#the whole reason for all this is Miles' BOMBASTIC SIDE EYE

[maria-ruta]

tonight my brain gave me a whole 3rd spiderverse movie in my dream haha

it was a mess, but I liked this ONE scene, and you can enjoy it too now, bc I drew it lol

#across the spiderverse #spiderverse #miles morales #miguel o'hara #peter b parker #the whole reason for all this is Miles' BOMBASTIC SIDE EYE #its my favorite thng lol #but also hey fatter miguel looks great #he just needs to shower mb put on something clean idk #my art #silly things #the rest of the dream was unwatchable lol #also yes hes reading spider punk comicses

[wri0thesley]

A Well Rounded Education (2): Grading Boundaries (Fem!Reader x Nanami Kento, 7.5k)

series synopsis: You are a teacher’s aid to teacher Gojo Satoru, training to be able to take over your own class next year by shadowing and helping him out. Gojo does not make things easy for anybody.

chapter synopsis: the father of one of your students requested a meeting to ask about ways of improving his son’s grades. after working with him for a few weeks, nanami wants to thank you for helping yuji out in his own personal way. 

NSFW. AFAB reader, fem pronouns. oral sex (male on female and female on male), massage, nanami is just a gentleman after toji tbh.

(a well rounded education m.list and navigation)

1.

You oversleep the next morning and for the first time since beginning your work as Gojo’s teaching aid, the other man is at his desk before you manage to rush into the classroom. He’s relaxed, arms behind his head, feet up on the desk – and when he sees you, he gives you a cheery wave and a grin.

“Found this on the floor this morning!” He says to you, using his thumb to flip you something small and round that you only manage to catch through sheer dumb luck. You stare down at the thing you’re cradling in your palm; one of the round buttons from your blouse, that you guess you missed after Toji had left and you’d had to try and pull yourself together.

““S-sorry about that,” you babble, your mind working eighty miles a minute to think of a proper excuse. “I-it got caught on my jacket when I was getting ready to leave last night, I wondered where it had gotten to--”

“How’d the meeting with Tsumiki go?”

“Huh?” You ask, blinking down at the button still, trying to fight the heat that is crawling up your face as you shove the accusing object into the pocket of your neatly tailored jacket. “Oh! It wasn’t Tsumiki. It was Mr Fushiguro, actually. M-Megumi’s father?”

There’s a pause in the air, almost as if it’s rippling with tension. When you look up, Gojo is staring at you, his eyes implacable behind dark lenses.

“I see,” he says. “That’s unusual.”

“I gave him all the paperwork, explained the probation and everything,” you hurry to say, almost tripping over your words. You don’t like the way he’s staring at you, and you find yourself shifting from foot to foot, hoping you don’t look like someone who let their student’s father rail you over their boss’ desk. “Megumi’ll be back in school next week, and hopefully nothing like this will happen again--”

“Mm,” Gojo says. You’ve never heard him sound that serious before, ignoring the chance to poke a little fun. His voice usually pitches and modulates, laughing, before he cracks some kind of inane joke that makes you and half the class wince. “I’ve got a meeting tonight, by the way. I was hoping you’d sit in with me.”

“Please don’t palm off more of your dirty work on me,” you say to him, as you go over to your own little makeshift table in the corner of your room and begin to rifle through your bag for the things you’ll need for the day. “To-- Mr Fushiguro was kind of scary, honestly.”

“Oh, it’s nothing like that!” Gojo waves your worries away with a hand, immediately dismissing it. “No, it’s Yuji’s dad – he wants to talk about his grades, I think? I said I don’t think it really matters, and he got really quiet and kind of angry on the phone with me.” Gojo shrugs. Of course Gojo said something like that. You’re not sure Gojo himself has ever worried about something in his life. “Honestly, he’s a. . . businessman type. Very serious! I just want someone to diffuse the tension a bit!” Gojo grins at you. “So you’re my human shield!”

Right.

Far be it for you to think that Gojo might have an educational reason for wanting you to sit in on this meeting. Still . . . you really like Yuji. You know that sometimes his inability to understand things frustrates him – he’s constant energy, and his mind just can’t keep up with the pace of the rest of him. You’d like to help where you can! And you know that Gojo’s probably not going to be able to offer any helpful advice – his classes might work for some kids, and Yuji does really like him, but that’s a boy who would probably benefit from some individualised attention and someone a little quieter.

You don’t like the idea of him with a father who pushes him academically and doesn’t care about his other achievements. Biting your lip, you nod, busying yourself with laying out the pens on your desk and flicking through one of your training books to see if there’s anything about meetings with parents. This one, you think and hope, is definitely not going to end up the same way yesterday’s meeting did.

There’s a kind of nervous energy in Yuji all day. He drops his pen, he shoots you agonised looks until you come over to check his work, and as everyone is milling out to go to lunch, he comes to stand in front of you, kicking his toe on the floor. You smile at him, seeing how he’s vibrating, rocking on the balls of his feet – hoping that the smile might at least calm him down some.

“My Dad’s meeting with Mr Gojo tonight,” Yuji eventually blurts. Without Megumi in class to tamper down some of his more bombastic nature, Yuji’s voice pitches and wavers. “I’m-- Mr Gojo doesn’t care about grades, but my Dad’s like, ‘you should apply yourself more, you have it in you’ and . . . and I guess I’m worried?” He brings a finger to his chin, dwelling on the thought. The way he says it, it’s almost like he’s not usually aware of the idea of ‘worry’ – oh, to be a twelve year old boy!

“I know,” you say, after a proper time has elapsed to make Yuji think you’ve really dwelt on the situation. You reach into your own bag to pull out the carefully prepared lunch you have in there – you could go to the staff-room, but honestly, you’re still feeling a bit wobbly after last night’s events and you don’t want to go around into the hum of people who’ll gather you up into bubbles of small talk. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m sitting in on the meeting too.” You hope your smile is reassuring. “It’s not going to be all doom and gloom, I promise.”

That actually . . . does seem to soothe Yuji.

“My grades are really bad,” he says. “I just . . . I’m not smart, y’know? Megumi knows all this stuff, and I’m just . . . dumb.”

“Being good at school stuff isn’t everything,” you say to Yuji. “You’ve got your own talents. Look at you on the sports field!” He blushes in the way young boys do when they’re being complimented by anybody, a kind of awkward ‘oh, shucks, don’t make me think that I’m good at anything’. You smile. “I’m sure your Dad understands that too.”

“Oh, he does!” Yuji’s eyes widen. You feel a little lock around your chest loosen, just a bit. There’s hero worship clear in Yuji’s eyes now. “He just thinks I should live up to my . . . what’s he call it? Full potential!” He twists his lip, and then leans in, conspiratorially. “He doesn’t like Mr Gojo. He doesn’t think he’s serious.”

Despite yourself, your lips curve into a smile. You aren’t going to trash talk your colleague to a kid that you’re in charge of, but all of the other staff just seem to roll their eyes and let Satoru Gojo get on with whatever he’s doing because apparently he was a prodigy at college or something. It’s nice to know at least someone is on your side, even if you’ll hopefully only ever see him once or twice during your whole year here.

“Don’t worry,” you say to Yuji. “I’ll try and handle it. Now, you should go! All the other boys look like they’re about to play a game of football--”

Yuji’s eyes brighten and he grins, turning away immediately, mind quickly flitting to something more pressing. He shouts a goodbye and a thank you to you even as he’s racing out of the door, almost too fast to be believed.

2.

Kento Nanami (Itadori is his ex-wife’s name, he tells you with a sigh, but the name that Yuji was born with and he’s reluctant to have it changed) is very obviously a businessman, in a well-pressed grey suit and a navy shirt, a yellow tie tight to his throat. He’s wearing suspenders beneath the jacket, an expensive watch on his wrist, and a pair of small glasses perched on a sharp nose. A solemn face, sculpted jaw. He has cheekbones that you think could cut fucking diamonds into pieces, a wave of carefully styled blonde hair over a proud forehead--

What the fuck is going on at this school that it seems like all of the dads are so hot? You do your level best not to look at him too much, as Gojo introduces you and he shakes your hand. He looks at you with his eyes narrowed just a touch; you think he’s trying to get the measure of you, and whether you’re just going to be here to back up Gojo. There’s an air of tiredness to this man that suggests he will not take any of your colleague’s nonsense, and that thought bolsters you when he puts down his briefcase and neatly folds his hands on his lap, looking from you to Gojo.

“I want to talk about Yuji’s grades,” he says, “and how we can help him improve them.”

You like him already. The way he says ‘we’ instead of ‘you’ – the withering gaze that he sets on Gojo, as the white-haired man stretches his arms out above him.

“I told you on the phone,” Gojo says. “They’re just grades--”

“Grades that will follow Yuji throughout his career in this school, and eventually to high school, and eventually to college,” Nanami’s voice is very sure of itself, cutting through Gojo with ease. “I just want to ensure that he has the best chance possible. I want to make sure he’s living up to himself.”

Gojo – fucking Gojo – stifles a yawn behind his hand, and you see that Nanami’s hand flexes on his thigh (wow, his hands are big). You cut across before the two of them can come to blows.

“Yuji’s a bright boy,” you say. “He just needs . . . a little extra help. Someone to sit with him and explain what’s going on, maybe just go over the material again.” You give Nanami a nervous smile. “He’s not the only one in the class, honestly. I-- Mr Gojo’s teaching methods can be--”

“Innovative—” (Gojo says).

“Erratic—” (Nanami says).

“Unusual,” you decide on, in the end, “and not every child is going to thrive.”

“He won’t let me ask them to move into Miss Utahime’s class,” Nanami says, wearily. “Yuji is very fond of Mr Gojo.”

(You know that, and so does Gojo; the white-haired man gives a cocky grin to both of you).

“I enjoy teaching Yuji,” you say. “He’s good-hearted, enthusiastic – he throws himself into everything he does.” Nanami’s tired eyes seem to brighten behind the glasses at the compliment to his son, his lips lifting at the corners in the briefest twitch of a smile.

“He does,” Nanami says, and it’s clear from his tone that he’s very proud of Yuji. You feel bad for thinking he might be the kind of pushy, demanding father that you’d been warned you may encounter in this profession. With Nanami in front of you, it’s clear he just wants the best for Yuji and is concerned that Gojo might not be that ‘best’. You can’t blame him. You often think Gojo behaves more like a child than half of the kids in the class. “Yes, those are all of his best qualities.”

You nervously shift your gaze to Gojo, who is waiting for your next move.

“I’d be happy to work with him,” you say, eventually. “Maybe set up some kind of . . . drop-in, for students having trouble with the work, over free periods? I won’t make them, of course, but . . . I think my methods and Mr Gojo’s are very different, Sir.”

Nanami’s shoulders relax just a touch. He stands, nodding, taking your hand to shake it.

“I don’t doubt it, Miss,” he says – and as he touches you, a frisson of electricity seems to pass between the two of you. His hands are big and surprisingly soft, and as he grasps your hand you can suddenly sense strength behind the grasp. You hope that your surprise doesn’t register in your face, as he turns and inclines his head slightly at Gojo (Gojo does not get a handshake, you do not fail to notice).

“I hope that it helps,” Nanami says, as he leaves. And honestly . . . you do too.

3.

Nanami asks to schedule a meeting with you, two weeks after you’ve begun working with some of the lower-achieving children in the class. Yuji’s grades have been improving, slowly and steadily – the boy looking at you with a grin when tests are handed back with letters far higher up in the alphabet than he’s used to getting.

