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kimnjss · 3 years

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just perfect || jjk

⤑ series: cherry pickers

⤑ pairing: gamer(fuckboi)!jungkook x video vixen(virgin)!reader

⤑ genre: barely any angst... smut!!

⤑ rating: explicit

⤑ word count: 7.1K // unedited.

⤑ warnings: cursing, slight dirty talk, mentions of blue balls, oral sex (f. receiving), multiple orgasms, (mutual) masturbation, grinding/dry humping, quiet voyeurism/exhibitionism, overstimulation, handjob, fingering, jungkook is a lot whiner than you’d think, nipple play, spitting, penetrative sex, yn being a quiet dom, riding... yoongi nd hobi run in a museum.

⤑ A/N: this is out a lot later than i wanted ., but a bitch got sad nd didn’t feel like writing :/ - we good now tho . thank you for being so patient w meee .i hope you guys like this one lowkey a big one so let me know what you think x

MAY 16TH, 2020 | 15:56

From the moment the two of you stepped onto the shooting set, it was pretty obvious to Jungkook that you were a big deal around here. He was used to putting you on a pedestal and treating you like a princess, but the fact that the other models, the majority of the staff, and the photographer treated you the same way was a bit mind-blowing for him.

Before you're even shedding your jacket, a short woman dressed in all black is rushing over with a robe in one hand and your swimsuit in the other. Ushering you in the direction of where to get changed, all while placing a chilled sparkling water in your hand. Complete with a straw. He follows behind, only half listening as the concept is explained in great detail to you. Following you to the gigantic dressing room, just for you.

A large couch is pressed against one wall, facing a dramatic vanity with an equally dramatic cushion bench. Jungkook is plopping down onto the large couch as you're lowering yourself onto the bench, hair being pinned back by two stylists who are quick to start on your makeup.

Simple chatter flows between the three of you and Jungkook finds himself admiring you with an unwavering smile on his face. You're so pretty. Always so pretty and sweet too. He likes the way you speak to the ladies as if they're old friends, laughing along with them with the prettiest smile on your lips. He's sure he could sit here and watch you forever.

Positive of it when the ladies are finishing with a final brush of your neatly straightened hair. They're waving goodbye as you stand, shimmying out of the tight jeans that you had arrived in. Carelessly tossing them onto the couch beside him before reaching for the hem of your shirt. Getting undressed right in front of his greedy eyes, he's not even ashamed for the way he leans forward on his knees to get a better look.

Forcing a gasp down when you reach back, flicking the clasp of your bra loose. It takes everything in him not to reach forward and take hold of one of your heavy breasts while wrapping his lips around the other. The sounds you made that first time still imprinted in his head. You sounded so pretty underneath him.

“What do you think? Should we get something to eat after this or...?” You speak so casually as if you're not putting on an unexpected right in front of your sexually frustrated boyfriend.

Sexually frustrated might be a stretch, honestly. The two of you found ways to enjoy each other without actually doing the do... but there were times where he hoped, silently of course, that you'd just say fuck it. Sober minded as him to fuck you because he'd deliver no doubt. He'd be more than happy to do it. “Yeah, I could eat.”

He sounds distracted and he is. Rightfully so, because you've just discarded the tiny pair of panties to pull on an equally small bikini bottom. Giving him a pretty good look at your ass and the way it jiggled with each tug of fabric.

“Great. I'll get us something. You're not going to be bored, right?” Arm wrapped around your chest to shield your breasts from him, you toss the bikini top around in your other hand, attempting to untangle the stringy garment.

Jungkook can't even focus enough to answer you properly. He's more concerned with the growing bulge between his legs and whether or not you can tell how turned on he is right now. You do notice, but it's way much more fun to see the uncomfortable shift of his hips, the hesitant tug at the end of his shirt, and the dust of pink in his cheeks than indulging him right now.

Taking your time to secure the bikini top on to your body, you don't pull your gaze from him. And you love the tiny pout that appears on his face once your tits are disappearing from his view. You make a big show of leaning over to reach for the robe you strategically set behind him, chest in his face.

He's letting out a laugh, hands reaching out to find your waist. They're cool against your warm skin, paired with the smile you can easily feel your body heating up. He's looking at you through hooded eyes, almost as if he could devour you at any moment. “You're messing with me, huh?” Gently tugging you onto his lap, hands sliding down the sides of your body and onto your bare thighs.

You're used to being seated on his lap. It's your favorite place to be, honestly. But, with the lack of layers between the two of you, there's nothing to shield you from the very prominent bulge pushing against his pants. Pressed firmly against your core, just one calculated shift of your hips and he'd be nudging against your clit.

And with that shit-eating grin on his face, it's obvious he knows it. Definitely not one to give up control so easily, you're the first one to shift. Eyes fluttering from the drag of his length against your slit, having to force back a moan as your hands tangle themselves in his soft hair. Shooting a well-practiced look of innocence in his direction, you let a soft smile push on to your features.

“Of course not. Why would I mess with you?” He's rolling his eyes instantly, sitting up to press his forehead against yours. Lips stretched into a teasing smile, hands secured tight on your thighs. Easily using his grip to hold your body against his. “Are you sure about that?”

His voice is so deep and unbelievably sensual, you have to physically stop yourself from ripping his pants off and riding him in this dressing room. With a giggle and a shrug, you're hopping off of his lap. Leaning down to press a quick kiss to his lips, “Guess you'll never know,” You say, turning to the perfectly timed knock at the door, calling you on to set.

Jungkook is letting out a huff, used to the blue-ball feeling at this point. He doesn't say anything as he stands from his spot, following you out of the room and on to set where they want you. Watching quietly as you're told to pose. Not being able to tear his eyes from you and how good you look in that way too small bikini.

He has always been a huge fan of your confidence. Loved the way you were always so sure of yourself. Loved how you walked, how you talked, how you acted as the entire world belonged to you. It would if he had any say in it. That had to be the first thing he found himself attracted to when he first spoke to you. How confident you were even just speaking to some stranger online.

Conversations seemed to flow with you because you never second-guessed yourself, you never hesitated. You were you all of the time and he loved that. He felt like he didn't have to guess anymore, although it took some time to figure you out, now that he knew you he felt like he actually knew you. He loved that.

The way that he got to know you, the pace that you set for your own reasons really forced him to take his time with you. Not like it was a bad thing. It wasn't bad at all. Because he wasn't in such a rush to kiss you, feel you, fuck you. He was able to enjoy the experience of knowing you. Learning you. Falling in love with you.

All before sleeping with you.

Literal chills run down his spine when your gaze meets his. Laid flat on your back with the photographer over you, finger snapping pictures insistently. You've got this real sexy look in your eyes, gaze trained on his. Shooting a kiss in his direction and he feels his cheeks darken at the act.

Unsure when exactly he became so easy, but here he was an absolute blushing mess all because his pretty girlfriend decided to blow him a kiss.

He finds himself sitting at the edge of the seat. Waited with bated breath for the moment you'll look at him again, granting him any ounce of attention to make his heart flutter. And instantly perking up when you're allowed a break. Grinning wide when you're making your way over to him, your long robe draped over your shoulders.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Taking your rightful place on his lap without a second of hesitation. Fingers curling in the hair at the nape of his neck and forehead leaning down to bump against his.

Jungkook allows his fingers to creep beneath your robe, landing directly on your ass. Gently using his grip to pull you closer to him. “You look really good,” He's hard again and it's all your fault. Desperate for some type of attention, he can't help the way his hips lift toward you.

You ignore the movement. “Thank you.” Nails scraping against his scalp gently, knowing how much he likes when you have your fingers in his hair. “I saw the way you were looking at me. Kinda makes me wonder what we'd do if we didn't have an audience,” Words barely above a whisper, but he's hearing you loud and clear.

Every syllable going straight to his cock. He can't even think of what to say, mind reeling of all the possible things the two of you could be doing if you were alone. He wanted to taste you. Has been craving it since the first time he had you upon his face. And fuck, you always looked so good with his cock in your mouth. Jungkook loved to see how determined you were to swallow him down.

Or he could fuck you... on one of these plush circle sofas. Stretch you out and make you whine for him. Tell him how good he's making you feel. For the first time. Have you call out his name while you cum, squirming underneath him.

“You're thinking about it, aren't you?” Voice so sweet by his ear, lips grazing over the shell of it. He's on the verge of losing it while you're just enjoying yourself teasing him. Dark eyes find yours, clouded with lust and a type of need that you've never seen before. Without a word, he's nodding his head, teeth cutting into his lower lip.

A grin pushes onto your features, hand reaching up to push the hair in front of his face back. “Should we go straight home after this, then?” The pounding of your heart only picks up, knowing exactly what you're about to hint at. Yet, you've never been more sure of anything in your life.

You wanted Jungkook. You've always wanted him, but no more than ever. In ways that you never really cared to explore before him and now it's like if you don't do something about it, you'd surely explode. You wanted him to be your first. No need for the dramatics or specialties, it was simple.

Jungkook was the one you wanted to fuck for the first time. “I can't stop thinking about how good it'll feel to feel you... you know?” Brow raised with your hand between your legs, resting flat against the no doubt painful bulge in his pants. His eyes are all but popping out of his head. “Do you want to?”

He knows what you mean. The look in your eye giving way to the fact that you're speaking more than what you've been doing all along. You wanted to do more and you were sure of it. You're not nervous or hesitant, so sure of yourself like you've always been. You wouldn't have said anything if you weren't.

“Y-yeah. I want to.”

MAY 16TH, 2020 | 17:03

Jimin was never a fan of museums. Not once did he think 'Oh, let's go check out this old painting that a bunch of dudes hung on a wall!'. He didn't care for them and didn't understand the hype at all. Would never be caught dead in one... unless his friend's relationship was at stake and an annoying boy with a pretty smile was dragging him into some elaborate ploy to get them together.

Only in that situation would Jimin pull out his beret and tweed jacket and drive the whole hour to the aging building. Hoseok in the front seat, chatting the entire way about how excited he was to check this place out but couldn't because of... circumstances.

He really said it like that, as if the two of them weren't more than aware of what the 'circumstances' were. That was the thing about Hobi, he liked to act like nothing was happening when literally everything was happening right in front of him. Brushed the entire argument off with Yoongi as if it was some fever dream and acted confused whenever someone asked him about it.

So wrapped up in not being seen as weak for caring, he just chose not to care. No matter how many times his friends assured them they didn't care what he did with his romantic lives... because it was literally not their business... he still kept up with the act. Which was why Jimin couldn't be so sure this plan would work.

Who's to say Hoseok wouldn't just act like he's bumping into a stranger and then turn the other way? That would do way more harm than good, hurting Yoongi way more than he needed right now. Especially since this was the first time he's gone out other than the studio in days.

Despite his worries, Jimin still goes along with the plan. Taehyung seemed sure of it, which had to mean that he knew something that he didn't. It would be fine. There was no way they could be put in a worse situation than they are now. Right?

The moment the two of them are entering the building, Hoseok is taking off in the direction of a piece he's excited to see. Jimin spends the entire time following close behind him, secretly texting Taehyung for the proper time that they can 'accidentally' cross paths. It had to be as natural as possible to keep from the two of them knowing that they've been set up.

A squinted glance across the room followed by the most believable 'Hey, isn't that...' and then absentmindedly leaving them alone so they can work out the problems that they have. It was a good plan. It was going to work. He just had to continue repeating it for it to be true, everything was going to go over just fine. Just perfect.

An hour... or six, according to Jimin pass before the long-awaited text is lighting up his phone. A one-worded message letting Jimin know where to head next. His newfound enthusiasm earns an eye raise from Hoseok, but nevertheless, he allows himself to be pulled in the direction of the next exhibit.

They're just halfway there before Jimin is stopping in his tracks, letting out a slightly forced gasp as his eyes widen. “Oh! Isn't that Taehyung... and Yoongi over there?” Hoseok's head snaps in the direction his friend is pointing, heart rate skyrocketing at the mere mention of the man's name.

Across the way, Taehyung is seen doing the exact same thing. Complete with a dramatic hand over his mouth and even wider eyes. Yoongi is not buying it, standing frozen with this scowl on his face as Hoseok and Jimin make their way over to where they're standing.

Oddly, Hobi doesn't seem reluctant to approach him. This was stupid, the avoiding each other, not talking when clearly they had a lot to talk about. While this would be his preferred method to handle things, he hated it when it came to Yoongi. All he wanted was to be close to him again and if that meant looking weak in front of his friends then so be it. He missed him.

He's prepared to say all of that, lay it all out for him, and try to work on mending things so they could get back to where they left off. The closer he gets though, the tighter Yoongi's throat gets. It feels like he's swallowed cotton balls and the sensation makes his eyes water. Heart pounding in his chest, getting louder with each step taken in his direction.

Until it's all too much to handle. Too scared to hear what Hoseok might have to say. Yoongi was out of line, he was the one in the wrong so there's no telling how upset Hoseok might be with him. He couldn't handle that. So, once he's close enough to speak Yoongi is taking off in the other direction. Running away and leaving the three men to stand there confused.

“Yoongi, wait!” Hoseok is calling after him, legs moving without giving him much of a say. Chasing after him like he should've done that night. Instead of walking away, he should've stayed. Made sure that he was okay, tried to make things better. He had been too negligent in their relationship, ignored a lot of the things that bothered him. And this was where they ended up.

He had no intention of doing that now.

Hoseok chases him until his feet ache and then a few feet after that. Catching him outside just a few blocks away from the museum. He can't help the laugh that falls from his lips when Yoongi is stopping to catch his breath, taking careful steps in his direction. “Yoongi, please stop running. I just want to talk to you.”

Too tired to keep up with the chase even if he wanted to, Yoongi is standing. This awful sad look on his face that he tries to mask with a frown, arms crossed over his chest. “I have nothing to say to you.”

Stubborn was fine. Hobi had no problem with dealing with stubbornness. At least he was talking to him. And in this case, he didn't need him to say anything. “That's okay. I have a lot to say to you. Starting with, I'm sorry.” He's moving closer to him, carefully. Not wanting to overstep and set him running again.

“I should've been more considerate of your feelings, Yoongi. You told me you didn't want to keep us a secret and I didn't listen. I'm sorry for making you feel like I wasn't proud of being with you because I am. I love being with you. I just... I didn't think it was that big of a deal? And I didn't want everyone in our business, but I was selfish and should've paid more attention to you.”

He's had a lot of time to think of what he has done and how he could make things better between the both of them. Had practiced his apology a dozen times in the mirror and then a dozen more. The real problem was working up the courage to take the first step. So seeing him here, whether or not it was a real coincidence, there was no better timing than now.

Somewhere within his apology, Yoongi seems to soften. Arms dropping to his side as he listens to what is being said to him. This whole thing, the base of their fight really could've been resolved easily. There's no doubt about that. But when pride and egos get invoked everything becomes a huge mess. But seeing Hoseok in an almost vulnerable state was new, it was nice in a weird way.

But Hobi wasn't the only one in the wrong. Yoongi knew that. “I'm sorry too...I shouldn't have tried to make you jealous. I knew how you felt and I ignored that because it wasn't what I wanted. I could've been more considerate too, it wasn't just you.” A huge smile is breaking on to Hoseok's face, taking the last few steps to close the space between them. He's landing a large hand on the side of Yoongi's neck, thumb stroking against his skin.

“Can we get back together? I don't like not being with you.” His lower lip is jutting out in the cutest little pout, Yoongi can't help but smile at him. Eyes rolling playfully as he nods his head, accepting the eager kiss that's placed on his lips.

Strong arms wrapping around his body and pulling him close. Kissing him in the middle of the street, for everyone to see.

MAY 16TH, 2020 | 21:11

Jungkook kisses you hungrily, hands roaming around your body with purpose. That being, getting you undressed as quickly as possible. You're giving him the same treatment, teeth and tongue clashing as you fumble with the buckle of his belt. Barely entering his house before his mouth was pressed against yours, not parting for more than a second since then.

He's lifting your body onto his with ease, carrying you up the stairs and into the bedroom. The shirt that he had been wearing was left in the doorway along with your jeans and jacket. Setting you down on the bed, he takes a moment to admire you. Lipstick smudged and eyes sparkling. Your hair fanned around your head against the pillow. The rise and fall of your chest, the longer he looks at you the harder it gets to believe that you're his.

Leaning down, his face finds the crook of your neck. Hands spread your legs apart so he's able to fit between them nicely. Sucking a trail of wet kisses down the length of your neck, he's so hard pressed against you. Harder than you've ever felt him before and you're sure it comes with the anticipation of what's to come.

His fingers are tangled in your hair holding your head steady as he leaves marks against your neck. He's being cautious, careful despite his desires. Not wanting to push you too far or do too much too soon, but all you wanted was him. And you didn't want to go slow. Had done more than enough pussyfooting to last you a lifetime, you just wanted him now.

Plain and simple.

Hands work to unfasten the button on his jeans, tugging them down with motion straying far from being fluid. He laughs at your struggle, pulling back into a kneel. His large hand coming down to replace yours, watching you through a hooded gaze while dragging them down the rest of the way. It had been pretty obvious how hard he was through the fabric of his jeans, but even more so through the thin layering of briefs.

Jungkook was big, that much you already knew. Impressive even when soft and you've never seen him this hard before. Was it all going to fit inside of you? Had trouble taking just two fingers of his and he was much thicker than that. The thought of trying, though, having him stretch you out has a familiar warmth pooling between your legs. A determination settling in your chest. You wanted to be able to take him. Need to.

He's reaching for the hem of your shirt, mumbling something out about fairness. And with a quick lift, your shirt is being tossed somewhere behind him. Large hands cup your breasts, body moving to settle back between your legs. Thumb experimentally rubbing against your nipple through the thin lace and it's not enough.

It seems he has the ability to read your mind with the quickness of the way he reaches behind you, fingering at the clasps of your bra. Moving it out of the way until your breasts are resting freely on your chest. The soft moan that falls from his lips has your walls clenching around nothing. An even louder moan emitting from the back of your throat as his lips wrap around the hardened bud.

“Jungkook,” You gasp. Teeth sinking into your skin while his fingers work the other side into a peak.

He has been embarrassingly hard this entire day and the sweet moans that leave your glossed lips do nothing but add to that. Absentmindedly his hips rut against yours, thick cock brushing against your wet core, covered by the flimsy material of his panties. It almost hurt how bad he wanted you. Mind reeling with different ways he could take you, but he was so anxious about fucking it up he seemed to be playing it safe.

And you could tell. Even the usually frantic thrusts of his hips were calculated, just barely missing your clit and not nearly as hard as normal. His mouth is releasing from around your nipple to leave a trail of wet kisses down your body, tongue painting wet streaks against your skin. But you're stopping him before he can fit his head between your legs.

“Wait. I-I want to feel you... I want to make you feel good first,” Just as much as this was something big for you, you wanted it to be the same for him. It was not only your first time ever, it was also his first time with you. It should be fun for him too, right?

His eyes are widening as if you just suggested something as bizarre as nude bungee jumping, but the sound of your giggle has his body relaxing almost instantly. He watches as you sit up, arms wrapped around his neck. Kissing him fervently, hands knotting in the soft curls of his hair.

Warm tongue parting his lips, coaxing him into a kiss that can only be described as sloppy. Teeth grazing against his lower lip while your hand palms him through his briefs, his lips fall from yours to let out a low groan. Head dropping to watch the way your hand moves against him. “Fuck,” He sighs out almost in disbelief.

Soft curses fall from his lips as your grip tightens around him, more pressure applied to the movements of your palm. He's moving his hips along with your hand, eyes fluttering and head bowed. Trying so hard to watch the way your fingers squeeze around him, but it's too hard to concentrate on anything but how good you were making him feel.

“You're so big, Kookie. What do you want me to do?” Voice laced with seduction, it's hot enough to make his cock twitch. If you kept on like that, it won't be long before he's blowing his load. Before even taking his boxers off, how embarrassing.

He doesn't need to think, because he knows what he wants. Has thought about it on more than one occasion and wanted to try his chances tonight. “I... touch yourself. I want to see you touch yourself,” There's obvious strain in his voice, trying to create a coherent sentence through breathy moans.

His request catches you off guard, so sure that he'd ask you to suck him off or something that would be beneficial to him. But you don't protest, the thought of him watching you do something supposedly private egging you on. It was hot, him wanting to watch you. And it was no secret how inclined you were to giving Jungkook exactly what he wanted.

You're laying on your back once again, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your panties. Making a big show of taking them off, loving the way his eyes follow the material down your legs before he's dragging his gaze up to your bare pussy. Glistening with arousal all pink and pretty.

“Like this?” Middle finger tapping against your clit, body tensing at the contact. Jungkook kneels beside you, breath caught in his throat. Not daring to look away as your finger lightly moves over your clit. “Harder,” He whines, realizing you're teasing him with how gentle you're being.

Giggling softly, you apply more pressure, rubbing perfect figure eights into the little bundle of nerves. His lower lip caught between his teeth, brows furrowed and eyes focused. He looks so hot, gently stroking himself. Cautious in his movements so he's not pushing himself too far too soon.

He watches with bated breath as your hand slips lower between your legs, finger teasing your entrance with your eyes trained on his. Your jaw falls slack as soon as the digit pushes past your walls, eyes fluttering as a soft whimper of his name leaves your lips. “Holy shit.” He groans, picking up the pace of his hand as you do the same.

Not sure if it's the fact that he's watching you or the sight of him getting himself off to the sight of you, but you're speeding toward the edge quicker than you expect. Finger curling up into yourself, just barely grazing the rough patch of skin deep within. The heel of your palm nudging against your clit with a timed accuracy. Back arching as your whines grow louder.

“Fuck. Are you gonna cum?” Wildly in tune with your body, you can't even think to deny it. “Touch me,” You plead and he doesn't need to be told twice. Springing forward and landing his fingers on your clit, rolling it around underneath his touch. Your free hand lifts to wrap around his length, wrists twisting rhythmically. You feel the stutter of his fingers from the effects of your touch.

All at once, the pressure built in your belly is snapping. Walls clenching around your fingers as your legs shake, eyes blurring as your orgasm washes over you. Jungkook's fingers are quick to replace yours the moment you're pulling out. Pushing deep inside of you and teasing your gspot. Just barely come down and you're already being thrust into a second orgasm, hands flying to grip his forearms.

“Jungkook, fuck. Please, please...” No idea what you're begging for, but the last thing you want is for this feeling to stop. He watches the way your hips move, fucking yourself on his fingers while your arousal leaks out your tight hole. Fists gripping the sheets as you squirm.

He doesn't pull back until your body is relaxing against the mattress, chest heaving up and down as you try to catch your breath. His fingers are wet with your juices, shining in the dull light of the bedroom. Quick to push them past his lips, moaning at the sweet taste of you coating his tongue.

Through hooded eyes, you watch the way his tongue moves between his fingers. Lapping up every last drop of you. As if he had just finished a five-course meal.

“You taste so good, baby.” He's mumbling out, a shy smile pushing onto his lips realizing that you've been watching him. Lowering himself between your legs, wet fingers pushing your hair out of your face. “Are you good to continue?” He smells like you and tastes like you when you lean up to kiss him.

You'd be crazy to say no, knowing how badly he wanted you. How badly you wanted him. The quick nod of your head is all he needs to cover your lips with his one last time, before lowering his body until his face is just inches from your throbbing clit. “Could spend all day down here,” He laughs out, soft lips pressing a wet kiss against your clit.

He doesn't need you to walk you through it, has paid you enough attention to know what you like. Diving it without an ounce of hesitance, tongue lapping against your wet hole. The tip of his nose pressed firmly against your clit, bumping against it so deliciously it has to be on purpose. He's got a tight grip on your thighs, keeping your legs spread wide for him.

Whiny moans vibrate against your pussy as he sucks your folds into his mouth, hand reaching for your clit. Pressing against it more deliberately, rolling it between his fingers as he works his tongue into your tight whole. Moving like a man starved, his groans are just as loud as your moans. Fingers gripping his hair to keep his head in place, hips lifting to meet the swirls of his tongue.

So wrapped in how good he's making you feel, you almost miss the steady rut of his hips. Shamelessly grinding his throbbing cock against the bedsheets. As if he's buried deep inside of you. With his tongue flat against your clit, he's pushing two fingers past your walls. Curling them deep inside of you. And you're seeing stars, back arching off the bed as a loud cry of his name falls from your lips.

Your entire body is on fire, legs shaking while your arousal flows out of you. His fingers continue to move at a steady pace, tongue flicking slowly against your clit until your loud moans are turning into desperate whines. Lips, chin, and nose shiny with your arousal, and all he does is smile. This big toothy grin that makes your heart flutter.

Just about delirious from coming three times in a row... and he hasn't even fucked you yet. God, you wanted him to fuck you. And you could tell he was holding back from doing just that, precum leaking from the tip of his cock staining the sheets. He wanted you too. But he was stalling.

His fingers move between your legs again, teasing your slit as he leans his head back down between your legs. Ready to make you cum with his mouth again. Your cunt throbs with overstimulation, positive that you wouldn't be able to take much more and you wanted to feel him before you were out for the count.

“F-fuck me, Jungkook. Please, I'm ready.” Fingers at his bangs, pushing them back so you can get a good look at his face. The way his movements stutter to a stop, eyes widening just slightly.

But he nods, kneeling back on his knees. Raking his own fingers through his hair, desperately trying to calm the nervous tick in his heart. You were so perfect. Laying beneath him, ready for him to fuck you. And there was nothing else he wanted to do, but he couldn't help but feel a bit of anxiety over it.

It was your first time after all. What if he fucked it up? Ruined it for you and then every single time you thought back to this moment you were filled with nothing but distaste. He just wanted to be perfect for you. And with the way you were looking at him, he felt like he could be. Felt like you thought he might be.

That was something, right?

“O-okay. Uhm...let me get a condom,” Clearing his throat awkwardly, he's cursing himself a million times for not sounding as confident as he should. With a huff, he's leaning over to reach for the bedside table, fishing through the drawer until his fingers are meeting the tiny foil packet.

He puts it on away from you, not wanting you to see him fumble with it due to the nervous shake of his fingers. Once it's secure in place he's moving back between your legs, nearly choking at the sultry look on your face. Long legs wrapping around his hips to pull him closer.

And he feels like he can't breathe.

With his chest pressed against yours, you can feel the hammer of his heart almost perfectly. That paired with the flushed look on your face is enough to make you pull back, getting a better look at his face. “Are you alright? Your heart's beating so fast.”

“Yeah, I'm just nervous. Fuck and I don't even know why...” He's laughing at himself with a shake of his head. It was you. He shouldn't be nervous around you. Always felt so comfortable, so sure when he was with you.

But this was big. This was your first time and he felt like he had to be different for some reason. Better? Yet, little did he know he was exactly the way that you wanted. Just being himself. “Do you want to stop?”

He's shaking his head quickly, eyes widening as he reaches back to tighten your legs around his waist. “No! No. I want to feel you... you look so good,” The last part of his sentence comes out as a whine, his hips lifting to meet yours. The action alone pulling a soft moan from your lips. Almost knocking your train of thought from your head.

“If you're nervous...”

Jungkook is quick to cut you off with a kiss, fingers moving between your legs. Middle finger tapping against your clit before he's drawing circles over it. “Shh, shh... I'm fine.” His words are murmured against your lips, tongue jutting out to swipe over your lower lip. And with the insistent push of his cock against your thigh, you're convinced.

“Okay.” He's smiling, leaning back to take hold of himself. Large palm wrapping around his length, lining himself up with your slick entrance. Breathing out heavily before he's lifting his gaze to meet yours. “You ready?”

Legs spreading in response, you're quick to nod your head. Hands braced on either side of his torso, body laid flat on the mattress. “Mhm.”

Extremely cautious with the way he pushes past your walls, allowing you to feel every inch of him as you stretch for him. It's foreign and a little uncomfortable, he's taking his time, being careful not to hurt you. Stopping halfway to give you a chance to catch your breath, thumb rubbing circles against your clit as an attempt to soothe you.

It brings a bit of the pleasure back, but your eyes remained squeezed shut, blunt nails pressed into his skin. With his head bowed, he's allowing a glob of saliva fall from his lips and onto your pussy, treating it like a lube as he pushes the last few inches inside of you.

You can tell he's holding back, cheeks burned red, and brows furrowed. He's got a tight grip on the sheets above your head, the thick vein at the side of his neck throbbing. Slowly, he's dragging his hips back, pushing back in roughly.

“Fuck, Jungkook.” You gasp, surprised by the pleasure that mixes with the painful stretch. He repeats the action a few more times until he's feeling you loosen around him. But you're still squeezing him so tight. “You're so fucking tight, baby.” He whines, desperate to go faster, harder. Be greedy.

He's pulling back until his mushroom head is catching against your hole, pushing forward with a loud whine. “I'm gonna cum. Fuck, you feel so good.” You're opening up nicely for him now, his cock slipping past your walls with ease and it's too good to bare. For both of you.

Much different from your fingers or his. And you're not ready for it to end yet. “Not yet.” You groan, fingers holding his hips steady you lift up to take control of the pace. Moving a lot slower, giving him the chance to collect himself. “Hold it, Kookie. Be good for me,”

Your words flip something deep inside him, turning on the compliance inside of him. He wanted to be good for you. Of course, he did, he always did. But hearing you say it just made him desire it more. But at the same time, he was right there. It would be hard to hold back, no matter how much he wanted to.

“I-I can't... Yn, baby.” Soft whines hit the shell of your ear, the grip he holds on your hips tightening, trying to get you to move faster. His face buried in the crook of your neck, sucking sloppy kisses into your skin. All while rutting against you urgently, clutching on to every bit of self-control he has not to finish until your say so.

And you can't help but enjoy it. Having him come apart for you like this. Fingers moving quickly over your clit, whining each time your walls clench around him. It's not long before the pressure is building in your stomach once again, your moans growing high pitched as his frantic thrusts become stuttered.

His head lifts, lips covering yours. His breathy moans dying on your tongue, growing as he feels the beginning effects of you cumming around him. With the flutter of your walls and the shake of your legs around him, he can't hold back anymore. “I'm...” He tries to warn you but is a second too late, already feeling the condom expanding inside of you.

Pretty moans fall from his lips as he cums, fingers continuing their movement between your legs through it all. He cums long and loudly, untimed thrusts hitting against your hips. Your fingers toy with his hair until he's calming down, placing soft kisses against the inches of skin you can reach.

He finishes with a curse, arms giving out and body collapsing onto yours. He's breathing heavily against you, vision blurry and sweat sticking your skin together. But you have no desire to move, enjoying the hammer of his heart against your chest. It matches yours.

It takes him a few moments to come to his senses, pulling out slowly when he does. You feel every inch of him on the way out, a soft moan following. He's quiet with discarded the used condom, cheeks flaming red paired with a dopey smile on his lips.

