DNFs (did not finish) each driver got per season and overall - again harder than it sounds as i recorded both dnfs and no point placements as 0 on the spreadsheet. I had to go back with wikipedia and manually check which entries were no points, which were dnfs, and which were dns or saw (did not start and disqualified).

Now i've decided to really go all in, and add other drivers like Rosberg and Button (similarly both wdcs) and further compare stats. I used the same methods as stated above, which took only around half an hour - a combination of speed from practice, copy-pasting my template, and Rosberg only being in 10 seasons.

during this, I started to create a seperate sheet full of ideas, so i can come back to them later. One of these was creating on of these for Micheal Schumacher (seen as the goat of f1), comparing his different eras (defined by me)

Once again, i used the same methods as above, this time splitting his stats into 1991-1999, 2000-2006, and 2010-2012, adjusting the points scored and finding averages and totals.

Ive stayed up till 4am consecutively doing this, purely bc my brain enjoys doing this. I'm not listening to any music or watching anything, i'm just sitting there typing numbers onto my computer enjoying every second of it

#formula one #i will reblog w pictures later #i will make a seperate post w all the actual data later #thank u hex i needed to get this out my system

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callmeelle22 · 3 years

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Blue Dream VII

Pairing: Iris West x Barry Alen

Rating: E

Chapter Word Count: 9, 034

Summary: A series of sporadic dates between Iris and Barry turn into something more, a story in its own making.

Chapter I: Primetime

Chapter II: It's Cool

Chapter III: Anything

Chapter IV: Comfortable

Chapter V: The Way

Chapter VI: Say Yes

Chapter VII: Brave; They fuck with the rain like a soundtrack behind them, like a song that swells and stretches, telling their story, but you're so brave; stone cold crazy for loving me; yeah, I'm amazed; i hope you make it out alive, a song that rises and rises, that sounds too good to be real, that might destroy you, but only in the best way. (Read below or on AO3 linked on the chapter title.)

Chapter VIII: Blue Dream

Brave

Broken hearts are made for two

One for me and one for you

Tell me have you heard the news

We are now in love

Fall break from school is scheduled during the last three days of the last week of October. Before she can take some time off, Iris has midterm articles to write and grade. Barry is busy testing DNA samples or whatever it is CSIs do so they don’t see each other for several days after he leaves her house the morning after Wally’s party.

On the Wednesday of Fall Break, the first day off, Iris lets herself sleep in until almost 10, and then she packs up her bag, stuffing a notebook, a couple of pens, and her laptop in, before dressing comfortably in a pair of dark leggings, and a white oversized CCU hoodie she stole from her brother. Throwing on a pair of white low-top Chuck Taylors, Iris heads out to Jitters. It’s a rainy day, and other than workers who’ve no choice, not many people are out. A storm is brewing for later in the night, the sky dark and cloudy, but for the moment, it’s just a steady rain that has Iris walking carefully to her car and driving a lot slower, thanking her lucky stars that she finds a parking spot right in front of the coffee shop.

Back in high school, especially once her dad had gotten her a used car during the beginning of senior year, Iris and Linda would come to Jitters to do homework or stare at the college boys who would come in. The coffee shop has expanded since then, buying the small antique store that had been next door and adding more seating and a bar that specializes in alcoholic coffee brews. It’s still one of Iris’s favorite places to work because now the manager is a young Black woman with wild curly hair always dyed in one bright color or another and a soft spot for mid to late 90s R & B female singers. The shop is comfortable, with couches and overstuffed chairs in mismatched browns and beiges and blues set up near the walls and windows and several tables, two- and four-tops, taking up the space in the middle. Two of the walls are exposed brick and the others are painted stark white and feature framed prints in wild colors. It’s changed since she was a child, but Iris likes to think that she’s changed with it, that as this integral part of Central City has grown and added light and color and comfort, so too has Iris.

Today, her plan is to outline at least two entire stories from interviews she’s completed over the last couple of weeks before she even thinks about leaving the coffee shop. She settles into one of her favorite spots, a soft navy armchair behind a small circular table. She sets up her laptop, her notebook with her notes, her pens, and once a waiter drops off her brown sugar latte and a chocolate muffin, she lets the sound of the rain, and the Erykah Badu playing on the speakers, get her into her work.

“Hey, beautiful.”

Iris looks up just as Barry stops beside her. She’s been at Jitters for just over three hours now, and her shoulders are cramped and she’s coffee high and hungry. The rain is still pounding down, so hard that it looks like it’s raining sideways, and Iris curses her inability to get any work done in her own home. Besides all that, she’s reeling. She’s just outlined a story of a man explaining the story of the woman he’d loved his entire life: from growing up together in a small city in North Carolina, to becoming best friends and de facto siblings when his parents died and her dad agreed to foster him; from not dating but seeming like it in high school, to falling for other people in college; from having other spouses and children to one night of passion before they found their way back to each other when she decided to leave her husband after his wife died. It was a ride from start to finish, such a roller coaster of feelings—of love and pain and joy and heartbreak—that make Iris feel a bit heavy with them, a little loopy with them.

Barry stands to the side of her, towering above her, in as simple an outfit as what she’s wearing, a pair of black joggers and a white sweatshirt. She’s startled that he's there because she figures that he should be at work, but her heart does tick up at the sight of him. That is, until she lets her eyes rake over his lean frame. He looks a little...down, like a physical manifestation of the story she’s just outlined. His hair is messier than usual and his eyes aren’t carrying their usual sparkle, in addition to the darkening bags that frame them. He’s also a little stubbly, his jaw covered in a fine layer of coarse hair, his pallor a bit ashen.

(Iris will also admit that she thinks he looks sort of, well, good, like this; but that’s neither here nor there and she feels terrible—and maybe a bit perverted—that she’s lusting after him when he’s obviously going through something.)

“Hey,” she responds softly, and she stands up to assess him further. He seems so much taller than her like this, when they’re both in sneakers. She hasn’t seen him since the morning after Wally’s party a week ago when he dropped her back off at her car after spending the night at her place. They’ve talked a bunch and FaceTimed once, but she’s missed him. She reaches up into his hair, rubbing at his scalp a little until his eyes close and he lets out a soft little moan. She keeps at it and then touches gingerly at his face, at some of the moles dotting his cheeks, at the stubble he’s grown. He reaches up to stop her, eyes still closed, and it startles her a little bit. She goes to pull her hand back, but then he holds on to her wrist to bring her hand down and presses a kiss to her knuckles.

She’s never seen him like this. He’s always so open and, maybe not happy, but never so melancholy. There is always a pep to his step, as her grandma used to say, a smile on his face that always said that he feels some sort of contentment in his life. And obviously, people are allowed to have days like this. But it does something to Iris, to see him this way. She wants to lash out at whoever has made him look like this, like he’s drowning in emotions that he can’t easily pull himself out of.

“Bear, you okay?”

He nods, a little woefully, and he catches her eyes again. She bites at her lip as she stares back at him and, on impulse, she leans up to kiss him. It’s just a little more than a peck, something to tell him that she’s there with him; but he takes it a step further, kissing her harder, biting at her lip enough that there’s more pain than she’s expecting. She moans at him and he pulls back, breathing labored.

“I’m sorry,” he speaks. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s fine,” she says. “You didn’t hurt me. Well, a little, but I didn’t hate it.”

That gets a more real smile out of him, and he thumbs at her bottom lip. “Hmm, I guess my good girl is a little bad.”

Iris rolls her eyes and gives him a look, sobering for a minute. “Bear, what’s up? You okay?”

He doesn’t answer her question. Instead, he nods at her table and asks, “you get a lot of work done?”

She eyes him, wanting to ask again. But she knows how she is when she doesn’t want to talk about something and so she lets it go. For the moment.

“Yeah. Or, at least, I’ve done most of what I set out to do.”

He nods, casts his eyes out of the glass, looking at the rain for a moment, watching it fall in heavy sheets. Normally, Iris likes the rain. It’s soothing and she enjoys how it makes the world take a moment to slow down. When she was a little girl, her grandma (her dad’s mother who grew up somewhere at the bottom of Georgia) used to say that when it was raining, and particularly when it was storming, that the Lord was doing His work and that it was the time to be still. They’d have to sit quietly, usually with the TV and the lights off, and just be. And while life doesn’t allow her to drop everything because it’s started raining, there is always a hushed feeling that comes over her when it rains, something tranquil, but also a little turbulent, a little uncontrollable, quite like the very rain she’s reveling in.

“Wanna come over?” he wonders, voice unsure.

She nods readily. “Okay, yeah. Sure.”

He goes to return her mug and plate while she packs her bag back up. He meets her at the door, opening up a large umbrella and throwing an arm over her shoulder to lead her out into the rain. She walks with him past her own car as he takes her a short black away to where his Jeep is parked. He helps her into the Jeep first, watches as she tucks her bag under the seat, and then closes the door before walking around to the other side.

They ride to his house in silence. He lives far on the south side of town, a good twenty or so minutes from downtown if they hit the highway. Instead, he takes the streets, adding another ten minutes to their drive. Iris doesn’t mind; as she said, she likes the rain, and in this big Jeep, tires sluicing easily through the flooding roads in a way her car definitely can’t, she’s enjoying the ride. He had silently connected her phone to his car’s Bluetooth, so she took it to mean that the music choices were hers. She contemplates finding something that he might like, but she figures he likely wouldn’t even be paying much attention. So she decides on one of her slower playlists, ones with songs that dip and fade, that take listeners on a journey of highs and lows, and she lets it play. The lyrics tell too much, so i guess that i should mention; that i am in no condition; to put you in this position; i might fuck this up, although with the heavy weight on Barry’s shoulders right now, she can’t tell if she’s talking to him or vice versa.

He takes them past one of the major shopping districts in the city, past the Apple store and the Michael Kors shop and the one restaurant her dad took her to when she graduated college where pasta dishes run nearer to forty dollars. These shops, and the nicer mall and a couple business buildings that rise as tall as those downtown, lead into longer stretches of road where trees interspersed with beige or cream apartments begin to take up where businesses once stood. He turns into the familiar subdivision that she remembers; it’s a little older than some, which makes sense if his parents were able to buy and pay it off before they were gone. That also means that none of the houses are the same cookie-cutter versions that tend to make up most subdivisions these days, where houses are identical save for the color and the trim and what children’s toys litter the front yard.

He presses a button on his visor and the garage opens as he maneuvers the car so that he can back up into the driveway. He stays in the driveway, though, the music cutting out—but whatever the case, you're my favorite mistake; more than happy to make you—when he turns the ignition off. She waits for him to come around with his umbrella and he half picks her up to pull her out, holding on to her as he walks her through the garage.

She’s as quiet as he is, taking in her surroundings, trying to get a better sense of who he is by what he’s got going on in his house. There isn’t much in the garage; there are a bunch of boxes neatly stacked on one wall, a couple bicycles in another corner. There is a wall full of tools and a couple tables that have science looking tools on them, like a microscope and several bunsen burners and petri dishes, though nothing looks as if they’re currently being used.

He leads her through a door that opens up into the kitchen as he presses another button to close the garage. His house is as cute on the outside as it is on the inside, although she wonders how he might feel if she were to call it cute. The kitchen is large, done in white, gray, and green, with steel appliances, gray marble countertops, and the look of a place that doesn’t get a lot of use. They both stop to toe their shoes off right outside of the kitchen where a couple other pairs of Barry’s shoes lie. His living room is pretty big: a wide space that features a real stone fireplace as the focal point and a large screen television situated above it; a huge sectional in a slate gray with a few throw pillows; and a big square wooden coffee table. It’s masculine and clean without being gaudy or too bro and Iris wonders if he did this himself because even if she never knew her, she doubts a woman who loved flowers as much as his mother would decorate her living room this way.

The dark curtains on the windows are open wide and Iris can see the backyard but the rain coming down in sheets keep her from being able to make out much besides the patio with what looks like a grill and wicker furniture. Iris remembers being told that his dad had been a doctor and his mom some sort of university researcher and the house matches that.

Barry lets her hand go to tug his sweatshirt off, revealing a plain white t-shirt that rises up over his taut belly. She doesn’t avert her eyes, giving herself permission to track how the sweatpants hang off his slim hips and how he isn’t so much sculpted as he’s hard and tight, with just the beginnings of abs. He catches her staring and he smirks at her before dropping down in the corner of the couch, one leg spread out along the seats of the chair.

“Come here,” he tells her, and she moves toward him, sitting so that her back is pressed against that hard chest and his arms are wrapped around her. She grabs a hold of his forearm with both her hands and settles her head in the crook of his elbow. She’s surrounded by his scent, lemongrass and clean cotton, and for a while, the only sounds are his breathing and the pounding of the rain. He touches her, the hand she’s not holding on to stroking up and down her thigh. Her leggings are pretty thin and she feels his touch fully; if she concentrates enough, she can feel those beloved calluses on his hands. He rubs his hand towards the juncture of her thighs and then over her hip and then back again, and like always, his touch ignites something in her, even as she’s wondering how she might be able to help him out of whatever funk he’s found himself in.

“You ready to tell me what’s up?” she wonders a while later.

“Hmm,” he hums, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Not yet. Tell me about your day.”

She shifts so that she can look back at him, noting the way his eyes have darkened a touch, become grayer like the sky outside, and it’s different from the bright blue-green she remembers from the day of the festival or the wicked blue-gray they always are right before he pushes hard into her.

He blinks down at her and licks his lips slowly. It’s not an explicitly sexual act, even if her body thinks it looks that way, and Iris finds herself lost in it, in whatever he’s emanating. It’s erotic in that it’s intimate, a whirlwind of whatever hurt made him seek her out at Jitters, of whatever still lies unexplored between them, of the attraction that doesn’t ever seem to dissipate.

When she pulls herself out, she tells him, “I was working on a story today. One that made me feel a little bit like how you might be right now.”

“Yeah?”