“Ah, I can leave you to deal with that one,” Gojo says, grinning at you when he hears about it. “You’re the one working miracles, after all! I think Mr Nanami would just be displeased to see me sat with you, and I’m not gonna complain about not having to deal with a guy like that!”

You’re inclined to agree. So you watch Gojo leave that afternoon blithely, like he hasn’t got a care in the world – his bag is full of essays that need to be marked over the weekend, but somehow you think you’ll have a stack pressed into your own hands on Monday morning, more than a little crumpled, as Gojo insists you should get used to doing some marking yourself.

You wait for Nanami with your head in a book, steadfastly ignoring Gojo’s desk and sitting by your own table in the corner of the classroom instead. Last time you were alone with a student’s father in this room, you got to know that desk far too intimately.

Nanami is exactly on time, the second hand of the clock just ticking past the twelve as he knocks on the door and you call for him to come in. Gojo does have an office, and he’s said you can use that if you want – but the few times you’ve been in Gojo’s office, you’ve been overwhelmed by the chaotic mess that the man surrounds himself with. The classroom, if nothing else, at least looks peaceful.

Nanami sits across your table, well-mannered and polite, as you put your book down and smile.

“You wanted to talk about how Yuji’s doing?” You ask him. “It’s only been two weeks, but I think we can already see quite a bit of improvement--”

“Yes,” he says. “I think we can.”

Nanami does not heap you with praise; you get the impression that he’s not the kind of man who heaps anybody with praise. You get the impression he’s the kind of man who gives you an approving look, a pat on the shoulder, a nod – you find that you’re craving that approval yourself, looking at him across from you.

“I look at his homework sometimes,” Nanami says. “He’s getting a lot more of it himself, now. Not pulling his hair out at the dining table. You’re . . . you’re really doing a very good job, you know.”

Your insides fizz at the compliment. Gojo doesn’t give them out, either – but you’re the kind of person who occasionally needs to be told they’re doing the right thing, in order to motivate them to carry on. Nanami’s compliment carries a weight in your heart that lodges there like a secret.

You can’t remember the last time someone said you were doing a good job.

You and Nanami talk through the grading rubric, the other topics that are set to be covered before the end of term – how you’re trying to get Gojo to be a little more academic in his lessons, but it’s not working. You mention that lots of the other kids seem to be thriving under having a chance to go back over the material that your mentor occasionally skips and side-steps around, imparting his knowledge in his own particular way. Thoughts of Gojo make your mind swim with fatigue.

You hadn’t realised, until you started talking about it, but you also can’t remember your mind not being consumed by thoughts of your work at any point in the last few weeks. You’re always worrying about something; your mind always rushing from one possible bad outcome to the next. The kids, your training, Gojo, the school, the heavy weight of choosing a career where the next generation depends on you--

“You look tired,” Nanami says, his face twisted in sympathy. “Have you been getting enough sleep?”

You haven’t, really – thoughts of the class, and your work, and whether you’re even cut out for this as a career have been haunting you more and more recently, as you watch Gojo stumble irresponsibly from day to day. You feel like you get home, do some work for the next day, go to sleep, and immediately go to work again with nothing in between. You look at Nanami, who’s all concern, and you know you shouldn’t, but--

“I’m just getting stressed from everything happening all at once,” you say, forcing yourself to smile. “I have a lot of assessments coming up, reports I should be writing, reports that are written about me. Ah, those ones-- those are by Mr Gojo--”

“Ahh,” he looks incredibly sympathetic at that one.

“There’s just,” you falter. “A lot. And if I don’t come to work feeling my best and supporting them all, I feel like I’m letting the kids down, but I also just feel kind of bone-weary aching all of the time—”

Nanami’s hand reaches across the table, taking ahold of yours. His palms are warm and rough, and the thumb that rubs soothing circles against the base of your own is comforting. You sigh, eyelids half flickering closed.

“I shouldn’t have said anything to you,” you murmur, the small moment of intimacy (when you’ve spent the last two weeks feeling like you’re lurching from place to place and nobody is paying attention) sending a much-needed hit of comfort to the marrow of your bones. “You shouldn’t have to listen to my problems.”

Nanami’s lips tilt.

“I’d say it’s the least I could do,” he says, drily, “after everything you’ve done for Yuji – and after you’ve had to deal with Mr Gojo.” The look he gives you is quietly private, a shared in-joke between the two of you that makes you smile in response. His response almost makes you forget that he’s touching you, and though the touch is innocuous, you also know it’s unprofessional--

You stare at his hand on yours. It’s the same arm that he wears his expensive wristwatch on, and the sleeve of his suit jacket has ridden up to reveal just a hint of the shape beneath, a prominently veined wrist. Your throat goes dry looking at it, as you think of how strong he had seemed that time he’d shook your hand--

He’s looking at where the two of you are touching, too – a faint spot of red fading in high on his cheekbones. He coughs, awkward, but doesn’t move his hand. He swallows.

“You’re very pretty, you know,” Nanami says, and your body seems to flood with heat. You should say something about how inappropriate that is, thank him for coming to see you and the sweet words he’d said about how you were helping Yuji along, but somehow you can’t bring yourself to do it when he’s looking at you like that. “It sounds very hypocritical coming from me, because anyone who knows me will tell you that I don’t get enough of it myself– but you should rest more. Relax.”

You can imagine him ramrod straight behind a desk, eyes narrowed behind spreadsheets and numbers. You can definitely imagine him tired and drooping, working too hard. You smile again, helplessly, the look apologetic. You’re not very good at things like that.  

“You look stiff,” he says. “Here--”

He stands. You’d forgotten how tall he was, the breadth of him – he unbuttons his jacket neatly, laying it over the back of the chair. Without that, the width of his shoulders is really apparent. You don’t realise you’re staring until he makes a little noise, a ‘hmph’ of amusement, eyes not meeting yours, thumbs unbuttoning his cuffs and pushing the sleeves up to his elbows.

He’s behind you.

“I’ve been told I’m good at this,” he says. “Big hands, I suppose?”

You’re about to ask him what he’s doing when those same big hands are suddenly on your shoulders, the same thumbs that were just rubbing tender circles onto your hand digging into your shoulder-blades in a massage that you feel down to your toes. You don’t realise you’ve let out a noise and relaxed back into the massage until Nanami lets out a low hum that you think is mirth.

The noise you make as he works out that persistent knot in the back of your neck is near-on pornographic, and both of you know it – heat rushing to your face, Nanami clearing his throat. If somebody walking by had heard that – if they came into the classroom, to see you getting a massage from Yuji’s father--

How do you keep getting into these situations? Nobody warned you about this part of working in a school. Why do his hands feel so fucking good on you, fingers digging into your skin – you moan again, rolling back into his touch.

There’s a clipped quality to his voice when he speaks;

“Wait a second.” Your eyes flutter open as his hands leave you, watching in distress as he walks to the door. If you’re expecting him to leave, you’re surprised when what actually happens is that he twists the lock, so nobody can walk in on the two of you doing something so. . . incongruous with both the classroom around you and the knowledge of what exactly the relationship between you is.

He gives you another one of those half-smiles and you feel a familiar throb in your lower half. Oh, this is unfair – he’s so handsome, so unruffled, so gentle as he takes back his position behind you and touches you again.

“This would feel better on your bare skin,” he murmurs, the words ghosting along you as a politely worded request, and obediently your fingers deftly unbutton your blouse without hesitation. This time, you’re glad that there’s no clatter of lost buttons on the floor – this time, you’re able to push it off your shoulders yourself. Nanami sighs as you let the fabric drop, pooling behind you in a crumpled mess. One of his fingertips traces your spine, raising gooseflesh on the sensitive skin.

“Don’t you have someone at home to do this for you?” He asks, voice soft and low like velvet, as he kneads the skin, tension draining out of you more and more with each passing minute. The question is worded carefully, but both of you know what he’s asking.

“Just me,” you say, as his hands slide forward, thumbs digging into your shoulders but fingers resting over your collarbone, his hands so big on you.

“Pity,” Nanami breathes, but it doesn’t sound like he’s particularly unhappy about it. Your breath catches as he moves from your shoulders, further, further, fingertips brushing the swell of your breast in your (sensible, today) bra. He leans forward, his lips against the shell of your ear. “You can tell me to stop if you want me to.”

“I don’t want you to,” you find yourself saying, and his thin lips curve into a smile that you feel.

“I’m glad,” he murmurs – and then, fingers diving beneath the cups of the bra, kneading the soft flesh, the plush of your  body. You’re relaxing bonelessly into his touch when one finger brushes your nipple, sending a frisson of electricity right to the place between your thighs. Your bra straps are slipped off your shoulders, a slight lean forward so he can unclip the thing and let it fall onto the ground. Nanami sighs, almost reverent – when he moves his hand from your chest, you feel their absence keenly, a soft noise of dismay escaping you.

“Pull your chair out,” he says. You do; the legs scraping across the floor. Nanami himself moves so he’s no longer behind you, coming around to the front – casually, unhurriedly lowering himself to his knees in front of you. He reaches up to his face and removes his glasses, laying them neatly on the table to one side of him.

His eyes drink you in and you find your skin prickling with heat. You should be embarrassed; you shouldn’t be here at all, actually, alone in your classroom (again!) with someone’s father (again!), willing to let them look at you and touch you and more (again!). But Nanami reaches in, touching you so gently, fingertips and thumbs delicate as feathers as he strokes over your breast and waist and stomach. As he leans forward and licks a slow, agonising lap over your nipple until it hardens and pebbles, your entire body thrumming with desire. As he sucks it into his mouth, teeth nipping just hard enough at the bud that your body lights on fire, before he kisses a line across your sternum to give the other nipple the same treatment.

He slides his hands past your waist, unbuttoning and unzipping your pencil skirt with one hand, the cotton pulled down over your thighs. Nanami sighs again, cupping your hips, nudging your stockinged knee with his cheek.

“You’re lovely,” he says, affectionate, and it feels so intimate that your heart beats too fast against your chest. “Can I--?” Hands against the sides of your underwear, sliding over you in a way that leaves hot trails of fire behind him. You should be embarrassed that he can clearly see the wet patch, the way the sodden fabric clings to the petals of your sex – but when he’s looking at you like that. . . You can’t make yourself feel it. You nod, sighing, lifting your hips from the seat of the chair to assist in the removal of that particular garment. A light touch on your inner thighs has you spreading your legs further for him, his eyes drinking in the slick folds, the needy glint of your wetness.

He brings his face closer, taking a long breath in, inhaling your scent. The wash of his breath across you on the exhale fans across the length of you, your clit aching with need to be touched, paid attention to. Nanami takes his time, though – your thighs are kissed, first, his lips lingering on the soft skin, suckling gentle love-bites into the flesh. Occasionally, the briefest flash of his teeth, scraping across the sensitive area – always followed by a soothe, a kiss, a lick. Every one of them makes your body bloom into warm needy desire; you can feel how wet you are, know it must be soaking the chair beneath you even before Nanami has used his mouth on you properly.

He huffs out a chuckle as you whine, your hips tilting towards his mouth.

“You want me to use my mouth?” He asks you, his tongue gently lapping at one of the places he’s kissed. “On you, sweetheart?”

“Mm—mmhmm,” you say, breathlessly, not entirely sure that your mind is able to form any coherent sentences with Nanami knelt between your thighs. He places a chaste kiss on the mound above your clit, pulling back.

“Use your words,” he encourages you. There’s a stern dominance to him; coated in fondness, yes, but . . . an order, nonetheless. “I can make you feel so good--”

“Please use your mouth on me,” you whimper, soft as a mouse. Your hand flexes onto the seat of the chair beneath your thighs, and Nanami smiles against your soaking cunt.