“What?” You laugh after the third time catching him staring, looking away with blushed cheeks. A soft chuckle falls from his lips, shoulders shrugging as he reaches for you. Gently tugging you into his embrace. “Nothing. I just... liked that?” His cheeks darken, eyes lifting to inspect the ceiling.

Insane how he quickly he could turn into this cute guy afraid of eye contact just seconds after begging you to let him cum. “Me too.” The tips of his fingers mindlessly trace the indents his abs make on his stomach. “It was perfect,” A large smile splits your lips, nodding your head at your own words.

Perfect was the best way to describe it. And it had everything to do with the fact that it was with him, save for anything else that occurred. It was perfect because it was Jungkook. Your head bobs in another affirmative nod, hand lifting to touch his cheek, turning his head down to you.

Kissing him sweetly for a moment, waking the butterflies in the pit of your stomach. A welcome feeling that comes each and every time his lips are on you. As if it were the first time. Everything felt like the first time when it was with Jungkook. “Yeah,” The grin grows on your lips, arms wrapping around his body and head finding his shoulder.

There's not a single thing you'd change about him. About you. About the two of you together. It was exactly what you wanted.

“Just perfect,”

— known for your body and surrounded by rumors about your sex life… rumors that he doesn’t think to doubt. until he’s meeting you… forced to realize there’s much more to you then the thonged shorts and lacy costumes.

⤪ masterlist ⤨

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A/N: timestamps make sense throughout the fic. if u want to be added to the tag list, send me an ask! + if you’ve asked to be on my permanent taglist, you do not need to ask to be added to this one !!

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undertaker1827 · 3 years

Text

idk if this is to much to ask but can u do undertaker x reader where they get into a heated fight which was undertakers fault ill leave the rest to you

Absolutely! I got somewhat carried away with this, and it is very angsty. There is reconciliation, but not a happy ending!!

❗️Warnings; ANgst, some mean stuff being said, mentions of death

Masterlist

You knew something was wrong as soon as you walked into the parlour’s back room. Your first clue was the ‘closed’ sign on the shop door that Undertaker never bothered to put up, especially during the middle of the day, then the fact that he wasn’t in his customary position behind his desk. Instead, the mortician was reclined back on his small sofa, one leg crossed over the other and a book held in one hand, his disinterested gaze barely skimming the text he had to hold close to his nose to even be able to read. He barely glanced up as you walked in, not bothering with a greeting of any kind. You frowned.

“Undertaker?” The reaper’s chartreuse eyes flicked over to you, though he still didn’t speak. You raised a brow and held his gaze, but you didn’t try to move any closer to him, choosing instead to continue standing in the doorway. “You alright?” He let out a small huff of air through his nose, elegantly swinging his legs to the floor and standing in one fluid movement as he made his way towards you.

“Fine,” he muttered shortly, stopping in front of you and levelling you with a look that quite clearly said get out of my way. Your back straightened and your shoulders stiffened at the blatant dismissal, and some obstinate part of you sparked to life with anger. You shifted your weight to plant your feet squarely then crossed your arms over your chest, stare growing a little colder. All the mortician did in response was incline his head to one side to indicate he wanted you to move. You didn’t.

“What exactly is your problem today, huh? And is it so dire that you couldn’t even say hello?” Your words were bitter, and you refused to back down as you watched the reaper’s eyes narrow, sensed the shifting air around him.

“Move.” It took everything in you not to allow your lips to curl up into a snarl.

“No.” You stayed put as Undertaker sneered, only to get shoved harshly to the side as he strode past you, pain blooming in the shoulder that had connected with the doorframe. You practically had to jog to make up the distance between you with how fast he was walking, though his place was small enough that he couldn’t really get away from you. You followed the mortician through to the front room of the parlour, anger growing with every second that he refused to so much as acknowledge your presence. You grit your teeth as he fully turned his back to you in a show of looking through one of his bookshelves for something, which you thought likely wasn’t even there. “Look,” you sighed out, deciding to try a different approach, “if we could just talk about this-”

“And what would you know, hm?” He spun around on a boot heel to face you, burning green gaze seeming to spear right through you. “What concept of loss could you possibly grasp, how could you ever understand what it feels like to lose someone then have to live forever with the guilt of knowing there was nothing you could do-”

“Oh, I see how it is. I’m a mortal and am therefore incapable of understanding anything outside of the keyhole through which I view life, is that what you’re saying?!” It was most definitely a challenge and you were livid beyond measure, your words acidic because of course you had experienced loss, of course you knew what it felt like to be left behind and what right did he have to tell you otherwise.

“That is exactly what I’m saying,” the reaper spat, turning away from you once more, “you are incapable of even being able to imagine what it’s like, because there is no loss which is of any consequence to a human.”

The deafening silence that followed was louder than anything that had just been said, the pressure of it pounding in your ears alongside your rapid heartbeat. It was emptiness you felt, you realised after a few moments of standing there and staring at Undertaker’s back, though there had to be pain somewhere too given that your stinging eyes were now lining with tears. Not that you were of any consequence to your partner.

“How dare you,” you whispered with a light shake of your head, hardly capable of processing the true meaning of what he had just said, the same person who loudly and unabashedly declared his love for you every day, who held you through your sorrows and shared with you your greatest joys. It didn’t register that the tears were now dripping from your eyelashes, though the mortician seemed to finally realise that he had gone too far when he turned around to find you crying.

“Y/N,” he murmured, eyebrows drawing together in concern and voice softer now, almost as if a switch had been flicked inside his head. “Y/N, love, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, please forgive me-”

His hand stopped short as he reached out for your wrist, eyes wide but from surprise rather than pain. You’d smacked him so hard that your palm stung and his cheek was blooming red.

“Don’t touch me,” you hissed, hand cradled close to your chest. “Just don’t.” You couldn’t remember the last time you felt so betrayed by someone that you loved. You rushed quickly past him and practically fled to the bathroom, locking yourself in and leaning back against the door then allowing yourself to slide to the ground, no longer trying to prevent your tears. What you didn’t see was Undertaker slumping against the front of his desk with his head resting in his hand, eyes squeezed shut and moist as he tried to work out what the hell had been going through his mind when he’d said something so unforgivable to you.

You didn’t speak to the reaper when you reappeared over an hour later, walking straight past him to the armchair he’d got stuffed into the corner of the back room, curling up and turning your back to him. He deserved that, he thought, that and a lot more. Slowly, almost silently, he sat on the arm of the sofa furthest away from you, gaze faraway though his head was facing the far wall.

“His name was Vincent, the earl I told you about.” Undertaker’s voice was low and soft, as if he was trying not upset you further. “He was - we were close. Closer, even, than either of us had any right to be.” He took a moment to swallow, trying to shove back the emotions bleeding into his tone. “Today is the anniversary of his death.” That at least made you look up. He spoke of this earl with such care, reverence almost, that you felt you could practically feel the connection that still lived on in your partner. Undertaker allowed his eyes to drift to yours for a moment, offering you a small, sad smile before he once again looked away.

“He was young, Y/N, so young. Had his whole life to live. And by the time I found out, I was too late. I’m always too late.” His voice cracked over the syllable and you could feel your eyes once again heating up, though this time it was on his behalf. You watched as he lowered his head and closed his eyes; clearly there was something more that he needed to keep his composure to say. “The thing is...” He tilted his head back, blinking rapidly now to stem the oncoming flow of tears. “I can’t be - too late for you. I don’t think I’m capable of impressing upon you how impossible it would be for me to recover if I was too late for you. But you’re still mortal. And when the time comes... I still won’t know what to do.”

The reaper dropped his head into his hands then, shoulders trembling in silent, heaving sobs as the fears he had kept hidden for so long were finally revealed to you. You felt sick with worry for him, in spite of everything he’d said just a short while earlier. You hardly knew what you were doing as you stood and crossed the room, arms encircling your partner and pulling him as close to you as possible. Your heart clenched at the heaving breath he took, but you just curled one arm around his head and the other across his shoulders, holding him as tightly as he could. It took all of a few seconds for Undertaker’s arms to wrap around your waist, head pressed against your abdomen where you were standing and he was still balanced on the arm of the sofa.

Neither of you said a word for a long time, but you became aware after that time had passed of the mortician apologising to you repeatedly, no longer sobbing but so emotionally fragile that you were certain he could start again at any moment. You did the only thing you could do; you carried on standing between his legs and gently ran your hands through his glossy hair, fingertips caressing his scalp and mentally willing him to just breathe, to just stay calm. You still needed to process everything that had happened, but that didn’t mean you were going to leave him when he was so utterly vulnerable.

#black butler undertaker x reader #kuroshitsuji undertaker x reader #undertaker x reader #undertaker #adrian crevan #adrian crevan x reader #black butler undertaker #kuroshitsuji undertaker #black butler #black butler x reader #kuroshitsuji #kuroshitsuji x reader #black butler reader inserts #submission

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happyandticklish · 3 years

Text

Three Times Andrew & Neil Were Interrupted and One Time They Weren’t.

Notes: For the anon who requested a follow-up on New Perspectives where Andrew finally gets to see just how ticklish Neil’s armpits really are. Sorry this is so long, but I got kind of carried away with the concept. I hope you like it!

Summary: Ever since Andrew found out Neil liked tickling, he’s kept Neil on his toes whenever he’s around. Unfortunately, they keep getting interrupted until Andrew devises a way for them to finally be alone.

Neil was fucked.

That was the thought that volleyed around his head as he skidded around the halls of the abandoned stadium, heart racing in his chest. Laughter, giddy and wild, tumbled from him in an uncontrolled fashion. It was strange; Neil had rarely laughed when he first came here and now he found he couldn’t stop.

“Jo-sten!” The words echoed behind him, the syllables drawn out in an intimidating fashion. He knew the owner of the voice well, intimately some might say. “Why are you running? You know your fate is inevitable.”

He did. That didn’t mean he couldn’t try to prevent it for as long as possible. He slammed into a row of lockers, his sneakers slipping against the linoleum floor. He had a couple inches on Andrew and therefore longer legs on his side, not to mention panic and adrenaline, but he could practically feel the other boy’s breath on the back of his neck. When fingers slipped into the back of his shirt and formed a tight grip on the fabric, slamming him back into one of the lockers, he felt the breath burst from him in one startled gasp.

“Josten.” Andrew greeted, calmly gathering his wrists into one hand to hold above his head. “we meet again.”

Neil was full-on giggling, squirming against the metal behind him before Andrew had even done anything. “Nohoho, wahahait!”

“What’s wrong?” Andrew asked, shit-eating grin fully apparent on his face. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”

“But you’re going to,” Neil pointed out, shakily attempting to collect himself, though it was difficult with Andrew’s hand hovering right over his side. Waiting him out. “Just do it already, get it over with!”

“Do what?” Andrew asked innocently, carefully placing his hand against his side and beginning to walk his fingers up the thin material of Neil’s shirt. “What exactly do you think I’m going to do?”

Neil watched those fingers ascend higher and higher up his torso with a hawk’s eye. “You k-know whahat.”

“I don’t think I do.” Andrew leaned in close so that his breath hit the shell of his ear, his body pinning the other boy against the lockers. “Why don’t you remind me, huh?”

Neil shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut so he didn’t have to look into those piercing eyes. Andrew sighed in disappointment. “No? I guess I’ll just have to remind you then.”

Suddenly Neil was falling forward against Andrew as devious fingers drilled into his armpits and caused hysterical laughter to fall helplessly from his lips. He tugged on his arms, but Andrew’s hold was like steel clamps about his wrists. “Ahahahahandrew, nohohohoho!”

“Oh, now I remember.” Andrew’s words vibrated against his ear, making Neil squeal and scrunch up his neck in addition to the fierce tickling on his torso. “You’re ticklish. This must be hell for you then.”

Neil’s eyes widened at the teasing, his struggling intensifying. “D-Dohohohohon’t, gahahaha, stahahahahap!”

“It must be terrible,” Andrew continued, oblivious to his torment. “To be so ticklish and so helpless to do anything about it. I mean, I am just not stopping, am I? And I’m probably not going to. Yet all you can do is sit there and take it. Truly the very definition of hell.”

“Y-Yohohou’re tihihickish t-tohohohoo!” Neil pointed out, almost as if he wanted Andrew to retaliate in kind. Instead of going harder, however, Andrew took a different approach and started lightly spidering his fingers over the sensitive area. Neil’s eyes widened, the crawling sensation of his fingers somehow so much worse to bear.

“I’m fucking not,” Andrew corrected calmly, as he was in full denial of that day in the closet when Neil proved the opposite. “And besides, even if I was I wouldn’t be nearly as ticklish as you are. I mean, this is kind of ridiculous.”

“I-Ihihihit tihihihihihickles,” Neil insisted desperately, uselessly, hiccupping over his laughter as he buried his face in the other’s neck. “Gehehehe, nohohohoho mohohohohore!”

“You don’t mean that, do you?”

Neil’s face flushed, but before Andrew could pursue the subject any further they heard the tell-tale sound of the door opening that forewarned their teammates approach.

It was like a switch had been flipped and suddenly Neil found the strength he needed to escape. He bit Andrew’s neck sharply, making the other boy hiss and instinctively loosen his grip which was all Neil needed to push him off and away from him. He slowly straightened and pulled down his shirt, still red-faced and giggly.

“What the fuck, Josten?” Andrew grumbled, reaching a hand up to rub at his neck. “I swear to god, I’m dating a vampire.”

“Hey guys.”

They whirled around at the sound of Nicky’s voice. Rather, Neil whirled and Andrew slowly turned around, acting like he hadn’t been tickling the shit out of him two seconds beforehand. Nicky raised an eyebrow at his ruffled state. “Hey Nicky,” Neil said lamely, unable to think of an excuse for their current state.

“I thought we heard voices,” Nicky said slowly, the we in question appearing behind him in the forms of Kevin, Aaron, Matt, and Dan. “What are you guys doing here so early?”

Andrew clapped a hand down on Neil’s shoulder, ignoring his tiny jump at the sudden contact. “Neil wanted to practice. I came to help.”

Neil glared at him. The first part was true, but almost the second Andrew had entered the building they had begun their little chase, much to Neil’s delight dismay.

“Oh.” Nicky said, clearly wanting to pursue the issue further, but unsure about the consequences of those actions with Andrew’s eyes so firmly trained on him. “Well, since you guys are already here I guess we can all practice together.”

“That sounds like a great idea.” Andrew shoved Neil towards their group, strolling off in the opposite direction. “You guys have fun with that. I’m going to get a soda.”

Neil rubbed his shoulder, following the others and trying not to think about what Andrew’s skilled hands had been doing to him moments before.

Running back to the showers, Neil cursed himself for his forgetfulness. He had been so distracted from practice and then the glorious feeling of scalding hot water running against his skin, that he had completely forgotten to grab his shirt. It was a mistake that he would never normally make, but in his hazy state it had simply slipped his mind. Luckily, he had realized it was missing before he could get back to the dorms and have anyone see him. He was fairly certain the showers were abandoned, and if not, it was a chance he was going to have to take.

He spotted his T-shirt, slumped over the stool where he had left it. He was just bending down to retrieve it when he heard a voice behind him.

“Showers are over.”

Neil nearly jumped out of his skin, clutching the shirt to his chest instinctively. He spun around to find Andrew leaning against the stall wall, one eyebrow raised. He glanced down at his shirt then back up at Neil’s bare chest.

“You shouldn’t forget your things here,” Andrew said coolly, not taking his eyes of him. “People have been known to steal.”

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people,” Neil huffed, trying to ignore the way his heart was racing in his chest. Thank god it was just Andrew. He didn’t need to have a heart-to-heart with the team about what his father had done to him in the past. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to make sure you got back safely.”

Now it was Neil’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Right. And why are you really here?”

“Oh ye of little faith.” Andrew closed the distance between them in three, quick strides, his face inches away from Neil’s own. He placed his hands on either side of him. “Yes or no?”

“I—um—yes?” Neil stuttered, trying to figure out what he was doing. Andrew’s hands were warm from practice and felt heavenly as they gripped his skin protectively. His relaxed state was quickly ruined, however, as Andrew started to softly trace those hands up his sides in a fashion that made Neil shiver and choke over poorly concealed squeaks.

“Yes or no?” Andrew repeated.

“W-Whahat?”

“Yes or no?”

Neil inhaled sharply as Andrew’s nails crossed a sensitive spot against his ribs. “I—uh, yehehes?”

“Yes?”

The tracing was impossibly light and Neil was quickly finding it hard to concentrate. “Y-Yehehes! Yehehes, j-juhuhust—ohohoho gohohod!”

Neil slammed his fist suddenly back into the wall as Andrew’s fingers climbed perilously high up his ribs, teasing the edge of his armpits. Andrew didn’t pause but shot his gaze up to Neil’s face, examining it for any signs of distress. Neil formed a shaky thumbs-up, too on edge to form coherent words. Andrew’s fingers ascended just a little higher and—

“Josten! Minyard!”

Neil’s shriek was muffled only by the quick action of Andrew’s hand which slapped against his mouth. “Yes?” Andrew drawled lazily, not stopping his hand as he traced his armpits. Why wasn’t he stopping? “Did you need something Coach?”

There was the squeak of footsteps as they both heard Wymack take a step into the locker room. “Showers are over. You both need to head back to the dorms.”

“Neil forgot his shirt,” Andrew replied, grinning evocatively. Neil was dying against the wall, squirming as he desperately tried to avoid the relentless tickling on his worst spot. The only reason he wasn’t giving them both away was Andrew’s other hand which firmly and frustratingly prevented him from screaming his lungs out at the sensations. “We’ll be up in a second, I promise.”

“Now, Minyard.”

Andrew rolled his eyes, but slowed the intense tickling so that he was just rubbing the spot in firm, reassuring strokes. Eventually, once he was certain Neil wasn’t going to accidentally burst into wild and hysterical laughter, he removed both hands. “C’mon Neil. To bed it is.”

Neil followed slowly after him, reminding himself never to be alone in the bathrooms with Andrew again.

The third time Andrew surprised him with one of these random tickle attacks, they were in the middle of one of Wymack’s famous lectures.

Neil had chosen, against his better judgement, to take the remaining seat next to Andrew. The reason for its vacancy was because no one wanted to be the next victim of Andrew’s sudden sleep attacks. Neil had taken a chance, given that most of the other seats were taken, and plopped down besides him, hoping this time Andrew would find it in himself to stay awake. This, among other things, was one of the many reasons why you did not show up late to a team meeting.

What happened next was worse than getting randomly punched in the gut, however. At some point while Wymack was distracted talking, Andrew had managed to sneak an arm around Neil’s waist, resting his hand on his side. Neil startled, shooting him a look; Andrew wasn’t usually one to initiate physical contact in public. He quickly realized the reason for this when two fingers pinched the skin of his side in a way that was unmistakably meant to tickle.

Neil jumped, arm shooting down to his side, and swallowed down a gentle whine. Wymack paused his lecture, glancing over at them. “Is something wrong?”

Neil quickly shook his head and Andrew just shrugged in reply. Wymack fixed them both with hard stares. “Right. Anyway, as I was saying, you cannot physically beat your own teammates on the rink.”

“Killjoy,” Aaron muttered under his breath.

Now that the attention was refocused away from them, Andrew continued his subtle assault. He ran his fingers up and down Neil’s side, subtly pinching and poking at the skin in a way that could be played off as innocent should anyone catch them at it, though it was anything but in reality. Neil tried not to squirm and failed heavily as he screwed up his face in an effort not to laugh. With one hand he covered his mouth to hide the giant grin forming there, playing it off like he was holding his chin in concentration.

Technically, Neil could have stopped Andrew if he wanted to, but that would mean revealing to the others that he was ticklish and there was no way in hell he was going to let that happen. Andrew knowing he was ticklish was already bad enough; he could only imagine if someone like Nicky knew as well. Not to mention, there was a strange thrill to the whole situation that he didn’t want to end just yet.

Andrew kept persisting at this one spot right above his hips that made Neil spasm embarrassingly, a reaction that was more difficult to cover up than the others. Luckily it seemed like the others hadn’t caught onto his predicament, with the exception of Nicky who watched him with a curious glance. Small snickers were sneaking out between his fingers and Neil bit desperately down on his lip, trying to bury the sensations.

When Andrew’s hand shot suddenly up to under his arms Neil shrieked, unable to help himself, and sprung out of his seat and away from his teammate’s devil fingers. Wymack stopped talking midsentence and they all paused to stare at him in confusion.

“Neil?” Matt asked hesitantly after a moment. “Are you okay?”

Neil could feel the blush already beginning to creep onto his cheeks. “I, uh, I had to use the bathroom. So…”

“Can’t it wait?” Wymack asked, staring at him with narrowed eyes. Neil fidgeted under the careful scrutinization. “We’re in the middle of something here.”

“No,” Neil said after a moment after racking his brain for a better lie and coming up empty. It was strange how his whole life could be a lie and yet in this one moment he found himself unable to come up with any. “You guys can continue without me, it’s fine; Matt will catch me up.”

“I will?” Matt asked, but by that point Neil was already gone.

“And you’re sure no one will find us here?”

“Nervous?”

“Fuck off.”

Neil gripped both of his arms, shivering against the cold. He sat propped up against the edge of their building’s roof, Andrew sprawled lazily besides him. It was Andrew who had come up with the plan, insisting that no one would think to look for them there. It was the one place where they wouldn’t be interrupted.

When Neil turned to look at Andrew, he found piercing blue eyes staring into his. He swallowed nervously.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Andrew parroted smoothly. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Neil thought about it. It was almost impossible to separate his nerves from excitement at this point, especially when it came to Andrew. In this specific circumstance, however, he knew that if he didn’t have Andrew’s hands on his body wrecking him until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, then he would go insane. In response he slowly slid his fingers into Andrew’s, bringing one to his lips and softly kissing each of his fingertips. Andrew rolled his eyes, but he could hear him inhale sharply. Neil placed one of Andrew’s hands against his side and then raised his own hands so that Andrew’s other was gripping each of his wrists tightly against the edge of their little balcony.

Andrew readjusted his grip, curling his fingers lightly against his side. Neil shivered, not just from the cold this time. “Yes or no?”

Neil closed his eyes, exhaling on his next word. “Yes.”

Hysteria. It was the only word he could think of to describe what he experienced. Laughter, wild and carefree, spilled from his lips as Andrew got a chance to properly ruin him. There was no prelude this time, no build-up, no slow teasing. Though he only had one hand free, Andrew used it to its full potential. He darted from spot to spot, hips, thighs, knees, that area right under his ribs that made him shriek. Neil was certain that it couldn’t possibly get worse.

He was wrong.

Neil yelped as fingers slid under his shirt and skimmed up his side, scribbling under his arms with deft precision. He tugged desperately at his arms. They wouldn’t budge. He begged for Andrew to stop. He didn’t stop.

Fuck.

“I think this is my favorite spot,” Andrew mused, not moving off that one spot. “What do you think? Is it your favorite spot?”

Neil babbled helplessly, giggles and streams of snorting cackles spilling from his lips.

“Hmm? No answer? I’m gonna take that as a yes then.” He started spidering his fingers around the outer edges of his armpits, just barely touching his shoulder blades, and Neil nearly lost it then. “You must really like it, if it tickles this much and you still haven’t asked me to stop.”

“S-Stahahahahap!” Neil managed, choking over breathless laughter to get the simple word out. He thought he might have been able to handle it if Andrew had been switching it up a little, moving to a different spot every once in a while or even just moving to the other armpit. “Stahahahahap, Plehehease!”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Andrew clucked. “That’s not the right word, is it? What is the right word, hmm? You know what to say, how to make this all stop. What’s is it, Neil?”

Neil shook his head resolutely. Not yet. Not when his brain flirted with insanity and his nerves screamed at him to make it stop. Not when pleasure flooded his senses, making him giddy and blissfully stupid. Not when, for just a moment, he was truly free and could laugh without fears or responsibilities. He couldn’t be done yet.

“Nothing to say?” Andrew asked, raising an eyebrow. “Okay. I’ll talk then.”

He leaned in, slowing the tickling to a soft fluttering of fingers against his skin, and pressed his face into the other boy’s neck, lips not quite touching. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

Neil shook his head, biting his lips. He couldn’t handle this on top of everything else. There was a very distinct possibility that he might die.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Andrew expanded, planting soft kisses along his collarbone between words. “You make me want to wake up in the morning. You make me want to be something. You give me the hope I never had.”

Neil swallowed nervous laughter, his heart stuttering in his chest. “A-Ahahandrew.”

“You’re so talented. You’re so talented and you don’t even see it, but you are.” Andrew moved higher, signing kisses up the column of his neck. “You do anything you want and you don’t give a fuck what other people think. You’re an enigma, Neil Josten. You’re a masterpiece of broken pieces.”

Neil’s mouth was running dry. He wanted to say something, either to refute his words or thank him, he wasn’t sure yet, but Andrew intensified the tickling then, digging his thumb into the delicate hallow of his armpits. Neil squeaked, bursting back into babbling laughter.

“I love how my touch turns you inside out,” Andrew said, ferocity entering his tone now as his kisses turned vicious. “I love that you’re so ticklish. I love that I can make you laugh through such a simple thing.” He gently bit at the bundle of nerves right behind his ear and Neil squirmed underneath him. “I love the expression you make when I find a good spot. But do you wanna know what I love most?”

Neil was breathless. He writhed against the wall, his body made of flushed skin.

“I love how much you love it.”

Then Andrew drilled both fingers into his skin and sent him into another level of hell.

Later, Neil lay curled in Andrew’s arms, eyes closed as fingers softly scraped against his scalp, a comforting pressure that helped to slowly calm his racing heartbeat.

“Thank you,” Neil said after a moment.

Andrew shot his gaze down to him sharply, before staring off into the distance. “Don’t worry about it.”

Neil sighed contentedly, interlacing their fingers and wondering how fortunate he was to have met someone like Andrew Minyard.

Truly, wonders never ceased.

#all for the game #tickle fic #andriel #aftg #tickling #neil josten #andrew minyard #andrew x neil #fanfic #request #fanfic request #my writing

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runtedfiction · 4 years

Text

A New Normal

A/N: quarantine fic *airhorns* this was originally tended for zutara day 4: celestial. is that a bit troll? i don’t know

AO3

* * *

A hundred days into quarantine, Katara caves. It’s a quiet Sunday morning, light streaming in through the windows. But an alarm goes off on her phone, harsh metallic rings breaking the morning silence, and she bolts out of bed.

“Zuko,” she says. He grunts in response, and she frantically taps at her phone to unlock it. “Zuko! ”

“What.”

“I’m going to do it. I’m actually going to do it. Oh god, I hope this works.”

“Urgh.”

“Zuko, wake up. I’m going to do it.”

He turns towards her and slides one eye open. Katara is pulling out her credit card and breathing hard and punching in numbers, and this is an awful lot of noise for what feels like 8AM. “What.”

“I’m going to buy a Switch.”

“Oh god,” he says, closing his eyes. “Not this again.”

“Look, it’s actually going to work this time, I’m actually at the checkout page, it’s taking me to order confirmation--holy shit, it worked!”

“Congratulations,” Zuko yawns, syllables thick with sleep. He pats the empty pillow next to him. “Come back to bed.”

* * *

At dinner the next day, Katara shows him the shipping notification.

“It shipped!” She’s so excited, and he can’t help but smile. “It’ll be here next Friday!”

“What games are you going to get?” Zuko asks, poking at the pickled cucumbers. “And let me know if I made these too spicy again.”

“Oh, they’re really good, don’t worry. And Animal Crossing,” she says in between bites. “The one that everyone’s been playing.”

He snorts. “You’re going to play it for two weeks max.”

“How could you say that?”

“It’s true.” He shrugs. “Remember that sourdough phase? At least when you’re done with it I can get Breath of the Wild or something.”

“Shut up,” she says, stealing a cucumber slice from his chopsticks. “I’ll play it for a thousand hours. And the sourdough would’ve been better if you didn’t nearly kill the starter!”

“Ok, sure, sure” he says, skeptical. “I’ll order Breath of the Wild tonight.”

She pouts with a “hmph,” and he reaches across the table to grab her cheek.

* * *

Next Friday rolls around, and Katara works from the living room so she can keep her face glued to the window.

“Slow day, huh,” Zuko asks in between meetings. She makes a face, and he kisses her quickly. “I hope your package gets stolen, and you have to see it.”

He darts away, laughing, before she can jokingly get her hands around his neck. When her package actually does come, he can hear her bolting out of the apartment. And just as quickly, he can hear her run back in again, probably for a meeting or something.

Her voice comes in through the door of their home office. “Yeah, these designs look great! Let me share my screen. People can see this, right? I spun up an Express app for a proof of concept, and I think that…”

She sounds slightly out of breath, and Zuko laughs before realizing he forgot to mute himself in his own meeting. Shit.

* * *

Later that night, Katara practically buzzes with energy.

“Holy smokes,” she keeps saying. The game only has a few minutes left to download. (She bought a digital copy, much to his chagrin, but Zuko’s learned that there are some battles he’ll always lose.) “Holy smokes, it’s actually going to happen!”

“Are you excited?” He asks, his elbow digging into her shoulder. “Man, you really shouldn’t sit on the couch all day hunched over like that. It’s bad for you.”

“I know, I know,” she says. “Oooh, right there, that’s good.”

Then the game is done downloading, and Katara grabs the controller eagerly. “Isla Yue, here I come!”

Zuko raises an eyebrow. “Isla Yue? What happened to Ember Island?”

“I realized it wouldn’t fit in the character limit,” she says. “But it was a strong second choice--oh my god, look, it’s those little tanuki boys!”

* * *

For the next few weeks, Zuko wakes to find Katara gently tapping at the buttons on her Switch. He learns all about Tom Nook and picking weeds and how Katara wanted peaches as a starting fruit but settled for apples. Her store upgrades, she starts making waterfalls, and she even dresses one of her villagers in outfits that Zuko wears. This is how he learns about Sherb, and about how badly Katara wants Cherry as a villager (“we’d just vibe, you know?”).

She plays in between meetings, during lunch, and before bed. She resists the urge to play at the dining table or during their evening time, and for that, Zuko is grateful.

“I’m losing you to Tom Nook,” he laments one night while chopping vegetables. Katara is manning the marinated meat on the stove--it’s Korean night tonight, and Zuko’s stomach growls with anticipation--and she laughs.

“I promise you that you aren’t.”

“I really am though,” he says. He moves to the sink to clean the knife and she turns around to kiss him on the cheek.

“You aren’t. Plus,” she adds, “there’s going to be a surprise tonight. I’ll show you, I think you’ll like it!”

Zuko kisses the top of her head and wraps his arms around her waist. “Let me guess--you’re leaving me for Sherb.”

"Very funny, and I wish."

* * *

After dinner, they sometimes watch TV, sometimes workout, sometimes read, sometimes try a random quarantine hobby. Zuko misses the gym, but it’s fun to use Katara for weight training, and it’s nice to save the membership money. It also helps that she turns up the ogling by a thousand percent when he pulls out the free weights.