Wanting to look at him more comfortably, she uses his pause so that she can turn around fully and seat herself on his lap, straddling him. His hands automatically go to her hips, one sliding inside the waist of her leggings so that he can touch her skin.

“Tell me about this story,” he requests. She knows that he’s asking so that he can think about something other than what’s on his mind, so she does, giving a little more than she would originally, working out how she might want to tell the story in her blog.

“It was a couple,” she starts, “that grew up together, in the country. They bonded by playing together in the lake, climbing trees, and playing pranks on each other. And then they start to grow up. Their swimming becomes fraught with tension, the bathing suits showing the same skin, but more, ya know, both of them recognizing the differences, cataloging them, thinking about them, remembering them. They don’t act on it, because they’re friends, and he doesn’t actually understand what it means, that he’s 13 and he keeps dreaming about her at night, waking up with a wet bed and a pounding heart. And then his parents die and her dad, who’s a do-gooder in the community and had been his parents’ best friend, takes him in. Now they’re siblings, but of course not. Regardless, it makes it all harder and odder because she sleeps right down the hall from him, their shared bathroom always smells like her, and he understands now, that he likes her smile and the way she speaks and the curves she seems to develop out of nowhere.”

Barry squeezes at her and she pauses as he asks, “And what about her? How does she feel about him?”

“Well he doesn’t know it, but she’s there too. At first she thinks that she’s just conflating it, confusing their friendship. Because she doesn’t laugh with anyone else like she does with him and she never has as much fun with anyone else as she does him and she never feels as comfortable with anyone else as she does him. He’s her best friend. But she sees him, one night, in his room where the door hasn’t fully closed and he’s, well, he’s masturbating, touching himself, eyes closed and moaning, and for the first time outside of the books she’s read, she feels something. And she knows it’s not just because she’s seen him naked because she’s kissed boys before, she’s felt them hard under her before, but something about this feels different for her.

“But she doesn’t act on it. And he doesn’t either, because remember, he only thinks this is one-sided. They graduate. They go to the same college. But their majors are different and their friends are different. She joins a sorority; he gets into a couple of clubs. Their paths separate, even if they still laugh and talk and be when they’re home for the holidays. Then she gets a boyfriend.”

“She never had a boyfriend before this?” Barry questions.

Iris shrugs. “Sure. But it was high school and the beginning of college. They were mostly hookups that didn’t last. This guy is serious. He’s a couple years older, got his own place, and eventually she moves in with him. Heartbroken, he gets a girlfriend too, one of her friends. That doesn’t last long because she figures out that he’s a little bit in love with the main girl, and then he moves on, to someone sweet, someone who’s been not so subtly hinting that she wants to go out with him.”

Barry seems to be engrossed now. She can’t say that the dark look he was sporting is completely gone, but she can see that he’s not as deep in it, interested in the story she’s weaving.

“They go on to marry these people, even if their hearts are not fully in it. His wife has a kid first, her baby comes next. And meanwhile, they’re still friends. Her dad is still his guardian, so to speak; they are together for whatever holidays they don’t spend with their spouses’ families. They still laugh and talk and be. They still look a little too long and want a little too much.

It comes to a head one Christmas. The gods or fate or just some movement on their parts mean that they both go home to her dad’s house with their spouses and children coming in the next day. But her dad is called in to work so they order take out and watch movies in front of a fire. And they laugh and they talk...and they hug and they kiss and they…

“Be?” Barry tries, a tiny little smile on his face.

She matches it. “Yeah. And it’s beautiful, transcendent. But they’re married. To other people. With kids. So they vow to forget it, to never bring it up again. A couple of years pass. They don’t laugh as much, don’t talk as much. She’s having troubles in her marriage. He is too. He actually consults a divorce attorney because he thinks that it’s unfair to both him and his wife, to live like this. And then the wife dies in a car accident.”

“Oh damn,” he mutters.

“Right,” she agrees. “He’s wracked with grief and more than a little guilt, because he loved her but was never in love with her and she had no idea he was going to leave her.”

“What about her? The one he loves?”

“She’s there for him. She consoles him, cares for him, takes his kid when it gets too hard. Her husband doesn’t like it though. Thinks she’s doing too much, thinks that there’s another reason she’s over at his so much. Later, he learns that this wasn’t a new accusation, that even before she and her husband got married, the husband would question their closeness, would wonder what, if anything, had ever happened between them.

“Eventually she gets tired of it. Her kid is older, in their teens now, and she leaves her husband, packing her things and her kid’s too and moving back in with her dad for a while.”

“And what happens between them?” Barry wants to know.

“He and his son come over more. They hang out more, the four of them, going to dinner and to the movies and to the arcade together. And when their kids are gone, at sleepovers or game nights with their friends, they laugh again, talk again. Fall in love again.”

The ending is implied. Iris closes her eyes when she’s done, letting Barry continue to rub at her back, his fingers so so warm on her skin.

“It's a happy ending,” he says, eventually. “But getting there was a little...depressing.”

Iris chuckles softly, lightheaded again at having gone through that again. It likely didn’t make Barry feel any better, but she’ll take the win that it took his mind away from his own problems, if only for a little while.

“Yeah, it is,” she agrees. “But it reminds me that just because it’s not easy and just because it takes some time, it doesn’t mean that things aren’t worth it.”

He nods, slowly, thinking.

“What about things that are...easy? That come like breathing? That start as a simple dance and just, just keep going?”

She stares down at him and she knows that this is rhetorical. She can see the question in the depths of his eyes, feel it in his hands still kneading her flesh. It would be easy to retreat, to tell him that nothing is ever easy, even if the reality is that it is because they are, because they fall into each other so effortlessly, that she’s terrified. There are always hiccups, obstacles, and the fact that she can’t find any keeps her on edge, waiting, anticipating trouble she knows must be coming. She doesn’t want to believe it, wants to stand firm in them—stand firm in the lyrics she keeps hearing, if you decide to stay, know that there is no escape; there's no one here to save you—and she holds onto that as he asks,

“Don’t you think it’s worth it, Iris? Even if it’s this easy?”

She can’t speak, but his eyes are imploring her to answer. Pleading with her for a response. And however terrified Iris is, or however much Iris tells stories, she is not a liar. So she nods and whispers to him, “yes.”

Without waiting for her to say anything more, he kisses her. He squeezes at her waist and leans up to capture her mouth. She meets him with his same fervor and it’s different, this kiss. She knows the passion of his mouth when he’s high, the boldness when he’s teasing her. But this is new, this is fervor, warmth and agony and doubt and pleasure, all wrapped up together.

(Something also tells Iris that there is another word for this, that this is the part of the story where feelings would be laid on the table, where hearts would be splayed open and she’d say it, or he would, and the other would respond in kind, with declarations of adoration, of infatuation, yearning, of any other word that means what she can’t say yet.

But she feels it, what she’s wanting to say, what she thinks he is saying, in this kiss. It is slow and nasty, all tongue and mouth. Her eyes flutter closed at the feeling, at how he licks into her mouth and then sucks on her bottom lip, at how he licks against her tongue and then holds her face to bring her closer to him. She feels it, she feels it, she feels him…)

He stands, holding on to her, and she wraps her legs around his waist, tightening her arms around his neck as he carries her through the house. The kisses don’t stop, though they become shorter, more mouth now, and he takes her down a long hallway past several doors until he turns into one at the end of the hall. She makes a quick note of the light gray and burnt orange decor, the side tables holding books and knickknacks, the one window that spans nearly the entire wall, but she focuses most heavily on the king-sized bed on which he throws on her, the soft comforter half hanging off the bed.

Her clothes come off first, Barry pulling her sweatshirt over her head and yanking her pants over her hips. He comes out of his own clothes as she discards her underwear, and then he’s between her thighs again. But she wants something else first so she taps his shoulder to flip them and then she’s hovering above him.

She gives him a kiss, slow and sweet, and then she makes her way down his chest, kissing as she goes. She loves the feel of his skin against her lips, likes how his skin tastes as she presses tongue kisses on him. His belly clenches and unclenches under her ministrations, and by the time she’s looking back up at him from her position near his crotch, she can see the way his chest rises and falls with his heavy breathing.

She reaches for him, wrapping her fingers around his dick. It’s long like the rest of him, and thicker than she would have expected just looking at him. It’s a pretty dick, the base the same color as him, the head slightly pinker. It’s a little veiny, but the skin is smooth, and already he’s starting to leak. She lifts her eyes to find him watching her, his own gaze hooded. In her peripheral, she sees his hands grip the bed sheets and she revels in how she hasn’t even done anything and his control is starting to slip.

“Tell me what you want, Bear.”

She says the words softly, but Barry doesn’t miss the cheek that lies under it, if the slight smirk he gives her is any indication.

“Your mouth,” he says. “I’ve been dreaming about that pretty mouth wrapped around my dick.”

She shudders at the tone of his voice, at the vision of her on her knees for him. She likes it.

“I bet you have too,” he guesses.

Without a response, she licks him, holding him at the base and running her tongue up one side of him. She does it again, and then one more time, acquainting herself with the taste of him and the satiny feel of him on her tongue, and then she adjusts and covers the whole of him.

“Fuck,” he breathes out.

She hums around him and she sucks him down, taking him until he hits her throat. Then she pulls back until just the tip remains. She licks around his head and sucks him there, letting the spit pool in her mouth, letting it mix with his own wet. She opens her mouth and lets it slide out, dripping down onto him, and her own body starts to drip at his wrecked whisper, “god, baby, look at you.”

She adds her hands, palming his testicles in one and rubbing her spit down the length of him with the other. She finds a rhythm, sucking him down, inch by inch, hollowing her cheeks as she goes, and then stroking his back up. Barry keeps his hand clenched in the sheets, but he cants himself into her mouth, rocking his hips lightly. She’s getting into it, loving the way he responds to her.

“Come here,” he says, suddenly, reaching for her, and she pulls back with a soft pop.

“Barry?” she furrows her eyebrows in question.

He gives her a gentle smile and grabs at her arm; Iris moves at his request, crawling up his body.

“But you didn’t finish,” she says, pouting a little.

“I know. I want to come when I’m inside you.”

She’s mollified by that, and he settles her on his lap.

“You were so good though, baby,” he says, kissing her. “My good, good girl.”

He reaches down to touch her, slipping his fingers easily into her sex. He groans into her mouth at the feel and he pulls back to ask,

“Is this all for me? Did you get wet sucking me off, good girl?”

She nods, rocking her hips against his hand, against his sex still hard beneath her. “Can, can you…?”

He tilts his head at her, fingers still caressing inside of her. “Can I?”

She huffs out a small laugh because he’s always fucking with her. “You said you wanted to come inside of me,” she reminds him.

“I did, didn’t?” He takes his time removing his fingers, eyes on her as he does. Even with the window curtains wide open, the dark sky has the room dark

(and she doesn’t dismiss the fact that the window faces the side of someone else’s house, where they could be seen if the neighbors were so inclined to watch)

and his eyes look a little like molten lead in the faint rainy light like this. He goes to reach over to his bedside table but Iris stops him.

“I want to feel you,” she says.

He licks his lips and she doesn’t mistake the twitch of his dick she feels under her. “You sure?”

“Yes. I’m on birth control. And I trust you.”

He nods once and again, and then he takes her by her hips and slides her down his cock.

After, Iris decides that this time is the single most erotic experience of her life.

They fuck with the rain like a soundtrack behind them, like a song that swells and stretches, telling their story, but you're so brave; stone cold crazy for loving me; yeah, I'm amazed; i hope you make it out alive, a song that rises and rises, that sounds too good to be real, that might destroy you, but only in the best way.

She rides him, and he’s so full in her like this, so deep in her like this. His back is against his fabric headboard and she’s so close to him, her knees jutting into the headboard, her thighs holding around his hips, her breasts rubbing against his chest, nipples pebbling with each brush on those hard planes.

She holds on to him with her hands holding the back of his neck, softly scratching at the nape. But he’s touching her, always touching her, his hands caressing her spine, and then holding her waist, and then squeezing her hips. He guides her: keeps his favorite pace, smooth and languid; bring her up to the tip and fucks her back down; shows her how he wants her to roll her body when he’s full in her, so her clit is brushing the soft hairs on his pelvis, the sensation incredible.

He uses his mouth too: to kiss her throat, deep tongue kisses that’ll leave marks she knows she’ll have to cover up; to whisper against her mouth, “see how easy this is; see how good, baby; fuck, see how good this is; yes, yes, yes, my good girl.”

And Iris feels so caught up in it. She can’t stop looking at him, loving when the lightning slashes across the room and illuminates those eyes, the constellation of moles on his skin, his wet, pink mouth. Her body hums with pleasure, soaking her thighs and his, tightening around his dick as if it never, never wants to let him go. She voices her satisfaction, in soft sighs and heavy pleas, and his name on her tongue like a chant, or better, a song, “Bear, Bear, Barrryyy.” They’re so close, her skin sticking to his wherever they’re touching, chest to chest and ass to thigh. She feels full and whole and filled...with him and with desire and with, and with love, the thought of it making her shudder and close her eyes.

“No,” Barry whispers. “Don’t. Just let it, just let it...stay here with me. Can you do that for me? Be brave for me?”

She nods, head heavy as her body starts to reach its climax, as her body loosens at the same time that it tightens and she has to fight to hold on to him. “Yes,” she moans again, holding his gaze again.

He touches at her face, holding her cheek and staring back. “Good girl.”

She doesn’t know whose climax triggers the other. She just knows that at the same time that her body explodes, fluttering wildly around him, he comes too, so hard that she feels him throbbing against her walls, that she feels him filling her up with his cum.

He doesn’t let go of her right away. He just holds her, hands at her hip and her face, and then he kisses her, cementing what they’ve just done, cementing what Iris feels for him.

“It’s the anniversary of my mom’s death,” he says, out of the blue. “And when I went to visit my dad earlier, I found out that he’s sick, something with his heart, and I’m-I’m reeling.”