“Good girl,” he praises, like liquid honey – and when his tongue finally, finally makes contact with your sex, the other hand has no choice but to curl into his hair as you let out a needy mewl, all of the heat that’s been building up within you since the very first moment you laid eyes on Kento Nanami coming to a point in the crux of his lips and tongue lapping hungrily at your slick.

Your lashes flutter closed, your thighs trembling, as Nanami sates himself on the taste of you, making you relax helplessly into his talented mouth. He knows exactly what he’s doing; the flat, broad strokes against the folds of your cunt, the lower dip of his tongue as he flirts with stretching your hole open with it, the teasing flick of it as it dances, dallies with the idea of your swollen clit.

You can hear the wet sounds of him between your legs, suckling and kissing and licking and lapping – not all of it’s from your slickness, you know, but an embarrassing amount of it is. His tongue pushes into your hole, thrusting a few times, imitating the actions of fingers or cock – and your thighs flex, almost squeezing him between them, your fingers tugging on his hair with a soft squeal of surprise escaping you.

The noise just spurs him on. He fucks you on his tongue for a few more thrusts, before dragging the flat of the muscle through your folds, forcefully parting them (his mouth feels so hot, there), until he can reach the throb of your clit. He uses his tongue to roll the bud, swirling the tip of the muscle around it, drawing patterns over the place that all of your hot, desperate need is concentrated. Your other hand jerks into his hair too, your hips thrusting against his hungry mouth  as he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks. You almost white out for a minute over the sheer overwhelming sensation of Nanami’s lips sucking on you, the displacement of air – you’re panting out breathy, whimpering noises, Nanami groaning as he edges you further and further towards your peak.

Fingers on your inner thigh. Nanami’s index finger, liberally coating itself in your slick and Nanami’s spit, dragging down the length of you that isn’t currently being utterly ravaged by Nanami’s lips--

He pushes one lone finger into your entrance, and that pushes you over the edge.

Your walls flutter around him, sucking him deeper inside your plush walls. You bite so hard into your lower lip you think that you might bleed, but it only serves to quiet the moan that escapes you by a little. Nanami groans against you, pumping the finger, sucking on your clit, guiding you over the peaks and mounds of your orgasm as he continues to enjoy the taste of you gushing into his mouth, overwhelming with the syrupy sweet stickiness of just how good you taste.

He guides you, too – with careful, slowing licks, lazier pumps – through the weak aftershocks and trembles of your peak, as they come to a slowly twitching halt. Your eyes are glassy, lips swollen from bits, as he places another chaste kiss over your sensitive clit and pulls back. His finger pops out of you with a wet gush that makes you feel so embarrassed at your own neediness you can barely stand it, but between your thighs Nanami is straightening up, a smug glint to his tired eyes.

“There,” he murmurs, standing, drinking in your quivering body, the slick on your thighs, how dark and satisfied your eyes look as you gaze up at him, half-woozy from the pleasure. “Don’t you feel a little more relaxed, now?”

You’re afraid if you speak you will simply slur your words, your tongue feeling unfamiliar in your mouth. You try and focus on Nanami instead – unfairly tranquil, aside from the wet of his chin, the damp spot darkening his collar. He places the finger that was formerly buried inside you into his mouth, the glint of arousal on it consumed by him with a tilt of the head as if he’s savouring the taste.

You can’t help but notice that there’s an outline of something putting pressure on the fabric of his slacks, there, between his thighs – something that looks hard, and stiff, and uncomfortable. You blink at it through a hazy mind as Nanami goes leans over you, gently taking hold of your chin, checking that you’re alright.

“C-can I help with that?” You manage, only a little bit garbled. Nanami’s eyebrows raise in surprise, a light pink flush to his cheeks – what does he take you for? That you’d let him eat you out so well that your toes curl and then just let him leave without seeing to his own issues?

(It’s a confidence boost, honestly – knowing that he’s hard because of you. You know that this isn’t the kind of man who would fuck you on his tongue in his son’s classroom if he didn’t find you attractive, but still . . . Someone like Nanami, with those cheekbones and those lips and those shoulders, wanting somebody like you?)

“I-- ahh--” He seems nervous about it, a little flustered, clearly not expecting you to offer something like that – but then, you raise one hazy hand and gently pet his crotch through the fabric and he whistles through his teeth, the organ giving a welcoming throb beneath your hand. You swallow at how it responds, the size and heat of it.

“Please?” Plump lower lip caught between your teeth. “I’d like to repay the favour.”

He swallows, raising a hand to loosen his tie. You see the bob of his throat as he moves, pulling out the chair he was sat on before, parting his own knees.

“I’d like that,” he says, and that’s all of the encouragement you need to sink from the chair onto your shaking knees, half-crawl towards him until you’re situated between his thighs. Your hands reach up to his waist, undoing his belt buckle carefully. The heat of his cock radiates through the fabric, brushing against your arm as you undo the belt. As you undo the button. As you tug at the zipper, the noise of the teeth indecently loud. He sighs himself, a hand cupping your cheek. “You’re so pretty,” he says, repeating his earlier compliment. His eyes on your face make you feel hot and flushed, the way he watches you eagle-sharp as your smaller hands reach into his underwear to pull out his already hard cock.

He’s not as big as Toji was, but that doesn’t mean he’s not big. His cock is elegant, a light upward curve, the head ruddy pink and slick with precome – and as you lean forward and let your tongue trace the slit of it, as you taste that same precome in your mouth, he groans quietly. He brings the hand not on your cheek up to his mouth to muffle the noise, and you can’t help but pout.

“Please,” you say. “I want to hear you--”

A pause. He drops his hand, taking a chest-deep breath. His fingers slide across the apple of your cheeks – you know he must be able to sense how warm you are, how shameless and brazen you feel.

You give the head of his cock dainty kitten licks, getting used to feel of him – getting used to the soft breaths he keeps making, the way that the hand on your cheek moves to knit into your hair. You know you’re teasing him, but the way he looks down at you like you’re the one doing him a favour has you all giddy and light headed.

You envelope the head in your waiting mouth, tongue messily lapping at it. It’s been a long time since you’ve done something like this – judging from the sigh escaping Nanami’s lips, the light thrust of his hips, though, you’re not doing too bad of a job on it.

You take him a little further, willing your mouth to open wider. Your tongue is still moving against him sloppily – tracing the veins of his shaft, licking fat stripes where you can manage to get it around. You feel a trickle of drool escape your lips as you widen your mouth a bit more, so much you can feel a light ache in your jaw.

“Fuck,” Nanami breathes, deep and ragged. “Fuck, that’s a good girl.”

The praise just eggs you on further, makes you want to take him deeper – makes you want to win more noises said by that dark, low voice. You push too far and have to pull back a little, your makeup smearing (you’re glad you’d foregone a darker lipstick today), your eyes watering. But you’re determined, and after you’ve managed to draw a choked breath around the cock in your mouth, you’re back on it, kissing and sucking and licking as best you can. Every so often, Nanami will groan from above you, his hips jerking, the hand in your hair guiding you just a little to the left. The other hand comes to cradle your face, so tender and careful with you.

“You feel so good,” he says, soft, like he can barely believe where you are. “Your mouth is so good, sweetheart--”

The flat of your tongue is dragged over the slit, his taste flooding your senses. You squeeze your thighs together, the friction thrilling even considering how slick your cunt still is (you’re grateful that your skirt is dark, because you know you must have soaked through your underwear).

His hips are moving more regularly now, but you can tell that he’s still holding back – that he doesn’t want to roughly fuck your throat, though he easily could. You look up at him with your eyes dark and wide, your lashes trembling, trying to get across that it’s alright for him to do that without having to stop hungrily licking and sucking at his cock. He sees your gaze, your lips wrapped around him, your cheeks hollowed in your attempts to impress, and he breathes out a shaking exhale.

“Is it really okay?” He asks you. “I don’t want to hurt you--”

You hum your affirmative around his cock and his eyes roll back into his head for just a moment, groan escaping his parted lips again, as he begins to rock his hips into your mouth. You gag around it at first – so big, so thick, even though he’s not going that fast yet – but as he begins to pick up his pace, your mouth gets used to moving in tandem with his thrusts and the tugs on your hair.

The ache in your jaw begins to be pleasant; you begin to feel like you’re meant to have it open that wide, that the bump of his cockhead against the back of your throat is right and perfect. His face is flushing, his breath getting shaky – whistling in his chest.

His chest. You stare at the bare collar above the buttons of his shirt, the lean shadows of his collarbone – you think, judging by the broadness of his shoulders, he’s probably built beneath there. You’d love to find out. You’d love to be somewhere other than in the classroom with this man, somewhere where you could learn his body by heart, where the floor beneath your knees isn’t quite so hard--

“Fuck,” he hisses, fingers tightening so hard that you groan, your throat vibrating around his cock. “Sweetheart, my good girl, I’m gonna--”

You hear the warning in his voice and you suck harder, swirl your tongue faster, coaxing him forward – his abdomen flexes under the shirt, his cock juddering in your mouth, pulsing as your mouth suddenly fills with the hot, wet, salty and unmistakable taste of Nanami’s come--

You keep sucking. You keep licking, swallowing pump after pump, draining forth every single drop of his release that you can until he’s shuddering and his cock is softening, his head thrown over the back of the chair to reveal the tempting column of his throat.

He’s taking deep breaths, great heaving ones that his shoulders move in time with, as the last few thunderbolts of his release travel through his body and he groans in the pleasured way that someone who has orgasmed their worries away does.

Nanami’s hand in your hair eases, his breaths evening out from the shakes and groans. His fingers are quiet and affectionate, as you pull back, swallowing the final few drops of his release. He looks down at you with those intense eyes half-lidded, his face briefly free of lines and stress and worry. He sighs, hand diving into the jacket still hung on the chair behind him – when the hand emerges, he’s holding a handkerchief, that he brings up to your face like a lover.

Tenderly, he wipes a bead of his come from the corner of your mouth. The action is so warm, so fond, that you can barely breathe for looking up at him. You feel like you’re knelt at some kind of altar – that Nanami had prayed to you, and now you are responding with your own supplication.

“Are you alright?” He asks you. “Your knees? Your mouth?” He’s so gorgeous; unfairly picked out under the classroom lights, like he doesn’t belong here at all. In another world, he’s avenging like an angel with a weapon in his hand. Now, he’s softly rumpled with his shirt unbuttoned and one of his suspenders fallen down his shoulder, his knees spread wide.

“Yes,” you breathe. He smiles again – he does not grin. His mouth is just a light uptilt, as he leans forward and brushes his lips over your own.

“Good girl,” he murmurs again, the words sending another shiver down your spine. “Do you need some help getting dressed?”

You rise onto unsteady legs and Nanami is there, supporting you carefully, rising with you. He rescues your skirt, your bra – deft fingers re-doing buttons, catching eyes with hooks, zipping up until you look – if not immaculate – at least presentable. Someone who had seen you this morning would probably recognise that your skirt is creased and your blouse is crumpled, that your hair is falling around your face--

Nanami’s fingers capture those strands too, tucking them back behind your ear, smoothing them out. Every single sweep and caress of his fingers makes you feel like you’re about to break into pieces from how soft you feel, how cherished. It’s a stark difference to how you had felt after Toji had swung out of your classroom, leaving you prone and leaking his come.