“You have no shame,” he says, breathless, after she jokingly pats his butt for the millionth time.

“Keep up the work, champ.”

“Do I get any rewards?”

“Yup, you get to play Animal Crossing with me tonight—there’s a meteor shower in Isla Yue.”

Zuko jokingly groans, and she smacks him once more for good measure.

* * *

Katara’s island is gorgeous at night, lit with paper lanterns and star fragments. She lets him walk around and catch a few fish; it’s the one part of the game that he’ll willingly play.

“Goddammit,” he mutters. “So many sea bass tonight, haven’t seen those before.”

She laughs, and continues to watch him make the worst catches he’s made in a while, before she grabs at his arm. “Wait, wait, Zuko, look up, it’s a shooting star! Press A, press A!”

He looks up and presses A. Her character does an adorable little bow. “Did I wish on it?”

“Yup,” she says. “Look how cute, oh my god.” She places her head on his shoulder. “You can stay like this for a few minutes; they’ll come in groups.”

“Ok.”

And they pass a few minutes like this, her head on his shoulder, both of them admiring Isla Yue’s sky. They’re in the middle of Katara’s flower field, and the lilies sway in the wind. It’s a full moon tonight.

“When,” Katara begins, hesitantly. “When do you think we’ll be able to see things like this again?”

“You mean when life will be normal again?”

She nods. It was all they talked about in the beginning of quarantine, this prediction of when “normal life” would return, but now that daily life has settled into this rhythm--working from home together, cooking together, all the small things that go into sharing your life with someone else--he hadn’t really thought about it as of late.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Post vaccine, which could be next spring, next summer, next winter--it’s hard to say.”

“I know,” she says, voice small. He grabs her hand with his free one, the other intermittently pressing A to wish on stars. “And I know that we’re more than lucky to have work and be happy and healthy, but sometimes I can’t help but think that it’s unfair and it’d be great if life were like Animal Crossing.”

“I know,” he says. He squeezes her hand and kisses the top of her head. “Life’s unfair, but I’m lucky to have you.”

“I love you.”

“Love you.”

They play together for a bit more before Katara falls asleep in his lap, and he tucks her into bed. Days like this bleed together, but most of the time he doesn’t mind. Life is boring and the world is on fire, but she’s the best partner he could have in these times.

Zuko doesn’t tell her this, but he ends up fishing and wishing on stars for the rest of the night. And he even begins thinking of personal wishes to accompany the stars. He remembers that Katara once told him that the game feels like therapy. She’s definitely right.

I want everything to be ok by next summer.

I want people to be recognized for their full humanity.

I want to be happy with Katara forever.

#zutara #zutara fanfiction

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mwolf0epsilon · 4 years

Note

Fic request: Miss Twisted trying desperately to woo Alice Angel and ends up both embarrassing herself and making herself seem endearing.

Summary: Romance is a lot harder than her radio dramas make it out to be, but Miss Twisted won't be deterred from wooing the girl of her dreams. Lucky for her, she has some outside intervention.

---

[[MORE]]

It was a little like how one of her dramas began. Though, hard as nails, femme fatale goes into a seedy bar with her buds to scope out the local birds. The three are losing the flirting battle because none of the dames think they're classy enough to get with them for a one night hookup, and then as if by miraculous coincidence an angel steps out into the stage. Literally.

Miss Twisted liked the concept behind a romantic relationship. It drove her absolutely giddy with delight when she kicked back to listen to her afternoon radio soaps. She was just never lucky enough to find the sort of gal that'd fly with her.

Sure, hooking up for some hanky panky filled night was fun and all, but it lacked the emotional depth of a romantic partner to get all sweet with and do all of those cute couple things she saw the folks of Bouillonburg doing to woo their significant others.

Brute and Cameraman were good company sure, but unless they started going around in drag she doubted she'd find either attractive. Also they were more like her brothers so, ew, no... And honestly the idea of Cam in a dress was gag worthy. Brute might make it work, he had the badonkadonks to fill the front of a dress very nicely.

Shaking her head, Missy winced.

"Shoulda started with a few virgins rather than straight up vodka..." She contemplated as she pushed away her last glass.

"Lightweight." Cam teased as he chugged straight out of a whiskey bottle... Somehow. She had no idea how he could drink without a mouth and watching him did little to provide an answer. "Bar's full of snobby wenches tonight. Not even a lady of my caliber in sight..."

"They host ugly nights on Thursdays." She stuck her tongue out at him and yelped when he pulled her stool back, nearly causing her to fall.

"It is Thursday. And just because you 'fleshies' don't think us object toons are pleasing to the eye, doesn't mean we're not beautiful." He seemed cross. "Don't need my own friends being a bunch of obnoxious racists..."

"You know I don't really mean it, you square." She signalled the barman for another round. "You're cute honestly, just not my type."

"Cute? I'm very handsome thank you very much! Back in my home town everyone thought I was quite the catch!" He huffed proudly before looking around. "Not much of your type around either... The ladies here only have eyes for the men."

"And the men only have eyes for the ladies. Poor Bubu, been a while since he's had some fun..." She glanced at the large burly wolf who was collecting olives from the martini glasses he'd been drinking. He looked resigned to a night of zero bedroom fun.

"Hasn't it been for all of us?" He downed the rest of his bottle and covered his faceplate as he belched. "Pardon me."

"You burp like a little girl." The demoness teased again as she picked up her new glass and turned to face the stage. The previous act had finally come to an end, and she was curious to see who else had signed up to entertain the local drunkards.

That's when she came into the stage... The most dazzling vision Miss Twisted did ever lay eyes upon. A beautiful curvy hourglass figure accentuated by a tight black dress, a round heart shaped face that fit plump lips and large doe-like soulfull eyes, ebony locks that framed her face nicely, a pair of stubby curved horns upon her head, and a brilliant halo that cast her in an ethereal glow...

Miss Twisted felt cupid's arrow pierce her heart as this wonderfully beau walked towards the microphone, an angel among sinners.

"Wow mama..." Color flooded her already flushed cheeks as the act began. Eyes glued on sensually swaying hips and kissable lips moving to form syllables... Oh and that voice! That splendurous voice! Like a siren's song to her ears.

Cameraman squinted as he turned to look.

"That little lady looks familiar..." He hummed.

"She's gorgeous..." Missy giggled as she practically drooled watching the angel on the stage. Cameraman looked at his friend and sighed, before turning to look at Brute who was also watching the little demoness with an inquisitive look. The object-headed toon shook his head and simply ordered another bottle. It took a lot to get him drunk, and alcohol was honestly such weak stuff... He sure wished more establishments in Bouillonburg served his kind of drinks.

The wolf shrugged his shoulders and asked for his own refill. Best not get in the way of his female friend's thirsting.

The angel was quite the gal indeed. And, it turns out, a close friend of Missy's old pal! Why, the naughty little Imp was even at the bar to watch his lady friend do her magic on this deplorable crowd of drunkards and bastards. That, the demoness found out when a pained yelp came from her right.

She glanced down and grinned.

"Trying to pickpocket Cameraman doesn't work too good, that belt of his is booby trapped~" she giggled menacingly as she stared down at none other than Bendy. Papa Pluto's most favourite little troublemaker.

"Oh, hey Misty. Didn't see ya there..." The little imp shook off the shock he'd just received, glancing up at the glare of the object-headed toon's lens. "This uh... This your friend?"

"Yep."

"Ah... He can keep his wallet then. Any more buds o' yours around?" He grinned sheepishly.

They both pointed at Brute who was definitely listening in, as he suddenly noticed the absence of weight on his back pocket.

The burly wolf growled at the imp, smirking when he quickly tossed him his wallet back.

"Sheesh... What a bruiser." Bendy turned to look back at Miss Twisted. "So what brings ya to these parts of our lovely little city?"

"Lust." Missy replied. "Gotta scratch that itch sometimes... Been pretty unlucky on that front tho."

"Yeah, the birds here ain't bein' easy... Poor Alice there is as cute as a button, and so far no one went and tried to woo her other than a bunch of slobberin' wolves... Err, not actual wolves mind ya. Just wolf-whistlers." He corrected himself, glancing at Brute very briefly.

"A friend of yours?" Missy asked.

"Yep! The dame on the stage, movin' her butt like there's no tomorrow. Got pipes made o' gold that one." He pointed to the angel, which made Missy gawk.

"You're friends with that gal?!" She stared at the object of her affections, then at the tiny round imp like she couldn't believe his words.

"Yeah we are pretty tight." He grinned wider. "Been tryin' to teach her to loosen up, Boris and I. That's my other bud... He's somewhere around here."

Cameraman and Brute both lost interest in the conversation and went back to drinking. They seemed to be ready to call it quits soon since they weren't going to get any action tonight.

"Bringing an angel to a dump like this sure seems like the way to loosen up..." The demoness remarked sarcastically.

"Hey she's havin' fun, ain't she?" Bendy defended as he motioned to Alice who did seem like she was enjoying herself. "And not many other bars in this town have birds on birds and brutes on brutes... Best place for her to meet a gal that'll want to have some fun with her."

"Oooh..." The demoness's arms coiled tightly with merriment as she took in those words. Available and her type? Lucky lucky day! "I'm down to mingle with your gal pal, if you know what I mean... She seems like more than a one night splendor."

"Hey hey hey!" Bendy hopped onto the stool to the left of her. "My gal Alice ain't some piece o' eye candy you get to slobber on and discard. She's like, a super fine wine. Good with age, refined, quality."

".... Bendz, I just said I wanted more than just some fun. I'm looking for a partner, not just a patty cake one night stand."

"Oh... Hm, still how do I know ya won't corrupt my pal? That's my job!" The imp crossed his arms, brow creased slightly.

"Because she's perfect! Duh?" She rolled her eyes. "I want a girl that I can sweep off her feet and whisper sweet nothings into her ear."

"Uh-huh... And?" Bendy was all ears it seemed, so she was definitely going to sell it. Brute and Cameraman glanced back with renewed interest. This ought to be good entertainment.

"If I dated her, I can guarantee your gal Alice would wake up knowing I'd be there to make her happy. To shower her in love, affection, and fantastic gifts. The next more grand than the very last one..." She carried on. "I'd take her to see the world, sail the seven seas on a cruise ship, traverse the skies in a hot hair balloon, ride across the country side on horseback, and scale the tallest mountains so she could see the stars and awe inspiring views..."

Bendy snickered slightly and Cameraman began to tap her on the shoulder. She swatted his hand away.

"Tell me more of how you'd go about wooing Alice." Bendy smirked.

"After all the grand adventures, I'd go back to do the small things. Wake up besides her, watching her rest before I roused her with more sweet nothings. I'd bring her breakfast in bed, lovingly prepared to her tastes. I'd massage her ankles after they ached from dancing to her heart's delight. I'd make her feel like the most special girl in the whole entire world if just so I could drink in her smile, hear her sweet voice call my name..."

"Aww, Bendy you didn't tell me your friend was so sweet..."

Miss Twisted clamped her mouth shut as she turned to stare at the reason Cameraman was trying to get her attention. The reason why Bendy looked so amused by her gushing... Why that little no good devil...

"I ah..." Face flushed more from embarrassment than the alcohol she'd drank, Missy did not know how to salvage this mess she'd just made, proclaiming an imagined future of romance with the angel that was standing there, smiling at her besides an awfully familiar looking gangly wolf.

"So... Any plans for when you get married?" Cameraman asked. "Need a wedding photographer?"

"Cam, so help me Pluto I will end you..." She hissed, hiding her face in her hands.

"Cameraman try to warn Missy that pretty angel coming over." Brute pointed out, laughing heartily at her misfortune.

"Eheheh! Well Alice, am I or am I not the greatest wingman in history?" Bendy grinned mischievously at his two pals.

"You uh... You didn't need to embarrass this poor lady, Bendy..." The wolf winced in sympathy, despite seeming nervous when looking at the trio. He especially avoided the object-headed toon's scrutiny, messing with the straps of his overalls when the other began to murmur about familiar looking faces.

"Still... All those things you said miss..." Alice smiled "They were very nice. I haven't really found that many other ladies who wanted to actually date. People these days are all about quick thrilling hookups rather than old school romance."

"Yeah, it's a real shame ain't it?" Missy gulped down her shame, smiling back at the beautiful angel. "I mean, just look at you! You deserve all that I said, and more! Who would just discard you like chewed up gum? A madwoman that's who!"

"Such a charmer... I like it." Alice giggled. "I think... I think I'd like to get to know you. I'm Alice. Alice Angel."

"Miss Twisted. I'd definitely like to get to know you."

Cameraman sighed.

"How sweet... At least one of us got something out of this dang bar..."

"Brute got many olives." The large wolf pointed out. Everyone stared at the little bag he'd filled with olives. That was... That sure was a lot.

"That you did big fella... That you did."

#eps writes:#bendy and the ink machine #batim #bendy crack up comics #miss twisted #alice angel #cameraman #the brute #bendy the dancing demon #boris the wolf

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calpops · 5 years

Text

noticed nights | a.i.

Summary: Ashton was once caught in the chaotic world of critics and buyers; he felt trapped in his own art, unable to create what he wanted. So he took to the streets, painted sidewalks and concrete with passion once more and went unnoticed by the masses. He believed that judgement would not follow him if it did not know his name. He hoped his past would not catch him either. Until she came back into his life, turned his perspective upside down and and made him fall in love all over again; with art, with dreams he once thought were better left to the shadows of the night. With her.

Word Count: 12.5K

***

Ashton was shrouded by shadows, highlighted under the glare of the moon as he lurked behind cracked concrete walls. Paint lived on his skin, under his fingernails and embedded into his clothes. He found refuge within nights that art bled into walls or sidewalks; stars and swirls of colors an escape and solace to the monotony of everyday life. He was untamed and free to feel without inhibitions. His art was personal—or nothing at all. He told a story with every stroke or spray; likened his livelihood to realistic murals against abandoned buildings and abstract concepts stained on sidewalks. But tonight he held chalk in a closed hand, reminiscent of childhood summers on a paved driveway and an entire world ready to be created by his hand.

Chalk was temporary, ready to disappear at the first fall of rain. It was for him. This piece was his past and all he ever wanted for the future. No one else needed to see her figure wrapped in flowers. She was once his and now the night’s. Born under the moon and fading with the sunrise. He could have sketched her within the pages of a book, could have taken a scrap of paper to try to let ink and linework capture her. She was more lurid in the night. More effervescent soaked in moonbeams and coated with chalk dust promising to keep secrets. He was supposed to be over her; months had gone by and her absence had settled into his heart and bore a permanent residence in the aches of his bones. He continued on, relaxed his hold so as not to crumble the chalk in his grasp.

Ashton felt a presence behind him, someone happening along his cornered haven of quiet. Those moments were rare and usually ended quite quickly. This time, the person lingered. Ashton dropped the chalk to the concrete and stood, turned to face the person in question and stopped short. Familiar eyes took in his every inch, sweeping fallen tendrils of hair out of her face, soft pink lips he knew tasted bittersweet curved into a timid smile. She stood before him and lived in lines of chalk under his feet. He felt a flicker of heat rush to his cheeks through the cool autumn air, his body alight with old flames yet to snuff out. She peered at him, with eyes that told tales of their past and wandered towards the version of her on the ground. Ashton awkwardly stepped in front of his art, shuffling his feet and clearing his throat, suddenly fallen into her inquisition once more.

He felt the months of separation between them, could still hear the last words spoken. They had been said with great trepidation, fear of the unknown running rampant through his bloodstream. She had made him many things in life, helped create the way in which he lived. Fine tuned the very essence of him, able to pluck his chords and create melodies yet to be heard.

“Lennox,” Ashton murmured, her name now foreign on his tongue, burning through his chest after sitting with unlit sparks for what felt like lifetimes.

She nodded in acknowledgment, grin dropping into a frown that reminded Ashton of mornings being greeted by pouty lips and mumbled five more minutes. He knew his tone was less than inviting; his arms crossed over his chest screaming of indignation and standoffishness. Lennox bit her lip and let it catch between her teeth as she sucked in air. Ashton watched the wave of emotions swirl in her irises. She was a crash course of every feeling in moments, able to express sorrow and demand sympathy with the blink of an eye.

“It’s been a while, huh, Ash?” She asked and Ashton wished his name had not sounded so delicately from her mouth.

Just one syllable made him susceptible to her influence. Lennox breathed new and old life into his lungs, let the past fill his rib cage like tendrils of forgotten smoke trying to smolder and burn his resolve once more.

“Months,” he said simply, not giving her the satisfaction of knowing he had counted the days.

Lennox sighed, tucked loose caramel locks behind her ear and began to fiddle with the zipper on her white satin jacket. Ashton remembered her unsure hands always finding something to preoccupy them. Zippers, buttons, his hands, loose threads.

“I tried to go to your gallery,” she admitted. “But the door was padlocked and the windows were barred.”

“It’s been closed for weeks,” Ashton said without hesitation, feeling undulated truth spill out of him. He wasn’t sure why he explained himself; if it was to ease the concern evident in her brown eyes or if it was to remind himself of his own situation. “I don’t do shows anymore. There’s no reason to keep it open.”

“You don’t—why not?” Lennox questioned, keeping her eyes on him though he could tell by the way her fingers worked her zipper up and down her mind was wandering. “Don’t you want your art to be seen?”

Ashton realized she was stuck on her likeness behind his back, his body a barrier to truths highlighted only by the moon. Her question was a double edged sword, one fine tipped and pressed to his heart. He could feel it course through him, the words seeking honesty and crashing through his being with relentless tides.

Ashton swallowed, finally letting his arms drop to his sides and let his shoulders relax. He let out a breath, his air swirling into the cool night. Lennox didn’t waver as she waited for his answer; Ashton knew she was steadfast and capable of holding onto her will for much longer than he ever could. But she also knew when to stop, could feel hairline fractures in resisting glass well before Ashton; he was one to wait to shatter.

“It still is seen,” Ashton answered, working to untangle his explanation. “I’m just not. I don’t need to be known. Just the art.”

Lennox pursed her pink lips and fluttered her gaze from side to side; trying desperately to see past Ashton’s stonewall. Ashton wasn’t sure why he caved and cracked, why he stepped aside and let her approach chalk dust and heart strings. But he did, he moved aside and let her in once more.

He watched as she took small steps forward and her gaze glazed with recognition; flickers of the past lighting up and melting dark honey eyes. Her worried hand made a quick getaway from her zipper and to his arm; cool fingers pressing familiarly into his skin. His arms were bare except for ink that told stories his words never could. His boots scuffed against the pavement as the quiet night surrounded them. She said nothing for a moment, merely let her gaze sweep towards the art and back to Ashton a few times. His look didn’t break as it lingered on her; hoping she would draw her own conclusion and not ask questions. He did not think he could withstand to tell her why he drew it or confirm that it was her. It was always her.

“What kind of flowers are they?” She asked, knocking the breath and expectation out of Ashton completely. It was abstract—the petals loose and undone in an attempt to be unknown. He felt a cut of satisfaction that not even she could garner a guess.

“Marigolds,” he answered. Your favorite dying on his lips before sounding into the night.

Lennox never knew he knew her favorite kind of flower. Ashton never did anything to prove such knowledge. But he remembered nights in sheets printed with golden orange petals and rushed mornings with wilting marigolds in frosted glass boxes set in the window as he swept out the door. Pages filled with petals and windows overlooking the city lush with color. She was an open book; one with creased pages and a worn cover, read by all and tattered and torn by one.

“I used to paint those,” she mumbled and Ashton put his hand up to his face, rubbed at his jaw as he collided back to art that scattered her apartment and fell out of moleskine sketchbooks. She never shared her art outside the walls of her home, much more content to keep to herself and discover others.

She was practiced in pastels and nature, flowers and sunrises usually graced watercolor paper with supple lines and muted backgrounds. He was striking to her soft. Harsh contrast and portraits of people and highlights of places he’d never known. Fans said it was bold. Critics said it was brash. Lennox said it was Ashton. She had a way of using his name for and against him, could contrast the delicacy of her meek voice with the spark of honesty in her eyes.

“You know they symbolize creativity.” And passion and jealousy and grief. They represented everything they had become.

Lennox nodded and let her hand drop from Ashton’s arm, fingers curling up to capture the hem of her jacket sleeve, French tip nails catching satin. “Your art deserves to be noticed.”

They deserved to be noticed. Ashton let a small smile capture his features—sparking within his hazel eyes—at her words. He knew she meant them. They were much softer than words said months ago.

They had built worlds within each other, the first stepping stones curated by passion that could not be contained. They came together on lonely nights, seeking temporary comfort and intoxicating highs that crashed them back into reality once the sun dare ascend into pastel skies.

“It already has been,” Ashton replied, Lennox quickly noting the meaning. Her own gaze more than enough attention and notice to suffice.

“It’s late,” she said, shrugging to pull her jacket closer as a crisp night breeze danced through the streets. “I should get going home.”

“I’ll walk you,” Ashton offered, bending quickly to retrieve the few pieces of chalk he had abandoned on the pavement. When he stood back up he slowly trailed his gaze along her. Lace trimmed socks folded over ankle boots, legs with bruises from walking in the dark, floral dress that clung to her every curve. It’d been a long time since Ashton had been able to capture her fully.

Lennox shook her head profusely, waved a hand in the air and played off his offer as best and casually as she could. “It’s fine, Ash. I can get there on my own. It’s not too far off anyway.”

Ashton knew that. He remembered her apartment was only around a few corners and up a couple flights of stairs. He didn’t say that.

“It’s late and dark, Lenn.”

Ashton hadn’t meant for her nickname to fall from his lips; though he knew deep inside it was a way to sway her. Nicknames, terms of endearment, pouts, promises. They all coerced her into Ashton’s desires and drowned her in his fears.

“Okay,” she accepted, instinctively reaching a hand out for his but dropping it as soon as her fingers made contact. “Sorry.”

“It’s nothing,” Ashton soothed at the trace amount of embarrassment clouding her eyes and scrunching up her nose.

It would have been nothing if only they had held onto the something they had created. It would have been second nature, yet always, second guessed. Undefined lines harbored jealousy, built problems from nothing and made them feel like everything.

They walked on, keeping what distance the sidewalk allowed between them. Ashton shoved his hands in his pockets, fingers flexing as he craved the feeling of her hand in his. He wished she hadn’t pulled away so quick; he would have entwined their fingers and walked her home without question.

Lennox spared Ashton a glance as they rounded the first corner, glossy eyes soaked in moonlight. Ashton felt his chest tighten as he counted down the corners. There was a multitude of things he wished to say; unsure if they would happen along each other after the night bled away. Instead, he kept quiet, content to rememorize her with what time they were granted.

“The museum has a new exhibit,” Lennox said, words unsure as they tumbled from her lips and cut into the quiet. “I think you’d like it.”

“Is it like the one we met at?”

That was his favorite.

It was morning when they met; Lennox had her hair pulled back and walked with purpose in her steps. Ashton had been fighting a hangover, stumbling through the exhibits in search of inspiration—consumed with doubt over his own work. She had stopped him short, asked him if he needed help finding his way around. He had refused at first, not sure where he was headed but relented as he saw her soft eyes and fingers that fidgeted with her clipboard. He asked her what exhibit he was currently in, eyes begging for mercy at his hazy confusion. She had laughed and spilled orange sunrises into his bloodstream. He had wandered towards Romanticism, Lennox informing him the pieces he currently stood by were of the early 1800s.

“No, it’s much more modern. It feels like something your art could have been a part of,” she replied, looking ahead, cheeks pinkening at her own admission. “If you hadn’t closed the gallery and moved your work to the streets… not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

There had been a time when Lennox let her words free; praise and criticism alike. She had been fearless in telling Ashton what he needed to hear. She never catered to only what he wanted her to say. Now her words were anxious and thought out. Tip toeing on fractured glass, afraid to break them both. She was flustered and failing to hide her nerves.

“Have you noticed my work?” Ashton asked, holding his breath.

He had slunk through dark nights and painted the streets with color. Tagging the side of a building Lennox passed everyday. Creating intricately designed paths on steps she was bound to come across. It would have been impossible for her not to see them; but noticing and knowing them as Ashton’s were completely different than giving them a glance.

They rounded the second corner.

“Of course I have,” Lennox answered after a moment and Ashton let out his breath in relief. “I wasn’t sure at first. I didn’t know they were yours until tonight. They’re… different than what you usually do.”

They were her.

“I guess I’ve changed.”

Lennox flinched, Ashton fully realizing the implication that word aroused. Lennox had pled for it, needed to see and feel something different; wanted more than what Ashton would let her have. And though Ashton had been the one to call the shots, grief consumed him when she left and didn’t look back. He supposed in a way he had set her free and lost himself in the process.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to change,” she began. “That wasn’t fair.”

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

There were many fractured pieces of their past that Ashton wished he could have changed the moment they happened. Endless encounters and words unspoken that could have changed the course of their relationship. The passion, the jealousy, the grief; it was all too much and yet never enough. Ashton hadn’t committed and Lennox feared losing him because of it. So she was the one to walk away, to end the glory and the pain.

They rounded the last corner.

“Maybe we weren’t a good fit,” Lennox continued, her own voice unconvinced of her statement.

Ashton shook his head, unable to protest verbally. He sighed, a sharp inhale followed by sagging shoulders and a defeated exhale. He let it go; he let her go. Her building stood tall and foreboding with memories that spilled onto cracked pavement. Ashton bid Lennox goodbye with a heart that still thumped in time to pencils tapping on desks and uncaught breath from playful chases. Before she turned to leave they shared a look and Ashton remembered a time when they shared the world through nighttime rendezvous’. A timid hand came up in a halfhearted wave as she took the first step up the stairs. Ashton bit his lip; bit back the desire to say something more and watched her leave. Unsure if he would only ever see her again in lines of chalk or swirls of paint. Those too would fade.

***

Streamlines of moonlight filtered through barred windows, wine stained lips and art fallen from grace and to the floor highlighted the evening. Lennox was lithe in the new night atmosphere. Ashton was rigid with uncertainty. He remembered paint covered hands and his heart poured onto bricks. He could still hear their footsteps pounding against the pavement; his boots creating resounding thuds and her heels tapping light clicks. She had run into him again, he had positioned himself in her path. She mentioned the gallery, he swayed her into a visit. Lips on bottles and falling to the floor in a mess of memories induced by bittersweet tastes led them to sobering gazes.

“I fucking hate this place,” Ashton murmured, hands clapping to the white tile floor, Lennox flinching at the sudden noise. “Wish I never opened it.”

“Ashton,” Lennox said, his name still a symphony rolling out of her mouth. “Get over it.”

Ashton looked up quick, catching her eye and tilting his head. Those words were reminiscent of a time she was candor and unfiltered. He knew the alcohol played with her confidence; restored honesty and left her with less inhibitions.

“You don’t get it,” Ashton continued and stopped deadpan, unsure how to explain. “You’ll never get it.”

Lennox turned to him, tucked her feet under her legs and leaned forward. Ashton could feel her crawling under his skin and pumping his blood a little faster; making his body a little warmer.

“I do get it. You told me you hated painting for the big guys; didn’t want to be told what to do to make it into galleries. So you opened your own little one. And then it spiraled. And it got big,” she said and leaned closer with each sloppily strung together sentence. “And bigger. Until it was too much. And the critics found you. And you couldn’t look at your art without seeing their words. So you shut it down. Shut yourself out. Took to painting the streets because you think anonymity is bliss and judgement won’t follow you if it doesn’t know you.”

Ashton paused. Took one moment to swallow her truth; let it burn the back of his throat and sit with remorse. He nodded and she smirked. Just a tilt of her lips in a knowing way. Just a subtle hint that they both knew she was right.

“I get it, I get you, I know you,” she began and pulled away, turning to put her back to the wall. Her head fell back gently and tired eyes found his once more. “I always have.”

“Then why did you leave?”

Ashton regretted that question the moment it tumbled from drunken lips. He wished to take it back. Wanted more than anything to sit in silence and oblivion. He’d had his theories. Knew she wanted more. But the question still remained. Why? Why wasn’t it enough?

“I needed time,” she answered simply. “You needed space. We needed to miss each other.”

“I did miss you. I still miss you.”

“I’ve missed you too, you must know that.”

“I think I’ve changed Lenn,” Ashton said, eyebrows furrowing at his self contemplation. “For the better. Because of you. But for me.”

“It’s easy to say that. Not so easy to prove it.”

Ashton’s hands played at the floor, fingertips digging into linoleum without resolve. Fallen art scattered the gallery floor; he’d torn the pieces off the walls and left them behind. There was an urge inside of him hitting a boiling point. They laid face down, Lennox and her assumption correct. He hadn’t been able to face his art without seeing their words. Headlines in bold print. Reviews in italics. Seething red words filling gallery air and tampering with Ashton’s mind. In one swift movement he stood, collected a canvas with a city he’d never seen painted in streaks of blue, and drove his knee through it.

The art dropped to the floor, corners ricocheting until it landed face up; ripped through and damaged beyond repair. An elated breath escaped Ashton, a haze of carelessness capturing him. Lennox gaped at him; jaw gone slack and eyes wide. She was apprehensive at first, standing slowly on wobbly legs and taking a moment for herself before moving to Ashton.

“What does that prove?”

“That I’m capable of letting go,” Ashton said around a shrug. “Letting go of critics. The past. Galleries. Fear.” Fear of commitment.

Lennox let her gaze drop to the floor and broken art; took in the ripped canvas and swept a look back up to Ashton. Her lips pursed and hands came up to glide over Ashton’s shoulders. He stood still; body alight with uncertainty at her touch.

“I hope you don’t let go of everything from your past.”

Ashton shook his head silently as her hands dropped. In a brash movement he bent back to the floor, grabbed the still open wine and downed what was left. Liquid courage filled him with unrestricted heat and fiery passion. He let the bottle drop to the floor, almost expecting it to break—shards of glass glinting in streams of moonlight an image burning through his mind. In that moment he craved the feel of a paintbrush in his hand, wanted to mix colors to capture the momentary picture breezing through his thoughts. Instead of breaking it merely dropped with a thud and rolled away. His next venture was toward another piece, one he had painted with the hopes of appeasing the naysayers. His art was always too much of this or not enough of that. He bellowed out a sarcastic laugh.

“This one was too abstract; it swallows the meaning,” he grumbled, paraphrasing a review that kept him up much too long, and tore through the fabric with an unforgiving swipe of nails.

“Ashton,” Lennox called, voice filled with warning. “You’re going to regret this.”

“Why would I ever regret this?”

“You’re destroying your art—destroying pieces of yourself.”

“These aren’t me. Not anymore. Maybe they never were.”

He tossed the piece to the ground with the other ruined painting. He slid to the next and held it at an arm’s length from him. He remembered why he painted it; he sought the unattainable. Tried to make it personal for everyone. Instead of marigolds twining through a country fence he stroked the canvas with rose petals falling into the night. He failed to realize how impersonal that truly made it.