It’s been a long while since they separated and Iris climbed off of him to pad into his bathroom and warm a hand towel under warm water to clean them both. They’ve been lying in his bed, only half under the covers as they let their bodies cool. It’s quiet now, so quiet that Iris has thought he’d fallen asleep; she’d almost fallen asleep. But when he speaks, she blinks wide and then turns her head to face him.

“14 years today,” he adds. He’s looking up at the ceiling as he talks, but Iris feels the hand that’s settled at her waist tighten, the move bringing her closer to him. She understands that he just needs the contact, so she turns so that she’s all the way curled on him, one of her legs thrown across him, her arm tossed over him too, hand settled on his heart. It’s beating slow, steady, and so she strokes his bare chest, right it.

“How’d you find out?”

“I was still at school,” he tells her. “It was a Friday and some of my friends had convinced me to go to a football game, so we were there pretty late. Games could run until 11. I was 17 so I had my own car. It was an old car; we’d bought it from a guy she worked with. By this time, my dad had been gone for a couple years, and my mom was always working late at the lab, so when I got home around 10:30 that night and the lights were out, I wasn’t surprised.”

He shifts a little and continues. “I took a shower, put some leftover pizza in the microwave, and just as I was sitting down to eat, the doorbell rang. It was the police looking for her next of kin to tell them what had happened.” He sighs heavily. “I got lucky. The courts let one of my friend’s parents take me in until I graduated a few months later. I was able to get a work study job in college to pay my bills since the mortgage was already paid off.”

He says it all like he was lucky, but there is nothing lucky about losing both of your parents in that matter, even if one of them was still physically alive. Iris knows from experience that he doesn’t want pity, doesn’t want anyone to feel sorry for his story. But she can’t help the way she wants to comfort him, and so she lets herself do that, tightening herself around him, snuggling even more into his chest.

“How are you feeling about your dad?” she asks, mumbling against his skin.

“Devastated. He looked like, like, I don’t know, like he’s giving up. I don’t get to go see him too often, every couple of months, really. And he looked so different from when I saw him last: smaller, frailer. I think there might be something he’s not telling me. Like he’s been sick longer than he says he has.”

“Is he supposed to get out soon?”

“Another couple years. But I don’t know if he wants to hold on that long.”

She feels them first, the tears. She tries to hold him even tighter, tries to crawl into his skin almost, trying to stem his pain. He doesn’t cry for long, just a few sobs, and then he’s inhaling deeply and wiping at his eyes. But it must be enough because he sounds a little hollow when he says,

“And truthfully, I’m not so much sad as I am mad, that he seems to be giving up. On getting out. On me.”

She hums, not dismissively, but because she understands. “Wanna know a secret?”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes, I hate my mom.”

He sort of jerks up at that. Not fully, he looks down at her, eyes widened in shock. However inappropriate it might be, she finds herself laughing a little at his expression. Then she explains.

“I know that addiction is not a moral failing. I know that she struggled right up til the end. I know both of those things as completely as I know anything else. But sometimes I wonder why my dad wasn’t enough, why me and Wally weren't enough. I wonder what she was trying to find in those pills that she couldn’t find in us, and I get so pissed that she let it take her away from us.”

She’s startled when he moves. He pulls himself from under her, letting her fall onto her back, and then he’s hovering above her, holding himself up on his elbows. He falls into the spread of her thighs, his sex nuzzling comfortably against her still warm center.

“I’ve seen some of the worst effects of addiction,” he says, “when their bodies end up on a slab of metal and it’s my job to dissect the things around them, to even sometimes help detectives dissect their lives to figure out what happened. And something I’ve learned is that it’s always, always about them. Never about the people they love.”

He searches her face, brushing a piece of hair back from her forehead. “And whatever your mom was or wasn’t thinking, you are enough. You are more than enough, Iris.” He leans down and gives her a kiss, deep and dirty, and she moans in frustration as he pulls back from her. He gives her a grin, one more reminiscent of the Barry she’s used to.

“Repeat after me,” he commands. “I, Iris West…”

“Really, Barry?”

“Yes, come on. I, Iris West…

She sighs, but says it. “I, Iris West…”

“Am more than enough.”

She licks her lips then, blinks, works to not let the tears that have suddenly gathered in the corner of her eyes escape.

“Am more than enough,” she whispers, finally.

Barry’s smile turns fond. “Good girl.”

She shakes her head because she doesn’t know what else to do besides kiss him. Which she does, deeply, reaching down to grip him in her palm. She pauses, just for a moment, to tell him “you know that you are enough too, right?” and she kisses the look of awe off of his face. It’s a long while before she stops kissing him, and then it’s only to moan into his mouth, to let him whisper his dirty somethings into her ear.

“What are your plans for tonight?”

They’ve just shared a shower. Barry is throwing on another pair of sweats and a hoodie and Iris puts her own leggings back on, sans underwear, and thumbs through Barry’s closet for another sweatshirt to put on.

(There’s no reason that she can’t put hers back on, but she’s feeling particularly sentimental and she wants to take something of Barry’s with her, something that smells like him, that feels like him.)

“None, really.” She pulls out a red sweater that reads Central City University Track & Field and throws it on over her bra. “Why? You kicking me out.”

Barry rolls his eyes. “Of course not.” He glances down at the watch on his wrist. “Wanna get dinner? And then go with me to my tattoo appointment? It’s at 8 tonight.”

She smiles at that. “Sure.”

They take the highway back downtown. The rain is still beating steadily and there is still the occasional rumble of thunder, the sporadic flash of lightning. He parks a bit further in the arts district, in front of a restaurant specializing in wood-fire pizzas and craft beers. This time, she knows to wait for him to come around and open the door for her so that she can walk under his umbrella. Once he locks his jeep, he grabs her hand, and they walk the couple doors down and into the restaurant.

The place is brightly lit, in direct contrast to the dark sky and even the faint light that had been on at Barry’s place. The weather assures that it isn’t densely packed, just a couple booths of families and what looks like a couple, so they’re seated quickly and easily. They eat fast since they’ve only got an hour before his appointment. In the meantime, they both keep the conversation light. It’s been a day, for the both of them really, and Iris doesn’t think that she can cry twice in a day.

After he pays, she goes to the bathroom and he tells her he’ll wait at the door for her. She goes in and it’s as brightly lit as the rest of the place and she quickly does her business and washes her hands before heading back out to where he knows Barry is waiting in the little space between the outer door and the door to the restaurant.

She walks through the place and out of the restaurant door, likely too quickly and without really looking. She takes several steps, straightening out Barry’s sweatshirt again, and then she’s bumping into what feels like a solid wall, almost falling backward. A quick hand reaches out to catch her, the hand large, easily wrapping around her forearm.

“Shit,” she says, shaking her head to clear it as she looks up. “I’m sorr..Scott?”

He doesn’t move back right away and so she has to look up, up at the man holding on to her. Scott Evans is the literal definition of tall, dark, and handsome. He’d been her editor when she’d work at CCPN right out of college, and she’d had the biggest crush on him. Tall with dark caramel skin and a neatly trimmed beard, he’d been the one to help guide her in the ways of mass story-telling. They’d gone on one date and Iris is not actually sure why they’d never gone on another.

“Iris West.” He says her name slowly, his grin widening at the same pace. He gives her a once-over, slow and heated. “How’ve you been?”

“R-really good,” she says, stumbling a little at that grin. Even if she doesn’t actually regret never seeing him again, Iris can admit that a man this good looking makes her a little tongue-tied.

“Yeah? I’ve been catching your blog when I can. It’s some good shit, West. I can see why you left our little paper.”

“Please,” Iris rolls her eyes with a little laugh. “There’s nothing little about Picture News.”

He shrugs, humble all the way. “Still, I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Scott. I appreciate that.”

“It’s the truth.” He looks down at her, swiping at his lips with his tongue, and she suddenly realizes that they’re still too close. She steps back fully from him, glancing over Scott’s shoulders to see Barry watching them, his expression unreadable.

“Um,” she speaks, catching his attention. “I gotta go Scott.”

“Oh yeah; of course. We should get together soon. Maybe do dinner.” Scott looks back out of the window where rain steadily pours. “It’s still raining out. Can I walk you to your car?”

Her eyes don’t leave Barry’s and he tilts his head, waiting for her answer. “Scott, I’m not alone.”

He turns as if he’s just realizing that Barry is standing there. Barry is still quiet and only lifts his eyes to look at Scott when he mutters, “oh, hey man.”

Barry nods. “What’s up?” Then he looks at Iris. “You ready?”

“Yeah, I am.” Her voice is soft, cautious, and she throws one more glance at Scott. “It was good to see you.”

He graces her with that smile again. “Yeah. I’ll see you around.”

Barry takes her hand and they walk back to the truck. They’re on the road again, driving to a neighborhood near her own. For a second, she thinks he’s going to take her home, but he passes the road to her apartment and goes on to a neighborhood featuring several bars and little shops that cater to the college crowd. He pulls into the parking lot of a place called Black Gold, the lights inside near as bright as those in the pizza place.

Again, she waits until he comes around and turns as if to get out. He stops her though, holding the umbrella high, standing in front of her open legs. He does his thing, his stare like he's trying, and succeeding, to get inside her mind.

“That your ex-boyfriend?” he wonders.

She shakes her head. “Ex-boss.”

His expression doesn’t change. “All your bosses look at you like that?”

She swallows at the sudden feel of his hand on her thigh. The rain is pounding and drops fall on them, but she’s not noticing it. Instead, she’s caught in the storm that’s returned to his eyes, in the feel of his hands inching steadily toward her center.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” she says, instead of responding to him.

One corner of his mouth lifts, and the confident, bordering on cocky, Barry is looking at her now, even if that sparkle hasn’t returned quite yet.

“Nah,” he says. “Not jealous. You’re here right now. And you were with me earlier, moaning for me, coming for me.”

He slides his hand between her thighs and because she is, almost literally, always thirsty for him, wet for him, her legs spread easily. He fingers at the crotch of her leggings, and she knows that he can feel her warmth through the thin material. He thumbs at her until she gasps against him, finding her clit in a way that reminds him that he knows her body better than she knows it herself.

“He ever touch you like this?” Barry asks, voice a whisper above the rain. “Make you whimper even without getting your clothes off?”

She is whimpering, as he keeps his thumb on her clit, rubbing on her in slow circles. That’s all he’s doing: touching her with one hand, looking at her with those eyes that tell as much as they conceal, with his voice a deep rumble that rivals the thunder. He might be turned on, but he’s proving a point, naming himself as someone who, well, who owns her, even if she recognizes that no man should claim any power over her.

Heat spreads through her, a low, simmering sort of heat, but it’s enough that her folds grow slicker, start opening like the flowers of a petal waiting to be plucked. He keeps rubbing at her, staying on her clit, staring in her face, so much that she can’t hold his gaze. Because it feels better than it should, and her wet is soaking through these too thin leggings, and her breaths are coming in longer, coming in heavier.

“Tell me he hasn’t, Iris,” he says, commands, and Iris throws her head back, legs widening at their own volition, hips canting against his hand. “Tell me.”

“No,” she moans, eyes fluttering closed. “He never even touched me at all.”

“Tell me it’s just me,” he adds and she’s too far gone to note the pleading in his voice. “Tell me no one has ever touched you like this.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Just you, Barry, shit, just you.”

“Good,” he groans. “Good, good girl.”

Even if touch is the word he’s using, Iris understands that it’s more. She understands that they’re both wrapped up in uncertainty, never too sure of where they lie in others’ affections, never too sure of where they lie in life at all. She understands that he’s asking her if she feels it too, if she’s there with him, if this too easy, this too natural, feeling is a first for her too.

He’s asking if she’s brave enough to tell him the truth, if she undertands is meaning-understands that I'm no walk in the park; all these scars on my heart; it’s so dark here-even as she’s wondering the same, as she’s feeling the same, wondering if the churning feelings of abandonment make her unworthy somehow. Wondering if he’ll come to see that unworthiness.

Barry leans forward, just a touch away from her mouth, eyes blazing.

“There’s only you too, Iris,” he says, unprompted. “I swear I’ve just been waiting for you.”

He closes the distance to kiss her and that’s enough to take her over. It’s not a powerful orgasm, not like usual, but it does make her shut her eyes tight, make her limbs seize up as she rocks her hips through it. She breathes out, and she can’t stop the little laugh that comes out.

“You really are a dick,” she muses, opening her eyes slowly.

“A polite one, though,” he says, as he stands straighter and holds his hand out to help her down from the car. He holds the umbrella high over her. “See how I’m making sure you don’t get wet.”

“You didn't think of that earlier.”

His grin is devastating but it doesn’t hide the plethora of emotions in his eyes: the simmering lust, the faint traces of insecurity, the grief that’s been hovering all day...the love she doesn’t think he wants to hide anymore.

She hikes up on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek, and then she walks beside him into the parlor, words flashing in her head like a sign, but if you’re a warrior, there’s nothing to fear; nothing to fear.

And later that night, as she cuddles up next to Barry is his large comfortable bed, she listens to his soft breathing, the sound a melody to the rain still pattering against his windows. She listens and she stares at him, taking in his features, softer than they were before, the stress of today easing away with every second he’s lost to sleep. A flash of lightning lights the room, and it catches her eyes again, the new tattoo, the purple ink bright on his skin, covering the space from a lily on his shoulder to just over his heart. It goes dark again, his room blanketed once more, but in her mind’s eyes, she can still see the vibrant ink on his skin, the pretty drooping petals of an iris.

Cause you're so brave

Stone cold crazy for loving me

Yeah, I'm amazed

I hope you make it out alive

#westallen fanfiction #westallen #barry x iris #iris west #strangers to lovers

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the-littlest-goblin · 3 years

Note

Hey! For the WIP thing, e/c college au?

ooh this one’s fun. Shadowgast college/modern with magic au with a whole lot of academic magic talk. Caleb and Essek are research assistants to Yussa and Waccoh, respectively, who are forced to work together on a research project despite their long-standing rivalry. While their bosses go on an enemies-to-colleagues (to lovers, maybe???) journey, Caleb and Essek bond over dunamancy.