He leaves you, after you’ve regained your balance, to get your bag and coat, to grab the book you had been reading before this meeting had commenced – and he sets himself to rights with a calm, assured aura. If someone looked closely at him, you think perhaps they’d notice the tie not quite as tight, the hair not quite as neatly swept from his brow – you yourself can barely take your eyes off him. Is there something in the water in this town?

He grasps his briefcase, clips his glasses into the top pocket of his suit jacket instead of placing them back on his nose. His entire being seems to have lost tension, his eyes not quite as tired, his shoulders not quite as strained. As he finished, he comes to stand beside you – an arm gallantly curving around your waist just loosely enough that the touch could be read as friendly and not romantic. As the two of you walk across the classroom, he says quietly;

“You really should relax, you know. You don’t have anything to worry about. Yuji adores you, and I’m sure the rest of the children do too.”

(Your cheeks heat, the compliment warm and convincing in the sonorous bass of Nanami’s voice).

“Even Gojo isn’t permanent,” he says. “Anybody would be lucky to end up with you.” A cough. “That’s . . . as a teacher and in other ways.”

He pauses at the door, unlocking it with a final click that feels like he is saying that this little adventure has truly come to its natural end. His eyes linger affectionately on your face, a brief touch of hesitation colouring his features – before, once more, he leans in and brushes his lips against yours with a feather-soft touch that has you gasping in surprise against his mouth. The hand not on the briefcase takes your own hand, fingers entangling, and if you had thought your face was warm before, you’re quickly taught that you didn’t know what heat was.

He draws back a little breathlessly.

“I hope you’ll continue working with Yuji,” he says, sincerely. “And perhaps, if it’s agreeable to you-- perhaps we could schedule a catch-up meeting in a few weeks? So I may see. . . how things are progressing?”

“Of course, Sir,” you say, words very breathy.

When you get home tonight, and probably for the next few weeks, you’ll take a really good look at the grading rubric. You know. For the kids. Not because of Nanami’s sharp cheekbones and wicked tongue and the glint that had been in his eye when he had pressed his mouth against your heated core – not because of how his cock had felt heavy and thick in your mouth, and how it would feel pressed inside of you--

Nope. Not at all.

Definitely for Nanami’s son.

#jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #nanami x reader #kento nanami x reader #nanami smut #nanami x you #jjk x reader #afab reader #fem pronouns #writing #jjk teacher aid au #jjk writing tag

[allmightyneed]

Villain!All Might (Smite)x reader. part 1/20

I wanted villain Might as a Dominant so I wrote it. More to follow

“It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living god.”

This night is a fateful one. Not that you knew it yet. It’s the same as any other: routine. The edges of your life are narrow and sharp and easy to find. You do everything the same, day after day. Take the same steps down the same streets at the same time. All so familiar you could do it in the dark, feeling it out by touch.

Street lamps flicker overhead, the yellow light they give off too dim and unreliable to be much help. The asphalt is wet from recent rain. Mist hangs in the air, dampening the normal sounds of city life. All in all, it’s not the most comforting area.

You square your shoulders as you round the corner and head down an alley. 

Straighten out that backbone. Nothing to fear. Easy day. 

Inane mantras play on a loop in your head. You don’t know why this alley still weirds you out. You’ve taken this shortcut countless times before to be able to get to the metro quick enough to catch a train a couple minutes earlier. Hardly saves any time, but in your mind it makes a difference. 

Work today had been… fine. It always was. Reasonably engaging, not too exciting. Being an employee at a quirk analysis firm usually garners questions about what such a job is like, but you find them hard to answer. It can be difficult to characterize. Plus, being a foreigner in Japan, you’re always careful not to say anything that might be taken as an offense to the culture. No matter how long you live here, no matter how comfortable you feel, you are a guest.

Your eyes adjust to the darkness and you shove your hands in your pockets after hitching your purse strap higher on your shoulder. Dinner tonight would be… hmm. You don’t know. You’d bought makings for a salad a few days ago, in a fit of healthy optimism, but that didn’t sound as appealing as a bowl of ramen from the little shop in the bottom floor of your apartment building. It’s cold enough to convince yourself that heavy comfort food is justified, but no… you’ve spent enough eating out this month already, between office lunches and Kiko dragging you to every restaurant grand opening in Musutafu-- 

A booming laugh interrupts your thoughts. The shock of it nearly makes your heart stop. You whirl around, looking for the source, but you already know who it is. Anyone would recognize that laugh. You turn and behold a towering monolith of a figure, not twenty feet away, hands on his hips, stance wide. Even silhouetted dramatically in shadow, you can tell. 

All Might. 

The number one villain.

You freeze. Maybe he hasn’t noticed you yet?

“You there! Girl!” 

Crap. 

He takes a step forward and you struggle to steel your nerve. It’s public knowledge, essentially, what he can do. Not what his Quirk is, but his basic abilities. He’ll be fast if he wants to be. Inhumanly strong. Ruthless.

He laughs again, sinister and mirthless, sending a shiver of revulsion through you. You remember what he did to that tour group at Mt. Fuji. And there had been that attack on Best Jeanist’s satellite office. Over five hundred casualties. He’d leveled the building, for god’s sake, and then shouted at the late arriving news crews that they were all lucky he was holding back. 

Yes, you remembered that day all too well, having watched the coverage live on TV from your own office, only a few miles away.

What could he do if he didn’t restraint himself? A whole block? A neighborhood? You had looked away from the TV when the building came down, too horrified to watch the spectacle, only to realize that the previously clear sky had glutted with rain clouds. The scale of his power had made your heart drop on that day. Sure, it had been the most exciting thing to happen to you, and a great story. But it was still terrifying.

And now here he is, standing in front of you. This is just your unlucky day. Is it bad that you’re a little disappointed not to hear his infamous catchphrase?

I am here. Such a bold threat. 

It’s times like this you wish you had a better quirk. Granted, you’re very rarely in mortal danger; there really aren’t very many times like this. Strike that-- there are never times like this, not in the cautious, unadventurous existence you’ve curated for yourself. There is nothing in your experience that has prepared you for this. 

You gawp at the spectacle that is him. He’d made a scene once again on the news today, tearing through a rival quirk analysis firm’s downtown complex until the number one hero Endeavor had shown up to stop him. As imposing as All Might looks on TV, it hadn’t prepared you for what he’s like in person. 

Seven feet tall and change, muscled like a beast, blond hair swept back down his neck save for two unruly tufts that stuck up like rabbit ears. Nothing about him is timid, though. Utter confidence in his own power radiates off of him. 

“Yes, you!” He strolls towards you. His voice is muffled, metallic sounding underneath his iconic metal gas mask. Light glints off of the two orange glass pieces covering his eyes as he passes out of a shadow. No one has ever seen his face before, as far as you know. He’s never shown it in public, and who the hell knows who he associates with in his personal life. All Might having a personal life. What a bizarre concept. 

“Wh-what do you want?” You lift your chin, trying to sound defiant even though your voice betrays you. In a lull between the waves of fear, you realize you’re staring at his chest, his stomach, his legs. It’s a physique worth staring at. 

He shrugs, a strange gesture with his massive shoulders, then lifts a hand to his face, working at the fastenings of his mask. “I get asked that a lot.” He lowers the mask, lets it drop clattering to the ground, and you can’t believe what you’re seeing: All Might, face uncovered, and oh no he’s good looking. How is it fair that he’s attractive? Everyone speculated that he work the mask to hide a bad injury, or just because he’s ugly, but no. His features are handsome, symmetrical like a sculpture, with gleaming blue eyes and a wide, menacing smile that twists your fear into some other emotion you don’t quite recognize. “Entertainment, I guess.” 

Your pulse thuds in your ears. He couldn’t mean-- 

He reads your confusion. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” he sneers dismissively. “You think I have to resort to forcing myself on women? I have--” he gives you a pointed look up and down “--standards.”

That stings. “I’m not your entertainment!” You burst out, indignant. “And I would never do… that with- with someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” He prompts, all joviality gone. He’s still smiling, but it seems dangerous now. 

“A villain,” you spit. It’s hard to stop yourself from shaking. “You’re-- you’re evil and cruel and careless and--” you cut yourself short, realizing how foolish you’re being. 

He tilts his head, clearly amused by your attempt at bravery. “Let’s try again. Who are you? Tell me your quirk.” Without his mask, his voice is deep and enticing. Almost reassuring. He can sound normal when he wants, not like the cheesy, bombastic public persona. You have no idea what to make of him. Should you be running away? Or should you acknowledge the part of yourself that is inexplicably intrigued?

His unwavering attention on you is an unexpectedly heady feeling. Not that you aren’t scared-- you are-- but some strange part of you thrills at being the very center of his focus. His eyes do not leave you, even as you glance away, flustered and nervous.

He snaps his fingers in front of your face. “Are you dumb, girl?” He winces suddenly, breaking off to clutch a huge hand to his left side, though he quickly covers it.  “What’s your quirk?”

“W-why?” Prying about quirks is rude, but All Might does what he wants and fuck everyone else.

“Most people want to see if they can get in a hit or two on me. I figure I’d head off the time wasting and tell you if your quirk has any chance.”

Your quirk. You can’t tell him. You absolutely can’t tell him. If he knew… “I’m quirkless.” Your tongue feels thick on the lie, your voice raspy.  

“Pathetic,” he chuckles, breaking into a cough. “You’re one of those. Useless.” 

“I’m not useless!” You insist hotly. You don’t want him to look away and dismiss you. He was right, though, it kind of was, but making value statements about others’ quirks or lack thereof is just as rude as prying. 

“Then again,” he muses, as if you hadn’t spoken, “your quirk isn’t you… and you are not your quirk. Maybe you have some worth after all.” 

Frustratingly, your heart lifts at the slightest hint of his approval. How ridiculous. He’s nothing to you. And yet… you’d been talking to him, and he talked back. There had been more than the persona. You let the silence sit, and it’s enough space to realize that you’re rather star struck. Figures. The first big time supe you meet is the number one villain, and he’s both better and worse than you expected. Meaning— he didn’t murder you on the spot, but he’s a total dick. 

“So, quirkless girl. Got a name?”

It feels like a bad bet telling him, but you do anyway and he repeats it before asking you slyly, “what about a hero name?”

Clever. He’s much smarter than the media gives him credit for. You almost replied with the name of your quirk, but manage to sound embarrassed about not having one: “please don’t rub it in.” 

He rolls his eyes and sighs in annoyance. There comes more wet coughing, and he pulls at his side again, the same spot. Mentioning it seems both stupid and futile. You still have no idea why he’s actually here, other than coincidence, and what he wants with you. You’re happy being nobody special and yet, the imperious way he’s looked at you in these brief few minutes— or has it been longer? Shorter? For some reason you don’t want him to stop paying attention to you. 

Then, to your utter shock, he starts coughing up blood. He puts his fist to his mouth and it comes away smeared red.

“Are you okay?” The question is a reflex. He ignores it. 

Tendrils of steam rise from him, like he’s a kettle at the boil. Before your eyes, All Might is replaced by someone else. It’s a bit much to comprehend, but your logical mind makes the connection quickly. Blood at the mouth, blond hair, and of course they’re wearing the same clothes. Though, the drab olive green pants, navy shirt, harness and spiked pauldrons hang off of his body like they would off of clothes hangers. Your analyst’s sense spins into overdrive. So many questions answered. If you brought proof of this back to work you’d get put in charge of the division. Hell, you could quit Masuda & Matsuo and start your own company with this information. And yet you can’t help but ask, and really mean it this time—

“Are you okay?” 