“You do this one,” Ashton suggested around a slight slur. Lennox drank less than him, the split of two bottles of wine uneven. She still stood with wobbling legs and hazy eyes.

“I can’t. They’re not mine to destroy,” she said with sure words but a lilting voice.

Ashton rolled his eyes fondly, threw back his shoulders and let out an exasperated sigh. He clutched it a bit tighter, knuckles going white. He let it fall to the ground once more. Drove his foot down on top of it and heard the puncture.

“It’s cathartic,” he offered again, gaze trailing towards dozens of fallen pieces. “It’s not like I don’t have the prints still. I’m destroying the originals… because they’re not original.”

They were created and curated, tended to the likes of everyone but Ashton.

Lennox bit her lip and wobbled to a canvas with tiger eyes reflecting silhouettes. She paused for a moment, catching Ashton’s eye as if to ask for permission. He tilted his head into a nod and went about procuring another piece. Silence mixed into the night.

Until a vibrant rip of canvas cut through.

Ashton turned to see Lennox and a shredded canvas merely held together by its bars. A smile broke across Ashton’s face and he hit the next canvas against the wall; breaking the bars and breaking himself free of the past. He was breathless at the prospect of it all. Destruction had never been so artistic; demise had never been so poetic. Drunken laughter poured from Ashton, breathy and unsure giggles accompanied from Lennox. Ashton stumbled over to her, took her hand in his and let the art drop.

“I’m sorry about the past.”

Lennox nodded, giggles cut short. “I’m sorry too. I wish we could just forget.”

Ashton’s hand trailed up her bare arm, fingers lightly crossing collarbone and deciding to roam up to cup her chin. He wasn’t sure what brought him inching closer to her; the wine, a long lost craving for bittersweet or the tempting mixture of both. “Let’s not forget all of it.”

Ashton remembered the first night they spent together. It had come after a casual date; a stroll through the park under moonlight where children’s chalk decorated the sidewalks. Lennox had spun on tiptoes with a loose hold on Ashton’s hand, velvet skirt twirling with her motion. Ashton offered to walk her home and Lennox didn’t hesitate in accepting. She invited him up and in for a cup of coffee and even though the night was growing old and caffeine under the stars would keep Ashton awake until the sun made an ascent into the sky he didn’t hesitate either. It was easy that first night, gentle kisses creating solace never sought before. It was a night made of lurid lighting and soft sighs, of painting purple on collarbones and pulse points.

He didn’t want to forget sunlight dazzling across her skin on all the mornings he stayed, art in ethereal yet human forms, running down hallways, uncontained passion and nights in each other’s arms. He wanted to keep those memories. Save them as mementoes of the past that he could pull out and pour over on cold nights. He did want to forget some things. He could live without the haunting memories of stony gazes and choking on insecurities and doubts. He’d happily let go of his reservations of love. He’d erase the commitment issues that plagued his every waking moment and consequently tore them apart; just two paper dolls left in piles of pieces only the other could put back together.

Lennox was just a breath away, painted lips patient and inviting. They fed off each other’s movement, moving in slowly with tilted heads and hearts that felt askew at something not so new but vast and terrifying nonetheless. The press of their lips was familiar and shocking all the same, they tasted of wine and forlorn nights that kept them both awake and wondering. Ashton felt her every inch against him, body falling into a known state of lax passion. They were comfortable with each other, knew their every move. It didn’t take Ashton by surprise that Lennox slightly gasped at the graze of his teeth against her lower lip or that she welcomed him in further. Pulling apart was second nature in a long lost but always remembered way. They were breathless and certain they were floating, if not from the kiss then surely from the taste of wine still burning through them.

“I never want to forget that,” Lennox amended and Ashton smirked at her flushed complexion and dazed eyes. He saw the sleepless gray painted under them, the hollower cheekbones—her usually full face slimmed and cut with shadows.

“I could never forget that or you,” Ashton agreed with a subtle nod of his head.

They fell into a descent of silence. Only beating hearts and a cracked and ticking clock sounding into an otherwise quiet night. The city slept around them, their world intimate and detailed. Two silhouettes painted by streamlines of moonlight, separated only by a past worth forgiving but never forgetting. Ashton went bashful and put a hand to the back of his neck, he was heated and spiraling after the kiss scattered pieces of reality back to him. He took in the destroyed canvases and let laughter bubble out of him in an uncontrolled manner once more. He was in disbelief. He’d done what he never thought he could. He had let go and held on all at the same time. He dropped frayed and unneeded pieces of his past and kept a tight grip on those that mattered.

“You’re drunk,” Lennox pointed out, letting Ashton’s laughter echo around the empty gallery.

Her voice and resolve to stay grounded was faltering. Ashton felt paper thin and caught in a breeze that didn’t exist. He stumbled over to the half wall that separated portions of the gallery. Gripped the oak that capped the wall and turned back to Lennox who had followed after him; let their bodies entangle and thrive off each other’s laughter. One hand tucked hair behind her ear just to watch it sweep back into place. Ashton shook his head and Lennox captured his hand, brought it down with her and peered up at him with a mischievous and knowing smile.

“I’m so drunk,” Ashton agreed, and in a breathless whirlwind of admission continued with his candor. “And still in love with you.”

If the alcohol hadn’t bolstered his confidence and given him new life he may not have said it. He couldn’t remember saying it for the first time. He let wonder and guilt eat away at rolling and disconnected memories. Had he never said it before he was certain he had always meant it and felt it. There was no way he couldn’t have. All he knew was wild pulses and the feel of cotton sheets and her supple skin captivating his everything and creating something Ashton should have cherished for forever and then an extra day.

“I’m drunk too but I’m going to remember that,” Lennox promised.

Ashton hoped she would.

Ashton hoped that maybe she would feel it back. Say it back. But she stayed quiet and merely fell closer into the messy hold they had on each other. Her face pressed into his shoulder and hands gripped the leather jacket that donned his body. The tortuous yet deserving part was that Ashton could hear her voice saying I love you but it wasn’t soft and earnest. It was pained and panicked, a last attempt and a plea. Ashton let his heart hammer with newfound hope he might hear those words again; different context and connotation. Different circumstances. Different response tumbling from his lips.

“I’ll walk you home,” Ashton offered, feeling confident enough in himself to wander familiar streets and not let her go. Lennox nodded her approval against his shoulder and made to move with him, his hand on her lower back as they left destroyed art and broken hearts behind.

She wouldn’t fade into moonlight. Not again. At least... not tonight.

***

Ashton stood in the wreckage of the previous night. Shredded canvases and broken bars littering the white tile floor without remorse. He felt an incredulous sense of freedom fleeting through him. It settled low in his stomach, washed through his mind and left a sigh escaping his lips. He felt detached as he wandered past ruined art and remembered hearts colliding back together, even if only for a moment. The night had brought Lennox back to him in whispers and the morning resided shouts in his mind with a yearning need for more. The day had bled away through an ache in his head and uncertainty thrumming through his veins. He recalled her lips on his, supple and sweet and a reminder of times when bodies created art in futile attempts to fill voids.

A few steps into the wreckage left Ashton laughing humorlessly, a dry whip of a chuckle leaving him. He rubbed his hands on his face as a groan surpassed the laughter and his head began spinning. He didn’t have time to linger in the cavernous doubt his mind was now concocting. A knock on the door jarred him back into reality and sent him into immediate action. It took expelling effort to undo the chain locks and push open the heavy metal door; Ashton having locked himself in as an attempt to reconcile with the previous night. Streetlights and Lennox greeted him, a subtle upturn of familiar lips and shining dark eyes an easy way of saying hello.

“Lenn,” Ashton breathed out in disbelief. It didn’t matter how many times they came back to each other, he would never been sure it would happen again.

“I saw the lights were on,” she began, standing with a wobbling knee and uncertain eyes just outside the gallery walls. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No!” Ashton said suddenly, voice loud and mind startled. He moved aside to let her in. “It’s fine.”

She moved inside with timid steps, much as Ashton had earlier. He felt cautious when he first entered, as if the gallery was made of glass and stepping inside could cause it to break. Lennox took much the same approach, took a moment to scan the floor and then look back to Ashton. Her eyebrows furrowed and her hand came up so she might bite at her nails. Ashton grabbed for it, let her fixate her nerves on his hand instead.

“I can’t believe we did that,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Ashton shook his head profusely. “I’m not.”

Her fingers pressed into the back of his hand in a gentle hold. There was a beat of pause between them in which neither was sure what to say. Two nights had built more second chances than Ashton could have hoped for; they also built harboring silences with waves of the unknown crashing and pulling them under.

“They were good pieces, Ash.”

“And now they’re a good chance to start new.”

Lennox looked at him curiously, waiting for him to explain what a new start might entail. He couldn’t paint that picture for her mind, he could hardly conjure up an image of something new in his own mind. All he knew was that he needed something else.

“Maybe I’ll get a desk job,” he chided, sarcasm rolling off his tongue in a scalding way. “Suit and tie from nine to five.”

Lennox rolled her eyes, huffed out a breath of frustration and let Ashton’s hand drop. He waited for her honesty; craved the moments of candor he could still get out of her. He could tell she was filtering her thoughts and deciding what and how much to say. No matter how much their walls had crumbled last night there was still a thin veil of resistance forged from months of separation.

“There’s so much more you could do,” she decided on, letting herself walk away from him and closer to the piles of canvases littering the floor. “This place could become everything you want.”

Ashton tilted his head, stepped up to her and gently reached a hand out to her shoulder. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t ease into his touch. She stood still and contemplative. Until she became a whirlwind sweeping around the gallery, a silent storm breezing through her thoughts. Ashton didn’t ask, let her move about the piles of broken canvases and pull up to a stop at the half wall.

“You could make this place the gallery you’ve always wanted to paint for,” she said—attempting again to explain her flurry of thoughts.

Ashton swallowed down a lump in his throat and crossed his arms. It was a tough feeling to explain that suddenly consumed him. It wasn’t regret and it wasn’t a feeling of failure, but it walked thin lines towards them and left him wobbling with uncertainty. He had tried that, he had built a gallery made from white tile dreams and a yearning to feel the winds of freedom at his back as he stood at an easel. He had learned quickly that freedom came at a cost, it wasn’t winds of freedom at his back, it was critics and buyers breathing down his neck. It was spotlights and fame that left a bitter and sour taste in his mouth.

“I’ve tried,” Ashton began, watching as Lennox spun back to him, eyes alert and unmoving from his gaze. “It always came back to me. It was my name attached to reviews that called my pieces lackluster and uninspiring. It was my face the buyers and critics knew. I couldn’t escape it. Starting over would be starting the same.”

Lennox sighed and kicked a canvas out of her way as she moved back to him. Her sleeves hung lower than her wrists, fingers pressing into her sweater and palms as she bit her lip and narrowed her eyes. Ashton could tell she was losing herself in a way to find him. To find him a solution and all the scattered bits of himself that broke with bars of canvases the previous night. Her dark eyes gleamed and suddenly lit up; a spark in the night caught by flares of fluorescents.

“Why did you decide to move your art to the streets?” She pondered with a knowing voice. She wanted him to spell it out—not for her, but for himself.

“Anonymity. You were right. I wanted to make art without inhibitions or spotlights. That’s what the streets and the nights give me.”

“So keep the anonymity the streets give you. Bring it inside. Make an alias, paint for you under his name. Don’t wander the gallery when you have shows. Stay anonymous.”

The spark in her eyes spread a slow and warm fire of determination through Ashton’s body. He could feel the heat building in his stomach, flickering up to his heart and filling him with doubts. Lennox had offered him a world where fame wouldn’t chase him and judgement wouldn’t follow. Yet, he wondered, would it all still feel the same with a fake name and faceless artistry.

He let her suggestion tumble through his thoughts as he mindlessly reached for her hand and felt their pasts finding paths back to each other once more. The previous night had spun them into familiar embraces and lips that tasted the same after months of being strangers. He wasn’t sure where they stood with each other, but standing by each other in that moment was enough.

It was enough to bring him back to the night he realized they were more than casual but he was less than courageous enough to admit it. Lennox wore his shirt, climbed back into bed and filled the void in Ashton’s heart as she settled into his arms. They stayed up that night, whispered words billowing into the breeze drifting through an open window.

“Can I show you?” Ashton asked, fragmented thoughts escaping in desperate attempts to be understood. “Can I show you why I abandoned this place? I think—I think you need to see it and feel it to understand.”

Lennox nodded and let him gently coax her to a white door at the end of the gallery. It stood strong and padlocked, much like the entrance door had been. Ashton undid the lock without much trouble and took in a breath before stepping through to a makeshift studio; he had it arranged in case inspiration struck. He flicked on the light and let the studio come alive once more. Mediums of all sorts laid around. He had one in mind that he needed to show Lennox all that he meant and all the reasons he had for leaving canvases and easels behind.

He led her behind him as they came upon cool metal cans that started his ventures on the streets. He grabbed a couple and marched with sure steps to the back door. The night air was cold and brisk, the light sweater Lennox had on not enough to ward off the breeze. But Ashton ran hot when she ran cold, he set the spray paint down and slid his leather jacket off, offered it to her wordlessly and watched as she sunk into its warmth as she had done many times before.

“Ash? What are we doing out here?” She finally asked as Ashton bent down to retrieve the cans.

He gave them swift shakes, heard the metal ball inside rattling around and stirring the paint. A lengthy stone wall stood bare, the outside of Ashton’s gallery untouched and left lonely. The inside felt much the same even when filled with art and people.

“Gonna show you,” he said and uncapped the spray paint, decisive hand moving towards the stone.

Pink cut across gray in striking lines as Ashton pressed the nozzle down and let art free upon the outside world. Lennox took a few steps back as Ashton continued to bombard the wall with color; mind slipping into a blissful state of freedom as worries of judgement ceased to exist. He felt detached and as if he was floating above darkened concrete. With just a few more moments and switching colors for added sprays of paint Ashton decided he was done. Dropped the can beside the other and turned to Lennox who let her gaze flicker between Ashton and the wall.

It was a simple outline but it was born with more passion than completed pieces Ashton had agonized over for months. Ashton didn’t break away from looking at Lennox, let his stare linger as she licked her lips and let her teeth catch; subconsciously recreating the simple linework on the wall. Ashton could tell she still didn’t understand, that observation wouldn’t be enough to sway her into the feeling of freedom. He picked up the cans once more and offered them over her way with a smirk.

“You try.”

Lennox was apprehensive as Ashton handed her the can of paint; it was white. She shook her head, tried to offer it back and sunk further into the warmth of Ashton’s jacket.

“I’ve never used spray paint before Ash,” she explained and turned back to the wall before looking around into the night. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

Ashton let a bellow of laughter out at her timid words. She quirked an eyebrow and waited for his tirade of laughs to die down.

“I own the damn building Lenn, I can do whatever I want to it.”

His hand covered hers that held the paint, guided her towards the wall and stood behind her. He held her close, not daring or wanting to break away as she began painting the wall; right next to Ashton’s piece. Her hand wasn’t steady or sure, having never used such a medium leaving her quite the stranger. But she persisted and picked up as her art began coming to life. Ashton hoped she was beginning to understand all that he simply couldn’t explain. It wasn’t quite the same as painting pieces where the public would roam and notice them. It wasn’t the same but it was close enough to his truths. It was unfiltered and unbothered art. It had no strings attached and no worries left on canvases. It was wild and free to be whatever it and he wanted.

Lennox finished, can dropping to her side and body shifting to turn towards Ashton and closer into him and his ever present hold. A breath of elation left her as she gazed back up at the wall, head pressed to his shoulder. Ashton knew he had succeeded in explaining the inexplicable—showing Lennox a conundrum in action. He hoped she understood now. That maybe by seeing and doing she’d grasp that flying feeling that cut through Ashton on nights he went unnoticed. Ashton was caught up in a reverie; simply staring down at Lennox and remembering what it was like to hold her all night. He finally broke away from the past and took a look at her art on his wall; a simple series of dots and dashes. It took Ashton a moment to recognize.

“Free.”

“Your art could still be free, you could have both you know.”

Ashton sighed. Maybe she was right. He just wasn’t sure how to accomplish such a feat. He wasn’t sure it would truly feel free if his mind always searched for bars of criticism and cages of judgement to trap himself within. Ashton let his hold on her tighten, feeling her sink back into his touch like time had never had a hold on them or had created craterous distance that felt like death drops to leap past.

“Maybe,” he decided on, leaving his hope vague and fight for everything he dreamed of to the night.

He walked Lennox home once again. All the way to her building and up the two flights of stairs. They held hands the entire way, something so simplistic making Ashton’s heartbeat erratic and wild. She handed his jacket back to him, pieces of his paper doll and heart staying with her. He said goodbye at the door, kissing her gently and longing for more.

***

Ashton stood outside the art museum doors, the lights were off and the crowds of the day had dispersed. Lennox always stayed late; crowded in her office with paperwork and always in search of new art for exhibits yet to exist. He wondered what it was that kept her this time, if it was mundane tasks or exciting new pieces found on a moment’s notice. He remembered the way she would go to him in flurries of exhilarated joy; the grin capturing her face that couldn’t break and the tumbling of words rushing from pink lips. He wondered if maybe he would be able to relive that with her tonight, if the walls they had begun to crumble were sufficiently torn down and ready to be surpassed.

He waited a few more minutes, restless foot tapping into the stone below, back pressed to the rail that led up and down the staircase. He crossed his arms over his chest and took in a deep breath, only for it to catch as the doors opened suddenly. Lennox stepped through, breathtaking as ever. Her eyes widened in surprise as she adjusted her reading glasses and promptly took them off; hooking them into the neckline of her black dress.

“How long have you been waiting out here?”

Ashton shrugged, downplaying the amount of time. The movement caused his jacket to shift and the local paper he had shoved into the inner pocket to crumple. Lennox caught the noise and let her gaze linger to the page spilling from leather.

“You read the paper this morning?” Ashton questioned, completely avoiding her inquiry. That amount of time was irrelevant. It was the here and now that mattered to him.

“Just my horoscope,” she laughed and took a small jump down one step; offering her hand out to Ashton who didn’t hesitate to reciprocate and lace their fingers together as they descended the stairs and began a slow walk along the curb.

The walls were beyond crumbled; they were abandoned and forgotten.

“You’re missing out,” Ashton replied and used his other hand to pull a loose page of the paper out of his jacket.

He’d read it at his breakfast bar, noon time cereal and coffee curing late night haziness and exhaustion. Several pages in had him stopping short, awe and disbelief cutting through him at a picture and headline proving familiar. His gallery was splashed across a quarter of a page; pink lips and coded freedom photographed in new morning light.

Lennox rolled her eyes playfully. “On what? The comics or the critics?”

Ashton smirked lightheartedly; those two sections of her newspaper usually missing—tucked into Ashton’s firm grip.

“You missed out on us,” Ashton quickly said and handed her the page, delicate hands taking hold of praise in black and white.

Lennox stopped, curious gaze and uncontained pull bringing Ashton to a stop with her. He leaned in closer, head dipping low to reread words he was sure he had memorized.

“Freedom calls to a closed gallery, anonymous art brings life to abandoned bricks,” Lennox muttered the print.

Ashton beamed down at her and at the paper, satisfaction cutting through him in timid bursts. He wasn’t sure it was what he wanted when he took to the streets; had convinced himself that he’d rather be an unknown shadow in the night than a man under a spotlight and inquisition. Talking with Lennox, reading the paper, endless self reflection; it all convinced him that maybe he could find a middle ground.

“That’s great, Ash,” she finally said, tearing her eyes off the page to look up at him. “But I thought your art wasn’t meant for reviews anymore.”

“No one knows it’s mine,” Ashton offered with a shrug as they started walking again. “I think you could be right. I think I could make the gallery everything I want it to be. Maybe I can find freedom within art.”

Lennox only smiled, Ashton knew she bit back an I told you so and coaxed him to further explain with curious eyes.

“I need to show you.”

She didn’t question him or falter as he led her along, just kept their hands held and walked on with easy steps. The streets were lined with fallen leaves, lamp posts creating halos of light that cut up the dark night. Ashton could almost convince himself time had never separated them. They both knew they would never forget the morning that left them scattered and torn apart. They had traded harsh words, insecurities biting at both. Fear of commitment plagued Ashton and fear of uncertainty drowned Lennox. She had said three words and Ashton had not, he had not said them until wine and destroyed art pulled them back together. She had not said them back that night. She said she wouldn’t forget. They had both agreed to forgive. Forgive themselves and each other.

The way to Ashton’s explanation wasn’t long. They pulled up to another abandoned building. Windows were shattered and the inside was empty. No furniture or light graced the inside of the building. But the building was not bare. The inside walls were painted with murals of spray paint, lively colors and immaculate work covered crumbling walls and breathed beauty into a desolate destination. Lennox peered in through one of the broken windows as Ashton gestured, held hand breaking but being replaced with a loose hold on the small of her back.

“Graffiti,” Lennox noted, voice dipping as she turned back to Ashton. “Art.”

Ashton nodded. “This is what I want the gallery to be.”

He hoped Lennox would understand. He wasn’t sure he knew how to put the rest into words.

“You want to keep the anonymity the streets give you. Bring it inside. Bring street art to the fine art world?” Lennox guessed. She wasn’t wrong, but she also wasn’t quite right.

“I want to create a gallery for the unsung artists. Become one of them and make them bigger. Make them a world where their art isn’t ‘vandalism’ or ‘graffiti’. I want to rival galleries with ‘fine art’ and museums with classics. I want people to pay attention to the art and not the artists.”

Lennox smirked. “Isn’t that what I’ve been telling you to do all along?”

“Guess I needed to see it in bold print before I could understand it,” Ashton replied. “I’ve never been one for subtlety.”

It had been a problem. His inability to drown out bold print. His overwhelming need to cater to reviews. Lennox had always been there; offering her own words that slipped past Ashton as if she had never said them at all. He chased after the wrong things; changed for the wrong people. He began to understand that a day too late. Now he chased a second chance with the right person, determined to not let go this time.

Lennox pressed closer into Ashton’s touch, weight catching one foot more than the other, hip dipping into Ashton’s side and hand coming up to rest on his shoulder. Ashton was swept up in the familiar position, craved for her to be even closer.

“I always loved that about you.”

Ashton froze, blood running cold as Lennox scrunched up her nose. Breath left his body and doubt consumed his mind. Split seconds felt like long lifetimes. His fingers curled into his palms. Body statuesque.

“Still do.”

There was a palpable moment of tension as Ashton remembered his drunken confession and her tipsy promise. He knew she remembered, she never broke a promise. Her eyes told tales of remembrance; of just nights pasts and of months ago. The beauty and the pain of their relationship was etched in her irises, painted in dark circles under her eyes and batted back to Ashton in a flurry of unsure blinks. She licked her lips, swallowed and let her hand wander up so it traced his jawline. Ashton reveled in her touch, goosebumps dancing along bare skin; not for the cold night but for the delicate touch of nimble fingers tracing his jaw and settling atop his shoulders once more. It’d only been seconds yet the breath that escaped him was a heaving sigh of relief as his mind caught up to his body.

“I meant it, you know,” Ashton finally said. He felt weak in the knees as his mind raced to keep in time with his pulse.

“I know,” she whispered back, eyes soft and demeanor easy.

Lennox lifted herself to the tops of her toes, placed a gentle and chaste kiss to Ashton’s lips and let herself fall away from him before they could completely fall back into each other. She found a grip on his sleeve; had a grip on his heart since the day they met, and let a small smile grace her face. Ashton stood still, a little winded and confused, a little bit of everything stirring into one becoming too much.

He was elated at their close proximity, felt her under his skin in a wondrous way he hadn’t realized he’d been craving for months. He remembered the good and the bad. The walks home on cool nights, the connections they made without words, and the spinning miscommunications that boiled and burned under the surface too long for it not to break.

“Walk me home?” She asked and he couldn’t deny himself the simple pleasure.

He had no expectations as she took his arm. He felt as though they’d wiped the slate clean with forgiveness from the previous night. His jacket swallowed her frame and warded off the chill but he still pulled her closer; knowing she could never get warm enough. Cold hands and tip of her nose used to press into his heated skin as snow fell outside a city window. They had been picture perfect in a lot of ways—yet broken and abandoned like the canvases on the gallery floor.

They wandered back to her familiar building; familiar feelings blossoming once more in their chests. They were gentle and caring, they did their best to nurture and care for lives that began to intertwine; flowers of different stems weaving into beating hearts. Ashton walked Lennox all the way up to her door, hesitated and pushed back nervous energy daring to consume him. He swallowed thickly, a beautiful hum of excitement and uncertainty melding together, capturing his insides and stirring his mind into uncontainable what ifs.

Her hand reached for the doorknob as words ran rampant but unsaid through Ashton’s thoughts.

“I’ll see you…” Ashton began and bit his lip. “Tomorrow?” He settled for.

One word held entire universes of uncertain hope.

Lennox nodded.

One motion kept cathedrals of faith standing strong in Ashton’s heart.

Lennox furrowed her brows, lips pursed in contemplation. “Do you wanna come in? Have a cup of coffee or something?”

Ashton nodded—the screaming yes inside his chest contained behind the forcibly casual nod. There was nothing more he wanted in that moment than to be reimmersed in a world that he craved to have back; to be bestowed another chance to dim the shortcomings and shine light on the love that could have been. That was but never had the chance to live.

The past came tumbling back to them in unlocked doors, sugared decaf and staying up until tomorrow came around. It was reminiscent of how they began; of two souls clashing and blending, different hues making a color never seen before. It was explicitly crafted for two hearts painted with the same brush. Ashton remembered himself in a familiar hold, in sheets printed with marigolds and frosted window boxes glaring the truth back at him in flashes of regret. He couldn’t change the past but he could create a better future.

They stumbled through her apartment, closing the door behind them with a resounding thud and not chancing a look back. Ashton felt the warmth of the coffee mug burn into his palms as he gripped it and kept his eyes on hers; they were dark in the dim lighting of her kitchen, but they were subtle and filled with emotions that ran streamlines of easiness through Ashton’s heart. It was an elusive easiness, there in the moment and undecided if it would be gone with the moon. She led Ashton beyond the kitchen. Beyond Ashton’s insecurities and doubts; beyond a past that was smudged with regrets and to a place of solace when his relationship with art became tumultuous.

It was all too easy and familiar to fall back into each other. Their pattern was intricately forged and as delicate as a beating heart. The tension between them was palpable and riding waves of broken breaths dancing in lurid light. Fingertips trailed along bare skin and raised goosebumps, lips parted and hands gripped at sheets no longer decorated with marigolds. Things had changed and yet Ashton and Lennox stayed ever the same; tiny fractures of doubt splintered their way through the crumbled wall connection as the night faded and the sun fought to shine past a foggy morning sky. Except three words still burned fervently and honestly through Ashton—doubt dulling with that realization. Lennox was still sleeping as Ashton shifted up, sat up straight with his back against the headboard. Before he could say anything a mumbled five more minutes filled the new morning silence and curved a familiar smile back onto Ashton’s face.

Their time together had inspired many things within Ashton. It had created an ability to let go and hold on. It curated lost love and lit dull sparks back to life. His passion was reignited and ready to paint a new life. He was ready to try again; the notion of anonymity falling free and casually in his chest as his fingers ached to hold a paint brush. He slipped out of bed, careful not to jostle Lennox as she had fallen back into slumber after her adorable plea for more time with her dreams. He traced a lone finger over her cheekbone and leaned down to kiss her forehead, hovering just a moment longer in their world before stepping back to reality.

Ashton bid Lennox farewell with a silent escape. With just one look back at her tangled in the past he then set his sights ahead and walked out the door to be met by frosted glass window boxes with wilted marigolds. His fingers brushed the dying petals, an ironic twist of liveliness springing him forward as each new night he spent with Lennox played through his mind. He would never have guessed anonymous chalk lines and regret would have brought her back to him. He couldn’t fathom that three words unsaid for so long could be a force so strong inside him. He remembered the jolt of bitterness that had him stepping in front of her image; the way her sweet eyes had softened the blows of the past and let him take his guard down. There was one more night he wished to live with her. One more opportunity to hear three words.

***

The gallery was astonishing; renovated and created new with dark wood floors and not an inch of bare wall to be seen. Ashton had worked tirelessly to create a new world within old walls and once abandoned hopes. He had left the nights to himself; only seeing Lennox under the sun—fleeting escapes with surprise as his explanation. Lennox hadn’t questioned him. For as much as they miscommunicated in the past and left questions unanswered they could also communicate with words unspoken. She knew the surprise was important. She could tell by the spark in Ashton’s eyes and the pitch of his voice heightening as he gave her clues. Ashton figured she knew what he was doing; he was never one for subtlety after all. It was her idea that sparked the flame—he wanted it to spread like wildfire.

He stood back from the work he had poured into the renovation, took a moment to gather his thoughts and train his eye around the entirely open gallery. No more did a half wall separate the building. It was open and inviting; street art and work of the unknown filled the walls. Night time gatherings had accumulated bursts of inspiration and endless colors that melded into something extraordinary. Ashton took a moment to stand tall with pride, eyes endlessly sweeping the born new gallery. It was more than he could have hoped for, it felt alive in the night and served to sever the past so easily. No longer did he feel like he was drowning in words of critics; no longer did he care to know their thoughts. They only thought that mattered were of Lennox and by Lennox.

Anticipation built in Ashton’s chest; it felt light and warm, ready to set wildfires that could burn away critical ink and leave scattered pieces of ash turned to art. He ran a hand through his hair, a delicate smile taking a stronghold over his features; he still could not believe he had attained what seemed impossible. A knock on the new door jarred him from the pride filled reverie. He moved to answer it, chains and locks long forgotten. Lennox stood on the other side, as she had a number of times during the gallery’s renovation. Ashton always stepped out quickly and shut the door before she could get a peek inside.

“You’re really set on this being a surprise, aren’t you?” She questioned as she took his hand without waiting for an invitation; knowing it was open—waiting for her whenever she wanted.

Ashton squeezed her hand, grinned and shrugged as they began walking home. “It feels like it needs to be a surprise.”

Ashton felt a strong desire to keep the gallery under wraps. He wanted to see her take it all in in one moment; hoped pride would dance across her features. He wanted her to fall in love with the gallery; to fall back in love with him. He spent his days building what could have been; spent his nights rebuilding what once was. They found old solace that tugged on familiar heart strings during nights spent together once more. Ashton recognized glimmers of love shining with new morning sun across her as he let her sleep in and made to leave for the gallery. There were no more mumbled five more minutes as he had found a way to slip out of bed without jostling her; he had perfected the morning routine. Leaving her with a gentle kiss on the forehead and as always, another look back before leaving with the bedroom door open as she liked.

“I hate waiting, just tell me,” she begged, eyes gone soft and lower lip jutted out to accentuate her plea, hands caught in a slight swinging motion between them.