I really love this au but it lacks enough plot to justify the worldbuilding, and also parts of it got piecemeal-ed into other fics so it seems kind of redundant now. I haven’t totally given up on it, but it’s definitely on the back burner. since I’m so fond of it, you get a much longer excerpt than necessary:

“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard in my life!” Professor Waccoh announced her arrival by shoving the door open like it had wronged her in a very cruel and personal manner. Yussa stormed in behind her, his robes swishing aggressively, as if they too were possessed with a righteous fury.

“Your plan will never work!” he cried. “The experiment will be over before it begins, because all our materials will have melted.”

“They won’t if we get mithril sheets instead of steel!” Waccoh countered.

“And blow a third of our grant funds on day one? What lunacy!”

Caleb and Essek exchanged long-suffering looks. Their first day as co-lab assistants to the joint research team of Waccoh and Errenis was not looking to be a pleasant one.

“Are we still on for tutoring later tonight?” Essek whispered under the noise of their bosses’ continuing argument.

“Of course,” Caleb answered. They were both standing against the wall at the edge of the lab, awaiting instruction, writing utensils at the ready to take down notes, but neither Yussa nor Waccoh seemed to realize they were even in the room. They had eyes only for each other.

“Of course we have to enchant the materials first! It will be so much easier than waiting until everything is assembled!”

“So what am I supposed to do, just sit here twiddling my thumbs and wait an eternity for you to cast your stupid spells? No way! I’m building the engine first, then I can move on with my life while you spend another decade enchanting it.”

“If you would just listen to reason, Tuss…”

Essek leaned over to Caleb again. “Perhaps it would be more efficient if we start now?”

Caleb looked up from the cat he’d been doodling in the margins of his notebook. It looked more like a sausage with legs and a tail—he was no Jester.

“What do you mean?”

“Here.” Grabbing his bag in one hand, Essek put the other on Caleb’s elbow and guided him to the next table over. Neither professor commented.

Sitting down, Essek pulled a cinderblock of a textbook out of his bag. The front cover showed a galaxy of stars overlaid with geometric designs and bold, block letters reading: Fundamentals of Dunamancy. And under that, in slightly smaller letters: Leylas Kryn, PhD. It was littered with sticky notes poking out the side of nearly every page.

Essek flipped open to one marking about a fourth of the way through the book, labeled CALEB.

“So,” Essek began, and Caleb scrambled to turn his notebook to a fresh page. “We left off last time talking about dunamis, correct?”

“Yes,” Caleb confirmed. “And the beacons.”

“Right. So you understand the origins of dunamancy.”

“I am a little unclear,” Caleb admitted. Curious, he glanced over to the other side of the lab. Yussa and Waccoh had migrated to the chalkboard, where they appeared to be laying out their respective arguments in bullet-point form. They did not seem to be in need of any assistance. He turned back to Essek.

“The beacons are fonts of magic, but they are also religious relics, correct?”

Essek nodded.

“But dunamancy is an arcane subject,” Caleb continued. “It does not come from worship of this Luxon figure, the way clerical magic is derived from deities. It is a realm of academic study.” Essek nodded again. “So, where does the religious connection come in?”

“Well, you have stumbled upon a matter of great controversy,” Essek answered. “Personally, I believe religion has nothing to do with it. If you ask me, the beacons’ connection to the Luxon is a historical note, a misguided invention from a time with a more primitive understanding of magic. If we were wise, we would disregard any writings that talk of its divine origins and approach the subject from a fresh perspective. But,” Essek mouth twisted into a bitter smile, “if you ask Professor Kryn, you will get a very different answer.”

“I see,” said Caleb, mind whirring as it mulled over the new information.

“But that debate is not essential to our lessons. You don’t need to understand the depths of the beacons in order to practice basic dunamancy. Although, I appreciate your curiosity.” His smile softened as he surveyed Caleb. “You have an uncanny talent for getting directly to the heart of the matter.”

Don’t ask so many questions, Bren.

Caleb blinked hard against the voice echoing at the back of his mind.

“Have these beacons been studied very closely?”

Essek tilted his head to the side, considering. “A bit? It’s difficult, with them being such cherished cultural artifacts. Most of the examination that has been done was conducted by archeologists and historians. A handful of arcanists in recent years, including Leylas, have been permitted to study them, but it’s an extremely thorough vetting process.” He paused, jaw working as though he was unsure about whether to allow the next words past his lips.

“The vetting is mostly done by high level clerics within the worship. I imagine Leylas’ long history of devout practice made them more inclined to allow her access.”

Caleb noted the tinge of sadness—and was that resentment?—in his voice. But Essek was speaking again before he could comment.

“I can send you some articles on the topic, if you wish to investigate further,” he said. “In the meantime, we move forward.”

Though it remained open in front of them, Essek hardly consulted the textbook once as their lesson continued. It was difficult not to pay attention when he talked; the smooth timber of his voice paired with the undeniable enthusiasm he had for the subject kept Caleb enraptured, Even the most basic elements, clearly known by rote, Essek explained with a spark of passion in his eye, which grew brighter with every question or clarification Caleb parried back.

He was an excellent teacher.

They had almost entirely forgotten about the job they were meant to be doing, and their bickering superiors, until over an hour later. While Essek was guiding Caleb through a diagram of common somatic movements for dunamantic spells, Yussa called out,

“Caleb! I need you to go to my office and retrieve my copy of Otiluke’s Guide to Enchantment, Volume IV. I have a point to prove!”

ask game

#my writing #mettasutcliff #critrole

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halfwayinlight · 3 years

Text

I wrote a thing today. It was supposed to be for Valentine’s Day

Title: Holding Space Fandom: Star Trek TNG Pairing: Will Riker/Deanna Troi Rating: PG Notes: set between Season 3 episodes The Bonding and The Booby Trap

Commander Will Riker would be lying if he didn’t admit that he was disappointed Deanna had not yet come to the bridge to report she was back on board. It wasn’t an official protocol, but it was a courtesy that the senior staff generally observed. It was, in fact, out of the ordinary that Deanna didn’t report to the bridge officer on duty.

He told himself he would wait a full half hour past her anticipated arrival time to call down to O’Brien. It would be a very long half hour, and he knew that at least some of the bridge crew were very aware he was antsy. So Will had dutifully read through the various daily reports sent in. And he checked the logs three times to make sure there wasn’t some mental health crisis that would’ve pulled her immediately back into work.

Eventually, he’d taken to the ready room, vacant since the captain was off duty at the moment. Catching up on reports was no help in the distraction department because the only remaining reports they were still working on were the reports over the Mintaka III duck blind. It had been an utter failure in all aspects of First Contact. Not that the Enterprise crew had been able to really help it. It was more an Act of Fate.

Privately, though, Will still felt guilty about the whole thing. Guilty for leaving Deanna behind. He knew, rationally, that there was no help for it. Palmer had needed immediate medical care. There had been no reason to think that Deanna wouldn’t be able to slip quietly away and be beamed back on board.

“You’re beating yourself up over it,” she’d observed one night in Ten Forward, about a week ago. Her fingers played with the glass containing her Sumerian sunrise, idly tracing the bands etched around the cup.

He shifted, elbow on the table to lean against it for support, suddenly uncomfortable with the turn this evening was taking. Rather than answer immediately, he took a slow inventory of the lounge. It was a slow night, and they were relatively isolated. As his gaze swept the bar, Guinan had given him a long look and a subtle nod. He wasn’t even really sure what the nod meant, except that they would be given some space. “We should’ve come up with a better plan. One that had less risk.”

“We had limited intelligence. Given what we knew at the time, the risks seemed minimal. In retrospect, I don’t see what we could’ve done any differently. And, Will, I’m fine. I wasn’t hurt.”

He shook his head. “You were almost sacrificed to a non-existent deity,” he ground out, one hand lifting to rub his beard in frustration. “Do you know what it’s like to sit in a meeting with the captain and the current expert in Mintakan culture and hear that under these extraordinary circumstances, they might actually kill someone you care about?”

Deanna was leaning in now, arms resting on the table, hands clasped. He envied her level of calm and acceptance about this. “No, I do not. But,” she quickly added, “I do know what it’s like to sit on the bridge or in meetings and hear about missions where the people that I care deeply about may die. To see you and our friends leave on away teams when there are serious risks. To coordinate evacuations and general quarters, especially sauce separations, that leave me with the low-risk group and people I care for very much on the battle bridge.”

The intensity of her words hit him like a phaser blast, and Will was left speechless for long moments. He’d never taken much time to consider what it looked like from her end of things. And given her sympathetic smile, she realized this.

“It’s the life I chose, Will,” she added quietly after giving him some time to absorb her first statements. “We all signed up for Starfleet understanding the risks. Some of us have already lost loved ones in the line of duty…”

It was the line of duty that was the hardest to absorb. That reminder that her own father had died while serving. Amplified days later when Lieutenant Aster died on the archeological dig. It had impacted the crew, shocked them all because this had seemed like such a routine exploration. Worsened because she left behind Jeremy, now parent-less.

And in the last six days since that incident, Deanna had been on duty, more or less continuously caring for the boy. Worf had wanted to accompany both her and Jeremy to Starbase 24, where they would rendezvous with the boy’s aunt and uncle, but the Enterprise couldn’t spare him long enough. As it was, Deanna would barely make the connection back before they needed to jump to high warp in order to make their next mission. If she was delayed, it would be another week or more before a shuttle or transport would cross their path to bring her back.

In the end, it was O’Brien calling. “Transporter Room 3 to Commander Riker.”

“Riker here,” he replied instantly, straightening in his seat on the couch. He never used the desk in the ready room because it felt too much like the captain’s personal space.

“The counselor is back on board. You can take us to warp now.”

“Acknowledged,” Will replied, feeling a bit silly for not realizing sooner that O’Brien would be aware they were waiting for her arrival before moving on. That he would have anticipated the need to notify the bridge so they could go to warp.

Gathering the PADD he had been using, Will made his way back to the bridge. “Counselor Troi is back on board. Warp eight, on to our next coordinates,” he called to the helm before settling into the captain’s chair. He continued to fight his eagerness to see her back on board for himself. With a few commands from his PADD, he finished the plans he’d settled on the night before in anticipation of her return.

She had sent two communiques to him in as many days. They’d spoken only once through subspace, the first night after Jeremy had fallen asleep in one of the bunks on a small thirty passenger supply ship they’d caught a ride with. Deanna had looked very tired, eyes shadowed from lack of sleep that he hadn’t seen from her in a long time. It had been a rough past few months for her-- the psychological torment on Rana IV, nearly being sacrificed on Mintaka III, and the aftermath of Aster’s death. He’d set a hot bath to run in her quarters and left out some real chocolate that he’d managed to obtain on a recent starbase and kept a secret stash for the rough days when hot chocolate from the replicator wasn’t enough. Will had the sense from their subspace call that this would be one of those days.

And yet the bridge held only the scheduled crew members on a very routine shift. Textbook even. He’d rarely been so glad to hand over command to Data when it finally did end. In reality, he should be finding his way to the mess hall or Ten Forward for a meal. But he was determined not to wait any longer.

It didn’t take long to gain her quarters, and he politely pressed the button to notify her that she had a visitor. They came and went freely from each other’s quarters. They were both visitors with full access at any time. Besides that, as First Officer, he had override access to all parts of the ship. But he was a gentleman and would announce himself.

When there was no answer, he paused for a long moment. A glance up and down the hall confirmed that he was alone for now, and he was grateful. Everyone on board knew they were close. It wouldn't have been the first time either of them had been spotted outside the other’s quarters. Besides, their roles on the ship meant they often worked closely together. But he was also acutely aware that the crew knew their relationship was much more complicated than that.

“Computer, location of Counselor Deanna Troi,” he finally decided to consult on this, instead of simply assuming she was in her quarters. It would be easy enough to gain entry, but he hesitated to simply go in. She might be sleeping. Or she might want to be alone. A few dozen less rational explanations for no answer flitted through his mind, but he dismissed the various scenarios as absurd and unlikely.

“Counselor Deanna Troi is in Commander Riker’s quarters.”

Now that was not something he had not considered. With an about-face, he moved just down the corridor and through his own door. His lounge showed no evidence of a visitor, and he frowned to himself as he scanned the room to be sure he hadn’t missed anything. He gained his room and came to a full halt at the doorway.

There was a Betazoid in his bed. Soundly asleep. In the chair in the corner, her maroon uniform was folded neatly and her boots tucked out of the walkway. He was pretty sure he’d left at least a few articles of clothing on the floor, but it had been cleared out, most likely tossed in the laundry.

But what caught his breath was how small and worn out Deanna looked under the silvery Starfleet-issued blanket. The shadows under her eyes were more pronounced in the low light seeping in from the lounge. He wondered if she had even gone to her own quarters at all, and he suspected likely not.

For now, he was too awake to sleep. So he let himself linger for several moments more, absorbing that she was back on board. That she was getting the rest she so clearly needed. There would be time to catch up later. Will finally returned to his lounge and found something in the replicator menu that sounded appetizing and was able to focus enough to wrap up his daily report and close out two older reports before his mind wound down enough that he could think about sleeping, too.

A quick sonic shower relaxed him enough that Will knew meant he could finally get some rest. When he went in search of his usual blue pajamas, he found the top missing but tugged on the trousers and eased in beside Deanna. And he quickly found his missing top, which she had appropriated for her own sleepwear.

That particular realization touched on a mix of new feelings. Attraction. It wouldn't be the first time she had swiped something of his to sleep in. Secretly, he hoped it wouldn’t be the last time, either. And it touched on something tender, which surprised him all the more. That she was tired enough to borrow something, rather than make the effort of going to her own quarters, one room away, for her own things.

“Mmmm,” she murmured now, though Will could tell she remained on the other side of sleep.