The gaunt man glares at you. “Fuck off.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“You’re irritating me.” His tone is pure acid. And still, you feel slightly bad for him. He wants none of your soft hearted platitudes. He coughs more, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. 

You dig in your purse for a packet of tissues, and hold it out to him when you find it. “Here.”

His expression is all that’s needed for you to retract the offered tissues. You stay perfectly still watching him. He’s maybe half a foot shorter, and has terrible hunched posture, but it’s the same person, you’re sure. Which is the real All Might? Is there a real All Might? The number one villain’s identity, background, and quirk are the biggest unanswered questions of the past two decades. No one could say who he really was, or even if he looked like that all the time. 

Evidently not...

“... is it a transformation quirk?” You ask, willing your voice to be low and even, talking like you would to a scared, wounded animal.

Predictably, he lashes out, though you can’t help flinching. “You will not tell anyone about this. No one.” His eyes are unnaturally blue, almost glowing from deep set sockets. “Not your coworkers, not your friends when you go out drinking, not your fling, not your great aunt on her deathbed. No one.”

You find yourself agreeing. “No one. I promise. No one. But is it—“

“Be silent!” He snarls, getting right in your face before his tone takes on a silken quality. “Pathetic thing. You want to prove your worth, be silent. Stand where you are and do not speak.” He wipes blood away from his mouth with the back of his hand, letting his eyes drop, taking in your figure. He smirks. “Who knows. Maybe you’ll impress me. If I see any hint of this in the news, or online, I’ll know who to hunt down.” He repeats your name venomously. 

He turns and walks away. You do nothing. Say nothing. Don’t even twitch your fingers. 

That was All Might. The shock of the entire exchange floats and gradually settles, like silt in water. You don’t move, not even a step; your breath and heartbeat become calm once more. He had ordered you, after all, and he had, inexplicably, trusted you with a monumental secret. 

Had it really been him? Would the real All Might have done such a thing? You turn the thought over in your mind, fiddling with each piece of what you know. He’d certainly had the presence of villain. Deranged and volatile... and all too intriguing. His eyes are so blue.

You mentally scold yourself. Focus. Focus on what you actually know. You’d seen All Might on TV earlier in the day, trading blows with the flame hero Endeavor. What exactly had happened? All Might had been the aggressor, attacking Bando-Arata-Horikawa— your firm’s direct competition. You know people who work there, decent, average people. There hadn’t been any news about casualties, thank god. Endeavor had appeared shortly after the initial assault, slamming into All Might with a huge burst of power. The cameras on scene had caught it all, tracking the spectacle in real time, though it had been hard to follow. All Might was particularly enraged, turning his fury on Endeavor, and withstanding the huge gouts of flame like they were nothing more than a light breeze. 

Had he been breathing heavily then? Coughing blood? He hides injuries too well. The tussle with Endeavor earlier is hardly the first time All Might has taken some heavy punches. 

Shit, it’s cold out here. How long will you be standing here? All night? Your rational self asks the right questions. You should leave. Why the hell are you obeying him anyway? Likely he limped off, he won’t chase you. That was the real deal, you realize. Somewhere in the space of… how long?... you’d decided. He is. 

The uncomfortable press against your bladder grows heavier, even as you slip into an uneasy sleep where you stand, swaying slightly. That had been All Might, and you had not wanted him to send you away or discard you so thoughtlessly. 

Why hadn’t he touched you? This is a man who takes whatever he wants, does whatever he wants. He could have defiled you, or snapped your neck but he didn’t. The logical conclusion being that he doesn’t want you. You have nothing he wants. Why hadn’t he touched you? It’s an embarrassing sort of neediness that worms its way into your head as you’re standing there in the cold. Not good enough.  He really was right to call you pathetic. 

Stand where you are, do not speak. You yearn to prove him wrong. 

Hours later, he returns for the mask he’d left. His sudden arrival jolts you awake and still, you do not move. Only raise your nodding head, eyes bleary. He’s in the muscle form again.

“Still here?” He stops short when he notices you, a little incredulous. 

In a daze you regard him. 

“Tch. Run along home, little girl. The streets aren’t safe at night.” Do not color outside the lines. Remember, the edges are sharp. Too close and you’ll drop off. For the second time that night he turns away from you and you want to plead to him, to the number one villain, not to go.

link to part 2

#villain all might #villain all might x reader #all smite #all smite x reader #bnha #mha #bnha fanfiction #mha fanfiction #all might #all might x reader

[weedle-testaburger]

The Eye of the Oncoming Storm, a Thasmin oneshot for a friendo

As a sort of late bday present for @chronowix (and to help me cope with The Timeless Children), here’s a Thasmin oneshot what I wrote. Enjoy!

Yaz trudged back towards her family’s flat, taking a moment to look back at Ruth’s TARDIS and then continuing down the road. It was a good thing Ruth had landed in Heeley, a few miles south of where she lived; if she’d decided to go all the way back to Gloucester or that lighthouse where she’d gone with the Doctor, getting back home would’ve been a nightmare. As it was, she could probably promise to get back in about half an hour, an hour tops.

Figuring she didn’t want to worry Sonya, she pulled out her phone and messaged her, ‘Hope you’re alright, gonna be home in half an hour x’, wondering if she’d get mad if she asked her to put the kettle on for her. Better not risk winding her up, she figured.

As she came to the little plaza outside their building, she stopped and looked over at the point where, the few times they had come back home, the Doctor had often left the TARDIS. It looked weirdly empty without a conspicuous blue police box standing there. It was at that moment that it hit her: the Doctor was gone. That amazing woman might be dead, and might never come into her life again, for all she knew. And as she realized this, a twinge of pain ran through her. How were you supposed to see amazing things from all of space and time, from Rosa Parks to the conquest of the last of humanity by the Cybermen, and just go back to enduring dad’s curries and desparately hoping to climb the greasy pole of Hallamshire Police? She didn’t know, and thinking about it made her wince.

All of a sudden, as if summoned by her idle thoughts, a rippling ethereal sound started emanating from the spot, and before her eyes, a bright light flitted on and off as beneath it a familiar blue box faded into existence, accompanied by a familiar grinding noise. Moments later, the TARDIS stood before her eyes, and as if by reflexes, she dashed towards it, burst through the door and called out, “Doctor!”

From the other side of the glowing golden central column of the console, a blonde woman peered at her companion, and grinned widely as she recognized her. “Yaz?” she said quietly, almost in disbelief.

“Oh my God, you’re safe!” Yaz beamed, almost laughing as she rushed up to the Time Lady in front of her and hugged her.

To her own surprise, the Doctor hugged back eagerly. “Just about, yeah,” she answered quietly.

“I have a dumb question,” said Yaz.

“I love dumb questions, go for it,” grinned the Doctor.

“How long’s it been for you since we last saw each other?”

The Doctor thought for a moment. “Hmm, well, escaping from the Judoon prison ship and fighting off the Daleks took about... six months? Yeah, I’m gonna go with six months.”

Yaz hugged her again. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“It’s alright,” the Doctor replied half-heartedly. Before Yaz could stop her, she was fiddling with the controls of the TARDIS console again. “Just had the best idea,” she grinned. “Fancy coming for a quick trip?” Yaz nodded. “Then hang on tight, I think you’re gonna love this.”

As the Doctor threw a lever up, Yaz grabbed onto one of the frames around the TARDIS console as the ship shook and the engines grinded loudly, apparently going a long way away from Sheffield judging from both the Doctor’s enthusiasm and the TARDIS engines’ enthusiasm.

At last, they landed, and the Doctor proudly announced to Yaz, “Step out there. Go on, trust me.”

“Trust you?” Yaz laughed. “I’m about to step out there and find an invading army of Daleks you want a hand with, aren’t I?”

“I mean it,” the Doctor insisted. What the hell, Yaz thought to herself. She had a very earnest look in her eyes, and if the worst came to the worst she could just duck back into the TARDIS. Bracing herself, she stepped out the door- and saw a tranquil-looking hillside through a stony archway. Was this a joke? She looked around her, wandered a few feet from the TARDIS, and sat down on one of the mossy outcroppings, figuring if they might be important to some kind of society, she ought to be respectful. The view of the hills seemed to spread for miles beyond, and for some reason staring out at it gave her a sense of tranquillity she didn’t think she’d ever quite experienced.

“You like it?” the Doctor asked as she came up behind Yaz.

“Yeah,” Yaz grinned. “Where is this? Did you just take me to some bit of the Highlands or Wales with the TARDIS?”

The Doctor laughed. “Nope,” she smiled. “This is the Eye of Orion. One of my favourite places in the universe, probably.” She gazed out over the hillside and sat down on one of the ruins.

“So, who lives here?” asked Yaz.

“Oh, no one lives in the Eye of Orion. Hardly anyone can get here. One of the few unspoilt beauty spots in the universe, this is.” Peering down at how Yaz was sat on the grass, the Doctor asked, “You wanna come up here?”

“If it’s alright,” Yaz laughed, and sat herself next to the Doctor, smiling as she saw the blonde staring tranquilly into the middle distance.

Try as she might, though, the Doctor couldn’t shake the discomfort she felt with herself at being here. She remembered the time she came here with Tegan and Turlough, hoping for a relaxing visit, only to be taken away by the Time Lords to do their bidding, and the pangs of exhaustion she (or rather, he, as she was back then) had felt as her selves were whittled away one by one.

Remembering the Time Lords made it even worse, as the knowledge that she was the Timeless Child came back to her, and the realization that despite what she’d heard from Ruth, she couldn’t just shrug it off like she knew she should. She felt Yaz’s eyes on her, and desparately tried to focus on the view. “You alright, Doctor?” Yaz asked softly.

The Doctor sighed, and murmured without taking her eyes off the view, “not really.”

To her surprise, she felt Yaz’s hand touch her own. “If it helps, you can tell me,” said Yaz quietly. “I know I’m a human and stuff, but... I know what it feels like to run away from people close to you. If I can help, I want to.”

“Thanks,” the Doctor replied, still not looking at Yaz, but holding her hand. “You know,” she started, “I always used to feel like I was so much better than all the other Time Lords. They all decided to just slave away in their horrible little society, and I was the one that got away. I even told them all to their face once- I said they were decadent, degenerate and rotten to the core.” She smiled at the memory of her past self's bombast, and then sighed. “But now I know the only reason they exist is because of me. And I just wonder, is that what I am too? Just a secret agent who’s doing what she does because a corrupt society taught her to do the dirty work of meddling with time?”

For a moment, Yaz didn’t know what to say. But then a realization hit her. “Doctor?” she asked.

“Hm?”

“You don’t remember who you were back when you worked for the Time Lords, do you?”

“Nope, not a thing,” the Doctor admitted. “Why do you ask?”

“Because, honestly?” Yaz looked at her, and at last the Doctor could bring herself to look back at her companion. “The whole time I’ve known you, I’ve thought you’ve been the best, most important person I’ve ever known. It doesn’t matter to me who you used to be, just who you are now.”

“You really mean that?” replied the Doctor somewhat disbelievingly.

“Of course,” Yaz smiled.

“Thanks, Yaz,” the Doctor replied, resting her head on Yaz’s shoulder. As she continued to watch the view, a realization hit her. She didn’t remember a thing about being the Timeless Child, and ever since the first life she could remember, she’d been growing and changing and learning more about being a hero to people. It didn’t matter whether before that she’d been the founder of Time Lord society or a Shobogan farmer- what mattered was that she’d tried to make people’s lives better when almost all the other Time Lords hadn’t. “Hey, Yaz?” she said.

“Yeah?” Yaz replied.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Do you wanna travel with me again? Or do you want to go home?”