Ashton stopped short, Lennox stopping against his side at the sudden lack of movement. He turned to her, captured gazes with her easily and shook his head.

“You’ve never liked surprises, have you?”

Lennox laughed and her grip on Ashton’s hand loosened, her plea vanishing into the crisp and cool air. She’d always been a master of disguises yet open and vulnerable; a contrived contradiction that could show a lifetime of emotions and take them all away in an instant.

“They’re never worth the suspense.”

Ashton’s chest tightened at those words; an imminent feeling of possible failure dropping weight on him—crushing and suffocating him. He hadn’t thought of it not living up to expectations. And it would have consumed him if Lennox hadn’t squeezed his hand and batted her eyelashes at him.

“But you’re different. It’s everything you’ve been working for; everything you’ve ever wanted. You’re worth the suspense and the wait.”

And just like that—with faith and honesty in every soft spoken word—the pressure lifted and Ashton could breathe evenly once more. He knew her words were true and the word choice was decisive and thought over. He was worth the wait. It instilled good faith that three different words might be said again. With every flicker of faith and hope and renewed love that was once snuffed out but free to simmer he prayed she might say those words in a gallery rebuilt. In a place where she could see the changes; not the art or new doors or torn down walls, but the change of heart and open door and crumbled walls they fought so hard and so long for. He wanted to say those words and hear those words said back on a night when she could be proud of him.

There was no hesitation as they came upon her building. There was no awkward uncertainty or goodbye that left them wondering if they'd see each other again. Ashton knew he would wake up to her; messy hair, pouted lips and a need to sleep in keeping her under the covers. Mornings were everything; she was the morning.

***

Soft music played as a backing track to the evening. Ashton’s nervous hands fidgeted against his deep red suit; the intricate and golden masquerade mask placed on his face weighed down by anxiety. Artists of all backgrounds and styles roamed free, anonymity granting such a luxury. Words meant little when critics were one and the same, disguised and as anonymous as the aliases the artists used. It wasn’t the fear of harsh reviews or not selling well that sat heavy in Ashton’s heart. It was the overwhelming and sincere need to take pride in the night. To finally feel as though his art and passion was worth crumbling walls and waging wars. It’d been a long time coming; years of struggle and heartache, months of slinking through the shadows of the streets when all he felt was defeated.

Ashton rocked back on his heels, swept a hand through his hair and smiled at people passing by; the looks of awe unable to be concealed by the masks they wore. Ashton’s heart lightened at the gleaming eyes taking in bold colors and the excitement that crackled in the air. It was electric. Though his gaze wandered as patrons took in the renovated space and redefining art there was only one place his mind could seem to stay. Lennox. He had slipped the invitation under her door, calligraphy swooped in gold calling her to the grand opening. He knew she would have gotten it as he spent the last few nights and mornings in the gallery rather than her bed.

He knew he could recognize her in a crowd; see past a mask and know her. Moments passed, music filtering past the worry that dared to build in his chest. But a tap on his shoulder from behind had him spinning; caught in a wonderful whirlwind as she stood before him. Her hair was piled on her head but loose curls framed her face and the silver mask that complimented the dark blue of her dress. Ashton beamed. She had found him first.

“I didn’t see you come in,” he explained, knowing she’d read between the lines and understand that he would have gone to her if he had.

“I knew I’d find you,” she said, voice soft against the crowd but beating hard and fast with Ashton’s heart. “I know you.”

Ashton could not help the grin that curved across his lips or that his hands reached out to settle on her waist and bring her closer. She was easy to persuade into his hold, her own arms winding around him and fingertips gracing the tops of his shoulders as she smiled too. A moment of quiet settled between them in which the music and chatter of people became drowned out. Ashton could swear he could hear and feel his heart beating in his ears and stomach; pounding with anticipation at three words rather than anxiety about not hearing them.

“I hoped you got the invitation.”

Lennox beamed, bit her lip for just a moment before it sprang free and her words settled accomplishment in Ashton’s bloodstream. “I did. But the museum sent me too. Something about needing to scout for a local and modern exhibit.”

“They’re interested?”

“Ever since you painted the side of the building and made it into the paper. They raved about it. And suddenly this gallery was reopening with a whole new premise of anonymity; taking street art and showing that it’s more than graffiti. You’ve always had a voice and stories to tell with your art. Now you’re giving that chance to the unheard. You really made an impact.”

Ashton held gazes with Lennox; let her words sink in and take hold of his heart, build a home out of crumbled stone and chipped pieces of their past. But this time they built walls together and invited each other in.

“It’s because of you. You inspired it all. Finished what I started. Made me realize I didn’t have to completely abandon the past to start new. You sparked the freedom to try.”

Lennox let her hands wander, let them settle on Ashton’s jawline and then sweep through his hair. She came back to him, delicate fingers removing the mask adorned on his face. Only for a moment. Just for them.

“I’m proud of you,” she said as she put the mask back in place with a gentle touch.

“Wanna get out of here?” Ashton asked, one of his hands leaving her waist to capture her hand; fingers entwined together like they hadn’t missed a beat.

“It’s your grand opening. Don’t you want to be here?”

“It’s the art that matters to me, remember? I do recall a wise woman once telling me not to wander the gallery during shows.”

A grin split across her face; one that thrummed Ashton’s heart beat with hope and admiration. He hoped she would leave with him, go back to a place they now both considered home. He hoped that this time they would stay together.

“But who’ll be here to take orders and lock up?” She asked; eyelashes batting and nose twitching as she considered his offer.

“Calum—he’s a street artist; trust him the most. I know he can handle it.”

Ashton did not need to say another word, Lennox was convinced and willing to leave. Until she stopped short.

“I do need to scout…”

Ashton pulled Lennox into him; familiar hold putting her doubts to rest. “I’ll tell you everything you need to know; show you all the art,” he began and stopped to place a kiss to her lips. “In the morning.”

With a heads up to Calum that Ashton was leaving for the night and the gallery was in his hands they left with heart racing wildly in time with each other and life lines on held hands becoming one. They came upon her apartment door and stumbled through the threshold like so many times before. But those times felt like fractured pieces of lives they hardly knew anymore. This time was different and optimistic. This time the morning came and their future was certain.

This time when the newspaper lay on the breakfast bar Ashton didn’t mind the words printed. He left the screams of headlines and critics behind. Set his sights on marigolds left to wither in a window box and picked up a pen and paper to revise chalk lines that felt long forgotten. Her image was born under the moon on a night when Ashton wanted to slink through the shadows and go unnoticed. His art had faded into the night as they left the past behind and he walked her home.

Lennox came out of the bedroom, arms raised in a stretch and mouth open in a yawn as her tired eyes took in Ashton at the breakfast bar, hunched over a scrap piece of paper with a pen fervently scratching away. She came to hover over him. Took in her image once more and wrapped her arms around him from behind. She rested her chin on his shoulder and Ashton dropped the pen, turned to pull her into his lap and let her eyes flit to the paper that reminded them of the distance they never wanted to feel again.

“Mornin’, Lenn,” Ashton greeted, voice gravelly as it was the first use of the morning. He had left Lennox to sleep, he was out the bedroom door with just a kiss to the forehead once more.

“That’s the same as the chalk piece,” she murmured, hands reaching for the page. “It’s me, right?”

Ashton nodded, tried to suppress a grin and failed. “Always.”

“And that night we got drunk at the gallery…” she began, voice trailing off as she got caught in a flurry of thoughts. “Do you remember what you said?”

Ashton nodded again.

“Did you mean it?”

“Always,” he responded once more; the one word holding more meaning than what could ever be imaginable.

Lennox paused for a moment. Let her gaze drift back and forth between Ashton’s late night turned early morning art and hazel eyes. Ashton bit back the trepidation that wanted to build in his chest. The fear of not knowing what she would say next was quelled by the softness of her eyes and the smile that made her beam. His smile back was instinctual. The fear melted away.

She finally said those three words he’d been yearning to hear again for months.

“I love you.”

Those words spun him back to a time he thought he wanted his art to go unnoticed. Back to nights where his heart secretly hoped and yearned for more. She brought him back to love; restored his ability to believe in his art, himself, and love. It only took a number of nights of Lennox noticing him to put pieces of their world back together.

Ashton took in the glory of spending a morning with her in his embrace and placed a kiss to her temple.

“I love you,” he responded without hesitation.

He was now eternally grateful for all of those noticed nights.

***

This story began back in June, it took on many lives during the journey of writing. I truly hope you enjoyed, I would love to hear your thoughts <3 If you’d like to be tagged in future one shots, just send me an ask! :)

***

Tagged: @rosecolouredash @irwinkitten @golden-hood @who-do-you-love-5sos @caswinchester2000 @gorgeouslygrace @empathycth @calumsmermaid @babylon-corgis @outerspaceisbetterthannothing @mariellelovescupcakes-blog @xhaileyreneex @5-secondsofcolor @tea4sykes @sexgodashton @scxttishpotath0e @easierforcalum @roseycal @megz1985 @valentinelrh @cashtonasfuck @snapback-irwie @damselindistressanu @youngblood199456 @clockwork124

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pixiemunsons · 5 years

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oh, daddy

Can u do a blurb where Harry finds out you have a daddy kink after u moan out daddy during sex and ur all embarrassed and shit but he's SUPER into it and ugh I wish I could call Harry Holland daddy bc ik deep down that boi is KINKY AS FUCK

harry looked hot.

no, he didn’t look hot.

he looked like a fucking daddy.

your boyfriend’s new haircut was fucking you up. when he announced he was cutting off the curls he had spent months growing, you had almost cried. you loved harry’s hair; running your hands through it, braiding it, tugging on it during sex. you loved how long he had grown it, and how soft it had become as it reached his shoulders, and you definitely didn’t want him to get a haircut.

that was, until you saw it.

the second he walked into your bedroom with his hair freshly shaved into a short back and sides, wearing his glasses and a cocky smirk, you were dome for. your jaw had definitely dropped, and you were probably drooling. something about him had just changed, as if he had gone from a boy to a man in one haircut. with the long locks no longer covering his face and neck, you got to see him for hoe he truly was for the first time in a long while; the strong jaw, wide shoulders and defined muscles weren’t helping the increasing wetness pooling in your pants. pushing up his glasses with one oh-so long finger, his cheeky grin dropped into an almost nervous look.

‘do you like it? i know you didn’t want me to cut it but-‘

he was cut off by you practically pouncing on him from your bed, covering the floor in one jump as you slung your arms around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth. you felt his hands drop to your waist and yours curled up to the nape of his neck, feeling the stubbly hairs at the base of his neck from his new haircut and almost moaning at the feeling of it on your fingertips. harry pulled away and began kissing down your neck, murmuring in between each one. ‘told you you’d like it, didn’t i?’ he smirked up at you, and you rushed to reconnect your lips with his. ‘shut up, harry.’ you muttered, pulling away to look into his eyes, ’and fuck me.’

you watched as his eyes widened, before narrowing again and darkening. ‘oh, i’ll fuck you alright.’ he threw you back onto the bed, lying you down on your back as he kneeled above you, unbuckling both of your belts as he grinned. pulling your pants down, he kissed you once more before settling at eye level with your crotch, smirking devilishly. ‘now, babe, time to get you off while you pull on my hair, huh?’ he yanked down your pants and panties in record time, tongue on you so fast your eyes widened and you let out a strangled squeal. you could’ve felt him smile against you if you weren’t so wrapped up in your own pleasure. images of harry flashed through your head; his head, freshly shorn, between your legs; his mouth pressing wet kisses to your inner thighs; his hair brushing your jaw as he paid attention to your breasts. when you opened your eyes and saw a hazy image of harry’s head moving between your legs, you couldn’t help yourself; suddenly, you were cumming, and there was only one word in your head and between your lips- ‘daddy!’

your eyes shot open, now fully alert and definitely aware of what was going on. you cringed at yourself, and braced as you waited to hear the inevitable; harry laughing at you hysterically, telling you how he couldn’t wait to tell his brothers what you said. but as time went on and harry never said anything, you braved a peek out of one eye down to him.

harry looked ruined. your cum was still on his lips, which were open in shock. his eyes were glazed over in lust, and he was running a hand through his hair as if he couldn’t believe what you had said. his eyes locked with yours as you bit your lip and suddenly, he was on you, his lips pressing against yours with an urgency you had never seen in harry before.

‘say… say that again.’ harry looked into your eyes as if challenging you, waiting to see if you were going to do as he said. you gulped, keeping eye contact as, shakily, you whispered ‘harry… daddy.’

those two pleading, almost broken syllables were the end for harry. he pulled down his own pants and pushed into you in almost record time, slamming into you as you cried out. ‘again.’ he commanded. ‘fucking say it again.’

and you did.

you repeated it like a mantra. a prayer for orgasm, for pleasure, for pain. chanted on your front, on your back, with your legs over his shoulders and his teeth in your breast. begging, pleading, daddy. he loved how it sounded from your lips, a plea for more and more and more until neither of you could take it anymore and he was exploding into you, hard thrusts leading into sloppy movements until he was lying on the bed beside you, tired, spent and totally fucked out.

you leant up on your front, hand reaching out to smooth harry’s hair back and wipe sweat from his forehead. he reached for your hand, kissing your thumb with a gentleness greatly paralleling the force with which he had just finished fucking you. you grinned at his sudden personality change, kissing his lips once gently.

‘so, enjoy that, daddy?’

a/n: thank you to everyone who has requested! sorry this is so late, i’ve had a lot on. i really hope you loved this! i loved the concept. especially big thanks to @zombiegoddezz , who requested, and @delicatepeterparker who requested to be tagged. lot of love xxx

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missstormcaller · 5 years

Text

BLEACH JET Artbook Talk Vol 2 - Translation (Q16-30)

ABOUT CREATION

Its distinct characters, selection of poetic dialogue and countless array of illustrations are all a grand attraction of "BLEACH". We reveal how they came to be born and close in on the secrets behind the creation process.

Q.16: How do you come up with the Kidō and Zanpakutō incantations?

Kubo: I just do somehow.

—— J: That you're able to just do it somehow, is nothing short of amazing. When it comes to the visual impact and sound, which angle do you prefer to tackle it from? Kubo: I guess both the sound and visual impact at the same time? Speaking of which, I haven't composed a Kidō incantation in a long time. —— J: They exist in a variety of categories, such as the explosive types, the binding types and so on. Where does your vision of their respective techniques come from? Kubo: I'm not at all sure. I wonder where the conception of my ideas originate from. There were certain things which took inspiration from song lyrics for example. —— J: They rhyme pretty good don't they? Kubo: I think I'm seeking to make people start wanting to repeat the words themselves. Or rather, I want people to feel a somewhat good vibe when they say it, like the seven-and-five syllable metre. That, I would say, is the case for given names or the names of techniques, pretty much everything. Furthermore, I have a feeling there were also things that took inspiration from the likes of mythology, "The Devil's Dictionary" and phraseology that appeared in books of that kind, but I honestly don't remember at all (laughs). —— J: Isn't Hirako supposed to release his Bankai in Narita's novel too? Kubo: Narita put forward a request, asking "may I get Hirako and Hisagi to release their Bankai?" and he followed up with "if it's okay with you, please tell me their names" to which I replied "I will think about it", I finally finished thinking about it just the other day. Though, as a matter of fact, I haven't relayed that information to him yet. —— J: I'm looking forward to it (laughs). Do you associate ideas from the impression of the character? Kubo: I draw out a great number of words by way of considering the abilities of the technique, the original Zanpakutō name and the character's image. After consulting with Narita about the establishment of Hisagi's Bankai, I said "perhaps this will do" and the direction I took became something like "bodies that are tethered together", consequently I began writing a list of all the words relating to "binding", "rope", "chains" and "prisoner". By establishing a successful link among all of that, it becomes a matter of combining the words and such…. —— J: So then, your process begins with the task of expanding a list of vocabulary first and foremost. Kubo: That's right. —— J: Which character's Bankai name caused you the most struggle to devise? Kubo: This time, Hirako and Hisagi are probably up there in first place (laughs). Hisagi might have taken the most time. —— J: Apart from that, did you contrive ideas from the image of characters like Ichigo and Byakuya? Kubo: I had no troubles at all when it came to that case. Ichigo's Tensa Zangetsu is taken from part of a name of a monster I was thinking about drawing in another manga. —— J: Oh! When did that one-shot happen? Kubo: It's "Rune Master Urara" my debut one-shot for Jump magazine. For a period of time, I was having fun coming up with monsters that could appear in that work, it was a time where I had devised a many number of them, the name of this super strong monster-like enemy with the whole length of its body pitch black was "Tensa Jūzen", that's where I took the "Tensa" part from. —— J: The roots of Tensa originate from there huh. However, Tensa did not appear in "Rune Master Urara" right? Kubo: Yes. Well, it was the configuration of a character that I would draw in the event that the work got serialised beyond this point. The visuals for Dondochakka is also something I had devised around that time. In order to get serialised in jump, I went to around three meetings and, well, failed on all attempts, but in those course of events I produced up to three chapters worth of work and showed it to Asada san who was my editor in those days. I presented Dondochakka's character visuals in several patterns of the second or third chapter which I had submitted, but Asada told me "don't make such a scary-looking guy the ally"…. I thought "you're kidding me, isn't he adorable?" but it was hopeless. Though, since I liked him so much I thought I'd try to use him for "BLEACH" (laughs). —— J: Are there other characters with this kind of case as well? Kubo: I only recalled that through our chat just now. Since I was not able to use the character in the other work, I'd say that's probably just about the only case. Also, with regard to Orihime, she puts her Shun Shun Rikka into operation by way of her hairpins doesn't she? Although this is also a matter from before "BLEACH" was serialised, Orihime's powers were at one point completely different to what they are now, there was one version in which she would sprout horns and a tail. Personally I thought this was cute as well, but I was told by Asada "the heroine can't look like this monster!" (Laughs) I'm relieved it was Shun Shun Rikka in the end though (laughs). —— J: Were any of the monster-like individuals of Hueco Mundo, like the Arrancar and Fracción, also based on rough drafts from around that time? Kubo: In that instance, I believe I just drew them more on the spur of the moment. —— J: Were there any complicated characters that made you feel something like "this character was not all that strong in the past, but since they're getting stronger, I have to start thinking about their Shikai or Bankai!" Kubo: I guess that would probably be Hisagi. I didn't think he would get that strong (laughs). —— J: Characters such as Byakuya give the impression that they were super strong from the very onset after all. Moreover, when you achieve Bankai, the fact is it remains imprinted in the history of Soul Society. Kubo: correct. It goes down in the records. —— J: I'd never have guessed that Hisagi would possess that much strength! Kubo: Hisagi doesn't really seem to be the calibre of some hotshot does he (laughs)? Although, that ill-suited impression about him is Hisagi's likeable side anyway. —— J: That pitiful aspect is the good thing about Hisagi isn't it? I mean, it's like you you just end up poking fun at him. Kubo: That's what I said even when Tōsen left, normally it would be just fine to promote the lieutenant to captain with the change in circumstances, but I thought "Hisagi and Izuru can't possibly be captains could they?", the pair really give the impression that they don't have what it takes. These two shine more as vice captains. That's why I created the forced post of "acting captain" and settled the matter there. Depending on one's viewpoint, Hisagi is kind of a hero-like character who has come to gradually develop as a result of all the various hardships that have befallen him. —— J: He is a hard worker isn't he? Though, even Hisagi would have been outstanding befitting of his talent when he first enlisted. Kubo: It's also neat how that is like the peak of his life. But on account of acquiring Bankai, I can say he has talent!

Q.17: I would love to know Sensei's process when he's thinking up characters! Although it might differ depending on the character, I wonder if 'the face suddenly springs to mind', or 'the outfit floats into your head', or if the 'name appears before you' etc….

Kubo: Since I just manage to draw my characters somehow or the other, it's not so much procedural…. —— J: Does "somehow or the other" mean that maybe you think to yourself "let's draw some guy who appears to give a certain air of strength", or "let's draw some guy who seems the type to deceive others?" Kubo: The idea is already in my head. Rather than thinking about it through the flow of the story, when I envision it, it's as if a substance like milk or mud begins to accumulate, something resembling a humanoid form floats around aimlessly within it, after I pluck it out, its image is gradually made clear, I think that's how it feels? —— J: That's pretty abstract! Kubo: By that point I would have more or less settled on things appearance-wise, with that frame of mind I then either compose it on paper as a rough draft or leave it floating in my head…. Aside from that, if any names come to mind I make a note of it, from among these rough drafts and notes I combine a set of ideas that makes me say "ah, this person will be the one to enter the stage this time", and finally I specify the role. —— J: So then, you compose the names and designs separately? Kubo: Yes, I think I quite often do things separately. —— J: So it's practically like how Ichigo was was searching around for his Zanpakutō through Ōetsu Nimaiya's training? Kubo: If I had to make a comparison using "BLEACH", then I think that analogy is the closest you can get. Generally, when I think to reveal a new character, I already have just the right person in mind. The story as well the characters is something that comes from me, so there is an outline from the very beginning. —— J: A number of unpublished materials have appeared for the first time in this artbook, but basically a large quantity are rough sketches. You would very often draw it and then put it aside for the time being. Does this mean there are hundreds of blueprints for characters dimly occupying a space in the back of your head?

Kubo: That's true, they have been there for some time now. When I put forward new characters, it's almost like taking that vision out of my head and making a clean copy. However, sometimes I don't have time and can't make the appropriate adjustments, so their faces start changing gradually in the manga (laughs). In that sort of sense, I have never been troubled by things such as the storytelling, or scenes that establish new characters. —— J: Are there any characters who, for instance, you had actually planned to put out on the Shinigami side, but ended up being revealed on the Arrancar side instead? Kubo: There is no character whose blueprint has changed to that degree. —— J: On the same subject, which character would you say came to be revealed in the most underdeveloped state and changed at a later stage? Kubo: I think the character who underwent the most change in terms of appearance, is Ulquiorra. When Ulquiorra made his first appearance, he had quite a different face. The personal image of him which existed in my head didn't change during the the creative process, but later when I looked back on my work I thought "his face looks a lot different huh?" —— J: I see. Kubo: In some cases, when an idea for a character appears in my head, their looks, personalities and sometimes even as far their colouring are all decided then and there, as for other characters those things are gradually decided upon. —— J: Do you feel the volume of these characters increased day after day? Kubo: It's not that they were created on a continuous basis, but rather in waves. Sometimes I produce five or six characters in the space of an hour or so, and sometimes it seems I produce none at all for days or even months. Therefore, the characters multiply either when I'm in the zone or when it's absolutely necessary to create them. —— J: From the considerable number of characters that appear in "BLEACH", I'd say the state of 'being in the zone' can't last forever, even if you can yield five characters in an hour. Kubo: And this is after a great number of cuts have been made too. These were unreleased characters that I felt, did not suit the universe of "BLEACH". Then there's the unreleased characters that have the right aura which I am able to present in "BLEACH", but I am not sure which part of the story I should apply them to. —— J: Are they characters which were not even suitable as Shinigami, Arrancar or Quincy? Kubo: I make a rough decision on the location and scene before I start designing them as either Shinigami, Arrancar or Quincy, but then there are some individuals that make me think something like "There's no panels to spare to introduce this guy to story. What role would he have played?" So, perhaps by some chance they will make an appearance if the timing is right when I draw something? —— J: That is certainly a treasure-trove you've been sitting on. Kubo: There's also the characters that make think something like "I wonder why this dude came to mind?" (Laughs) Q.18: The unique names which belong to the characters of "BLEACH" are impressive, but how do you come up with these names? Kubo: Even when I think about character names, I consider the sense of sound. The example I often cite is Hitsugaya Tōshirō, because it needed to give a cool impression, I thought a name that begins with letters either in the "sa column" or "ha column" would be perfect. I feel those sounds come across most smoothly. That reminds me, I believe Hitsugaya had a completely different name belonging to the "sa column" right up until the last minute. —— J: I'm curious about the name which got rejected. Kubo: The fact that I had forgotten about it, likely means it wasn't a good name to begin with. In addition, I consciously try to avoid names from the "ma column" because it doesn't sound cool. —— J: I get the impression that you take a great deal of care in the way you use consonants. Bambietta Basterbine for instance is all B-B-B. Kubo: That's right (laughs). —— J: The types that rhyme are nice as well, like Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez. Kubo: I'm often told that with regard to Grimmjow. —— J: It sounds cool, so it's a name that makes you start wanting to say it out loud.

Q.19: Regarding the characters' theme songs, I wonder how you visualise your characters to determine their songs through a piece of musical composition?

Kubo: When I'm planning and designing a character, a song that's familiar to me could start playing in my head and I think "that works a treat", in some instances when I'm drawing the scene in which the character first appears, a song that's playing in my head could naturally become their theme song.

Q.20: Are there any characters that received new theme songs around the time of the last chapter?

Kubo: Well, I've got nothing off the top my head. —— J: So the vision you decided on at the beginning, remains as unchanged as before? Kubo: Yes, that's true. Even if I had tried to listen around for a theme song once more, the one I chose in the beginning will always be the best suited.

Q.21: Each character has their own theme song, but do they also have their own fragrances to suit their image? I imagine it would be interesting if sensei did a collaboration with a perfume brand….

Kubo: I'm not all that familiar with perfumes, so please feel free to ask a perfume manufacturer instead (laughs).

Q.22: I'm curious to know if there are any characters who who radically transitioned away from your initial conception and setup, both during and before the series.

Kubo: Grimmjow is the one who underwent the biggest transformation. I get the feeling I've mentioned this elsewhere, but Grimmjow was initially set up to die before long, it was my plan to make him exit the stage as the story progressed, however when it came to the crunch I began drawing, and by the time I had finished drawing that week, I had already felt it was a waste to kill him off. I thought "this guy is too good", so when I informed my editor at the time that "I changed my mind, I'm going to abandon the idea to kill him off", he told me "to be honest, I also thought it would be a waste to let him die", this is a conversation I remember quite well. —— J: It certainly seems as if the side to him which is wilfully arrogant and confrontational would mark him out as an easily defeated character, however out of that, components like revenge and fate were affiliated with him and thus he became a great character.

Q.23: I would like for sensei to tell us if he is particular about anything when he's drawing female characters!

Kubo: I, don't think I'm good at drawing females. —— J: There's no way that's true…(laughs)! Kubo: For that reason, I'm not very particular about it. If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say "I hope they look soft" and that's about it. When the series first commenced my lines were rigid, and I should say I was fairly annoyed by that….That's why I want to draw my lines softer for females. —— J: Noel's thighs in "BURN THE WITCH" when she was riding her broom, as well as the straps of her holster biting into her skin, that appeared to be most supreme level of soft (laughs). Kubo: Well, I'm glad to hear that (laughs). As a matter of fact, I even came to like big boobs because I was attempting to draw bodies with a softer look. —— J: So you came to like them while challenging yourself to draw a soft look. Kubo: Originally, around the time I was still a student, I liked small boobs better since they were easier to draw. —— J: That would apply to Rukia too. Kubo: But then I thought to myself "man I really suck at drawing a big bust", so when I was drawing "ZOMBIEPOWDER" I firmly decided that "I want to get good at drawing a big bust", once I had observed a sufficient number of big boobs in the hopes of drawing lots of them, I gradually came to like it. —— J: (laughs) Kubo: I won't be able to draw them better unless I like them after all. Since I grew to like them, I think it became possible to draw voluptuous figures with a more racy look. —— J: That is glorious (laughs). I remember quite clearly, some time ago, it was said that Kawashita Mizuki sensei is an artist Kubo sensei considers skilled at drawing. Kubo: That's true, it goes without saying that she is skilled, I am fascinated by those who can draw things which in my opinion I wouldn't be able to draw for myself. I can't do line art like Kawashita sensei.

Q.24: When Kubo sensei paints in his colours, does he use Copic markers? Or a graphics tablet?

Kubo: Copic markers. —— J: What about digital painting? Kubo: I can't do digital at all. In the past, there was a period between "ZOMBIEPOWDER" and the serialisation of "BLEACH", I used to challenge myself when I had the time, however I found that I couldn't draw at all like that. I thought "this is hopeless." —— J: You had tentatively challenged yourself right? But these days there are drawing programs like "Jump PAINT". Kubo: It's an app isn't it? These tools are becoming a lot more user-friendly huh. After all, back in those days there was nothing but the likes of "Photoshop" and "Painter". —— J: Nowadays, fellow manga artists will meet up and draw illustrations with their iPads on the spot. Kubo: They meet up and exchange drawings? —— J: They all jointly contribute by setting themes for each other, then start drawing something with their Apple Pencils, apparently these gatherings are really exciting. Kubo: I recently purchased an Apple Pencil. I tried using it, only to find that I was totally incapable of drawing on it . When Jigoku No Misawa and his wife (Matsubara Makoto) last came to visit, Makoto san tinkered around with the Apple Pencil for a little while even though she couldn't draw, she was telling me "if you play around with this thing here then this will happen, you follow?"…. Then it got to the point where I was able to draw on it (laughs). It appears that I'm just useless with devices. I think it would probably be a lot fun if it reached a point where it's more accessible for me though. —— J: When you're drawing on an iPad, you're drawing on glass, so the sensation of drawing on paper isn't the sensation being transmitted to your hand. Although, it appears that recently they started selling screen protectors which make you feel like you're drawing on paper. Kubo: I would be able to draw with something that feels like an actual pencil, that's insane don't you think!? Well, I'm slowly running out of reasons not to work digitally (laughs). But, the biggest reason is that my eyes tire. That's why I wear glasses that cut off blue light when I play video games. I would have to wear those glasses the whole time when it comes to drawing digitally right? Given that it would end up altering my perception of colours, on second thought, I feel it would be too difficult to work with digital as my main art medium.

Q.25: Please tell us the approximate duration of time it takes to go from rough draft to one page of a manuscript. I also draw manga and illustrations so I'm very interesting to know. I'm looking forward to your response!

Kubo: In my case, my storyboards become my rough drafts as it stands, so it's a question of how I should go about calculating time. If we're speaking with regard to the time it takes for the drawing process, it depends on what's on the page itself after all. And considering the fact that I was getting through fifteen pages a day during the series…. —— J: Is the duration of that time used for inking your sketches? Kubo: Yes. At my slowest I spent 8 hours for fifteen pages. Therefore, it would be roughly 30 minutes for one page. —— J: That's insanely fast (laughs). Kubo: However, midway through the series, I felt it was a detriment to my health, so I asked if I could have the number of my pages decreased. That made things much easier. From there I worked through thirteen pages a day. I would spend a day and a half inking my sketches, but I would always reserve just four pages for the other 'half'. Somehow I manage, or to be more precise it may be down to the fact that I am forced to finish with great momentum if there are four pages remaining. —— J: Do you prefer to compose your pages in a sequential order? Kubo: Yes, I feel more excited about it that way. I too want to get charged up along with the climax of the story in my manga (laughs). If I first start drawing a scene that takes place after the end of the climax, I don't get excited for some reason. As a result, when the distribution of my pages is poor, I'll end up continuing with the scene thinking "this is wearing me out", but then my thoughts become something like "if I can overcome this, I'll be able to draw some great faces!" I did my page distribution chronologically in order enjoy the drawing process. —— J: It's an intuitive method but makes sense nonetheless.