“Sssh,” Will soothed, arms banding around her and pulling her closer to him, his body warmer than usual from the sonic shower. She relaxed into the comfort, as he’d hoped she would. “Back to sleep,” he murmured as he pressed a kiss into her hair. “I’m glad you’re back,” he breathed, thumb pressing at the nape of her neck, seeking those pressure points to soothe and relax her. He rubbed small circles until her breath evened out again, familiar and soothing against the crook of his neck and he followed her into deep sleep.

#imzadi #otp: imzadi #will riker #deanna troi #counselor troi #commander riker #my messed up space cinnamon nugget rolls

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myherowritings · 5 years

Text

masterlist

SOCIAL MEDIA AU MASTERLIST

HAIKYUU!! MASTERLIST

TODOROKI SHOUTO

i. animal instincts

with your shapeshifting quirk, you take on the duty of becoming the resident undercover therapy cat for class 1-a. one day, you see todoroki restless in the middle of the night and try to comfort him in cat form. but what happens when he confides in you his feelings you weren’t meant to hear?

ii. into your arms

you’re prone to tripping and todoroki is prone to being there to catch you. or, in which you’re a bit of a klutz and, for a reason he can’t explain, shouto wants to make sure you never get hurt.

iii. an otome addiction

you become obsessed with the characters in the otome game, mystic messenger, and your boyfriend todoroki gets a little bit jealous.

iv. strawberry scented dreams

the 3 times todoroki falls asleep on you + the 1 time you fall asleep on him. shouto is always sleepy and needs some rest, and your shoulder just happens to be the comfiest place to get it.

v. can you keep a secret?

you and shouto are secretly dating and none of your classmates know. during a study session in todoroki’s dorm, kaminari, sero, and midoriya find your lacy thong under shouto’s desk and try to figure out whose it is.

vi. frosting fights

midoriya has been feeling sad lately, so you and todoroki (try to) bake him a cake in the middle of the night.

vii. the panty thief

modern au. “my cat steals underwear and i come home to find you chasing my cat to get your underwear back.” in which todoroki is a new cat parent and you’re his new neighbor whose panties keep disappearing.

viii. overheated

it’s super hot out and you feel like you’re dizzy and about to faint. todoroki is there to cool you off with his right side.

ix. jealousy for dummies

jealous of all the time shouto has been spending with yaoyorozu, you hatch up a plan with bakugou to give todoroki a taste of his own medicine.

x. ghostwriter masterlist [smau]

college au. you’re an aspiring writer with a longtime crush on the ghost hunter on campus, todoroki shouto. when you two are paired up for a semester-long journalism project, you come up with the perfect, foolproof plan to get him to fall for you.

xi. hearts intertwined

roommate au. you and todoroki have been roommates for months now but have barely had more than a two minute conversation. when quarantine hits and everyone is on lockdown, you find yourself forced to spend more time with him and actually end up…enjoying it?

xii. fictional crush

class 1-a has an avatar: the last airbender marathon and you can’t help but swoon over your fictional crush, prince zuko, leaving todoroki feeling a little jealous.

xiii. letters of my love [smau]

tatbilb au. you and your friends mail out your past love letters because you want to see your old crushes’ reactions. on accident, you mail your current crush’s letter. to make it seem like your crush on bakugou is gone, you fake date another letter recipient, todoroki shouto.

xiv. eat the rich [series]

ceo/barista au. todoroki shouto was a wealthy, young ceo who inherited his father’s enterprise. you were a barista at a local cafe who wouldn’t mind some extra cash. one day, shouto came in during an early morning shift and tipped you such a large sum of money, you were certain it had to have been an accident. to your surprise and complete pleasure: it was not.

BAKUGOU KATSUKI

i. one hell of a knockout

boxer au. bakugou is a young pro boxer climbing his way to the top of the charts. one day, his friends kirishima and ashido invite you to a match. unbeknownst to you, you end up accidentally distracting katsuki during a fight and he gets a punch landed on his face.

ii. take you out

you ask bakugou out on a picnic date to the park, but he thinks you’re challenging him to a fight. you can’t tell who is more confused when the day finally comes.

iii. kitty kisses

your boyfriend and your cat don’t get along. bakugou keeps trying to come up with different ways to get your cat to finally warm up to him. (or, in which katsuki spends 3 hours baking treats for a tsundere cat.)

iv. “you’re hot when you’re angry”

you and bakugou get into a disagreement, you get pinned underneath him, and he smirks and realizes just how hot you are when you’re pissed.

v. a soothing touch

pro hero au. katsuki is sore and stressed from a long day at work but is too stubborn to let you give him a massage.

vi. “she’s my wife”

pro hero au. when bakugou forgets his lunch in the refrigerator, you decide to deliver it to him at his agency. but when you’re there, the new receptionist calls you a bitch. bakugou responds appropriately.

vii. cold shoulder

pro hero au. whenever you and bakugou get into a disagreement, he blasts the air conditioner until you have no choice but to ask him to cuddle.

viii. the appreciation post

pro hero au. one of the responsibilities of being a pro hero in this day and age is having a social media presence. you tag bakugou in an appreciation post while he’s out in public and he gets embarrassed in the best way possible.

ix. slip of the tongue

pro hero au. during a charity interview with the top three heroes, deku and shouto “accidentally” give away ground zero’s crush on you. you’re asked about bakugou in an interview of your own and, during a fit of excitement, accidentally let your crush on him slip.

x. the jealous type | fanart

class 1-a has a game night in the common room. bakugou sees you and todoroki getting too close for comfort and can’t stop himself from getting jealous.

xi. a forgotten anniversary

pro hero au. it yours and bakugou’s one year anniversary, but he’s so busy with hero work that he forgets. you’re hurt and upset, but katsuki may have a few tricks up his sleeve…

xii. shirt on, bra off

aged up au. bakugou sees you take off your bra, one-handed, and he can’t help but be in a bit of awe.

xiii. bear hugs

you see your childhood friend, bakugou, for the first time in years and you greet him with a giant bear hug...only to find yourself in the nurse’s office right after.

xiv. call me b-a-b-y

bakugou absolutely hates when you call him pet names. he hates the smile on your face when you say it, hates the way he can’t stop blushing-- he hates it. right?

xv. fever talk | fanart

pro hero au. “side effects may include: light-headedness, disorientation, and accidental confessions of love.” you help nurse a fever-ridden ground zero back to health, but little did you know it should have come with a warning.

xvi. the language of flowers

you decide to make the most of your nature quirk by giving your crush, bakugou, endless bouquets of flowers.

xvii. fact or fiction? [18+]

pro hero au. ground zero’s crush on you has become painfully obvious to everyone, leading to an incessant amount of shipping. one day, he gets himself off to one of the many lewd stories about the two of you and you find out.

xviii. paparazzi

pro hero au. you and ground zero go on your first date as a public couple and the paparazzi won’t stop harassing the two of you. bakugou decides to take you to his house to cook for you and things begin to heat up in the kitchen.

xix. number neighbor masterlist [smau]

college au. in which bakugou katsuki is a grumpy and sarcastic college student just trying to get his degree and you are his bubbly number neighbor who is determined to become his new “bestie.”

xx. all that ass [nn scenario] | fanart

a number neighbor bonus fic. one night at the gym, you see a handsome guy with so much ass, you take a picture on the sly and send it to your number neighbor, bakugou, to freak out over. but what you don’t expect is for bakugou to reply with a picture of you from the same gym.

xxi. honey, honey

pro hero au. ground zero, deku, and shouto are scheduled to have a meet-and-greet at a primary school to boost their rankings. there, bakugou unexpectedly meets a kindergarten teacher with a sweet smile who likes to call people honey.

xxii. under my patrol

pro hero au. after seeing your boyfriend cheat on you on a night you were supposed to be on a date, you mope alone at a bar. stumbling home, you crash into the famous hero, ground zero.

xxiii. found a treasure

modern au. “it’s nice that your voice was the first thing i heard today.”

xxiv. mistletoe kiss

holiday au. after a few weeks of dating, you and katsuki still haven’t kissed. you hope that will change under the mistletoe this holiday season.

KIRISHIMA EIJIROU

i. the pizza delivery guy

modern au. your roommate orders a pizza with the special instructions, “send your cutest delivery boy ;)” and you’re left in begrudging awe when it actually works.

SHINSOU HITOSHI

i. you suck at gaming masterlist [smau]

youtuber au. you’re a youtuber known for your chaotic yet wholesome content and shinsou is a gamer who keeps getting accused of being an eboy. one day you upload a video trying your hand at gaming and shinsou tweets out about how much you suck.

ii. borrowed sweaters, stolen kisses

aged up. in a game of truth or dare, you’re dared to sneak into your crush’s dorm and steal one article of clothing to wear the next day. it just so happens that the hoodie you snatched was shinsou’s favorite sweater.

iii. turn on your airdrop masterlist [smau]

modern au. you’re at a theme park when kaminari dares you to airdrop memes to the first device that pops up and reluctantly, you give in. but never would you have thought they’d send you memes back… nor could you have guessed the person you were feeling a meme-connection with was your first love and first heartbreak, shinsou hitoshi.

iv. maybe it’s fate [toya pt. 25]

a turn on your airdrop written chapter. after discovering the mememate you fell in love with was your ex-boyfriend who broke your heart, you find yourself alone in a bar with a dead phone in a poor attempt to cope. the person who helps you at 3 a.m. is the last person you want to see.

KAMINARI DENKI

i. play me a song [smau]

youtube/celeb au. you’re an actress and singer who is highly adored by youtuber, kaminari denki. after his endless simping and thirsting on twitter, you finally decide to reply to one of his tweets.

TODODEKU

i. pinky promise

a quirk sends todoroki back in time and there he sees a four year old midoriya crying in the park. what better way to cheer him up than with some strawberry ice cream?

HEADCANONS

HC: bakugou meets his s/o’s unsupportive parents

HC: pro hero shouto meets his quirkless s/o working at a hospital

HC: todoroki absolutely does not get along with his s/o’s male best friend

HC: shouto takes care of sore s/o

HC: bakugo + kirishima get a surprise kiss from s/o

HC: todoroki and s/o bake brownies and things get a little messy

HC: todoroki and s/o go to hanami (flower viewing)

HC: s/o peppers kisses all over todoroki’s face + he turns bright red

HC: todoroki and s/o have your first date at the aquarium

HC: iida + midoriya + todoroki react to their s/o whose nose twitches when cold/concentrated

HC: sleep deprived s/o with todoroki + bakugou

HC: getting high with kirishima + bakugou + todoroki [18+]

HC: baku + kiri + todo react to s/o being catcalled

HC: you’re harassed by a stranger and, to make them stop, you grab your friend [shouto + katsuki] and give him a kiss to prove he’s your boyfriend

HC: boyfriend!denki headcanons

HC: how baku + todo + kami kiss their s/o and what they taste like

HC: bakugou + todoroki cuddling headcanons

HC: bakugou + todoroki react to their s/o squeezing their butt

HC: bakugou + todoroki find their crushes diary and accidentally read it

HC: bnha as fuckboys (kami + todo + kiri + shin)

HC: autumn with todo + baku + kiri

HC: valentine’s day with baku + todo + shin

HC: shin + todo + baku replying to flirty anons

FAKE TEXTS

FT: prank texts on your crush todoroki

#masterlist #bnha fanfiction #bnha x reader #todoroki x reader #bakugou x reader #midoriya x todoroki #myherowritings #todoroki shouto #todoroki shouto x reader #x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bnha imagines

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infinites-chaser · 4 years

Text

dark night fireworks | mlqc | lucien/mc | dreams and memory

spoilers for ch.13 and somewhat inspired by ch.16

warning for drinking and vague + non-explicit sexual content

“Lucien,” you whisper, as if speaking his name aloud will somehow make it real.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. The only thing that matters is this moment. This moment a million times over. And what’s a moment in a dream if you make yourself believe it’s true?

‘oh, love, even if I wake up and it all disappears and becomes a mess

oh, love, I’ll wait for this night again’

xii.

Once, when you were young, you caught a butterfly, trapping its delicate wings between your hands. Most of your childhood memories have faded to sepia and tones of grey, but this you remember in vivid color. It comes to you now in fragments, like a painting ripped to shreds: The butterfly's wings, bright yellow blurs that tickle your palms. Your father's horror. The warm wind, his panicked scolding, and the wide blue sky.

You remember him telling you that trapped things, once let go, are never the same after. He told you catching the butterfly crushed its wings, and it would never fly straight again. You cried, you think, as you often did, and opened your hands.

You can't remember the rest. Did the butterfly emerge from your finger prison, its cocoon? Did it fly away? Did it fly straight and true?

Memory is reconstructive. If you reach for the pieces enough times, your mind will build its own answer.

But, now, the truth: the butterfly was already dead. It had been dead since you first snatched it from where it danced in the golden spring sky.

When you laid your palms flat, the butterfly's bright wings had stirred once and then fell still. You cried. To this day, you're still not sure why you don't remember this, your Schrodinger's butterfly. In your hands, it had become a lesson from your father, something with the possibility of being not quite dead. In your memory, it becomes immortal, that butterfly you remember entrapping but can never vividly picture flying free.

The bar is not pink, as its name, The Peony Pavilion, might suggest. Its walls are a deep purple that fades upward to dark blue, then a black which stretches across the ceiling, uninterrupted save by tiny pinpricks of light. The floor, by contrast, is a softly glowing grey, carpeted and plush, muffling even the heaviest of footfalls of more intoxicated customers or louder, untrained personnel.

It is crowded normally, seats filled with patrons, troubled dreamers, and drunks. On busy nights, a spiraling chandelier will descend from the endless ceiling, shimmering with the colors of sunset: yellow, pink, and white. The air will still-- the frequent visitors know what’s coming, they tell their newer compatriots to be quiet, to wait.