“I dunno if I’ll ever want to go home,” Yaz admitted. “Being with you, I’ve seen so many incredible things, met so many incredible people. I mean, normally I can barely even say I care about most people, but with you...” She was close to saying, “I love you,” but held herself back. “I don’t wanna leave you yet, is what I’m saying.”

“I don’t wanna leave you either,” the Doctor smiled. She cupped Yaz’s cheek, and in one smooth motion, the two leaned into each other and kissed softly, before hugging tightly. When they separated, both of them were blushing hard, but neither could let go of the other’s hand.

The two of them looked out at the rolling hills of the Eye of Orion, and leaned into each other hazily, comforting each other silently. The Doctor was the one to break the silence with the remark, “I’ve lived so many hundreds of years, and I can’t believe I never thought of using the Eye of Orion as a spot for a first date.”

#tim's fics #doctor who #thasmin #thirteenth doctor #13th doctor #yasmin khan #i swear i can write more kinds of fic than 'characters comfort each other over horrible events' #but most of my fics turn into that #i'm like a fluffy chuck tingle XD

[hellzyeahthewebwieldingavenger]

Spider-Geddon #5 Thoughts

Very mixed feelings.

This issue is a difficult one to talk about, partially because there was simply SO MUCH in it and each piece has its own pros and cons. As such this is going to be a bit on the piecemeal side of things.

Let me get a general criticism out of the way. The constantly changing artists was very noticeable. However on the flipside each of the artists participating were very very good. So the art wasn’t consistent but it all looked lovely.

Additionally there was a fun sense of bombast and action to the comic book, it was everything and the kitchen sink but in a good way.

I also appreciate that Gage (and yes I’m 99% sure all of these were Gage) in a sense apologized for aspects of Spider-Verse Chief among them was the resurrection of MC2 Peter Parker, righting a wrong that should NEVER HAVE HAPPENED!!!!!!!!! But we also have the Engima Force being useful as compared to Spider-Verse where it was stupidly ineffective in a cheap attempt to build up Solus. Gage does a deft job of not exactly contradicting that but at the same time showcasing Captain Universe as a power player.

Now let’s talk about individual aspects of the book.

As I said the Captain Universe element was appreciated. I also liked that the Enigma Force didn’t automatically confer Miles as worthy which is appreciated as for several years now stories, creators and fans alike have been worshipping at his feet, often at the expense of Peter. Here Miles got the Enigma Force but only after talking it round and was conscious about doing something to render himself unworthy, whereas Peter was simply always worthy. It is also a great way to let Miles shine in a series which exists to promote/benefit from his movie at the time and which was supposed to be his vehicle first and foremost. On the flipside though the Enigma force being wary of the Spiders as unworthy because they let some people die is illogical. 616 Peter had made similar or more mistakes but was still worthy. Additionally Miles asking what worthy even means came off as Gage throwing some shade somehow. Finally I have mixed feelings on the Venom blast being as powerful as it was against Solus. On the one hand it’s the Venom blast again being a cheap OP ability Miles has but on the other hand even if it was toned down to be very reasonable the Enigma Force probably would amp it up and it wasn’t like it won the day. Over all this element of the story worked more than it failed.

What about Ben Reilly? Well again I think this was Gage apologizing for Clone Conspiracy, though this is rather strange. Ben throughout the story seemed normal enough so what does ‘factory settings’ mean exactly? I guess the idea is that Ben is now...redeemed? Maybe? It’s very under developed and more problematically there is little acknowledgment of his and Peter’s relationship when that should be a big deal if they meet face to face. This is the first time they have seen one another since Clone Conspiracy after all. I get this isn’t a Peter centric event but then don’t have them meet up.

Speaking of Peter, I didn’t like how it was  Gwen leading the charge instead of him. Whilst the letter’s pages claim this event was to highlight non-Peter Spider Heroes the event really wasn’t about Gwen. She disappeared by issue #2, so if she gets prestige via her tie-in books shouldn’t Peter too? More prestige in fact given how he both beat the main villain of the original story (for the third time) and you know...is the real Spider-Man? Speaking of which the shot of the NINE Spider-Heroes from Earth 616 really just said it all to me. There are too many in the same universe and it is ridiculous. Especially when you consider Venom, Madame Web, Doppelganger and other probable candidates were excluded. I mean as of this writing we know 2099 is coming back to the present and Spider-Gwen will be coming to 616 too!

Of those 616 Spider-Heroes Spider-Man 2099 and Silk were present...where the fuck were they during the rest of this story. Silk maybe had a line or two, 2099 I don’t recall right now seeing him before this damn issue? Oh well, at least they addressed Kaine’s fate and made it clear he was still on Earth 616.

Keeping with Earth 616 lets talk about Otto. Think issue was consistent in basically kissing his ass. He was the main driver for the resolution to the story, he came up with the plan to fix everything and dammit it was a good plan; as was tricking Jennix. I hate saying that because Superior is a colossal douchebag of a character and I don’t care what happened here or in ASM #800, Peter shouldn’t give him free reign. He joined fucking HYDRA!

However I must admit I did enjoy his interactions with the Gamerverse Spider-Man as it bookended the event rather nicely going back to issue #0.

Before I move onto more interesting characters we must address very briefly Spider-Gwen. The origin of her new codename was eye roll worthy and the brief dialogue saying she can transverse dimensions now was out of nowhere. It was underexplained for someone like me who was not reading her tie-in series, and frankly I shouldn’t HAVE to read a tie in to get pertinent information when I’ve already paid $5.00. That’s about it.

Let’s talk briefly about the Spider-Girls. I’ve already lauded MC2 Peter’s return, but it was also nice to see Mayday get a lick in on Daemos. Too bad it was for exactly one goddam panel. We got more resolution from her fighting an illusion Daemos in the Spider Island mini-series! The Spider-Girls basically going all Morphin Time was cheesy and yet I loved it. However it was yet more BS dues ex machina crap from the end of Spider-Girls. It makes me hate the ending of that series even more now, especially since it amounted to so little here. However I did like the over all dynamics with the RYV crew and Mayday, what little there was in the story.

Now let’s talk about the Inheritors. They also represent a mixed bag. They continued to be aggressively bland characters right up until the end, but their ultimate defeat was a good compromise to beating them without killing them. That being said I appreciated that Gage had characters acknowledge how wrong it felt to be in the act seemingly killing them. Speaking of that resolution it was perhaps the biggest mixed bag of the whole issue.

On the one hand the reveal that the Inheritors never actually had to consume totemetic essences is disgustingly convenient to the point of being contrived and trite. On the other hand though it does wipe every Inheritor off the board with the possible exception of Morlun, allowing the possibility for him as the most famous and ‘popular’ Inheritor to return in future stories if needs be whilst the obviously shitter characters get hand waved out of the series.

Finally Spider-Norman’s plot thread goes completely unresolved. He was seriously underutilized in this story and even his machinations didn’t amount to all that much in the story. It’s just set up for something else, and I pray that something else is just a storyline in Superior Spider-Man and not another goddam event, let alone Spider-Verse 3.

Over all this issue had more I enjoyed than disliked I must admit (maybe that was the lovely looking art though) but the series as a whole was all over the place and mostly bad.

Gee I wonder if that one Ghost-Spider Issue I have left to read will change my over all feelings on this event...

...Regardless I would recommend you give this a read anyway, if for no other reason than the satisfaction of seeing MC2 Peter come back.

#Spider-Man #Spider-Geddon #mc2 #mc2 universe #Amazing Spider-Man: Renew Your Vows #Spider-Man: renew your vows #Christos Gage #Dan Slott #Miles Morales #Superior Spider-Man #Peter Parker #Spider-Gwen #Ghost SPider #Gwen Stacy #Annie may parker #spiderling #Spider-Girl #Mayday Parker #anya corazon #Spider Woman #spinneret #mjwatsonedit #Mary Jane Watson #Mary Jane Watson Parker #Doc Ock #Morlun #doctor octopus #Norman Osborn #Captain Universe #Ben Reilly

[dubsism]

Today’s Movie: Take Me Out To The Ball Game

Year of Release: 1949

Stars: Frank Sinatra, Esther Williams, Gene Kelly

Director: Busby Berkeley

This movie is not on my list of essential films.

NOTE: This installment of Sports Analogies Hidden In Classic Movies is being done as part of something called the Esther Williams Blog-A-Thon being hosted by Love Letters To Old Hollywood. I’ve been fortunate enough to have been included in several of her events…frankly, she had me at Van Johnson.  Speaking of which, there’s another event coming for him soon as well.

The Story:

“Take Me Out To The Ball Game” takes place in 1908 and centers on a baseball team known as the Chicago Wolves (not to be confused with the current non-fictional minor-league hockey team of the same name). Ostensibly, this is supposed to be the actual Chicago White Sox because they play all American League opponents, but the producers don’t want to say that as there’s a not-so-subtle reference to gambling and the whole 1919 “Black Sox” scandal later in the film.

Right off the bat, most will notice this movie is a bit thin on plot.  That’s why it works as a musical; a genre where the story-line really only serves to stitch the “song-and-dance” numbers together. To that end, two of the Wolves are also part-time Vaudevillians; Eddie O’Brien (played by Gene Kelly) and Dennis Ryan (played by Frank Sinatra). Obviously, those two are the engine for the “song-and-dance” part of this film (along with Betty Garrett and Jules Munshin).

The plot comes when the team finds out they are getting a new owner.  In and of itself, that would upset the club house of any team, but matters intensify when it is discovered the new owner is a woman who intended to take an active interest in running the team. The team envisions the new owner to be some frumpy dowager, but the reality proves to be the exact opposite.

If I were an umpire, Esther Williams could kick dirt on me anytime.

K.C. Higgins (played by Esther Williams) is not only improbably gorgeous, she just so happens to know baseball.  After the expected period of adjustment beginning in spring training and stretching into the season, the novelty of having a woman as the owner wears off and the “love interest” complications set in.

First, Dennis has eyes for K.C., but all the while he’s the target of the affections of a “Baseball Annie” Shirley Delwyn (played by Betty Garrett). Eddie eventually falls for K.C. as well, and this “J. Geils-esque ‘Love Stinks'” motif teams with the musical numbers carrying the movie until we get to the real “hook” in the plot.

As far as the songs go, they are standard fare for an MGM musical; light and meant to drive the pace of the movie.  Highlights include the require d title track performed by Kelly and Sinatra when they meet the other players in Florida.  They also pair for an “All The Girls We’ve Loved Before“-type number called, “Yes, Indeedy.”  There’s no way you’re getting an MGM musical starring Frank Sinatra without “Ol’ Blue Eyes” doing what he does best, crooning a love song titled “The Right Girl for Me.” Betty Garrett provides a major dose of comic relief with “It’s Fate Baby, It’s Fate;” sung while she seems to be seriously considering jumping Sinatra’s bones.

Interwoven through the messiness of the love interests is the fact that there’s a lot gangsters around this story, the head thug being Joe Lorgan (played by Edward Arnold).  This brings us to the aforementioned allusion of the Wolves as the Chicago White Sox as Lorgan is a thinly-disguised Arnold Rothstein, the man who was indicted but never convicted of conspiring to “fix” the 1919 World Series.  Vaudevillian Eddie gets tangled up with Lorgan when he performs in a show bank-rolled by Lorgan and his cohorts who are betting on the Wolves to lose the World Series. Eventually, this leads to a series of events which result in Eddie being kicked off the team.