Q.26: What do you do when you're at an impasse with regard to material for the story? In addition, please tell us what you place the greatest importance on when drawing manga.

Kubo: Whilst drawing I'm already thinking about the next chapter, so I don't really find myself at an impasse much when it comes to material. During the series, I would construct my storyboards in accordance with the course of events, then I would start inking and at the same time would have devised the following chapter. —— J: Some illustrations are for coloured title pages, some are almost a kind of continuation of the story, and others are poster illustrations that have no relation to the story at all. How do you decide which one of these to do when you're drawing your storyboards? Kubo: On the occasions I get to create coloured title pages, I bear it in mind when I think "this is the sort of painting style I want to do next", and by the time I get around to making a coloured illustration I feel like I can compose any one of those things. Whenever I didn't have the luxury of time, I would search for painting techniques in a short span of time (laughs). —— J: This Gremmy illustration (JET volume 1, p.277) exudes quite a malevolent atmosphere, but is this the painting style you were attempting to go for? Kubo: I think I wanted to go for a creepy feel, I painted it using a brush and my fingers. —— J: So you start by having some idea of a painting style. Kubo: Well, I think that applies to pretty much everyone (laughs). —— J: By the way, roughly how long does it take for you to think about the composition of each arc in "BLEACH"? Kubo: It's more or less determined at the introduction of the arc. Around halfway through the Arrancar arc, I participated in a stage event at Jump Festa, there I was asked "how much longer will 'BLEACH' continue?" I said "I will draw two more arcs and then it's complete." So, setting aside the length of the story, at that point in time, I would have been deciding the endings five chapters into the arcs. —— J: I see…. So then, I wonder what you place great importance on in terms of drawing manga? Kubo: What comes to mind when asked about an area I place great importance on, or rather, an area I'm 'particular' about, is how to lay down the foreshadowing. I compose the foreshadowing element by dividing it into stages, but since this element in itself is explained in the novelisations through text, I won't talk about the 'stages' here. Nevertheless, I believe the things you discover on the first reading are not foreshadowing to begin with but rather an ice breaker, or to be more precise something like a freebie I give away to readers that says "please anticipate things to come from these depictions in the near future!" After the big reveal you go back to read it again at which point you're able to say "so this was foreshadowed!?" Now that in my opinion, is foreshadowing. There are two reasons for this, one, I like thriller movies, though do you sometimes have predictions that you've made midway through those thrillers, I mean ones that completely hit the mark by the conclusion? —— J: It happens every once in a while. Kubo: I hate that, I think to myself "if it's supposed to be foreshadowing, then keep the reveal hidden properly!" and "surprise me with the reveal why don't you!" (laughs), second, I think a great amusement of the manga or rather the storytelling, is that after enjoying the main story you get to debate with friends that it's "neither this way, nor that." —— J: Indeed it is exciting to exchange differences in interpretation with friends. Kubo: If those debates are the most exciting part, then I hope when people discover new bits of foreshadowing after looking back on works they've grown to love, that they get to experience an indescribable feeling in the moment they made that discovery. I think "BLEACH" could also be one of these much loved works, so I wanted to set it up in a way where each time one would reread the story there would be a new discovery, and then a sense of joy which can only be savoured by those who have reread the story many times over.

Q.27: On the inside cover of volume 27, sensei talked about packaging [of an iPod] and book jackets, but in truth the paperback volumes of "BLEACH" already had a reputation for its exceedingly cool look. Is there an aspect you are particular about in your design and style choices even now? I would like for sensei to comment on attaining strong aesthetic preferences.

Kubo: I like design in itself, so although It's not the case that I'm particularly conscious of it, I'm always picky about it nonetheless. After creating the original format for "BLEACH" paperbacks, I was thinking to use the same one until the very end, therefore you will only find minor changes throughout. So when it came time to publish volume 1, I thought "I want to give it an aesthetic that's different from other comics." This means things like all the front page poems, and drawing the huge volume titles on the front cover. Even though I would buy Jump Comics all the time, I never realised there was volume titles, when I was asked "what would you like to do for the volume title?" by Jump Comics editorial staff, I thought "why doesn't anyone use volume titles in their design?", as a result I decided to use volume titles in my own. —— J: you have a point, it usually only appears in small lettering above the title of the work. Kubo: Exactly. I always think "what a terrible waste." If you don't make use of it design-wise, then contrary to expectations, the presence of the volume title will end up interfering with the cover art won't it? —— J: Even the designers among these questions have reputed "BLEACH" to have an aesthetic that's different from other comics.

Q.28: Within the story of "BLEACH", I believe there was a many number of instances where you depicted members of the cast in a heroic last stand or momentarily on the verge of death, but what are you conscious of within yourself when expressing a character's 'death'? Is there anything you pay extra attention to?

Kubo: It's the timing. It's either something like "this is still not the right place to kill him off" or "it's ideal for this character to be killed off here." It's not a question of luck as far as the characters are concerned, but rather a question of whether or not it goes along with their characteristics. The side that survives is certain to have good fortune after all. I reckon the scene where Ulquiorra fades away also matches his nature. —— J: Is there any character who ended up dead even though you hadn't originally planned to do so? Kubo: Not off the top of my head, I think not. It's the same for the reverse too. Grimmjow is pretty much the only exception. Grimmjow originally lived as long as he did because I didn't come up with his death scene, but I think he would be dead if I had decided as far ahead as that death scene. I would probably be thinking "this way of dying is the coolest!" and because of that, I think I would have killed him off since I want there to be a cool aspect in my depictions. Although my depictions can give the impression that 'this person looks to be on the point of death here', my thinking is "I still want to make this character do so-and-so after this" and I don't let them die. —— J: Izuru was still alive with pipes attached to the hole in his chest after all. Kubo: About that, after thinking "there are gaps in the hole on Izuru's chest, if the moon could be seen through there, that would be super cool!" I really wanted to draw that. When he was revived in a zombie-like state, the staging of the scene where the moon was visible, is to make it appear as if the moon was actually in Izuru's possession. For that alone I put him on the verge of death for a time and then let him survive. —— J: So from a choreography viewpoint, there are times you like to think outside the box for characters that are made to survive. Kubo: Given that I'm fairly passionate about choreography, there's something about it that makes me go like "I want to draw this scene, let's do it!" —— J: By the way on the topic of Izuru, 10 years later is he still alive? Kubo: I suppose he's ‘alive’. Which reminds me, I didn't draw Izuru 10 years later…. He would be too pitiful if he was dead, so I consider him alive (laughs).

Q.29: Compared to when the series first began 15 years ago, what is the thing that underwent the biggest change?

Kubo: The biggest change in terms of the work, is my art style!

Q.30: I was surprised by the fact that two characters appeared on the final volume cover only. On LINELive, voice actor Morita san said "it is a truly fitting illustration for the last volume", I also thought indeed that is true. That the two individuals from the beginning of the story would bring it to a close, is very typical of "BLEACH" I think. What sort of thoughts did Kubo sensei have after drawing Ichigo and Rukia for the final volume cover?

Kubo: The story originally began with these two, so I thought I should try to end it with these two as well. Since I already knew how many volumes the final stages of the series would end with, I began assigning "this character to appear on the cover with this volume…", I could draw characters who were not able to appear on the front cover for a while, such as Uryū and Renji, but I wondered if I could put Ichigo and Rukia together on the final one. Given that it's been a single person per cover the whole time, I then grew to wonder if it would also exude a special feeling if I put the two individuals on the last cover alone. Those two are the faces that represent "BLEACH" after all. "BLEACH" didn't start with just Ichigo, neither did it start with just Rukia.

Translator’s notes:

“The Devil’s Dictionary” by Ambrose Bierce

The "ha" and “sa” columns refer to part of the Japanese syllabary table

Quote from BLEACH volume 27 “I bought an iPod the other day. [...] The best part was the packaging, I couldn’t bring myself to throw away the acrylic case my iPod came in even though i have no use for it. I hope someday I could create a bokk jacket so good that no one can throw it away.” Tite Kubo.

#BLEACH JET #BLEACH #JET ARTBOOK #mytranslationtag #ichigo kurosaki #Rukia Kuchiki #Tite Kubo #interview #Hirako Shinji #Hisagi Shuuhei #Orihime Inoue #tensa zangetsu #Ulquiorra Cifer #Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez #Gremmy #kira izuru #Toshiro Hitsugaya #renji abarai #ishida uryuu

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mentalmimosa · 5 years

Text

slip of the tongue

Prompt: Prompt: You’re the super hot server at a restaurant who said ‘enjoy your meal’ and I accidentally replied ‘I love you too’ and now I can’t look at you.

“I’m sorry?” the guy says, pretending, god bless him. His ears are pink and his cheeks are too and there’s no way he didn’t catch every syllable verbatim, is there? Steve thinks in a panic. Crap. Crap crap crap.

Doesn’t help that Tony’s wheezing with laughter, or that Nat just shot Barcardi out of her nose. And Sam’s gleeful, sunny grin might as well have you’re never living this down, Rogers written on it in neon.

“Sorry,” Steve echoes, pink answering pink. “I meant, uh, thanks.”

Their server-- Bucky, if his nametag’s to be believed--bobs his head, dark waves brushing his collar and those blue, blue eyes somehow brave enough (kind enough?) to meet Steve’s. “Sure. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Oh, Steve needs something, all right,” Tony spit out before Bucky’s more than three steps away.

“Tony!”

“Yeah, Tony,” Nat chides, making a beeline for the cheese fries. “He’s gonna need it more than once, by the looks of him. How long's it been since you had any, sailor?”

Steve’s face flips full-on beet red.

“Aw,” Sam says, throwing an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “Cut the guy some slack, ok? It’s not his fault he lives like a monk. Oh, wait. Yes, it is.”

Then they’re giggling like monkeys, the three of them, his best friends in the world who are apparently bent on humiliating him in public--no more, Steve thinks morosely, than he already did.

“If it make you feel any better, Rogers,” Tony says in his three drinks-in drawl, “he is pretty. I’d fuck him.”

Steve reaches for his (first) beer and shrugs off Sam’s arm. “Nope. Not helping.”

“Yeah,” Nat says. “You’re not exactly discerning, Stark.”

Sam laughs. “She means that you’re a slut.”

Tony shrugs, beaming at Steve across the nachos. “If by slut you mean a very sexually satisfied person open to new experiences with all manners of interesting people, Natasha, then count me guilty as charged. Not all of us find the love of our tragically monogamous lives in college and exchange rings and house keys the moment we kiss.”

“I’ll tell Wanda you said hi.”

“Please do,” Tony says magnanimously. “Lovely lady, your wife. Kind of her to let you off the leash for one night. So yes, please give her my best. If she’ll allow you to speak my name in her presence, that is.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Can we set aside your hate-crush on my wife for ten seconds and get back to the business at hand?”

“Which is?”

A big, wicked grin. “Reminding Steve that he just proposed to our waiter.”

“I did not!” Steve says, way too loud, which only sent his friends further into hysterics. “God, it was a slip of the tongue.”

“Oh,” Sam snorts, “yeah, you wish it was.”

Tony nearly spits up the last of his Mai Tai. “He wishes it was a slip of the dick, more like.”

“I hate all of you,” Steve says, which is sort of true, but what’s more true is that he kinda hates his damn self. “Each and every one of you. So much.”

“Do we need more drinks?” Nat says, shaking the rocks in her glass.

“Oh, we so do,” Sam says. “All these fuckers are empty. Hey, Steve. Get your sweet baboo over here, huh?”

“I’m just”--Steve’s on his feet, pushing away from the table, embarrassment peeling over him in waves--“I’m gonna, um--”

And then he turns tail like a scared hare and runs.

****

The bathroom is mercifully empty. The mirror’s shaking from the speakers on the other side--something raucous with a serious twang--and the sink could do with a scrub, but there’s nobody in there to needle him except his reflection. The room smells like cigarettes and there’s ash on the floor and hell yes, that’s exactly what he wants.

He lights up and takes a long, greedy drag. The tobacco cuts through the beer nicely and he draws again, holds it, blows it out with a steadier breath. Put the last 20 minutes in clearer perspective.

So he declared his love for some random (albeit painfully gorgeous) guy. So what? No, it wasn’t his finest hour, but something tells him a man that pretty has heard a lot worse. Which doesn’t make it ok, what he said, but it probably won’t make the guy’s guess what some drunken douchebag said to me top ten.

Not that Steve’s drunk. He’s not drunk. He’s just--he waves the cig around, watches the smoke swim around him in the mirror--he’s just fucking lonely, that’s all.

Picky, Tony would call it, the word coated in nine different levels of disdain. Overly dependent on conventional concepts of romance, Nat would say, if she weren’t up to her eyeballs in rum. Afraid, Sam would say if they were alone in their office, chatting comfortably over their monitors. You’re just afraid of getting hurt again. Which I get, Steve, believe me. But you can’t keep living in the past. It’s been two years, man. You gotta let that shit go.

He bites hard into the filter, feels his teeth catch his bottom lip. Yeah, he thinks, intellectually, I know that. But emotionally? Easier said than done.

It’s been long enough now that he doesn’t see Thor all over the apartment, that the space doesn’t feel like it’s haunted anymore by half-developed images of the good times, the ugly, and the bad. He’s gotten rid of a lot of their furniture, swapped it out for new pieces one by one, as his paycheck allowed, and that’s helped a lot. He doesn’t walk on the rug that Thor brought back from Turkey or sit in the chair Thor’s mother picked out. He doesn’t sit every night on the couch that Thor liked to fuck on, liked to spread Steve over his lap and open him up and then pull him flush so that Steve’s cock was trapped between them, Thor’s fingers wrapped around his wrists, his wrists shoved against the small of his back, and Thor rolling his hips slowly, slowly, until Steve’s head fell back and his dick was so hard that it hurt and he begged .

Thor hadn’t wanted to take any of it with him into his new life, and why would he? Steve stubs out his dead cig and lights up another. Thor’s new boyfriend--god, no, he reminds himself, his husband, natch--has a hell of a place by the lakeside, a penthouse. Can see all the way to the UP on a good day, probably.

He’s only seen them in the city once, Thor and Loki, across a crowded street on the Mile. They’d been getting out of a limo in front of some top-shelf hotel and the way Loki had curled his arm through Thor’s, the way that Thor had looked down at him, a hot smile that was somehow full of loving--well. Steve might have ditched his Tinder date and bolted for Tony’s and his ever-ready liquor cabinet instead. No more attempts at a date after that.

His friends thought he was pathetic. Well, Nat did. And at least she’d say so to his face. Sam took more of the sympathy line, to a point, but even he, Steve suspected, was getting tired of Steve’s Eeyore shit. And Tony? He laughs to himself, watches the mirror him chuckle, too. Tony had made his preference known more than once, and as fun as that might be, Steve didn’t want to go there:

“I can’t,” he’d said the last time Tony had made a play for him. “I need you as a friend too much.”

Tony had smiled, a low, simmering smile that didn’t quite hide his hurt. “Of course you do,” he’d said, taking a small, enormous step back. “You’d be a mess without my stellar guidance. You’d still be in the closet, practically.”

He'd fought the urge to reach out, to squeeze Tony's arm. But he knew that would've made it worse. Instead, he'd said: “I was out for ten years before we met, Tone.”

Tony had shaken his head. “Ah, ah. We’ve had this discussion before, Steven. There’s out and then there’s, you know, out.”

Steve sighs and watches the last of the embers burn. Where the hell is he now, two years after getting dumped on his ass for a skinny rich son-of-a-bitch? Declaring his love for random servers and smoking illegally in a bar bathroom. Yeah, he’s really on the goddamn up and up.

He sees the door swing before he hears it, swings around in a flustered, smokey rush.

“Hey,” somebody says, gruff. “No smoking inside, man. You wanna light up, go around the back.”

Then Steve sees the somebody and the somebody sees him and goddamnit, his face goes right back to lit match.

“Oh, hey,” Bucky says, looking as suddenly flustered as Steve feels. “It’s you.”

#stucky #past thor/steve #wanda/natasha #accidental declaration of love #no powers au

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badacts · 6 years

Text

kid kevin’s first christmas 🎄

Neil is falling asleep beside Andrew on the couch when he suddenly sits bolt upright and says, “Christmas!”

Andrew doesn’t look up from his book. “I know you said you would swear less now, but I presume that isn’t your idea of an alternative.”

“No,” Neil splutters, pointing at the television that is only on for murmuring background noise. The screen is a mess of coloured lights, fake snow and festive music. “It’s nearly Christmas.”

“Your point?” Andrew enquires. It’s the twentieth of December, so Neil isn’t wrong, but he doesn’t know what that has to do with them.

“Kevin,” Neil says. “We should do something.”

“Kevin is ten months old. What would you suggest we do, exactly?” Andrew points out. Kevin may be pretty advanced for his age, according to the internet – he’s taken his first wobbly steps after a very brief period of crawling, and he has a couple of words, notably ‘Da’ and ‘no’ – but he has no concept of Christmas.

And frankly, Andrew and Neil only have slightly more of a concept. Andrew doesn’t have many good holiday memories from growing up, and Neil never observed a single one until he went to college. These days, they technically celebrate some kind of bastardised winter holiday, though mostly it’s family, friends, and dubiously festive food.

Last year, Nicky made cupcakes that looked like snowmen and Andrew and Aaron didn’t fight, which is the best they’ve done collectively so far.

“We should get a tree,” Neil says, with a kind of fervour he usually reserves for Exy and, well, things related to Kevin.

“Fine,” Andrew says, because he knows a lost cause when he sees one.

Neil nearly cries when he goes to the mall on December 23rd. At least half of that is because Kevin takes one look at the crowds of people everywhere and shrieks like a tiny demon.

Neil is thankful that he did up the straps holding Kevin in his stroller nice and tight. It means he can pretend to be deaf without worrying about Kevin squirming out onto the floor.

He’s pushing the stroller in front of him and dragging a shopping cart behind him with a fake Christmas tree in it when a woman in her fifties stops him to tell him, “You’re doing great, Dad.”

She doesn’t even look concerned when Neil turns a wild-eyed look on her – apparently that’s normal with parents. She just gives him an encouraging and somewhat pitying smile. He can’t believe he’s at a point in his life where random middle-aged people feel sorry for him instead of crossing the street to stay away from him.

As soon as she goes and takes her shopping cart with her, Neil pulls out his phone and dials Andrew’s number.

“Here,” he tells both of them when Andrew answers, shoving the phone in Kevin’s grasping hands. Kevin pulls the phone closer and squawks into it, and Neil hears Andrew’s calm voice murmur, “Hello, Kevin.”

After that the noise from the stroller is limited to Kevin’s usual babbling and fractured syllables. Neil doesn’t take the phone back until he’s paid for the things in his cart and got out to the parking lot.

“I’m done,” he tells Andrew, tucking the phone between his ear and his shoulder so he can get Kevin free of the stroller and into his carseat. Kevin is tired now, protesting being moved by clinging to Neil while he fiddles with too many straps.

“Congrats,” Andrew says boredly. Neil hangs up on him.

Kevin sleeps the whole way home, and wakes up exceptionally grumpy when they pull in. The only advantage is that Neil can pass him off to Andrew to deal with while he unloads the rest of the car.

He puts the tree up while Kevin is napping. It’s only four feet tall but a pretty dark green, and the tinsel and decorations look surprisingly good. It’s not a bad first attempt.

Also, the quiet amazement on Kevin’s face when he sees the lights go on after he wakes up is worth it.

Usually they rotate the place they meet for the winter holidays, but this year everyone is coming to them even though it’s technically Aaron and Katelyn’s turn to host. This is good, mostly because Neil can’t think of anything much worse than air travel with a baby and Andrew at the same time.

Nicky sweeps in wearing a Christmas sweater that even Neil can recognise as ugly, a more soberly dressed Erik in his wake. “Hello, hello! Kevin! Oh my god, he’s even cuter in real life, Neil!”

Kevin, who is used to Andrew and Neil’s moderate presences, looks shell-shocked by this level of enthusiasm. He promptly shuffles behind Andrew’s legs, hand stuffed in his mouth.

Nicky immediately softens, his face helplessly charmed. “Oh, a shy one. I see how it is.”

“He’ll warm up,” Neil reassures as he shakes Erik’s hand in welcome. Predictably as soon as Nicky sits down Kevin is all over him, investigating Nicky’s sweater with quiet curiosity.

Aaron and Katelyn arrive not long after. They’ve met Kevin before, and he loves Aaron. Neil would like to think it’s a predisposed soft spot towards short blond men who don’t talk much, but he knows that Aaron is good with Kevin in his own right. He tries to not be annoyed by that, because he’s an adult.

No one outside this group would ever think the cousins could be any good with children, so Neil kind of cherishes their private truth. Watching Kevin squash himself between Aaron and Nicky on the couch and accidentally poke Aaron in the jaw with the corner of the book he wants them to read to him – together – is actually pretty great.

Kevin still doesn’t get Christmas, but he wakes when Nicky does at six AM, burbling quietly through the monitor. Neil is awake long enough to feel the mattress move as Andrew gets up for him and then is out again.

The next thing he knows, there’s an insistent patting at his face with a small, sticky hand. This is familiar enough by now that Neil doesn’t startle, muttering a greeting to Kevin without opening his eyes.

“Fuck that’s cute,” Nicky says from the doorway, which does get Neil the rest of the awake pretty quickly.

“Language,” Katelyn says as she passes down the hall, voice stern.

Nicky winces. “Whoops. Hey, we’re going to do presents and then Andrew’s going to make food, he says you need to get your ass up.”

“Uh huh,” Neil replies, hoisting Kevin onto the mattress before he falls trying to climb up himself. It’s a bad habit – he and Andrew both agreed it was better that Kevin didn’t try to get into bed with them in the middle of the night, for obvious reasons – but it’s kind of hard not to sometimes. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

“There’s coffee,” Nicky says, and then leaves them to it.

Kevin is content to huddle into Neil’s side now he’s awake, sucking on his fingers again. Neil wraps him in blankets while he gets up and pulls on a t-shirt and sweatpants, and then hoists him onto his hip to take him out to the living room.

The number of presents has multiplied significantly since yesterday. They always get gifts for one another at the winter holidays, and it’s not even the first time they’ve done the whole ‘Christmas Morning’ thing, but usually that’s Andrew and Neil going along with the others, not them instigating it in their own home.

It’s weird, but nice. Neil sits on the couch by Andrew and takes the coffee offered to him, watching as Nicky introduces Kevin to the concept of unwrapping gifts.

It’s objectively pretty funny. Kevin is far more enamoured with the wrapping paper than he is with the gifts themselves, making a complete mess of the carpet as he basically rolls around in it. He opens all of them, meaning the adults have to do a confused handing over of gifts with no labels to their intended recipients once he discards them. Neil catches Katelyn taking pictures and fixes it in his mind to get them from her later.

Neil gets a small cactus from Katelyn and Aaron, and a large flat pot from Nicky and Erik, both of which are meant for his collection of pot plants and terrariums about the house. Andrew gives him a bunch of photos of Kevin from the last four months in defiance of their usual practice of not getting each other anything, which is fine because Neil got him a framed picture of Kevin crying on Santa’s lap from their ill-fated shopping trip and a new sweater. It’s a very dark green, and soft to the touch.

Eventually Kevin tires of wreaking havoc, bringing his two new toy cars to the couch and attempting to crawl up between them. Andrew hoists him up and wedges him in, taking the cars to examine them when Kevin passes them to him. He looks relaxed like this in a way most people wouldn’t assume possible, surrounded by his family and wearing a sweater that looks black but isn’t.

Katelyn takes a few more pictures. Neil is definitely going to need those, too.

#the foxhole court #andreil #kid kevin verse #my fic #christmas #christmas for children and a lot of people who don't care about christmas but do care about family!!!#andrew makes pancakes #aaron helps him #nicky and erik are in charge of dinner and katelyn does dessert #then they crack the bottle of expensive alcohol andrew bought andrew once kevin is in bed #AND IT'S NICE #BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT THEY DESERVE

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ourmisadventures · 7 years

Note

Don't know if you're still doing this but, being Ben's younger twin sister and dating Gil

you’re younger than ben by like twelve minutes but he never ceases to remind you

i mean he’s just over protective af

so when he gets the second round of VKs in and he sees Gil step out of the limo and his eyes lock onto you and yours onto him he just knows

holy crap my sister’s gonna have a thing with a VK

and then like

i mean if it’s gonna be a VK at least its gil

but he still tries to keep it from happening because like he’s the king and you’re a princess and gil is…well, gil is gil.

and obviously you do whatever the heck you want because your brother can’t control you and honestly he’s the only one going to try and stop you and you can handle him

and so starts the secret rendezvous between you and gil literally everywhere possible

i mean like the kitchen, under the stairs, in your room, in the middle of the woods, a n y w h e r e you can go and be alone for five minutes

the poor boy doesn’t really understand why you can’t be together in public because he’s still used to the isle where you do what you want and punch anyone who says otherwise

it low-key takes him like three weeks to realize that you and ben are siblings & then another two to realize that you’re twins

“i’m gonna talk to him gil, i promise,”

“whatever you want princess, as long as you don’t throw me to the curb.”

and while he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer when he does get something his freaking excels at it

don’t even get me started on how good this boy can cook okay lets just say you’re never hungry again.

also this boy can braid hair like no ones business

he doesn’t really understand the concept of love and how much weight the word carries so he thinks it’s just a word people use when they like someone so like three days into your relationship he tells you he loves you and you practically choke on your dinner.

“gil i’ve literally known you for a week.” and “that’s not a word people usually use this early into a relationship.”

so like, obvi you explain to him what you believe love means and he just sits there, eyes wide taking in every single syllable falling from your lips as you talk

and when you’re done he sits there staring at the wall with a look of contemplation on his face and then he looks back at you and nods

“okay so…i love you.”

and you just smile because how in the world did the sweetest kid in the land get put in that godforsaken isle and why didn’t ben bring him here first

“i love you too gil”

and then like about a month and a half into secret meetings and rushed conversations and fleeting glances in the hallway you break down and finally tell ben

a conversation that consists of multiple ‘i can’t believe you didn’t tell me’ and even ‘i thought you trusted me enough to tell me these things’ coming from ben and then some ‘i’ll do what i please’ and ‘you’re not the boss of me Benjamin,’ leaving your mouth.

gil’s pacing outside ben’s room as the two of you have this not so quiet ‘conversation’ and he’s freaking out because it reminds him of how his dad and his brother used to fight and he hates it

this keeps going until you’ve finally had enough and you all-but scream out the fact that you’re in love with him

also you don’t even hesitate to remind him that you’ve supported his relationship with mal from the start and you never batted an eye to the fact that she was from the isle and maleficent’s daughter no less

needless to say that shuts ben up pretty quick

so when he relents and ‘approves’ and opens the door for you to leave you practically sprint out and press a full on kiss to gil’s lips as the boy picks you up and spins you around happily.

“who would’ve thought the two of us would fall for kids from the isle, huh.”

“if it was gonna be anyone it’s gonna be us”

#gil's a cutie #gil descendants #gil son of gaston #descendents #disney descendants #disney's descendants #descendants 2 #descendants imagine #gil imagine #gil x reader

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shipmvns · 7 years

Text

Art School Assholes Of Hollywood Hills

hollywood hills is like probably innacurate but i just. i like alliteration? so? idk this title is shitty and so is this fic bc filler is hard all of the time. anyways this is based on the original concept of the show where jade was gonna be tori’s old friend instead of the nemesis. also this is gonna be a multichap so send me asks telling me what i should do w this shitty ass fic. if u dont like it dw i have a whole bunch of oneshots happening its fine

Pairing: Tori/Jade Words: 4,315 Summary: Nothing new is ever easy, and a performing art’s school is absolutely no exception. The closest thing Tori has to familiarity in this very new, very strange enviroment is, surprisingly enough, her best friend from nearly a decade ago- the one, the only, Jade West.

ALTERNATIVELY, READ IT ON AO3/LEAVE A COMMENT

The beginning of everything, like most things, starts with the sound of your older sister screaming. Somewhere far beyond the curtain up on stage, her whine rings true and is enough to draw everyone’s attention, as well as your parents back to where she is, swollen tongue and all, totally incapable of any kind of speech, let alone singing.

Or, otherwise, it starts in the blinding glow of stage lights, new bruises forming on your limbs after kicking and screaming your way through an entire team of talented teenagers trying to force you into the replacement of your older sister for something you don’t know how to do for a school you don’t attend. Standing in the middle of the stage, ragged breath choking out from your heaving chest, curtain sliding open as you stand there, mic in your hair, sure you’re gonna choke, providing enough material for Trina to torture you for months, and, oh, god, is this being recorded?

Or, if that’s too soon, then it’s in between screaming your own anxieties back and forth between students and teachers just behind the curtain after it should be all over and done with, until you see the parting seas of the moving curtains and Andre is calling out to an audience of parents that don’t really want to be there, asking them to reassure you, leaving you standing there, starstruck, mouth agape, watching applause wave through the audience telling you that you did something good.

Well, regardless of how it started, all of this- it certainly did, because why else would you be trailing along behind your sister as you entire the main hall of a foreign place, bottom lip firmly between your teeth, shoulders tense under the straps of your bag? God, you feel like a freshman all over again.

“Just don’t get lost,” Trina spins on her heels for a moment to address you. “That’s rule number one about this school.”

“I-I don’t know where any of my classes are,” You grip at the straps of your bag, rolling your eyes at your older sister.

“You have your schedule, right? With the room numbers?” She prompts you.

“Well, yeah, but I-” you start.

“Then you’re fine! Okay, good luck, don’t tell anybody you know me,” Trina waves you off as she takes off towards the east hall.

“But, Trina, wait-”

“Heyheyhey, rule number two, don’t acknowledge me while we’re at school, Tori,” She says, not turning back.

“I don’t know how to get to my classes!” You call back after her into an increasingly empty main hall.

“Bummer! Good luck with that!” Her voice echoes behind her, but she’s long gone, leaving you by yourself as the bell rings loud and clear above you.

You groan and throw your head back in defeat. Fantastic first impression, right? Being late to first period on your very first day, incredible. Does that get you a detention here? Who’s your teacher, even? You lay your bag down and start rummaging through it in hopes to find your schedule, when the door opens behind you.

“Hey, the bell rung yet?” A voice calls from behind you. You turn your head to face a girl with white and green streaks running through her hair, cup of coffee in hand, no backpack in sight, heavy eyeliner weighing on her lashes.

“Yes,” you huff dramatically, running a hand through your disheveled hair. Her eyebrows jump up slightly, but then she squints at you.