A woman will unfold herself from a crouched position in the half-light, hair like unbound midnight, her dress a pure sparkling white. On cue, the patrons will clap and cheer, but she will gaze past them all, her eyes worlds away, caught up in a vision only she can see. She'll sweep a bow. They'll all fall silent.

The clock will strike twelve, and the lights of the chandelier will dim to a shade of purple, a twilight hue a few hours softer than the color of the walls.

The woman will open her mouth and begin to sing.

But not tonight.

Tonight, the bar’s doors are closed. Only the bartender stands behind the counter. All seats sit empty, save two.

xi.

He catches your attention from across the bar. (It’s easy. You’re the only two inside.)

One stolen glance and you're lost in his eyes again, like a moth to a dark flame. You're reminded, briefly, of the sleepless nights you once spent following him through the city, a lonely journey down moonlit alleys, into the cinema, into bars. They're nights from a time you know you can't return to, a time you, even after everything, still hold dear.

You read about the primacy effect one time in a psychology textbook, following along for a few pages over his shoulder before you stifled a yawn. He’d marked the page and closed the book, and turned to caress the top of your head with a gentle smile.

The study those pages had described surfaces in your mind now, as he raises his glass and drinks, dark eyes never leaving yours. The scientists had split their participants into two groups, and given them the same list of traits in different orders, one presenting a fictional man with his flaws first and strengths last, the other, the reverse. They'd then asked each group for their impression of the man.

Despite being given the exact same listed traits, they had opposite responses. The first, remembering most clearly his flaws, thought him a terrible person. The second saw him simply as human, and sympathized with those natural flaws.

At the time, you hadn't understood it. You couldn't think of how it related, out of the study and academia, back to everyday life. Of course now, you do. You're in his experiment. (You're in the second group, presented strengths first, flaws last.)

You can't help but continue to stare, your traitorous heart twisting with endlessly conflicting feelings at the sight of slim fingers you still remember holding, and the elegant panes of his face that you’ll never forget.

ii.

He'd explained primacy again, after you'd watched Memento, a movie he'd called one of his favorites. You don't know anymore if that was true. You don't think you know a single true thing about him. But still, you remember it. His words. The movie. The Polaroid. Don’t believe his lies.

The movie starts centered around the main character, and it’s intensely subjective, he’d said. We see him and his world through his eyes. We learn the details of the plot along with him, even as he forgets, and by the time the movie tells us he’s not as good of a person as we’d like to remember and we finally step out of his head and question his character, it’s too late. We're back at the start. A beginning at the end, an ending at the beginning.

The movie’s a bit like those classic math puzzles, he had said, and had chuckled at your groan. We begin with two trains going in opposite directions towards each other: one from the past, in black-and-white, going forward, one, in color, from the present going back, and they meet somewhere in the grey in between, at the start of the movie. Only, we’re introduced to his positive perception of his present self first.

So we call the movie’s arguable villain hero, up until the movie’s end. Just as you would like to think of him not as Ares, as a villain, up until this dream ends.

xi.

You know you’re dreaming when you blink, and he’s gone from the shadowy corner only to reappear right next to you, your name on his lips with a smile.

“Lucien,” you whisper, as if speaking his name aloud will somehow make the moment real. As if a dream could ever become reality.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. The only thing that matters is this moment. This moment a million times over. And what’s a moment in a dream if you make yourself believe it’s true?

He raises his glass to your lips, a silent invitation.

You meet those dark eyes. You drink.

(A different movie, but. You fall. He's your totem, your ever-spinning top. You wait for the kick.)

iii.

The world shifts and swirls around you. Only he stays steady, awash in a sea of sunset colors and midnight starry lights. You take his hand, your anchor, and he lets you.

Your dress is a soft purple now. Now, you say, since you think it used to be pink, and before that, white. (If the bartender would speak, she'd tell you it looks like the chandelier: dripping in crystals, iridescent, reminiscent of the fading day, the coming night.)

There's an invisible glass wall between you and him. (You don't remember Ares. You don't remember why.)

You press up against it, and it shatters.

iv.

He calls your name, and you surface, dizzy, from your daze.

"Why did you come here?" He asks. His hand's hovering, almost reaching, on the verge of taking your glass away or perhaps tucking an escaped strand of hair behind your ear.

"Why do I do things? Why does anyone do anything?"

You're definitely a little drunk.

"What I do isn't meaningless just because there are things I don't remember," you say, and what you mean is things you've made me forget.

"The world doesn't just disappear when you close your eyes, does it?"

"Memento," he notes with that same gentle, enigmatic smile. "Touché."

Then, musing, quieter:

"So, you remember that night."

"I remember everything."

(You both know that's a lie.)

ix.

(a tangent.)

Once, you asked, waking from the middle of a nightmare to a starless night:

"Daddy, why do I forget so many things?"

Your father held you close without a word. (You weren't expecting an answer.)

Now, you think it suits you, being a girl cut loose in time.

Your head hurts.

You'd ask the bartender for a glass of ice water, but the silent, white-clad woman's gone. In her places stands a gleaming door. Behind the door lies silver stairs.

Your temples throb again, and you think, fresh air. He takes your hand, and you let him. You pass through the doorway together.

viii.

(another tangent.)

A question without a proper answer: what does it mean to forget?

You searched it on the internet for Miracle Finder, found Wikipedia pages on the different types of memory and how your brain wires them all. Each article was long, convoluted, and a little pretentious.

(You gave up.)

Spoiler alert: neuroscientists still don't know.

You asked Lucien. He doesn't, either.

(The beginning of the hypothesis of an answer, buried in words about synapse strengthening and weakening: forgetting is just another word for loss.)

A better question, but one you'll never get a proper answer for: when your memory of someone is erased with Evol, which part of the brain is it affecting? What neural connections are lost, overwritten by the unnatural?

After all, Evol goes beyond the explainable, but it'd be wrong to say it doesn't affect those circuits at all.

A quick lesson that Lucien will never teach you: memory loss isn't like what you see in the movies.

There's many types of memory. You already know the first two: short-term and long-term. The temporary. The eroding. (outside these two-- the already lost)

(Memento's different. In it, he's lost the ability to make new long-term memories. Not quite memory loss. More like he can't feel time.)

Within the eroding are two subtypes: explicit, and implicit, or conscious and unconscious.

First, within explicit:

Semantic memory, our memory of general facts. It's how we familiarize ourselves with the world. (The sky is blue. Grass is green. The city the company headquarters are in is Loveland City.) A knock on the head to important bits involved here, and you won't remember the name of the president or how many cents add up to a dollar, but you'll still remember your childhood.

Episodic memory, the memory of our personal experiences. Many people argue this is the memory that makes you you. Say the amnesia-inducing Evol removes this. You forget an important event (a dream, a nightmare where he was Ares and you still called on him for protection, and he came, he saved you).

There, you say. Question answered. Problem solved.

But wait. The lesson's not over yet. There's still implicit. The unconscious part of your memory. (Freud's favorite.)

Implicit memory contains multitudes. (We'll just focus on a few.)

The important bits: implicit memory stores the memories necessary to learn. Procedural memory covers skills.

Then there's association, and key to association are your emotions. (You'll remember things that make you happy, make you angry, make you sad. You just won't remember why.)

Lastly, priming, also known as pattern completion. (If a puzzle was put in front of you, you'd be able to solve it, if you had before.)

Long story short, memory loss by Evol, if scientific, doesn't wipe them all out. Let's say it just wipes episodic. No more memory of the event. No more memory of the event itself. Let's say the emotions remain. Let's say you're still primed. But we digress.

(Lesson over.)

vi.

You race up the stairs, past pipes, through smoke, and burst onto the roof, giddy, flushed, his hand in yours the whole way. In the night air, your dress shimmers and darkens to a midnight blue, just a touch shy of the black of the silk of his suit.

The roof is wide open and empty, save for a delicate floating canopy of fairy lights. Beyond the rosy glow, vivid colors of fireworks shatter bright against the velvet curtain of night.

He pauses at the sight of the fireworks, the city far below, and you stagger back against him, one hand raised to the sky, laughing, drunk. Neither of you notice when the silver stairway disappears.

You loop your arms around his neck and stare up into his eyes. At first, the light doesn’t reflect off of them and you almost freeze, but he clasps a hand to the small of your back and draws you closer. When you blink up at him again, the dark of his gaze is warmed by the shine of the veil of lights.

“Where are the stars?”

“Shall I go and fetch them for you?”

Before you can respond, he leans in and catches the swell of your lips between his, dark eyes closed.

The first kiss is gentle and teasing, like his words. The second kiss is yours when he pulls back for air and you follow him. The third devours you.

His hands move in opposite directions; one floating up to cup your cheek and draw you in further with a caress, the other creeping down your back, leaving a trail of fire, aroused nerves, in its wake. It settles on the back of one of your thighs, and grips rough, possessive, hard and--

you gasp a single word between stolen breaths,

Lucien.

His name burns stronger than any alcohol on your lips, on his, it consumes you both, and you're glad of it, you're content to go up in flames. Your hands move to match his, to mark him as your own. You think this is perhaps what fireworks feel like, the moment before the end.

(You explode. It's not as pretty as a fireworks display.)

You arch your back against him and you suddenly remember the butterfly, those vivid splinters from your childhood so small they could hardly be called memories. You are not certain of much anymore but you are certain of this: You are his Schrodinger's butterfly, dancing futilely, dead in the palms of his hands.

He pulls away, panting, and you want to, but this time you do not follow. You don't move at all. Trapped things, you hear your father say, voice shaking, the butterfly long gone, once let go, are never the same after.

Your mind doesn't remember, but something in your heart does: this has happened before. He's altered your memory so many times, but you still can't remember to forget him.

(Emotional memory, and now. Priming. Some part of you sees the same pattern fall into place.)

His hand, cold against your flushed cheek moves to cover your eyes, and you know: you won't remember the ending of this, either. You don't try to stop him.

"Go back to sleep. Forget this nightmare."

His voice comes, silky smooth and soft. Sad, you want to think, though you know it can't be.

"What if I wake up, and this isn’t a dream? What if that's the nightmare?"

"Then find your way back here. I'll be waiting."

You close your eyes under his cool fingers, and wake to warm sheets.

In your dream, he's still smiling. You're sure of it.

xx.

You're waiting for someone. Someone's waiting for you. (You aren't sure which it is. You aren't sure who.)

The butterfly's wings flutter in your small child hands, light yellow heartbeats tickling your fingers. The sky is grey. A chill wind blows. Your father is silent, frozen and smiling. Gone.

You remember (or at least you tell yourself you do):

When you opened your palms, the butterfly flew straight. It flew true.

#mlqc #mlqc lucien #mlqc fanfic #mr love queen's choice #mlqc xu mo #val writes #this one is. super trippy and pretentious and i love it but it also makes -1 sense #also completely based on the aesthetic of sunmi's pporappimpam ieofklsjsl #minirant but i h8 tumblr for not having proper paragraph breaks i wanted to do smth cool with the numbering instead but uh. i cant count so #the reason the vii is missing is bc i can't count not bc it's deep or anything

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jus-tea · 4 years

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Going to explain a little about the Miss Rhona lyrics, what inspired different aspects etc, as I’ve seen a lot of people speculating over it, and coming up with their own ideas (which I fully support!) but for those who are curious...

1st Stanza

“Daddy’s at the food store” So, when this was written, myself, my partner, and seemingly everyone was spending so much time going from supermarket to supermarket trying to find the basics, the essentials. Pasta, flour, sugar etc were sold out seemingly everywhere. The weekend just before this was written he’d lined up for half an hour before Costco opened to ensure he acquired some toilet paper- which seemed impossible to get ANYWHERE. I had colleagues who sent their adult children to shops everyday (they couldn’t cause they were at work) to try to find toilet paper somewhere. We ran out at work, and ended up with tissues. People, generally, were spending so much more time trying to find essentials at supermarkets. It’s not nearly as bad now, but just over a month ago when I wrote this it felt like a big issue. Also, “food store”?! NO ONE HAS CALLED ME OUT ON THIS which I find so weird because no one actually says, “food store”?! What a weird expression! So why did I use it? Well! Initially I thought “cost-co” but didn’t use it because I wanted the rhyme to appeal more universally. And we only got a Costco in my city a few years ago and I know plenty of places in the world don’t have one so... I thought maybe supermarket? But thought maybe they didn’t call them that in other countries- market? Market sounded so strange as it’s really only fresh fruit and veggies we get in our local markets here (in my part of the world) and didnt fit with the image I was trying to create and besides all our markets were cancelled as they were too crowded.. so “food store” was initially just a place-hold. I still can’t believe literally no one has said “hey wtf is up with “food store? No one says that” but there you go. It’s in literally every version ive seen as that so... that’s what it is now. So, that line about the food store and collated with the next line, “mummy’s our of town- she’s working at the hospital” was based on news articles I’d read about doctors having to isolate themselves from their families by sleeping either at hospital or in their garage. People who couldn’t see their kids for ages, it was really sad! And then combining these lines, it’s about how these little kids for the first time really are sometimes being left home alone because their parents have stuff they *have* to do; get food or work, and lots of kids these days don’t get left home alone anymore, it was common when I was little but not for a long time! But seemingly suddenly with this pandemic it’s happening again. And I hadn’t seen that talked about but I was seeing glimpses of it and it, felt weird? I guess? So that made for the perfect beginning to a covid19 nursery rhyme- a kid getting left home alone a lot and not being really sure how to respond to that.

So, with the hide away lines, there’s 3 stanzas and in each miss Rhona gets closer. The first one is she’s “come to town”. Now I remember that feeling on that day learning that the first coronavirus case had occurred in my city. Up until then there was a bit of a sense of dread, like you knew it was everywhere else, then in the news it got closer and closer, with cases in small country towns nearby. But when it got to my city it was suddenly so real. And that’s where the story starts because Miss Rhona was HERE. She arrived in the kid’s town. The line, “she’s come to take us down” is another way of saying “she’s going to get you” and also links to the final line which reveals her success “she took us down/she’s brought us down”.