The Hidden Sports Analogy:

Much like the Wolves had a incorrect assumption about what K.C. Williams was going to be, if you think the hidden sports analogy here is about baseball, you would be mistaken. Today’s episode is a tale of a real-life K.C. Williams three-quarters of a century after the setting of “Take Me Out To The Ball Game.” It’s also a story as interwoven as the love interests in that film…come along on a journey which will take us through Hollywood, the National Football League (NFL), and straight-up sexism.

ACT I – Bob & Carroll & Ted & Alice & Baltimore & Los Angeles

The story starts in 1972 when a businessman named Robert Irsay purchased the NFL’s Los Angeles Rams. At the same time, another business giant named Carroll Rosenbloom owned the Baltimore Colts.  Rosenbloom amassed his fortune with the Blue Ridge Clothing Company; by 1959, Blue Ridge had grown to include almost a dozen shirt and overall companies and had over 7,000 employees.  This led to Rosenbloom being known “America’s Overalls King.”

While Rosenbloom was born and raised in Baltimore, he fancied himself being part of the glamour of Hollywood…and he fit the part as well. An athletic, dashing figure, Rosenbloom cut a larger-than-life presence…he always reminded me of Lorne Greene, and I think Rosenbloom would have been right at home as the patriarch of a TV western family.  To that end, he was was one of the largest share holders in Seven Arts Productions Limited, which backed the Broadway musical “Funny Girl,” and the films “Lolita,” “What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?” and “The Night of the Iguana.”

Rosenbloom also had the pedigree for a perfect NFL owner. He had an “Ivy League” education having studied at the University of Pennsylvania and playing halfback on the football team.  This is also where his connections to the NFL began; his backfield coach for the Penn Quakers was future NFL Commissioner Bert Bell.

Carroll Rosenbloom and Robert Irsay

On the opposite end of the spectrum, Robert Irsay was bombastic and a heavy drinker who cared little for the glitz of Hollywood. So, in 1972, he and Rosenbloom swapped franchises. Irsay got the Colts and Baltimore, at the time a tough, blue-collar seaport city much more befitting Irsay’s persona…and Rosenbloom got “the team of the stars.”

Carroll Rosenbloom quickly became entrenched in the milieu of Hollywood, and the Rams enjoyed tremendous success during his ownership.  The Rams won their division (NFC West) for a then-NFL record seven straight seasons between 1973 and 1979.  They even earned the franchise’s first trip to the Super Bowl after the 1979 season.  However, the relationship between Rosenbloom and the city of Los Angeles was less than rosy.

The home of the Rams, the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum was 50 years old at the time Rosenbloom bought the team.  The aging venue not only lacked modern amenities like luxury boxes, but it cavernous capacity of over 90,000 seats created problems with the NFL’s “black-out” policy of the era. In order to protect ticket sales,  games in which all the tickets were not sold 72 hours prior to kick-off were not broadcast in the local market. The reality was it proved difficult to sell that many ticket when even the closest seats were close to 30 yards from the playing field.

The inability to sell-out and the resultant lack of the Rams on Los Angeles television proved to be a vicious cycle with one feeding the other.  Without TV, the Rams struggled to keep drawing fan interest, which drove down ticket sales, et cetera…The continual sag in attendance drove Rosenbloom to cut a deal with the city of Anaheim in burgeoning suburban Orange County. The deal involved Rosenbloom agreeing to hold Rams’ home games in the city-owned Anaheim Stadium once it was expanded to approximately 65,000. “The Big A” was located right off a major freeway, was literally in the shadow of Disneyland, and was already home to baseball’s California Angels.

The future looked bright for both sides. Rosenbloom got a newly-remodeled venue for his football team and the more reasonable capacity likely meant the end of television black-outs. For Anaheim, it meant adding another major attraction to it’s growing list to compete with its gargantuan neighbor 30 miles up the Golden State Freeway.

But Rosenbloom would never see his Rams play football in Orange County.  In April of 1979 while the deal was still being brought to fruition, Rosenbloom suffered a heart attack and drowned while swimming in the ocean off Golden Beach, Florida.

Act II – Georgia On My Mind

Rosenbloom’s memorial at his mansion in Bel-Air was attended by nearly 1,000 wishing to pay their respects. The group was an eclectic hodge-podge of NFL owners and dignitaries, the entire Los Angeles Rams organization, and a solid representative sample of Rosenbloom Hollywood connections.  Comedian Jonathan Winters was the Master of Ceremonies.  Howard Cosell, Ricardo Montalbán, and Ross Martin were among those who delivered eulogies.  In a salute to Rosenbloom’s legendary “raucous” sense of humor, Don Rickles did what Don Rickles does.  Warren Beatty made an appearance, having just played a Ram in the previous year’s “Heaven Can Wait.” Other attendees included Kirk Douglas, Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart, Rod Steiger, and Henry Mancini.

But it didn’t take long for the details of Rosenbloom’s will to emerge. His son Steve had been left with the “managerial and operational” duties for the Rams, and Steve his two siblings, Daniel and Suzanne, and half-siblings, Chip and Lucia each received equal shares in ownership of the franchise, totaling 30%.  But it was Rosenbloom’s widow Georgia who inherited a controlling 70% stake in the team. Another clause in the will stipulated that the ultimate decision as to who ran the day-to-day operations of the team was entirely a matter of “as long as the successor trustee, in his discretion shall determine.”

In other words, the ultimate control of the Los Angeles Rams was now in the hands of Georgia Frontiere.  Would she flex her new organizational muscle, or would she let Steve Rosenbloom run the Rams?

It took less than three months for Frontiere to assume control of the Los Angeles Rams. Frontiere was not the first female owner in the history of the NFL.  When Charlie Bidwell, the owner of the then-Chicago Cardinals, died in 1947, the team was left to his widow Violet.  In the 1950s, the controlling interest of the San Francisco 49ers was held by two brothers, Tony and Vic Morabito. When they died in 1957 and 1964 respectively, control of the team passed to their widows Jo and Jane Morabito.  But none of them ever took over the day-to-day operations of their teams.  In other words, Frontiere took the NFL into new territory.

But the main-stream sports media didn’t wait that long to create a demonstrably false narrative about her. Born Violet Frances Irwin to a beauty queen mother and businessman father in 1927 in St. Louis,  Frontiere grew up to be a voluptuous blond who aspired to be an actress and singer. Her career started performing alongside her mother in various dinner theaters.  She worked her way up through small theater productions, eventually landing on television.  She became a local celebrity in Miami in the 1950s as the host of her own interview show, a gig which landed her several appearances on NBC’s “Today” show.  It was through television that she met her future husband Carroll Rosenbloom.

In other words, Frontiere was “tailor-made” to have the narrative hung on her about being little more than being the rich, old guy’s younger “trophy wife.” Nothing says part of that couldn’t be true, but the hypocritical ass-loafs in the media never even bothered to discover the reality.

That became clear from the first time Georgia stepped onto the field at the Rams training camp as majority owner and team president.  From that moment, it was clear she didn’t give a frog’s fat ass what people thought of her.  She gave the tobacco-chewing head coach Ray Malavasi an “air-kiss” greeting and played catch with starting quarterback Pat Haden.  The New York Times treated this spectacle with it’s usual pseudo-intellectual hypocrisy, quipping that Frontiere “took Haden’s spirals on the edge of her fingertips in a way indicating that she happened to be a woman who’d been catching passes all her life.” The Baltimore Sun referred to Frontiere as “a rather shapely blonde.” But it was the Orlando Sentinel who cut right to the chase by calling her “a bosomy blonde who jiggles.”

Forget about her gender for a minute. There was hardly a mention of the fact that here was an NFL owner despite being well into their 50s could still throw a football and hang with the players on some calisthenics.  While it shouldn’t shock anybody the American media would do a trash-job on somebody; be it 1979 or today, it’s what they do.

To understand why, you need to remember two things about the American media, sports or otherwise. The first is that any semblance of journalistic integrity died with Walter Cronkite, and the second is that no major story in America in the last 50 years has been reported without being shackled to a political agenda of one sort or another.

In Frontiere’s case, this is critical to understanding why the media savaged her as they did.  She ascended to the presidency of NFL franchise precisely at the time the deadline had passed for ratification of the Equal Rights Amendment to the U.S. Constitution.  Upon the failure of that amendment, the American media immediately began beating a drum decrying the “oppression and second-class status” of American women.  The problem was that by her very existence, Frontiere was illustrating that much of the media narrative was at the very least conflated.

She made matters worse by not trumpeting herself as some sort of feminist icon; she just wanted to run a football team; the idea being that she wanted to stay busy during her period of grief and believed that is what her late husband would have wanted.  That’s also why her successes were downplayed, if not straight-up ignored.

While the media portrayed her as a meddling dowager of questionable competence and limited intellect, Frontiere in fact proved early on to be a decisive and gutsy leader. In the first instance of Frontiere being treated unfairly by the media, there was a portrayal of her as some sort wallet-driver power monger. The headlines were splashed about with a tale of Frontiere storming into the Rams’ offices in July of 1979 and summarily firing Steve Rosenbloom from his inherited duties running the team.

What was overlooked in that narrative was that Rosenbloom had stripped power from his father’s “right-hand man,” Don Klosterman, who Carroll Rosenbloom and many others in the NFL believed to one of the best general managers in football.  Rosenbloom did this without telling Klosterman, instead he sent a message to the rest of the league stating that all business dealings with the Rams should be addressed to Dick Steinberg, the Rams’ new director of player personnel.

Naturally, this created a bit of consternation within the Rams’ organization and confusion outside.  Frontiere was surprised by the move and when she came to the to the Rams’ training camp to deal with the discord it caused, the media came in sporting dorsal fins. Doing what she normally did, she spent time with the players during which she kicked some footballs off a tee.  This was characterized by The Baltimore Sun as “posing for publicity shots with her well-shaped legs.” This ignored the fact Frontiere tried extending the proverbial olive branch to all parties by offering to create a position of “chief advisor,” thus freeing him from many managerial duties to focus on executive-level decisions.  But a month later, Rosenbloom fired Klosterman and Frontiere fired Rosenbloom that same day.

Don’t tell me it doesn’t take guts to fire your own step-son…especially knowing what the media is going to say about you..

A week later, Frontiere held a press conference which was attended by more than 20 reporters along with camera crews from ABC, CBS, and NBC. Unfortunately, Frontiere arrived late causing  a reporter to state “she must have been out shopping.”

Act III – Meet Me In St. Louis

Another shaft-job Frontiere got from the media was her being blamed for the Rams move to Anaheim starting with the 1980 season.  Everybody conveniently forgot that move was set in place by Carroll Rosenbloom. But the move was terribly unpopular with the Rams fan base, and it was easier to blame “the woman” than the beloved late owner.

It didn’t help matters that Anaheim Stadium proved to be a horrible venue for football. It was originally built to host baseball, and as we’ve learned time and time again, baseball and football do not fit well into the same stadium.  In the case of the Big A,” the sight-lines were awful and many of the seats forced fans to sit at awkward angles to view the field.  But the worst part (and I can tell you this first-hand as a California Angels fan) was the stadium being further inland meant the late summer and early fall heat caused by the Santa Ana winds coming off the desert made the “Big A” a 60,000-seat blast furnace.

The “Big A” got an “F” for football.

The awful stadium, the less-than-ideal conditions, and the 30-mile commute from Los Angeles meant the fan base didn’t follow the Rams to Anaheim. The Rams’ years in Orange County were nearly a decade-and-a-half of declining attendance, running gun battles with both the Angels and the city of Anaheim…and Frontiere taking sniper-fire from the media.