“I don’t know you,” she points at you with her free hand, “you don’t go here. Who’re you?” She questions.

With a sigh, you pull out your schedule, and stand up to face her. “Uh, Tori? I’m Tori Vega. I didn’t go here. Now I do. As of… today,” you motion around.

She pauses, eyes going wide. “Say that again,” she prompts.

“Uh, I didn’t go here-” you start.

“No, no, dude, what’s your name?” She halfheartedly conceals an eyeroll. Only your first encounter with a student, and it’s already going over your head.

“Tori Vega?” You try, wondering if that’s the wrong answer, somehow. That is your name. You’re… almost sure of it.

She smirks for a moment, then nods. “I’m Jade West,” she says expectantly, leaving you waiting.

Jade West. Jade West…The name sounds kind of familiar, you think, and- “Oh my God, Jade?” You question. What are the odds, huh? “It’s been a while,” you laugh lightly. Your immediate urge is to hug her, but you resist. It’s been since kindergarten, you’re practically strangers now, nothing but a ghost of a memory to one another. That leaves sparse room for physical interaction.

“If a while is ten years, then yeah, I guess,” she shrugs. “What’re you doing here, anyways?”

“I… sing now, I guess. Kind of a long story. Swollen tongues, crazy sisters, that kind of thing,” you say, as if any of that makes any vague amount of sense at all.

“By sister, you mean the one that put gum in my hair?” She asks, quirking an eyebrow (complete with a stud through it) and taking a long sip of her coffee.

“That’s the one. And she hasn’t changed since,” you laugh, and she joins you. “Anyways, a crowd full of adults and several teams of girls in strange costumes forced me to come here, and here I am, with absolutely no idea where first period is, and already, like, five minutes late,” you glance down at your schedule hopelessly.

She grabs it out of your hand and peers down at it. “Hey, Sikowitz, score!” She offers, glancing up at you.

“Sikowitz?”.

“Acting teacher. He’s your first hour. Mine too. Come with me.” Jade grabs you by the wrist and leads you down the twists of this brand-new alcove of a school.

“This place is huge,” you mumble under your breath.

“You get used to it,” she shrugs beside you, leading you deeper and deeper into the school, past many a poster and closed classroom door.

“How long have you been going here?”

“Since last year, ever since I got kicked out of that all girls prep school,” she chuckles like it’s a prized memory, and you fight the urge to ask how, exactly, she’d managed that.

“The one you went to in first grade, instead of Sherwood?” You ask her as you move past a group of kids doing choreography in the middle of the hallway. Weird school. One almost kicks you in the face and you let out a squeal as you move past him, further on down the hall.

“That’s the one. Dad was gonna make me go to another one, a boarding school, but I guess mom convinced him to let me go here, instead, so. Hollywood arts, one year strong,” she shrugs, sounding disinterested.

You kind of remember her mom- you’d always liked her. Her dad, not so much.

No sooner does silence fall than she’s stopping you in front of one of the many doors in the corridor. She promptly throws away her now empty coffee cup, then says, “hey, punch me in the stomach,” as if it’s some very nonchalant thing to ask of someone on a Tuesday morning.

“What- no!” You shake your head, confused. She rolls her eyes slightly, but doesn’t press. She starts breathing deeply, then puts one hand around your wrist, opens the door, and puts the other hand over her face.

“Late,” a man wearing clown pants that you can only assume is your teacher says, whipping around to face you, whiteboard marker in hand, like it’s some kind of threat.

“I-I’m sorry, it’s…” She says, choked up, as if she’s trying to hold back tears, hand still loosely over her mouth. You’re kind of concerned for a minute, before she says, “Tori’s sister… she… she ran over my dog. We were gonna take him to the vet, but…” Jade lets out a sob. Ooooh. Weird, weird school. You have to admit appreciate the efforts of trying to avoid getting scolded for being tardy, but this is… much.

“He was dead before we could even lift him up!” Jade exclaims, mascara running down her face. You kind of wonder if she gets the kind that isn’t waterproof just for effect. You pat her shoulder awkwardly, only for her to bury her face in your chest, still feigning some terrible grief. You blush slightly, rubbing her back and nodding halfheartedly.

“Jade, you don’t have a dog,” a girl with bright red hair says from her seat next to you. Jade hushes her viciously from behind her hand.

“It’s… tragic,” you nod solemnly. You think your performance might need a little work. Not that you came in especially prepared. All of the eyes are on you and a sobbing Jade.

“Miss West,” the teacher calls from the front of the class. Jade raises her head from your chest slightly to turn and look at him. “That was worthy of a C+, at best. The fake crying, admirable as it was, was a touch too dramatic,” he says, drawing out the syllables of ‘dramatic.’ “Follow up comment- if your dog really got run over in the middle of the street, even if it died almost immediately, you would be at least fifteen minutes late. You two are only-” he glances at his watch, “seven.”

So this is a school where people lie about dead dogs, then get graded on it by crazy men with whiteboard markers and colorful scarves. You suppose it’s a lot more interesting than your old school, at least?

“Bite me,” Jade snarls with a heavy roll of her eyes, taking a seat on the right side of the class. That is not how she talked to the teachers in kindergarten. (Okay, well, it kind of is, but her vocabulary was certainly less… colorful.)

“Oh, Jade, always delightful,” the teacher chimes, before turning to you. “And who is this lovely little gumdrop?” He approaches you. Weird school, man. Weird teacher, clown pants, kindergarten friends that have boobs now- weird school.

“Uh… Tori?” You offer. This whole ‘new-school’ thing requires a lot more repeating your name over and over than you’re comfortable with.

“Tori! From the showcase! Wonderful!” He claps giddily. “Any questions, ‘Uh, Tori?””

“Yeah, uh, will a C+ be my first grade in this class? ‘Cause I’d really hate for my GPA to go down just because Jade cries too dramatically,” you smirk, gesturing to Jade.

“Hey! I was trying to save your lost ass from getting marked late!” She defends, hands up in protest, but a small laugh gives her away. “No to mention your improv sucks.”

“That’s accurate, but I still take offense to it,” you huff, crossing your arms.

“You two know each other?” Andre asks, eyebrows raised from his seat in front of Jade. Andre’s in this class, right. You remember showing him your schedule last night, and him lining up the ones he had with you.

“Oh, yeah, this kid and me, we go way back to a full decade ago,” Jade snickers.

“It’s true. We really tore up Mrs. Patterson’s kindergarten class,” you agree, taking a seat in the general area of Jade and all of her friends, unsure of the etiquette or where one should sit in their first class at a new school which is shared with one’s friend from when one was five.

“I hated that bitch,” Jade shakes her head, snarl forming on her lips.

“Yeah, I remember,” you scoff, calling back to her many five-year-old revolutions against Mrs. Patterson and the alphabet.

“HEY! We don’t speak of it,” Jade says seriously, leaning forward in her seat until your faces are only inches away. You consider speaking, but no words come out as you’re trapped in her eyes. Ten years, but God, her eyes stayed the same, huh?

“Ooookay,” you laugh lightly, vocal chords finally coming to your rescue. She smiles, now satisfied, and pulls away.

“Aw, I wanna hear all the stories from when you were a little kid,” a boy on her right with some really great hair says. He then turns to you. “By the way, I’m Beck. It’s nice to meet you, Tori,” he smiles at you, holding out his hand, and you take it.

Before you can respond, your brand new crazy teacher is yelling at the front of the room about the importance of staying in character, so you do your best to turn around and pay attention for the duration of your very first class.

By the time the sun has come to a full rise outside of the window, the class is over, and you’re tugging the wrinkled class schedule given to you only yesterday out of your shirt pocket, squinting at the class numbers once again as kids start clearing out around you.

“Lemme see,” Jade comes up behind you and takes it out of your hands. She looks down at it for a moment, then nods. “Ah, poor kid, you’ve got Wells for History,” she shakes her head with a small smirk. “He’ll chew you up and eat you alive,” she puts a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t be late. Seriously. He’ll kill you, Tori,” she laughs, like it’s funny or something.

“I don’t know where he is!” You tell her with exasperation.

She sighs for a moment, the holds the schedule up against the wall, scribbling something down on it. “It’s down this hallway, on your left. Look for the number, it’s easy to find. Only door with nothing decorative on it, actually. If you get really lost or something, text me,” she says, final sigh escaping her lips, like it’s some big burden, but the irritation feels exaggerated.

“Oh. Thanks,” you nod slowly, watching her leave with a small wave.

You guess maybe you stand there for a beat too long or something, because by the time it occurs to you to move, Sikowitz is telling you that you better leave before you’re late to two classes in a row. You blush, but exit, and believe it or not, you actually do find your way to class in time, with roughly two and a half seconds to spare.

The teacher doesn’t actually bother to have you introduce yourself, but he does call your name during attendance, so at least you know you’re in the system, or whatever. He starts talking, but it’s on something Sherwood covered last week, and you even got a B on the quiz, so you figure that’s enough to give you a quick daydreaming pass. Mostly, all that’s on your mind is Jade- along with how bizarre your whole situation is, suddenly being thrust into this world of fast paced talent.

Primarily, though, your mind lingers on your former friend- she sure doesn’t have bangs or baby teeth anymore. And the dyed hair, oh man. Awfully hard to picture your five-year-old friend all grown up- or, well, something near it- but you’d be lying if you said she didn’t grow up awfully well. You wonder if she thinks the same thing about you.

It’s weird, seeing her after so long like that. You remembered her, but you never actually thought you’d see her again. Today’s full of a lot of new things, huh? Well, at the very least you can say that you’re kind of glad you came to this school, after all.

You spend the next two hours wandering through the halls from class to class with an eager repetition of your name, your sisters name, and the willful confirmation that no, you aren’t anything like her, and yes, she is like that at home, too. Up until lunch, all you have is the academic classes, but to your credit, you do have third period biology with Andre, and Jade’s friend- Beck?

That makes it a little easier to fare through, but after fifty-five minutes of anatomy talk, you’re sent reeling back into an unfamiliar world to fourth period English, which you have alone. It seems to drag on forever- you’ve never loved Steinbeck. You doubt any teenager really does.

Like all things good and bad, though, fourth period comes to an end, the chime of a bell and the rush of a crowd of rowdy teenagers the dead giveaway that lunch is this hour. You manage to let the sea of moving bodies guide you to the outdoor area where kids are sat talking and eating, and, spare a sharp elbow directly into your ribs, you make it out alright.

You take a tentative step forward, gazing around the area. Some kids are preforming in the parking lot, amazing choreography that makes your head spin and reminds you that you probably don’t deserve to be here, all the while you can hear singing coming from the awning above you that’s almost definitely way better than yours will ever be.

You shake your head, roll your eyes, and tighten your grip on your backpack strap. Whatever, that’s stupid, and you’re hungry, and you don’t know where to sit. You doubt your sister will let you within fifteen feet of her- high school restraining order, as if you’re some big deficit to her popularity.

You could sit with Jade- no, wait, would that be weird? Just because you were friends when you were five doesn’t mean you’re friends now. She probably has lots of friends now, and you’re definitely not a part of that crowd- you just got here. Her showing you the common courtesy of telling you where your class is doesn’t mean you’re suddenly best friends or anything, dumbass.

Well, Andre is always an option. If you could ever manage to find him. There are too many people in this school, dammit! Ugh, you’ll just have to-

“Hey, Tori,” Andre puts a hand on your shoulder, leading you with him to a table. Or that. That works. How convenient. Maybe this school isn’t all bad or anything.

“Hi,” you mutter, taking a seat at the table he’s led you to as a group forms around you. Andre, Beck, Jade, a kid with a puppet, and the red haired girl that Jade shushed in your first class today. You really, really don’t wanna know about the puppet.

“Hi, I’m Tori,” you tell the two kids you don’t know the names of yet. You glance around- strange group of kids. You kind of wonder how they all became friends. When you pictured Jade’s friend group, this is definitely not exactly what you’d been expecting.

The boy with the puppet manages to choke out that his name is Robbie, and then he starts speaking through the puppet, apparently named Rex, but you try to remind yourself that this isn’t a regular school as you do breathing exercises in your head to deal with being hit on by a ventriloquist’s dummy, wondering if this is all some kind of dream.

The girl next to him introduces herself as Cat with a soft voice and an excitable attitude, and you just kind of take that at face value as she tugs some licorice out of her bra and begins to eat it for lunch. Okay. All right.

“So, how’s Hollywood Art’s newest addition liking our wonderful little school so far?” Jade drawls, eyebrows raised with a smile forming on her lips.

“It’s…” you search to find the right words that won’t come out rude. “It sure is something,” you laugh, shaking your head. You aren’t wrong.

“Yeah, that pretty much sums it up,” Beck says, content with your final decision.

“What class you got next?” Jade asks, holding out her hand across the table, asking for your schedule. You hand it over compliantly, figuring she probably knows it better than you.

“Oh, cool. Songwriting next, Andre and I have that, too,” she nods, handing it back to you.

“It’s the best class, objectively,” Andre says, then pauses. “I’ve never been sure exactly what that word means. You get the point. It’s fun, you’ll like it. You’ll fit right in,” he tells you. You’re not sure if that’s true- you haven’t felt like you’ve been doing much fitting in the last few hours. Everything feels big and extravagant and beyond you. The only thing remotely familiar is… well, Jade.

Even so, you try and stay focused on what everyone is saying about some school function going on this Friday, but lunch passes much faster than you’d like for it to. That’s something Sherwood and Hollywood Arts has in common, you suppose, because before you know it, it’s fifth hour, and You’re sitting in between Andre and Jade as the cool young teacher announces that the class has a songwriting project coming up, and you’ll be in partnerships. He doesn’t give details, just requests that everyone pairs off in their partnerships and sign up now.

Partners. All right. Upon the teachers silence, the room erupts in boisterous noise, and Andre, to your right, has already left. Meanwhile, though, to your relief, Jade turns to you. “You can be my partner. I’ll show you what to do,” she tells you, as if it’s some very gracious gift, but you’d have to admit that you are a little grateful. The worst part of any partner activity is standing awkwardly, wavering in the air as everyone else pairs off in front of you. That’s not a problem you’re used to having- you had a lot of friends at your old school, and you’re pretty good at making them, but… partner work on your first day at a new school has a very clear pathway to becoming very cruel.

You nod, and tell Jade that you’ll go and sign up on the teacher’s sheet. She simply nods, and you leave her there, entering the growing line of teenagers. Andre sneaks up to your side and makes a cut in the line, greeting you.

“You don’t mind, do you?” He gestures to himself as he nestles into his spot in front of you in line.

“Nah, it’s fine. Long line,” you laugh. He grins in response.

“Sorry I left so fast, but I’d already promised my friend that next project, I’d do it with him. Who’re you with, anyways?” He explains apologetically.

“Oh, me and Jade are gonna do it together. She said she’d ‘show me what to do,’” you chuckle.

“So, you and Jade, you were real close, huh?” He raises an eyebrow at you, then glances over at Jade, still sat in her seat, neck craned back to the ceiling.

You shrug. “We were five. I mean, I guess. We played together a lot after school,” you offer. “Why?”

“Man, I’ve never seen Jade be that nice to anybody. Not even Beck. It’s not how she is. ‘S weird,” he shakes his head. “I mean, she can be a real you-know-what sometimes, but with you? Nothin’ but helpful. Never seen anything like it.”

You pause for a minute. What do you say to that, huh? You consider asking about Beck, but then then Andre is turning around to write down his name and his partners on the sheet, and without saying any more, he goes back to the other end of the class. Well, that certainly gives you something to think about, you guess.

After fifth period, you have math, to which you are three minutes late. You end up having to text Jade, but she has a really hard time figuring out where you even are based on your description, and then she stops texting you at all, leaving you to figure it out on your own. Eventually, you do manage to find your way to room 204, but not without a strongly worded lecture on the importance of punctuality, before you explain that it’s your very first day. On the upside, you have that class Robbie, and he seems pretty smart, and relatively nice, (if a little odd,) so you figure if you get stuck on any problems, maybe he could give you a hand.

Sixth period, you have French, with Jade (and Cat). Jade, fuming, tells you that her phone got taken away last hour. That entire hour she’s full of venting and empty threats to her asshole fifth hour teacher, and it really brings a brand-new meaning to the expression ‘pardon my French.’

The rest of the day drags by, but eventually, the final bell rings, and though Trina tries, she does not manage to leave without you. When you get home, you collapse on the couch with a grateful sigh as your sister storms up to her room, leaving you and your mom alone in the living room.

“Long day?” Your mother questions. You give a nod as you position your legs onto the back of the couch, hair cascading down to the floor. “Good day, though? Was it fun?”

“Yeah, I think it was mostly fun,” you tell her, letting your eyes unfocus.

“Do you feel talented? Is it exciting? Did you make any friends?” She presses, nudging at your shoulder with her shoe.

“Talented, debatable. Exciting, a little nerve-wracking. I have a few classes with Andre. Oh, and, hey! Do you remember that girl I was, like, best friends with when I was, like, five?” You ask, craning your head to look at her.

“Jade? Yeah, of course, why?” She says, almost immediately. Kind of impressive.

“She goes there, too. She and Andre are friends, I think,” You tell her. She continues to ask you her very mom questions, telling you how much she liked Jade’s mom and asking you about how you’re liking the school, but mostly you’re not paying attention. Mostly you’re just thinking about school.

You’re not one to really judge based on first impressions, but if your first day at Hollywood Arts is anything to go by, then you’re half inclined to think that maybe things will be good here.

#jori #jade west #tori vega #gray writes #i like barelllly proofread this and its shitty anyways but like im dead im dyin #lowkey? ill regret thisss

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phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess · 7 years

Photo

“Spy IS My Dad...”

Concept: Scout feels perturbed by his near-death experience, (the one with the robots not the hotdog or the hanging situations, though he’s starting to feel they should be numbered at this point) and his ‘dream’ from back in Russia is nagging at him.

So, to allay the notion he’s trying to ignore, the runner takes a moment during a week home to dig about in their cramped storage closet (the closest thing their family has to an attic), and find the baby box with his name on it.

All the boys have one. Ma made sure. It’s embarrassing as hell when she can zero in on it when your friends are around... but now he appreciates it.

There are no photos of his father’s face. A suit in the backgrounds of some photos though... huh, he’d never noticed that before... the suit was distinctive and seemed to be there quite often, especially in public shots.

He tells himself it means nothing.

It HAS to mean nothing.

Or...

No, it doesn’t prove anything to anyone and dwelling on it won’t do anybody any good.

Except... somewhere under the scuffed old baseball his brothers had swiped and gifted him, under his first bat, a lock of baby hair, his first bat... and that damned baby book cataloguing his every waking moment from birth to the day he left for Teufort...

...he found it... he knew what it was immediately. The scent was familiar and stirred... not quite memories, but impressions, of a time when he didn’t quite understand how fucked up the world was or how much being poor was going to impact... a time when he knew only that his Ma and brothers loved him, and crayons were fun to put in the toaster.

Yeah, he was a little inquisitive terror... there was a scorch mark on the bathroom ceiling that looked just like a waffle... that proved it.

But it was the shirt... he knew it. Just like... the dream, no, the memory...

His wrapped hands, ready for a fight even on holidays, shook as they tentatively held onto the aged, worn fabric.

It was real.

It was true...

...Spy...

Spy...

...and now they both knew for sure.

God, his life was so freakin’ messed up, he thinks with a chuckle that devolved into something akin to a strangled sob. Something he’d always wanted to know... and now, he’d do anything to erase it...

He wanted it to be anyone else...

...hell, if Pyro had been his father (mother? other parent?), at least he could be sure the firebug viewed him with something vaguely close to affection as they set the runner on fire...

Or any of the others...

Engie doled out paternal advice by the shovelful, Soldier shouted a lot but he let you know if you did him proud, Demo was the best-friend adult in his life, Sniper had that stoic-but-caring thing going on where he’d listen to you bitch then shoot straight with you about how you fucked up and what to do about it, Medic could get annoyed but he always reconciled and treated boo-boos with something approaching care, Heavy tended to speak slowly but he was smart and often tricked you into working out what you needed to do or say by yourself...

...but Spy, oh god... the man had made no secret of his disdain for Scout.

How could he ever live up to that?

Scout would never meet the insurmountable standards Spy would have set for any potential child... he was practically the antichrist, compared to the fictional French offspring Spy probably wanted...

Scout heaves in a breath, and tries to let it out without making a sound of distress; even though it claws at his throat, begging to be released. He remembers something... sorta, from the robot thing...

Of a voice saying it was proud, as he was dying (or trying to sleep or whatever that was before he flexed for God)... but that seemed kind of more like something his mind coulda made up to make him feel better.

He feels like there’s more to it, but he just can’t remember well enough...

...well, he remembers naked Sniper, and he thinks Tom Jones was there, but that was a sidestory to the main event...

...at least he had that, though.

Now he knew, nothing hurt more than being alive.

He loved his Ma, but how could she not have told him, she must have known Spy was at Teufort... that Spy was his-... ugh.

There was a feeling inside he hadn’t felt since his oldest brother died; it was like wanting to cry and scream at the same time... but not do either. Medic probably had some whacky-sounding latin word for it... but all Scout could think was that it made him feel so angry and frustrated and helpless, the more it festered inside.

Scout, no Jeremy, was shaking. It was awful. He couldn’t make it stop.

Shit, it was just like when he was little again. Sometimes when something bad would happen he’d just, stop... he couldn’t move or breathe or think what to do next. Ma or one’a his brothers would have to stay with him until it stopped... but he’d grown out of it...

Hell, he got shot at and exploded on a daily basis, and this never happened!

What was it about a shirt, a memory, a man... that had brought it back?

His hand clenched around the tiny shirt and tried valiantly to let it anchor him to the here and now. Tried to push those negative thoughts away. Eyes roving ceaselessly over the objects strewn about the floor... other memories, good memories.

The first picture at the hospital, with his Ma’s curly handwriting on the front... Like his brothers’ pictures, it said, ‘Hello!’, ‘cause she wanted to make sure they always had a reminder of the moment they joined the family for real... it was something her Ma had done, apparently. Scout’d never met his Gran, but she sounded alright enough... from what Ma had said.

Another picture was his brothers all smiling, holding him. Some were practically grown men, but they all beamed with pride, in a semicircle around his hand-me-down crib.

There was a birthday party... he still had the party hat somewhere; they’d made them from notebook paper and coloured them in. Cheaper that way.

And his first steps.

His first day of school.

An embarrassing picture of him as a toddler -stark naked and giggling- in the sink, which his Ma just LOVED to show off to everyone he’d prefer never see it.

Somewhere in the box was his first tooth, and then also the one he had knocked out during his first fight alongside his brothers, against another family. They had tried to start something, and the boys had finished it fast...

His high school certificate was in there, and the fact he had it surprised a lot of people... yeah, he made it through school, he just had trouble with words sometimes. They kinda melted... off pages... when he tried to read them, alright?

Nope, that last thought sent a flare of defensiveness throughout his body, exacerbating the situation. He tried to breathe and let it go.

Focusing on the baseball, the little bat he’d barely been able to hold as a toddler, but used to sleep with because he loved it so much... heh... good times. He was such a dork of a kid...

It was... it was okay. He was okay.

God, Spy was his-...

Nope, not okay.

Ma wouldn’t be back for a bit, and she’d taken all of his straggler siblings, the ones that never moved out, shopping with her. ‘They gotta get air sometime, hon, or they’ll stagnate like a stilled pond.’ she’d laughed.

He kind of wished one of them had stayed... but then, Jeremy was also really glad no one was seeing him freak out like some kid, again. Ma would get it, but he could think of at least two of his brothers that would be insufferable... mercenary or not, he was still the baby and he never would hear the end of it.

His laugh came out odd, but it felt good to make the sound. Like it was undoing a knot in his chest.

Chest. Yeah, that was the word Ma used for the box. Thought it sounded a little fancier than box; which was true, yeah. How had this all started with looking through that damn thing?

Well, it kinda started back with the bears and the hotdogs and naked soldier (and why did naked soldier almost always mean he was gonna die?), then he had the robot thing and the dream and all, got curious enough to-... to look.

But the box... confirmed it.

That was the most important thing.

There was certainty, now. There was a big, fat, real truth smacking him in the face and he’d never be able to pretend it wasn’t there anymore. Not like before, when he sorta had an inkling, but it was easily ignored or discounted.

This was real.

Spy was... his dad.

The little shirt with a freaking googly-eyed picture of France on it, was proof that he didn’t have some weird fever-dream back in Russia. It had happened. He’d worn it, toddling about as Spy and his Ma had watched on adoringly... seconds before he’d answered the age-old toddler question of, ‘what happens if I put this coin in my mouth and do a cartwheel?’

He was clenching it so tightly, Sc-... Jeremy was afraid it might tear, it was old, after all. But he couldn’t let go.

Hell, it was the first thing he’d ever had that wasn’t a direct hand-me-down from an older brother (or neighbour, or cousin, or-... the list was endless), or a nappy (which were not exactly intergenerational items). It was special to him.

His Ma said... she’d said it was from... someone who cared for him, and from her too. Which he... had always thought meant it was from his dad.

Why the hell couldn’t he have been wrong for once?

Still...

His fingers gently sifted the fabric between them, remembering, recalling through... what did doc call it? Sense memory? He remembered striped red clothes, his mother’s favourite perfume, the big beaded necklace he used to tug on, and a lap he liked to sit on at story time that wasn’t hers...

But where he recalled her face as if it was right there before him, her smile like moonlight beaming down on him as a child; but for his father, there was nothing... just an impression of red, of blue eyes...

And he knew now, why.

But then, it seemed to make sense to. In that odd rationality all children tended to have...

He recalled words he didn’t understand, back then. Some were from his Ma, others were... harder than hers, like they weren’t the same language. But he’d known the emotions behind the words, the meaning, the evident affection lacing every foreign syllable. How they followed his every movement, from waking to sleeping...

A small spark of something seemed to ignite inside.

If... if Spy was his...

And back THEN he’d actually cared... then maybe, now he might-...

It was eating him up inside, like some writhing thing at war with itself. It was ridiculous, and he hated feeling so lost, but... he was worried. If he knew, then Spy sure as hell knew and still acted like he hated every inch of Scout’s being with a violent passion. (Which was, to be fair, still only ranked just below the simmering murderous rage Spy felt for the opposing Sniper and his jars of jarate, so there was that.)

This kinda changed everything. The whole dynamic of the team could shift, if he dares to bring it up or... well, fuck, let’s be real, when he tries to bond with Spy more like he always does with the other team members, and the masked bastard shoots him down in flames again. Except now they’d all know, and feel sorry or justified or smug, or whatever...

It might start some shit between them all. Or, he kinda hoped it might... it would suck if they ALL took Spy’s side against him.

...that thought stole his breath away.

What if they DID all take (His) side? Scout wasn’t as important as Spy was, after all... sure he could run at the enemy or snag the intel, but he couldn’t sap sentries (in fact he was banned from touching the sappers after he’d fiddled with them and managed to short out the fridge, washing machine and microwave simultaneously) or backstab.

Everyone saw a Scout coming, they made sure. They were the anti-Spy class, really. It must really gall the Frenchman to know his... kid... was nothing like him; except maybe the eyes. And Scout already knew what the guy thought about his Bostonian accent... maybe he hoped some of that fancy French words thing would rub off.

Oh... did that make him half-fancypants? Uh, French?

Probably. To both, that is. Spy had to be a little disappointed about everything that was... Scout. And he was pretty sure he was half-french by birth, or whatever...

He was worrying the fabric of the old shirt, but it just felt good to have something real he could latch onto during this moment of pure fucking freakout revelation or whatever this was. The anxious energy had ebbed a bit, but not dissipated completely; it was like being all keyed up on bonk, but trapped in a small room or something. Except, the feeling was inside him, and his legs felt like lead, and- and- and-... and, what?

Running wouldn’t help now. Which wasn’t a comforting thought.

Nor was the idea that he was being ridiculous over this, considering how much he’d wanted to know and all, all those years. How many times had he asked his Ma about his father? Who was he? What was he like?

...what had Scout done wrong to make him leave?

He clenched the tiny shirt in a tight fist, trying to push down the words before they escaped, and failing. “...when didja stop caring? What was it I did that made ya hate me so much ya can’t stand ta be near me back at base?” he heaved in a breath. As if waiting for the fabric to give him the magic answer. It remained frustratingly silent.

Scout could feel that emotion from earlier rising, like an ominous, choking cloud. And he hated it. Everything about this was stupid, he shoulda just ignored that weird memory dream thing he’d had... hell, second night on base he’d hallucinated Engie and Medic doing the hula in sock-skirts, thanks to some weird mushrooms Solly had cooked with. He never got worked up enough ta investigate if that really happened or not...

(...but then, the answer would scar him either way.)

...but then, would the truth hurt him as much, if he’d been wrong about the memory... if the shirt had been wrong...? Scout thinks he would have been disappointed, or sad, or relieved, or all of them at once... but mostly it would have sucked.

...not as much as proving you not only had a dad, who clearly had been in your life more than you thought, who you knew hated you. But still.

He takes a shuddering breath and lets it go.

“Don’t matter. Just put it back, never happened... he’s ya dad... and he hates ya... ain’t like that’s rare in this frickin’ family, right?” he mutters, huffing in vague amusement. It was true, those of his brothers who knew their dads (or knew of them) didn’t have the greatest relationships... one or two got on okay, but the rest... not so much.

Carefully, Scout kneels amongst the strewn items of his ‘baby chest’. He places the shirt to the side for the moment, and begins to gently replace everything else; album first, photos, bat, hair, tooth (well, teeth), baseball, and the random little bric-abrac items he’d barely glanced at. Why his Ma felt she needed to hang onto his crappy macaroni Mother’s Day cards from first grade... he wasn’t sure, but wasn’t gonna question. Ma always had a reason.

...he pauses, with a quiet, ‘Huh’, as he suddenly realises that there are random things missing. Nothing big or important, he just... thought there was at least ONE of them in here...

See, normally, when pressured to make a father’s day card, he’d just get permission to make it for one of his brothers. The oldest one had been twenty-something when Scout arrived, with his own daughter; so it sort of counted. Each year he gave it to the next one, and the next... it was only fair.

But... way back in primary school he’d made two... one for his third brother, and one for... someone he’d hoped would come back and see it. Ma had looked so proud and heartbroken at the sight of it... but she said she’d save it, and put it in the Chest, as Scout watched.

Except... it wasn’t in here.

There was a long pause, then Scout shook himself, quashing the past however-long-it-had-been’s torrent of emotions back where they came from, and laughing at himself. Ma probably just snuck it out and tossed it later, so his feelings wouldn’t be hurt...

He turns to pick up the shirt... only to find it missing.

Panic begins to rise, and his brow furrows. What the fuck? He was sure he’d put it just there... right by the pair of clearly tailor made shoes that weren’t there a minute ago.