2nd stanza

So, she goes from being in town to being “at the doorstep” which represents getting closer- being in those people the child might interact with everyday- and imagined more literally in the postal worker delivering a package (actually ON the doorstep) or food delivery or anyone who they’d still have close contact with. But “I’ll keep 6 feet away” is a self reassurance that if they just do the right thing and keep their distance everything will be ok. But then the conflict! Grandma needs toilet paper, EVERYONE needs toilet paper and no one can get it anywhere! No doubt the dad is our trying to find some more while he’s at the “food store”. And I was thinking... my children’s grandmother lives in a different state to us but if we were in the same one you can bet your life id be out dropping essentials at her doorstep whenever I could- tp included. (Although, tbh the tp issue didn’t seem as bad in her state from what she told me) so in this bit I guess I imagined myself as the child because that would be something important to me, to make sure my elders had their essentials. Idk I tried to help where I could, got baby wipes when I found it for a friend with a newborn, stuff like that. So the conflict is the child’s sense of responsibility ensuring their grandmother has what she needs, while also knowing that the coronavirus, Miss Rhona, could reside in anyone they meet along the way. Kind of like a little red riding hood situation linking the dangers of strangers. So they open the door due to this sense of responsibility and, oh no, Miss Rhona was at the doorstep, remember? Now the child has it too; “Miss Rhona’s come to stay” IN THE CHILD. This line was to use the imagery of Miss Rhona coming to stay with the child at their house, like an aunt might come to visit for the weekend, but symbolises the virus coming to live within the child, they’ve caught it now, which is why they definitely, “can’t come out to play”.

Stanza 3

“But grandma needs the paper” that’s where the conflict arises again- the child’s sense of responsibility, maybe guilt even? Overshadowing their understanding of just how serious the virus would be should their grandmother catch it. They’re just a kid remember? They don’t understand. So they take her some anyway, everyone needs toilet paper! Also, I know that phrasing it as such misleads the listener to think about a newspaper. Thats how we talk, “I’ll get the paper!” My dad says ... often. But, 2 things, it rolls off the tongue easier than “grandma needs toilet paper” which would’ve messed up the rhythm anyway, and also, for anyone who’s lived it you would automatically know about the “great toilet paper shortage of 2020” 😅 there were so many memes about it and it was funny that everyone was obsessed with it but if you were one of those people who genuinely really couldn’t find any- and there were lots!- then it kind of sucked. And that’s a memory that’ll stick with you 🙈

So. The note. “And here’s a note from Rhona she wanted me to say” imagine the child at the grandmas doorstep, she’s bringing her tp (that’s nice) but the child is infected, and hands grandma a note. I imagined like a little filed up piece of paper in their back pocket they take out and hand over, to pass on the message from their aunt living in their house. As kids would do- what teacher hasn’t given their student a note and said “go tell mr x such and such” and the note is a reminder of what to say. But the note they hand over is also a metaphor. It symbolises contact between the grandmother and grandchild, and as grandma took it, she caught the virus too. And the note reads,

“Hide away, hide away, keep 6 feet away”

Which is that line repeated all the way through the rhyme. In the end, it’s what Miss Rhona was saying all along. Hide away children...

And the final line is a throwback to near the beginning, “she took us down” because earlier remember she came to “take us down” but now it’s happened and we’re in past tense. She did it. She took down the grandma, and possibly the child too, although I left that as ambiguous. To be taken down here is the symbol for death, of course. It’s pretty grim. But that was the point i suppose.

And that’s where it ends. Anything after that, while I’ve seen some adaptations made which sound really cool, doesn’t really make sense with the story, because they died in that moment. And continuing on after that seems a bit overkill, because I gues, perhaps symbolically at least, who would be able to continue singing the rhyme once they had already died?

But having said that, it’s still nice to see people get exited about it and want to contribute more lyrics too. Making up stories, songs, games, art in general, it’s a way we’ve found to cope i think? Like dark and morbid stories are a part of our culture because we respond to them. Lessons, feelings, etc. people far more articulate than I have explained before...

So. That’s Miss Rhona. This explanation was written really roughly and I apologise for that, but you get the gist. I strongly recommend for anyone who hasn’t already to check out the #miss Rhona recordings hashtag on my blog, because some of these melodies people have put to it are really beyond words. Dreamy, haunting. Peaceful. Childlike. Much more than the original chant-like skipping rhyme I originally envisaged.

Thanks for reading this far... please be safe and look after your grandmothers ❤️

#miss rhona discourse

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lesbeet · 4 years

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not to be a nerd but i accidentally just wrote a whole impromptu essay about editing ndjsdksksk im throwing it under a cut bc it's fucking inane and really long but honestly... i just want other people to become as passionate about editing as i am lmaooooo

i also recommend 2 books in the post so if anything at least check those out!

quality books about editing... *chef's kiss* a lot of the basic ones (including blog posts online n such) are geared towards beginners and end up repeating the same info/advice, much of it either oversimplified or misrepresented tbh. but i read one yesterday and i'm reading another one right now that really convey this passion for editing + consideration for it as its own sort of art and i just!!

it's such a weird thing to be passionate about lmao but i AM and i've spent a lot of time the past year or so consciously honing my craft (ik i mention this like 4 times a week i'm just really proud of how much i've learned and improved) and kind of like. solidifying my instincts into conscious choices i guess?

and these GOOD editing books have both a) taught me new information and/or presented familiar information through a new perspective that helped me understand something differently or in more depth, and b) validated or even just put into words certain preferences or techniques that i've developed on my own, that i don't normally see on those more basic lists i mentioned

btw the book i finished yesterday is self-editing for fiction writers: how to edit yourself into print by renni brown and dave king, and the one i'm reading currently is the artful edit: on the practice of editing yourself by susan bell.

the former was pretty sharp and straightforward. the authors demonstrated some of their points directly in the text, which was usually funny enough that i would show certain quotes to my sister without context

("Just think about how much power a single obscenity can have if it’s the only one in the whole fucking book." <- (it was)

"Frequent italics have come to signal weak writing. So you should never resort to them unless they are the only practical choice, as with the kind of self-conscious internal dialogue shown above or an occasional emphasis."

or, my favorite: "There are a few stylistic devices that are so “tacky” they should be used very sparingly, if at all. First on the list is emphasis quotes, as in the quotes around the word “tacky” in the preceding sentence. The only time you need to use them is to show you are referring to the word itself, as in the quotes around the word “tacky” in the preceding sentence. Read it again; it all makes sense.")

and like i said, i also learned some new ideas or techniques (or they articulated vague ideas i already had but struggled to put into practice), AND they mentioned some suggestions that ive literally never seen anyone else bring up (not to say no one has! just that ive never seen it, and ive seen a lot in terms of writing tips, advice, best practices, etc) that ive already sort of established in my own writing

for example they went into pretty fine detail about dialogue mechanics, more than i usually see, and in talking about the pacing and proportion of "beats" and dialogue in a given scene, they explicitly suggested that, if a character speaks more than a sentence or two and you plan on giving them some sort of dialogue tag or an action to perform as a beat, the tag or action should be placed at one of the earliest (if not the first) natural pauses in the dialogue, so as not to distance the character too far from the dialogue -- bc otherwise the reader ends up getting all of the dialogue information first, and then has to go back and retroactively insert the character, or what they're doing, or the way they look/sound while they're giving their little speech

and like this was something ive figured out on my own, mostly bc it jarred me out of something i was reading enough times (probably in fic tbh) that i started noticing it, and realized that it's something i do naturally, kind of to anchor the character to the dialogue mechanic to make sure it makes sense with the actual dialogue

so like. ok here's an example i just randomly pulled from the song of achilles (it was available on scribd so i just looked for a spot that worked to illustrate my point djsmsks)

the actual quote is written effectively, but here's a less effective version first:

“Perhaps I would, but I see no reason to kill him. He’s done nothing to me," Achilles answered coolly.

see and even with such a short snippet it's so much smoother and more vivid just by moving the dialogue tag, not adding or cutting a word:

“Perhaps I would, but I see no reason to kill him.” Achilles answered coolly. “He’s done nothing to me.”

the rhythm of it is better, and the beat that the dialogue tag creates functions as a natural dramatic pause before achilles delivers an incredibly poignant line, both within the immediate context of the scene and because we as the readers can recognize it as foreshadowing. plus, it flows smoothly because that beat was inserted where the dialogue already contained a natural pause, just bc that's how people speak. if you read both versions aloud, they both make sense, but the second version (the original used in the novel) accounts for the rhythm of dialogue, the way people tend to process information as they read, AND the greater context of the story, and as a result packs significantly more purpose, information, and effect into the same exact set of words

and THAT, folks, is the kind of editing minutia i can literally sit and hyperfocus on for hours without noticing. anyway it's a good book lmao

the one i'm reading now is a lot more about the cognitive process/es of editing, so there's less concrete and specific advice (so far, anyway) and more discussion about different mental approaches to editing, as well as tips and tools for making a firm distinction between your writer brain and your editor brain, which is something i struggle with

but there have been so many good quotes that ive highlighted! a lot of just like. reminders and things to think about, and also just lovely articulations of things id thought of or come to understand in much more vague ways.

scribd won't let me copy/paste this one bc it's a document copy and not an actual ebook, but this passage is talking about how the simple act of showing a piece of writing to someone else for the very first time can spark a sudden shift in perspective on the work, bc you'll (or at least i) frantically try to re-read it through their eyes and end up noticing a bunch of new errors -

or she talked about the perils of constant re-reading in the middle of writing a draft, which is something i struggle with a LOT, both bc i'm a perfectionist and bc i prefer editing to writing so i sit and edit when i'm procrastinating doing the actual hard work of writing lmao

it's just this side of fake deep tbh but i so rarely see editing discussed like this--as a mixture of art and science, a collaboration between instinct and technique, that really requires "both sides of the brain" to be done well.

and because of the way my own brain works, activities that require such a balanced concentration of creativity and logic really appeal to me. even though ive seen a lot of people (even professional writers) who frame it as the creative art of writing vs the logical discipline of editing. but i think that's such a misleading way of thinking about it, because writing and editing both require creativity and logic -- just different kinds! (not to mention that the line between writing and editing, while mostly clear, can get a little blurry from up close)

but like...all stories have an inner logic to them, even if the writer hasn't explicitly or consciously planned it, and even if the logic is faulty in places in the first couple of drafts. when you're sitting and daydreaming about your story, especially if you're trying to figure out how to bridge the gap between two points or scenes (or, how to write a sequence of events that presents as a logical, inevitable progression of cause and effect), the voice in your head that evaluates an idea and decides to 1) go with it, 2) scrap it, 3) tweak it until it works, or 4) hold onto it in case you want it later? that's your logic! if an idea feels wrong, or like it just doesn't work, it's probably because some part of you is detecting a conflict between some part of the idea and the overall logic of your story. every decision you make as you write is formed by and checked against your own experiential logic, and also by the internal logic of your story, which is far less developed (or at least, one would hope), and therefore more prone to the occasional laspe

but while ive seen a number of articles that discuss the logic of writing, i don't see people gushing as much about the art of editing and it's such a shame

the inner editor is so often characterized as the responsible parent to the writer's carefree child, or a relentless critic of the writer's unselfconscious, unpolished drivel

and it's like... maybe you just hate thinking critically about your work! maybe you view it that way because you're imposing external standards too fiercely onto your writing, and it's sucked the joy out of shaping and sculpting your words until they sing. maybe you prefer to conceive of your writing as divine communication, the process of which must remain unencumbered by lessons learned through experience or the vulnerability of self-reflection, until the buzzkill inner editor shows up with all those "rules" and "conventions" that only matter if you're trying to get published

and like obviously the market doesn't dictate which conventions are worth following, but the majority of widely-agreed-upon writing standards, especially those aimed at beginners, (and most especially those regarding style, as opposed to story structure) have to do with the effectiveness and efficiency of prose, and, in addition to often serving as a shorthand for distinguishing an amateur from a pro, overall help to increase poignancy and clarity, which is crucial no matter the genre or type of writing. and even if you personally believe otherwise, it's better to understand the conventions so you can break them with real purpose.

so editing shouldn't be about trying to shove your pristine artistic masterpiece into a conventional mold, it should be about using the creative instincts of your ear and your logic and experience-based understanding of writing as a craft to hone your words until you've told your story as effectively as possible

thank u for coming to my ted talk ✌️

#long post //#editing #wref #sefa rambles

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cardboardboxcomplex · 3 years