Scout jerks backwards haphazardly, a combination of several almost curse-words mingling together as his mouth moves to make up for the fact his mind is currently paralysed. Oh shit, no... please don’t be-...

Hell, he’ll take the BLU one at this point.

Spy is gazing down at him, not really moving, nor showing any degree of surprise at the mangled fight-or-flight response. He appears entirely impassive about the fact he’s suddenly materialised out of thin air (as was his habit) in the midst of Scout’s Ma’s place.

“Wh-... what are you doing here?” Scout finally manages to scrabble together and direct at the interloper. The runner is fighting his way upright, all elbows and knees as he struggles to rise.

Spy says nothing. Not exactly unusual, but it doesn’t help Scout feel any more at ease about this intrusion.

The Frenchman finally (finally) breaks the tension when he can look the runner in the eyes. Uncharacteristically, he sighs tiredly and hesitates just a fraction too long; ensuring Scout is immediately hyper-focused on the situation at hand. “Scout... I do not know 'ow to say zhis, considering you are alive and well, and will most likely recall it zhis time... but, you ‘ave never been a disappointment to me. And yes, I was watching for some time, zhe exact duration I will never disclose... but, most importantly from my observation... I see zhat my absence ‘as ‘urt you more zhan your mother and I ever anticipated it would.”

He’s not wearing gloves, Scout realises, as Spy hands over the small shirt. It was the most bizarre thing...

“I bought zhis for you before you were born. It was always intended to be a joke, your mother insisted for some reason... so I brought it ‘ome after a mission a month before you arrived several weeks early. I ‘ad not thought it would be indicative of future performance, but nonetheless we were delighted to ‘ave you.

Zhe main problem was our past ‘ad an awful ‘abit of catching up to your dear mother and I. Where she ‘ad put a pause on her espionage career to raise you, the people who would see ‘er destroyed ‘ad not stopped zheir efforts to locate us... in between missions, for whom I cannot reveal for reasons of international security, I often managed to dispose of zheir proxies.

‘owever, I did not always get the majority. When you were born, I was forced to kill an enemy intelligence agent posing as zhe on-call obstetrician, who was seeking revenge on myself over an Italian assassination situation five years beforehand in which zhe senator involved wound up in a... shall we say, compromising position upon death. I will spare you zhe details, but I was most artistic...

Zhe people we are sent to dispatch or manipulate, do not give up, and never forgive such transgressions; we know too much, and ‘ave lived far longer zhan most in our profession. For a while, our abilities and experience allowed us to evade their detection... but it did not last.

Shortly after you learned to walk, your mother was forced to kill several agents who ‘ad invaded your old ‘ouse without warning. Zhey ‘ad scoped out the place and managed to circumvent all the barriers, alarms and boobytraps set up to keep such as zheir type, out. Just some old employers looking to tie off a loose end... not caring who ‘ad to die to keep their nefarious underhanded dealings out of zhe light of day. Zhey would ‘ave killed you, if zhey ‘ad zhe chance... children are simply collateral to zheir types.

She knew zhis, and tore zhem apart...

I cannot describe to you her face when I found her afterwards. Your mother was devastated zhat you ‘ad borne witness to such extreme violence at such a young age. But she ‘ad no time to secret you somewhere safe, just respond to zhe armed assault... and ‘ope you would not recall it later on.

And you, mon fils, just sat zhere on your little yellow baby blanket... surrounded by toys, and utterly covered in blood. Bodies were all about, and you did nothing but smile and request to be picked up with your little grabby hand signal. I do not zhink she ‘as ever forgotten zhat day, or zhat moment.

It... left a sour taste in my own mouth, to see you tainted; so I immediately took you off to wash it off. Oh, you ‘ad no idea, and laughed like you usually did as the bubbles captivated your ever-inquisitive attention... but it changed something. We ‘ad ‘oped it would not be you, zhat was impacted by what you ‘ad witnessed... but it seems zhat was never an option...”

Spy’s expression soured, and Scout knew he was referring to his current employment; and probably all the stuff he’d done on the streets prior to it, to get recognised as a mercenary worthy of Mann Co. employment. It never occurred to him, before, that there was any other reason than ‘that’s how you survive in Boston’.

But Spy was speaking again. “We knew... things ‘ad to change. To keep you safe, to keep your siblings safe. Agents could track my movements to a central point, find your mother, use zhe boys... especially you, as leverage against zhe both of us. We could not let zhat ‘appen.

One of us could forge a new identity, and zhe other would ‘ave to keep zhem busy. We argued, over and over, but I pointed out your mother was just zhat. A mother, to eight boys, who needed her more zhan zhey needed a man zhey barely knew...

Perhaps it was selfish, but zhat was zhe conclusion we came to. I would remain Spy, and she, your ‘Ma’. It meant I ‘ad to give you both up, except for zhe rare opportunity to visit, or blend into a crowd at important moments of your life...”

The photos suddenly made far more sense, then.

Scout startles as Spy places a surprisingly gentle hand on his shoulder, actually waiting until the runner’s confused expression met his level, cool gaze, before continuing.

“Scout... Jeremy, mon fils... you never did anything wrong. Zhe reason I left was to protect both of you, and your brothers, from a distance... and I am sorry it came to such lengths, but we could not risk losing you. We loved you too much to jeopardise your life, your future...

Zhere was nothing you could have done, or changed. It was a decision made by your parents in the interests of everyone involved... but how can you explain that to an infant? To the ‘eartbroken child, the angry youth, the brash young man 'e grows into?

And... I will admit to a certain level of 'ostility when you arrived at RED base. Can you honestly understand 'ow much your mother and I wanted you to 'ave nothing to do with zhis life? A mercenary, a spy, zhey are always on guard or zhey die... and in our current employment, we die quite frequently, and violently each day. It is not ideal.

But... at least with zhe team, you are protected... as am I, by our teammates; and in turn, we keep zhem safe as well. Zhey ‘ave been a good influence, in some ways... you ‘ave matured before my eyes zhe longer you work with zhem... but in many ways I can see the marks where I ‘ave ‘urt you in my absence... in your mother’s silences on zhe subject of paternity.

But we ‘ad settled into our allotted roles and interactions, zhere was no way for me to reach out to you zhat you would not be suspicious of my motives. I ‘ad made it clear you were unwelcome, and you reciprocated; admittedly, our clashes are not as visceral and acidic as when you first arrived... but zhey are now a pattern of behaviour.

Even if zhe others no longer believe in zhe facade of ambivalence I employ in relation to you, now our relationship ‘as been defined more clearly, zhey knew you did not know... or at least, refused to acknowledge it. So it was only brought up in passing, a subtle not-joke to test your reaction on occasion. Zhe bushman often liked to broach zhe subject, from what I ‘ear...

But of our teammates, Medic noticed first that our DNA strands were too similar to be coincidence. Zhe ‘eavy simply knew, as 'e does many zhings. Demo caught me with my mask off, whilst intoxicated, and seemingly remembered enough to match our features more closely zhan I would prefer. Zhe Engineer appeared to work it out within zhe unsaid, during our ‘spats’ as ‘e termed zhem; even offered to mediate, ‘ow nauseating. Sniper simply worked it out, in ‘is way; which is infuriating, in no uncertain terms.

Whether Soldier or zhe Pyro know, I am unclear. Someone must ‘ave told zhem by now... but nonetheless, zhe team knows, and many ‘ave suggested it is time to cease zhe ‘ostilities and tell you zhe truth about your parents.

Zhere are excuses, and I gave zhem to you... but it does not make up for ‘ow ‘arsh I ‘ave been on you in zhe last few years. I ‘ad ‘oped you were just an angry young man who would tire of zhis constant struggle of life and death, would go home and choose another occupation, instead. Except... I zhink we both know zhat is highly unlikely by now. You are persistent, I will give you zhat.... zhough, ‘ow your mother and I created such a loud child, I will never know...”

Scout actually snorts.

Spy gives a wry smile, squeezing the runner’s shoulder. “You are right, of course, your mother and I were close when we were young... I know exactly where it ‘as come from, Jeremy. And it is endearing in limited doses, as our teammates ‘ave noticed of late.

Zhey tried zheir best to keep you alive despite your best efforts...”

“Hey,” Scout sniffs, definitely not having An Emotion about all of this sudden exposition. “The hotdog-bear situation wasn’t my fault...”

“I’m sure it was not,” Spy placates, relaxing slightly now that no explosive reaction seemed to be forthcoming. Honestly, there was a chance he would die via the tiny bat he’d sent for Scout’s third birthday... and wouldn’t that look impressive on his tombstone? His internal self-congratulatory rhetoric is interrupted by a question that sends him slightly off-kilter.

“And...” Scout hesitates, entirely uncharacteristically, “...ya not sayin’ this just to mess with me?”

The espionage agent grasps about for an appropriate response to such a hurtful question, and realises it is entirely valid. In the most assuring tone he can manage, Spy responds, “I would never lie to you about something zhis important, Jeremy. You are my son, and whatever bad blood ‘as passed between us before now, ‘as passed.”

“Then... why now?” Scout is struggling to understand this bizarre series of events. It’s almost like something out of a freakin’ soap (the ones his fifth-oldest brother swears he doesn’t watch, but god help you if ya wanna watch something else when they’re on). “I mean... we had years at the different bases, and I died, a lot... but... oh god, are you dying? Is Ma dying? Who’s dying?”

Spy tightens his grip on the runner. “Non, mon fils. No one is dying, everything is as it should be... now simply seemed most appropriate. You ‘ave matured, more zhan ever, recently and it seemed like you could ‘andle zhis conversation without killing me. And... ‘eavy mentioned you were screaming out zhat I was your father, in Russia... I ‘ad thought you were remembering something; until zhe robot incident.”

“O-oh good...” sighs the runner, fight-or-flight adrenaline dissipating finally. Everyone was safe, and he was okay. “I just... you’re my dad?”

“Oui.” Affirmed Spy, though he knew it was not an actual question, and more a bewildered statement.

“You’re my dad... and I always wanted ta know that... but I thought ya hated me like, a lot. And I thought maybe ya hated me ‘cause I did something I didn't remember, that made ya go away... I’ve spent my entire life stuck between hatin’ the idea of you, and wondering what you’re like.

And, sure, I kinda had an idea... but it wasn't til I kinda almost died for real that I remembered the whole thing with the shirt. Then Zhanna was there, and she was asking me ta cheat on Miss P, and I got all muddled, then I hadta fight a Spybot, who was a huge douche and decided ta stab me when I was winnin’...” Scout’s accent was getting thicker the faster he spoke, and Spy had to interject before it got unbearable for someone who had english as a tertiary language.

“Indeed. Let us not dwell on unpleasantnes-... did you say Zhanna, as in zhe woman Soldier is-...”

“Makin’ an ear necklace for? Yeah. She’s alright, when ya quiet. Don’t like Miss P for some reason... think she thinks Miss P likes Solly, but uh... I ain’t great at book reading, but I could read the situation well enough to know it wasn’t his honey-covered nudity she was appreciatin’.” Scout adds, fidgeting with the folded shirt.

He loved Miss P, and she liked him in a general sort of way he could only fantasise about changing the nature of; but he didn't think they were on the same baseball team... ‘specially not after that whole thing.

“Ah, you noticed, at last.” Spy murmurs.

“Hey, I y’aint dense!” Scout shouts back, stomping his foot, and utterly delighting in the full-body shudder that ran through Spy at the incorrectly truncated word. He’s laughing, despite the earlier emotional rollercoaster, and it feels great.

“If you promise never to use zhat word, if it can be loosely termed that, again... I will personally teach you to crack a safe using only a belt buckle.” Spy immediately counters.

Scout grins, “You got a deal, Spook-Daddy.”

“Never call me zhat again or zhe deal is off.” Spy glares. He softens after a moment. “Now, about zhe situation of earlier... I will not lie, I ‘eard many zhings zhat worried me, a few of which I ‘ave addressed so far.

I ‘ave told you nothing but zhe truth, and I do not expect it to mend zhe rift between us overnight; but I am ‘oping it will ‘elp zhe process. I was forced to leave for your safety, many years ago; but now you are old enough to ‘elp fight back, and you most likely ‘ave assisted your mother in warding off an unseemly amount of so-called ‘burglars’ over your short lifetime, it is safe to rejoin zhe familial circle publicly. So to speak.

At no point did you do anything to make me leave, it was never your fault, Scout. And... I never stopped caring. Yes, I heard zhat. I ‘ave watched you struggle with zhis situation for a long time, always being loud to make up for your uncertainty. It is nothing I ‘ave not seen before. But you never fell out of my zhoughts or concerns, Jeremy. You are my son, a loud brat with a surprising skillset considering your parents, but my son nonetheless.

We need no longer be so... actively negative towards one another anymore, if that is what you are amenable to. If you wish to continue playing zhe game, for our teammates, I will abide zhat request. Perh-... oof!”

Spy is thrown off-guard when he’s suddenly slammed into, Scout throwing himself forwards and wrapping around the other man like an octopus; head full of easily-rufflable hair, pressed into his shoulder. There is a strength in the arms that are coming close to cracking his ribs (must be all the bat-practice the brat persists with at obscene times of night when his near-death experience-induced insomnia strikes).

“Aw, just stop talking fancypa-... Sp-... Dad. It’s okay... I mean, it’s weird and I ain’t gonna be the most buddy-buddy straight up, but it’s okay.” Scout babbles, only relaxing when Spy tentatively returns the embrace. “It’s okay...”

“Indeed, mon fils, all is well.” Spy assures, driving back the torrent of similar memories from so long ago; trying not to wonder how his child grew up so fast, to not compare the little boy he’d held and soothed, with the young man definitely-not-sobbing on his tailor-made suit right now.

The strong fingers rumple his suit as they hold on tighter, a silent plea for Spy not to abandon them again. In response he strokes the runner’s hair, it had always worked before.

“I am not going anywhere, mon fils. I am here for you as both Jeremy and Scout, you never need doubt zhat again.” the espionage agent states, tone soft yet vehement. Saying nothing more for a long time, as they just stood there, both trapped in different worlds of thought about how two worlds had just collided for good or ill.

Scout had his father, and validation that it was not his fault the man had left. Spy had a chance to explain, to see if he could still be part of his son’s world, now that he was old enough to know why Spy had left.

It was a long time before Scout indicated he was fine to move away, definitely not using his bandages to wipe his eyes.

Their first father-son activity was to put away the shirt and lock the chest full of Scout’s meticulously-documented childhood again. Spy knew everything in it intimately, as it had been his way of knowing his son without direct contact for many years...

Ah, speaking of the young man... Scout, Jeremy rather, was fairly well exhausted after the whole encounter, and allowed Spy to steer him towards the couch for a nap. Completely forgetting, as he dozed off, to ask about the missing macrame items...

Spy, tucking him in as best one can on a couch, smiled at the sight. Knowing full well that, should the question be posed, he would never tell Scout that the rudimentary father’s day construct still existed in a safe place.

Let it be a surprise, for when Spy teaches the young man how to crack the safe in his office using only a belt buckle, to open the metallic box wide and see that... atop the piles of currency and false identification documents for all manner of countries, atop jewels and intelligence... sits the espionage agent’s most prized possession.

A little handmade card with a message glued in macaroni pieces, with oddly-sloped writing all over, and full of all the enthusiastic love a small child can muster. His first, and only, father’s day card from Scout.

Spy is drawn from his thoughts on the topic as Scout stirs, then settles. Ever the restless sleeper. He smiles at the notion that, even though things change rapidly, many remain yet constant and reassuring.

“Sleep well, mon fils.” he murmurs, moves to the adjacent armchair with a cigarette.

For the first time in his life, he felt... content.

And, he thought as the tell-tale footsteps of his beloved clattered up the staircase to the frontdoor, it was about to get much, much better.

- - - -

The End.

Honestly, I just wanted to doodle the pic thing, and write a small headcanon description to go with it... but that was two hours ago and now we have this hastily typed nonsense to contend with.

#tf2 #scout #spy #i cannot draw #but this has been in my head #for so long #this was meant to be a brief description and it turned into a shitfic #not edited bc i just wrote it and could not be arsed my bruh

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terassaras · 7 years

Text

Year of the Lion: Zero

A Sangatsu no Lion/March Comes in Like a Lion fic.

Rei contemplates nothingness.

Read below or on AO3. DO NOT repost on any other platforms.

Chapter Warnings: deep introspection, much sadness & loneliness, mild dissociation & depression symptoms, a bit of philosophy thrown in.

Rei?

What a weird name!

But it suits you. No home, no family, no school, no friends.

When I open my eyes, the sunlight is dancing across the ceiling in golden glimmers, reflected by the river flowing under a ribbon of robin egg skies. It’s the only time when the room would fill with warmth and shapes and colors. It’s like being inside a kaleidoscope.

Otherwise, the room is empty. No curtains, no bed, no desk, no sofa. Not even a bottle of cooking oil or a jar of salt on the counters. It doesn’t look like a home.

Maybe it’s because I don’t have one.

There isn’t anywhere in this world where you belong, is there?

Kyoko’s words pierce through my mind like midday thunder—a crack without a warning, a burn across my finger. The curse of a shogi player is a good memory. I can remember every syllable in her words as much as the acid on her tongue. They return every so often, merciless and clear, and each time I would think the same.

It’s all just as she said.

The only odd thing is that I’m not bothered by it.

Rationally speaking, there is no use in agonizing over the truth. It’s as if she had torn my shirt open and seen through my chest, a wicked smile breaking across her beautiful features, delighted at what she’d found. I had no defense—not against her words or—

Not against her.

Kiriyama Rei. That is my name. Class C, Group 1, fifth dan. Age seventeen. Occupation: professional shogi player. Other than that—

You are a zero.

Kiriyama Rei. Age seventeen. First year of high school. Professional shogi player 5-dan. That is all.

As for what I have, well, I have this shogi board that Father gave. It is my most precious possession. Other than that, my apartment is empty. Empty—but with a mesmerizing view of the river.

I like watching the river. It is a wide, blue river that stretches and curves around the city, undisturbed by the motions of people or time, breathing constantly in quiet, peaceful waves.

But lately I felt lost even when I watch the water slowly rise and fall.

Rise, fall.

Rise.

Fall.

Do you know that sensation when you jump from a high place into a pool? Those few seconds before you crash, when you have neither the earth nor your legs to support you, and you suddenly become painfully aware of your own weight?

And you think, “Have I always been this heavy?”

Gravity is pulling you into its core and there’s nothing you can do.

You know you’re going to hit the water. The surface tension explodes and the water suddenly becomes angry slaps running on your skin.

Suddenly you’re inside a different atmosphere. The angry sounds disappear, swallowed by the giant mass of dark water. Light flickers. The water over you won’t let the brightness in. And you are still going down, pulled by your own weight, which you thought was your own.

Your heart makes up for the lack of sound. It is beating wildly between your eardrums as it senses your panic. The adrenaline kicks in, heating your limbs down to your fingers, screaming at you to

Swim! Fight!

Forget everything else!

Breathe!

Do you know that sensation of falling?

That is how I fear I’ll fall

Losing

Sinking

Deeper

As the days pass by

….

……….

……………….

Breathe!

The first gasp of air feels like a cold cut across my lungs. Even when the air stings, even if it burns my throat, even if my limbs feel like lead, I surface and breathe. I must.

So I swim.

And swim.

And somewhere in the darkness of the ocean I’m swimming, under this sky that has only known storm and lightning, I frantically search for a place, a thing.

That’s right. If I can just get there, somewhere, some place where I won’t feel like falling once I stop moving. If I can get there everything will be—

Once I get there, I can stop moving, and there will be nothing. Maybe finally I can stop—stop this endless struggling, falling, thinking, feeling, suffocating, being—

Looking at the shadows of shogi pieces in the vanishing daylight, pieces I haven’t moved since the blurry hours of the morning, I can’t tell if I’m still swimming or if I’ve stopped moving at all.

Rei.

Zero.

A nothing.

Aside from shogi, I don’t have much and I have nothing to offer anybody. The memories of my family are hazy and I don’t remember them much. I might—I might’ve left them that way. And the family that took me in—I left them too, because I could see too clearly what my selfish hands had done to them. And now—

No home, no relatives, no school, no friends.

Well…

I think…

If having nothing means I’m not taking anything from anyone,

If feeling nothing means I’m not hurting anyone,

And if days when nothing happens mean I’m not hurting,

Then maybe it’s better that way.

Maybe I can accept being like this.

…

………

But then—what is this feeling that I’m not—that it’s not okay? That somehow...something’s…

Emptiness.

I might have read the word somewhere, maybe in a middle school literature class, like in a poem or an essay. I didn’t think about it much back then. Maybe it was the day after a match. I was probably worn out, my mind wandering in a too-light feeling.

So I decided to go to the bookstore. I walked into the section bearing guides and tactic books for shogi out of habit. I passed by the magazine section just to glance at the shogi magazines though there’s no reason for me to pick one up. It’s not like reading shogi player interviews can help me win matches.

Then I found the dictionary aisle and looked up. Large books stood in neat rows, their spines almost as wide as my hand, their covers muted and fonts practical. Heavy and silent, the dictionaries seem almost proud, as if each of them held the entire weight of the world’s knowledge.

I shuddered. I suddenly felt so small—overwhelmed by the number of books, the immensity of their wisdom. If I knew nothing, then these pages must list everything. It suddenly seemed impossible to choose just one title. So many books, so many decisions I could make, and I couldn’t figure out what the right move was.

I couldn’t see a winning strategy.

I took a deep breath. I had to calm down. Even in shogi you have to make the first move—and even if it seems like a monumental decision, what follows is more important.

I took another deep breath. Eventually, I picked up a dictionary titled The Great Passage. The title sounded interesting for some reason. I flipped through the pages and found the word:

空【クウ】 (Kuu)

Definitions:

(1) Empty air, sky.

(2) Fruitlessness, meaninglessness

(3) Void

(4) Shunya: emptiness, nothingness; the lack of an immutable intrinsic nature within any phenomenon. Also: dependent creation. Buddhist term.

Emptiness.

Can emptiness mean something?

I looked around for the nearest window. All above me was the monotony of rectangular ceilings and fluorescent illuminations. I got up and for some reason started half-running, half-walking towards the exit—and as I stumbled onto the empty sidewalk, I looked up.

Beyond the static skyscrapers were bright winter skies and not a single cloud.

Nothing in sight.

No, not nothing. I read about this. The atmosphere is made of gas particles that scatter the light at certain wavelengths perceived by the human eye as colors. And then beyond that is the milky way, the outer space, the entire universe, which continuously expands and which vastness is beyond reach and comprehension—

An endless depth. A void.

Huh. But you can’t really see anything up there from here, standing here on solid, concrete earth.

I went back to the bookstore and picked up the dictionary I had left. My head was running around in a hurricane of thoughts. I stared at the word for minutes, reading the definitions enough times for them to burn into my mind. One meaning had caught me.

It was shunya.

I shelved the dictionary back and went to a section I had never been, searching hastily for one kind of book. It was an unplanned decision. It was a book on shunya—on emptiness. It felt odd to buy something other than shogi books or textbooks—but I just felt like I had to. Maybe I was hoping it would help me understand a small part of this world—a small part of myself.

On my walk back to Rokugatsu Town, pressing the solidness of the book’s spine against my beating heart, I kept craning my neck up to the sky till it ached.

Obsessed with emptiness, I tore through the pages of the book like a hungry beast. I was a lion on a huntI was on a silent journey, scanning my surroundings, sometimes running till my chest hurt and sometimes prowling, studying things from a great distance, trying to find things I could claw my desperate mind to. Any formula, any theory, any word that would quell this hunger. I skimmed through the introduction and jumped right to one part.

Shunyata

A Sanskrit word, shunya means “zero,” “nothing,” “empty” or “void.” The root of the word is svi, “hollow,” and the noun form is shunyata, hence, “nothingness.” The Great Buddha describes it as void, the absence of rising and falling, cessation, and calmness. Dew drops, floating bubbles, flash of lightning, reflections in the mirror—these are all said to illustrate shunyata. However, it holds different meanings in different streams of Buddhism.

Although it may seem contrary, shunyata does not suggest some kind of “great void,” as if it were some dimension where nothing can be found. Rather, all existence and all nature are based in shunyata.

In Mahayana, shunyata is the belief that “all things are empty of intrinsic existence and nature,” or pratitya prasamutpada. That is, all things dependently originated. Everything we know is just an impermanent concept, they seem to appear and then disappear, when actually it is not so. They are things we thought to have name and a separate existence, when truly there is no real nature, essence, or substance in anything. No “things” or “conditions” appear on their own. Everything is interdependent and exists relatively.

However, that does not mean one’s experience is not real or that one does not exist. It is just that we choose to name and make concepts or boxes out of experiences or objects when they, in fact, are inseparable from everything else and will continue to change. We call a bicycle a “bicycle” but once the parts are taken out, do we still call them a bicycle? There is no one essence or substance that makes up a “bicycle” or stands for what “bicycle” is. Nothing stays as they are forever.

We tend to think of the “self” as “the self” and therefore cling to all emotions, thoughts, and experiences as though they were the most meaningful things. By doing this one would be filled with greed, craving, and suffering as one would be filled with ego. However, when one manifests shunyata or emptiness, one is freed from attachments, and one becomes egoless, or anatta, the non-self. The self is not attached to things and no thing is attached to its meaning as perceived by self. This is the only way to understand the reality of life. Perceived self is impermanent, perceived material is impermanent, and perceived existence is impermanent. Emptiness is the nature of all existence.

Huh. Wait—hold on.

So emptiness is saying that…everything means nothing? It’s just all names and imagination? But then—

Oh, okay, nothing stays as they are forever—so in that sense, maybe things change and so will I. Things will change. I got that…I think.

Okay, so emptiness is not some great void, rather…all existence is…empty?

Wait—what?

Does that mean who am I or what I’m thinking or whatever I’m doing—it all means nothing?

That can’t—I mean—if that’s so, then what have I been doing all this time? What have I been agonizing over all this time!? It can’t all be nothing!

Oh—hold on, it says if we cling to our emotions, thoughts, and experiences as the most meaningful thing, we become filled with greed and craving and suffering…

Huh?

What?

Well I’m—I am suffering! What’s wrong with that? And I don’t even know why!

And what is this part!? It says you must become egoless? The not-self? What the hell is that? If I don’t have self, if I’m really empty, if I really don’t care about what happens or what I do or what I think or feel…

…

…..

I guess the world I’m trying to understand is too different. The words were there but it was as if I was watching everything while hanging upside down. Even though—

Even though the book was called A Monkey’s Guide to Buddhism: Even Monkeys Can Understand!

….

…….

I just don’t get it.

Yeah. I really don’t get it—this emptiness thing.

Okay, I have been thinking about this. How can I agonize so much if I say that I have nothing?

I’ve been trying to read that book. Maybe it’s that dependent creation again. It’s that…maybe who I am now…is because of everything that has happened. That includes every person I’ve met. Don’t they say that people leave an impression on you and that they never really leave you? So in a sense you are never alone.

That means….all the people I’ve faced on the shogi board are part of me. The hundreds, hundreds of people that I won and lost against, in front of that small board.

That also means…Father.

Maybe even Kyouko.

Mom. Dad. Chihiro.

But if that meant I wasn’t alone—it’s still strange. It doesn’t make a difference. It’s not like I can see or touch or talk to them.

The Buddhism book says that you go into this cycle—this samsara--that’s inescapable unless you reach nirvana. Everything just repeats itself over again. And as part of the cycle you can never escape this…grief, this dukka. That’s a part of life.

………

That’s sad, I think. That you can never escape this grief.

But do other people carry this grief too? This grief that just exists because you exist?

…

…I don’t know.

I really don’t know. Is that something you can ask other people?

No, no, no, no—just the thought of speaking to strangers is—and I mean with that kind of topic—there is no way, is there?

But if there were somebody I can ask…

Right—come o think of it, if other people are part of me…that means I would be part of others too.

Huh?

Wait, would I? Have I ever been that kind of person to someone? To anyone?

It was childish and embarrassing, I guess, but I hid that book. I didn’t have many places to hide things in the apartment so I shoved it in a box of off-season clothes and old textbooks.

I didn’t want to see it again. Even the thought of confronting the title, lifting the pages weighed by so much wisdom, the black ink spilling blunt truths onto my hands—

It scares me.

Rather than ponder about all this…emptiness and life cycle and karma and attainment…things I can’t make heads or tails of…

I just want to think about things I can solve.

Yes, like shogi matches. That I can work with. If I just focus on game notations and think about tactics and practice and practice, I can just make out a path.

Yeah. I don’t need to worry about anything else.

Yeah.

Back here again.

The pawns are raring. The knights, bishops, and lances are staring. The generals and the rooks are waiting. The board is standing there, expecting.

And I’m the only one who couldn’t make a move.

Though it’s almost the beginning of the new year, nothing has changed and nothing feels different.

I thought I’ve been swimming frantically all this time. But the truth is I’m slower than time. Most days it’s a struggle to pull myself out of bed and make the heavy thoughts go away.

But I mean—there’s no way I wouldn’t think or worry about things is there? About what I should do, about what I wished I didn’t do, about—

I guess that’s what happens when you have too much time by yourself.

Thinking and worrying so much with no one to talk to, my head just keeps going in circles. The circles keep growing bigger and looser and wilder, like a child drawing with a black crayon, painting pictures not even he can understand.

There, sitting with arms wrapped around knees that throbbed from sitting too long, I’m floating in a giant starless darkness—and though my stomach pleaded and cried to me for food, I stay there, knees glued to my chest, listening to the endless drone of the heater that does nothing to the numbing winter night.

I wake to the ache on my back. The blanket over my shoulder has joined the scattered shogi pieces on the floor. I must’ve fallen asleep at some point and kicked the board in my sleep.

Papers bearing game notations rustle under my hands, crumpling and sticking on my skin, as I rise and look outside to the new year’s sky.

It’s morning.

A grey morning.

A cold, grey morning.

And there’s shogi to do.

Ah, I should probably eat….but making breakfast is a pain.

Hmmm, I should at least drink some water. No, later.

There’s laundry too—when was the last time I did it?

Right, at least I should change my clothes—but maybe later. It’s too much. I’ll just do shogi.

And the next morning will be the same. I’ll do shogi.

And the day after tomorrow will come and it’ll be the same. I’ll do shogi.

And then next year will come and I…

Author Comment:

Things get better, as Rei will learn, but it takes time. Also, there’s nothing like an existential crisis that can get you to read a book on philosophy and/or religion. Just…maybe not a book called A Monkey’s Guide. Word defintion taken from here.

There’s one more chapter planned for January and then one chapter (hopefully) for each month after. Comments, critics, and questions are always welcome.

PS. Did anyone notice the reference to a recent anime?

#march comes in like a lion #3月のライオン #sangatsu no lion #rei kiriyama #fanfiction #saras writes #here i go again making another tough thinking fic #lessee if anybody sticks with it #many thanks if you do #please pray for rei

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