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ok since i’m awake and useless, might as well

it’s 4AM on a monday at this point and i do *not* want to go to work. but i have to hhrghshfd HAAAAAA ok breathe . i skipped last week’s shift that i was supposed to go to the lab. i completely disappeared for the *third* time during my two-week wfh shift before that. when we were supposed to do the third quarter report, and the proposal. which are the hardest reports to do, bc they’ll be the basis for renewal next year. but i just ... disappeared again and did not open my emails or messages. again. after i did that twice before. and i had to go through the process of like apologizing to everyone for my absence, and i even decided to tell everyone that i have depression cos i dont know how to explain it ! why am i like this ! and i know it’s not an excuse, and i told them that too. but i just hate everything . okay i think im getting to word dump now. how many times am i going to be so incapable and incompetent? i hate myself so much cos my brain is so fried and i dont want to deal with anything . when was the last time i actually thought deeply or whatever or like read a journal article. and i dont even know what im supposed to be doing anymore. i feel so sad. oh im crying ok. like im thinking of myself and how do i go on with life, what am i supposed to be doing, what kind of path should i be making. i hate this because i lost years of my life and i keep losing more time. and omfg right the paper. man i didnt even reply to sir’s emails either, and i know ate yana and josh had talked and i was supposed to be there too because im supposed to be the main one to finish her thesis for publication, and it’s already been a year? since she left the lab. had i done anything? i did not

and tomorrow is nov 10, and im supposed to do thesis updates ......... how the fuck am i gonna do that. and i had already missed the first time i was scheduled, bc well the same thing happening now. i was wfh (supposedly) and ate isay had to say my internet connection isnt stable. which wasnt a lie, but it was bc i didn’t do anything. i dont know what im supposed to come up with tomorrow. or if i can postpone it again. SEE THIS IS EXACTLY IT HOW MANY TIMES AM I GONG TO BE INCAPABLE AND INCOMPETENT

i dont know like im scared of being in the lab too and all i wanna do is stay in my room

but you know what i dont even like my room. i miss my old room, i miss all my books, i miss all the memories i left there as in the physical things i’ve kept because i keep everything. full on bawling now. i miss having everything i’ve kept near me, with me. i miss my desk, i miss having one. and i hate my room because i haven’t cleaned my room in MONTHS. idk since march, since quarantine started? i can barely see the floor and i have to walk around all the bags with all stuff thrown in them. and honestly im just desensitizing (?) myself bc if i think too much if i look too closely im gonna throw up and i hate it i hate it . on that note i’ve been thinking i might in a constant state of dissociation, or at least a shallow one? i never thought i really dissociated bc i didnt really get the feeling of being apart from your body. but because it’s been going on for so long it didn’t even register to me that i’m dissociating because it feels normal or the baseline. and my memory recall is so bad, i don’t remember what happened the previous day. why? because i’m not even doing anything. or idk. also my attention span is non-existent. but the memory thing bothers me because i dont even know if i remember things from before before, in the past, not recently

before i forgot about the room, i was supposed to have pest control last oct 20? and it was scheduled like first week of october so i knew it was coming. but did i clean my room? in those weeks between? i didnt. i’d been putting it off exactly because my room is a mess and id ont want anyone to come in like this. so i had to postpone that too, and the next one is tomorrow. did i clean my room since then? no. what have i been doing? i dont know either. literally rotting away. and i feel so bad cos i m not even doing anything. i dont even know what. i cant get myself to do anything

what if someone helps me clean? i don’t want anyone to help me clean because i dont want anyone to see my room. ate isay was supposed to help me on that sunday or monday before oct 20 but the plan was i was going to start cleaning saturday so at least if she comes up to help, it wouldnt be so disgusting. but yeah i did not clean. and now it’s november. you know the last time i ironed my clothes? september. last year. september 1, 2019. i remember because that was jungkook’s birthday, but also i was ironing when i got the messages from someone when they were leaving me and didnt want (?) to be friends with me anymore. and that broke me really bad. but not the point rn.

i dont know what else im thinking. oh i miss my friends. kosestream, if you’re reading this, yes i’m thinking of you too, and i’m really sorry. im so sorry ive kept disappearing on you guys for months. i’ve missed you and so many parts of your life, and im really really i wasnt there. and bc i don’t talk with you often, and with my awful memory, i also forget what’s been going on and it makes me feel awful because like i miss all these things about you? i always thought that i had kept tabs on everyone well, paying attention to what you’re doing, ask how things are with you, and now i dont. and im sorry. i always miss you so much, and i love you, and i dont know if that still means anything to you, but it’s still there. so thank you for inviting me to play among us, i liked hearing your voices. and i know you were worried about me (if im wrong this is embarrassing please ignore this) and were trying to cheer me up / offering your support/presence/love/shoulder/hug idk. so thank you. it meant a lot to me (but im sorry my internet was awful. honestly that stressed me out so much and i was gonna give up because i felt annoying and like a huge bother) but okay thank you

and it’s the same with irl friends, missing things. i thought of it once as everything passing (by) me. like when neos had left for germany, i wasnt there. why? because i was rotting away at home doing nothing. i didnt even get to say goodbye. and just the same with everyone, i havent been talking with anyone. there are so many messages i’ve gotten i haven’t (didn’t) replied to, and it’s like god how are they.

what else. ah there’s another thing i’ve thought of. but idk i’ll write that next time

it’s monday, and it’s almost 5am now, i’m supposed to go to work. i have to text ate isay if she’s gonna pass by and pick me up. but i havent slept because i completely fucked up my sleeping schedule. and my room is still a mess. no i did not even try cleaning it even though i had been thinking about it literally every single day. should i just not sleep or should i try getting like an hour of sleep , and hope i wake up (actually, would love to not wake up, ever)

09 Nov 2020, M, 05:02 BTS – Butterfly (Alternative Mix)

#white noise #i'll tag idk journal stuff that i guess #cos actually all my thoughts are not in words #until i turn them into words #which has gotten increasingly difficult #long post #idk should i tag that #idk who's actually following this acct #besides kosestream

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hazzabeeforlou · 4 years

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On the eve of HS2, I felt I needed to reflect and write a diary entry of sorts, an ode to where I was and where I am now, a musing on how HS1 ushered in a whole new world for me. This is long and more personal than anything I’ve previously shared, but in honor of vulnerability and maybe helping someone else who’s struggling... here it is.

The most exposure 2015 me had to pop music was occasionally listening to ‘hits’ radio. My old art teacher in high school had blasted the classics of the 60s and 70s daily, so I knew those, albeit not the names, but the music, the style, the melodic tropes and such. 2015 me didn’t have much time for pop music. I was getting a fancy degree in classical music from one of the best conservatories in the world, and I’d made it there after four years with a highly abusive teacher in undergrad who gave me horrible anxiety; by the end, whenever she would walk into a room, I would get chills and start shaking. She delighted in lying to me, in calling me out in front of my peers. Worse, I was arguably her highest-achieving student. The day I got into Juilliard she took me for “tea” to celebrate, where she proceeded to spend the whole time telling me how she had made this happen, how her connections got me to NY, how I should be grateful.

Entering the world of NYC and Juilliard I was an awestruck, anxious mess. Everything moved too fast, the school was overwhelming, my studio mates were famous already, some of them having won world-famous competitions and been on the cover of magazines. I was in the elite place, a place my working class roots had never prepared me for. My dad was a millwright. He went to work every day in steel-toed boots and overalls and often returned so filthy mom wouldn’t let him wash his clothes in the household washing machine. But I was nothing if not adaptable, and grateful, and charming, and I did my best. I worked hard. But my health kept deteriorating.

All through undergrad I’d been feeling progressively worse. I had horrible acne that I presumed was caused by stress, as I’d never suffered with it in high school. I was already an introvert, but body insecurity led me to hardly ever socialize. I would spent hours getting ready for things, never willing to show my bare face. But that wasn’t the worst; I’d developed what I now understand was an eating disorder, because no matter how much I exercised or dieted, I kept gaining weight, or rather, I lost all my baby fat but remained the same scale number. I kept telling my mother I was fat. I didn’t tell her that I hated the wind, that I hated running, because it made my stomach protrude and the whole world could see the extra pounds I carried. I never made an appointment with an OBGYN because I didn’t date much less have sex, and my mother had told me, well you don’t ever need to be seen until you do. I came to NYC well versed in wearing baggy sweaters and scarfs that hid my form. And for two years, as my breathing got worse and worse, as my energy levels dropped, as my skin hurt and itched, I pushed forwards. I remember practicing one day and my eyes going black. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t breathe.

It was getting into an international competition that saved me. I got the news in early May of 2016; I jumped around my room and I started coughing, and the next day a hernia appeared above my belly button. I was only slightly worried, but I went to see the Juilliard doctor. She asked if I’d gained weight, she said even a couple pounds could do it. I was, as always, ashamed, red faced, embarrassed as she prodded around on my torso.

She said I’d need surgery. So I scheduled it in NYC for two days after my graduation. I played my recital, but with a binder around my abdomen. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t remember my memorized music. I nearly passed out. I stumbled on the sidewalk afterwards.

When I woke from the surgery I was in blinding pain, teeth chattering uncontrollably, in shock. I couldn't open my eyes, and every breath felt like knives slicing into my chest. I heard the nurses say, “We’ve given you three IVs of Percocet, do you want us to give you a forth?” I said no, thinking, ‘what if I die from an overdose?’ After two hours my mother came in search of me. It was supposed to be a day surgery. She demanded morphine. They sent me home on it, but two days later I’d thrown up twice and was back in the ER. A CT showed I had an ovarian cyst. The doctor said to me, “It’s 28 inches. It’s the size of a dinner plate.” I didn’t understand. They rushed me back for another surgery, and asked me to sign a paper saying I wouldn’t hold them responsible if I ended up paralyzed. I signed it. I joked with the nurses before they put me under. I was shaking with pain. I thought, if this is the end, I’ve had a good life. I’ll be with my doggy, my baby puppy. I’ve graduated from my dream school. I’ve gotten into an elite international competition. I’ll go out at the top of my game. It’s okay.

But then I woke up. Over the next year, I would wish countless times that I hadn’t. I could barely walk. I couldn’t lift things like a fork, or my computer. I couldn’t shower or cough or even shit. I couldn’t practice or sit upright for more than fifteen minutes. Pain became a constant. I started to wake up with night sweats, my forehead creased in subconscious pain. I would jump at every loud noise, my heart lurching like a ruined engine, and I couldn’t remember names of flowers. I fell into a massive depression over the next few months, made worse by the 2016 election; because of my infirmity I had moved back home with my Trump-voting parents. The bravest thing I did that fall was ‘come out’ as a liberal on Facebook. My parents pretended not to notice when I stayed up late that cold November night, huddled with a blanket on the couch, crying my eyes out.

The Christmas 2016 season is a blur. I know I half lived in memories, half in grief, but all in self-pitying misery. I remember reading a passing article about Jay, not knowing who it was, and I remember adding a lost mother to the list of things I cried about. How could the world be so cruel, so unfair? My days were filled with PT and sleep, immobility and exhaustion, and questions, questions like if I can’t do what I love, what I’ve spent years training for, what’s the point? What does it mean to be an artist when you can’t do your art? What is left of me that matters? Is the future only more pain? It would have been better to have died. It would have been better to have died.

Up until this point I had been unlucky in love. I could never find men attractive, though many friends pressured me to try, which of course had led to not good things. I’d been confronted a couple times about maybe being gay, but I’d shot this down immediately, my face bright red, my heart pounding. No, that’s not it, I’m just picky. Two girls in grad school had flirted with me; I’d accidentally gone on a date with one. I’d felt deeply, gut-wrenchingly uncomfortable about her. But how could I ever unpack all of that when just coming out as a liberal had given me anxiety for days...

The new year came and I had nothing to look forward to. I could see no happy future. I wasn’t really in my right mind. I would escape as best I could, perhaps in masochistic ways; I’d watch SNL for humorous liberal comfort, and Colbert to feel some spark of angry solidarity. And that’s how I stumbled on Harry. He got me with his puns, because I love those. For the first time in months, I was giggling about something, this charming boy with curls and dimples who had replaced the scream-speech of James Cordon. For once I didn’t turn the tv off after Colbert.

I began listening to Harry’s songs. As I had no reference for contemporary pop music, his old school rock album was familiar to me in a comforting way. I knew these sounds, these tropes, and yet they didn’t feel stale to me, they spoke to something I was feeling in the present. Because the album, in essence, was about pain, wasn’t it? Pain and escaping it. The lies we tell to survive, the dreams we cling to for hope, the drugs we use to forget. I’d never bought a pop album before, Harry was my first, and I listened to it for hours every day.

HS1 seeped into my blood, but I’d been on a hopeless, aimless track for so long that the railway tie hadn’t yet switched. One warm, sunny spring day I wrote a note, filled a bag with rocks, and walked to the old bike trail, out past the freeway, into the marshes and pools of abandoned swampy wasteland. FTDT played in my head on a loop as I walked, as my brain hummed with the equation of worth. Was it worth it to stay alive?

Yes. I threw the rocks. I threw them as far as my fragile arms would allow, and they splashed into the murky water. And I turned around and called my mom to come get me. Harry had made something that was beautiful, that was touching, that was real. And if he could... then maybe I could too. Maybe I didn’t have to be just what I’d been before. Maybe I could try creating other things; maybe I could make art that, like Harry’s music, made other people feel less alone.

There was something magical about that album. Not freedom, per se, but the promise of it, a glimpse of truth that kept me hanging on.

I began writing poems again, songs. I got into an orchestra program, I healed month by month, I started carrying crystals, I found this crazy fandom and, little by little, grew to understand that my yearning upon looking at baby larry videos was really a cry of sameness that I had never before understood. After the Pulse shooting, during my horrible homebound year, I’d watched Lin-Manuel Miranda give his love is love is love speech, and I’d burst into tears. And I’d not known why. Now I began to realize. I remember the first tentative anon I sent to Phoenix @alienfuckeronmain asking if maybe I was... bi? I remember anxiously awaiting her answer, as if I needed an invitation to join the community, to be valid, to have this not just be a crazy swelling of hope in my chest. She replied while I was wandering through a corn maze in the frigidness of October. The next day I walked into rehearsal and I felt free, free of the way boys looked at me, free of being FOR them, and I’d never felt so... alive. Coincidentally I met my ex girlfriend that day too.

Through Harry I found this fandom, and Louis. Louis, who has spoken to me on levels I cannot even express, whose class and political and emotional intelligence have challenged me to stand up for things I never thought I could. For me these last few years have felt like a journey WITH Harry. As he started waving them, I started wearing rainbows, just subtly. A knit scarf, a postcard, a bag. I started writing fic, the most healing thing I’ve ever done. I learned to create art away from the singular thing I’d been trained to dump my all into, and I learned that I have so much more to offer, even if chronic pain will follow me in some way or another for the rest of my life.

I’m so thankful to Harry for taking me on this adventure with him; I don’t know if I’d have ever taken that first step by myself. It was like he held my hand through it all, like this fandom held my hand through it all. Like by being himself, Harry helped me be brave enough to evolve too.

Through the catalyst of Harry’s art I’ve experienced more happiness than I’d have ever imagined. I cannot wait to go on this next journey, a second album, and reflect on just how far we’ve both come.

#mine #personal #tw suicide #tw disordered eating

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