Part of the deal between Carroll Rosenbloom and the City of Anaheim was a partnership in land development around the stadium, which in the late 1970s was surrounded by orange groves and other underdeveloped properties. But the California Angels’ owner Gene “The Singing Cowboy” Autry wasn’t about to let that happen. While to this day Autry is the only person to have a star on the Hollywood in all five disciplines (Motion Pictures, Television, Radio, Recording, and Live Performance/Theater), he became a billionaire by investing in real estate. As such, he became one of the most powerful people in Southern California, which meant there was no way he was letting somebody else get rich building hotels next to “his” ballpark. In other words, Autry and the California Angels successfully sued the city of Anaheim and the Rams to kill those development deals.

Eventually, things got so bad in Orange County that Frontiere entered discussions in 1989 to move the Rams back to the Los Angeles Coliseum.  That died a quick death because of the 1983 move of the Oakland Raiders into that venue, and they weren’t keen to have “roommates.”  That refusal by Raiders’ owner Al Davis, plus his demands for a new taxpayer-funded stadium would lead to both the Rams and the Raiders leaving Southern California within five years.

Naturally, the media blamed Georgia Frontiere for all this.

Maybe that played a role in the next move she made…maybe it didn’t. But what surely did was she couldn’t take the Rams back to the Coliseum, and life in Orange County wasn’t the cornucopia it was supposed to be.

During the transition of moving the team to Anaheim, Frontiere gave herself an insurance policy by acquiring the 30% of the team she didn’t own which was held by Carroll Rosenbloom’s children. With 100% ownership, she was free to do whatever she wished with the Rams, and once it was clear she wanted out of Orange County, the suitors for a NFL franchise beat a path to Frontiere’s door. Cities like Oakland, Las Vegas, Nashville, and San Antonio all showed some level of interest, but in the in the end, it was Frontiere’s home town which became the new home of the Rams.

The city of St. Louis was building a brand new domed-stadium perfectly suited for football.  The city sweetened the deal with incentives like $20 million in annual profits from guaranteed season-ticket sales, personal seat licenses, and a favorable lease. However, the NFL tried to stop the move, noting that St. Louis had been abandoned by another NFL franchise just a few years earlier when the Cardinals left for Arizona. As a result, Frontiere filed an anti-trust lawsuit against the NFL, and she won.

That meant 1995 saw the birth of the St. Louis Rams.

Act IV – The Sweet Smell of Success

Under the ownership of Carroll Rosenbloom, the Los Angeles Rams were perennial play-off contenders, but to be honest they were consistently winning a weak division. Throughout the 1970’s,  the Atlanta Falcons, the New Orleans Saints, and the San Francisco 49ers were never much of a threat to the talent-laden Rams. While they made the play-offs every year from 1973 to 1979, they just couldn’t over the hump that was beating either the Minnesota Vikings or Dallas Cowboys.  When Carroll Rosenbloom died before the 1979 season, many thought the Rams would drift off to mediocrity from losing the organizational direction he provided.

During the pre-season of 1979, Frontiere firmly established herself as the organization’s leader.  She penned a doctrine in which she made it clear she was the boss…there were literally no “ifs, ands, or buts” about it.  To clear up the mess left by Steve Rosenbloom, Frontiere believed that strong leadership would get the Rams over that hump, and in the short-term, she was right. After she posted her paper to the team, she told Sports Illustrated “Right now, we don’t have much leadership. Oh, they played well—they’re trying to earn their positions—and I’m not talking about the coaching. We have good coaching. I’m talking about the top. There are some things that have to be ironed out.”

Whatever she told the team must have worked, because the Rams finally reached Super Bowl XIV after the 1979 season. The Rams lost to the juggernaut Pittsburgh Steelers 31-19.  There was no shame in that loss; nobody else could beat the Steelers of that era.  But the Rams franchise took the next step, and Frontiere became a bit of celebrity when she appeared in an American Express commercial with the Rams players. and graced the cover Sports Illustrated.

The 1980s saw a series of ups and downs for Frontiere and the Los Angeles Rams. On the field, The Rams of the 1980s remained a perennial play-off team, reached the playoffs eight times between 1980 and 1989, although they did not return to the Super Bowl as long as they remained in Southern California. Frontiere became less “hands-on” with the organization by passing much of the daily financial and football management responsibilities on to key executives.

Things started going downhill in 1986.  Frontiere had remarried after Carroll Rosenbloom’s passing to composer Dominic Frontiere.  That year Dominic was arrested for for lying to a government agent as part of a federal investigation that came from allegedly scalping 1,000 Super Bowl tickets. While he ended up being incarcerated for nearly a year, Georgia was not implicated in any wrongdoing, but this didn’t stop the media from trashing her once again.

By the 1990s, matters were getting bleak. Attendance had fallen to 45,000 fans per game; off from a peak of 62,000. Again, this most of the Rams’ home games were blacked out, and the team had been replaced by the new “team of the stars,” the newly-arrived Los Angeles Raiders.

Naturally, the Rams’ financial health was suffering as well. Frontiere’s attempts at having stadium built in Los Angeles garnered no support from local leaders. By the 1990s, the end of the “Cold War” resulted in massive-scale layoffs by defense contractors in Southern California. As a result, by 1994, the Los Angeles Rams claimed to have lost $6 million, and made only $7.6 million during the previous four seasons. Hence the 1995 move to St. Louis.

Naturally, the media fanned the flames in Southern California, making Frontiere out to be public enemy #1 for moving the team.  But after having lost the Cardinals to Arizona, the city of St. Louis welcomed with open arms Frontiere and her football team.  The city even hosted a rally downtown and thousands of fans chanted “Georgia, Georgia!” Frontiere responded to the cheering crowd with “St. Louis is my home, and I brought my team here to start a new dynasty.”

That’s exactly what she did.  The Rams took a few years to recover from 15 years of being the “red-headed step-child” of the Southern California sports world, but once they did, the Rams emerged as one of the best teams in football in the late 1990s and early 2000s. Frontiere had an odd formula for building a winner in St. Louis, but there’s no doubting it worked.

It began with the 1997 hiring of head coach Dick Vermeil, who had been out of football for 15 years (and who has a Dubsy Award named for him). Vermeil’s first player personnel move was to trade up in the draft to pick offensive tackle Orlando Pace…who would become a consistent All-Pro and ended up in the Hall of Fame. The Rams then traded Jerome Bettis (another future Hall of Fame player)  to the Pittsburgh Steelers for draft picks.

By 1999, there seemed to be cause for optimism for the Rams. They had acquired quarterback Trent Green and future Hall of Fame running back Marshall Faulk in separate trades, and it looked like offensive coordinator Mike Martz finally had the makings of a winner.  That optimism disappeared when Green shredded the anterior cruciate ligament in his knee; an injury which would sideline him for the entire season.  A tearful Vermeil (hence the category of his Dubsy award) made a solemn vow the Rams would “play good football” behind Green’s backup, a 28-year-old guy named Kurt Warner.

Not only had nobody ever heard of Warner, and his pedigree for professional football seemed rather suspect. No NFL team drafted him out of the University of Northern Iowa.  His only professional experience came from stints with the Amsterdam Admirals of NFL Europe and the Iowa Barnstormers of that now-defunct sideshow known as the Arena Football League. In fact, Warner was making ends meet by bagging groceries and stocking shelves in a supermarket before joining the Rams. Most saw the Rams having yet another losing season, some even going so far as to say they would be the worst team in the league.

But the beauty of sports is that it rivals Hollywood for the ability to produce “fairy tale” stories. Something magic happened, and within weeks Warner and the Rams were the toast of the NFL.  Sportscasters dubbed them “the Greatest Show on Turf” because of their high-speed, quick-strike offense which seemed as though it could score at will. The Rams finished the 1999 season with a 13-3 record, and they cruised through the play-offs on the way to a 23-16 victory over the Tennessee Titans in Super Bowl XXXIV.

Frontiere and Vermeil with the Lombardi Trophy

Frontiere, Vermeil, and Kurt Warner after winning the Super Bowl

Hoisting the Lombardi Trophy in Atlanta that night in January 2000 was the vindication of Georgia Frontiere.  This was the pinnacle of her 28-year ownership; an era which began with sanctimonious hypocrite New York Daily News columnist Mike Lupica writing bilge like “The board of directors of women’s liberation ought to keep an eye on sweet Georgia… If she continues to run the Rams, pretty soon it is going to be back into the kitchen for every woman.”

How did that Lombardi Trophy feel when she shoved it up your ass, Mike?

ACT V – Epilogue

Georgia Frontiere was the pioneer for women taking an active role heading professional football franchise. In an era of women’s liberation, Frontiere never saw herself as a feminist icon, which is why the “liberal” media trashed her at every opportunity.  In fact, one of the only times she ever spoke on the subject her words were taken by some as a “shot” at the feminist movement.

“There are some who feel there are two different kinds of people — human beings and women. As soon as a woman tries to be a human being, people think she’s trying to be a man.”

Taken out of context, you can interpret that statement several ways. What is certain is Frontiere didn’t want be a man; she wanted to run a football team the best way she could.  That’s exactly what she did. She may not have been the greatest owner in the history of the game, but she wasn’t the worst either. Her team won a championship, and there’s a lot of owners who can’t say that.

You can say whatever you want about Georgia Frontiere. After her death in 2008, minority owner Stan Kroenke acquired a controlling interest in the St. Louis Rams and moved them back to Los Angeles in 2015. In 1995, Frontiere may have been the most hated woman in Los Angeles, but a quarter-century later her name is headed for the ash-heap of history. But what can’t be argued is her commitment to her team.  Throughout her time as the owner of the Rams, it simply was not possible to attend to a Rams game and not see Georgia Frontiere somewhere in the stadium.

But that doesn’t mean she was perched in a luxury suite lording over her subjects fans separated by so much plate glass.  Georgia Frontiere preferred to mingle with the players, the fans…the people who she knew made it all possible.  On the night of the Rams Super Bowl victory, Frontiere succinctly stated the source of her desire to succeed, “From the time my late husband died, it has been a constant effort to do what he expected me to be able to do. He said ‘If anybody can, you can. You always stick to your ideas, and nobody pushes you around.’”

And nobody did.

The Moral of the Story:

If you’re going to be “the first” at something, you had better be tough.

Check out Dubsism’s Movies and Blog-A-Thons page for a full schedule of projects past, present, and future!

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Sports Analogies Hidden In Classic Movies – Volume 87: “Take Me Out To The Ball Game” Today's Movie: Take Me Out To The Ball Game Year of Release: 1949 Stars: Frank Sinatra, Esther Williams, Gene Kelly…

#Carroll Rosenbloom #Classic Movies #Georgia Frontiere #Los Angeles Rams #Movies #NFL #Robert Irsay #Sports Analogies Hidden In Classic Movies

[lettersofsky]

The Strife of a Failure - Part 2

More Dragon AU! More build-up and the descent into the mines! A small bit of description for what Genesis looks like here, but more to come later! Yay! I still think it’s ok. Ko-Fi 

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Cloud easily got himself a room from the local inn, the typical small-town attitude beaten down by a hefty sum of gil and the obvious weapon strapped to his back. The fact that he was coming from the Rhapsodos’ estate probably assisted him with that as well, the townsfolk might have believed that he was in good standing due to the fact that he had been in contact with the wealthiest people in the town.

From there it was second-nature to set out all of his things to look over for when he decided what he would need to take with him into the mines. He didn’t know anything specific about the mines yet so he needed to ask the locals about it, he would have to ask the Inn-Keeper for directions to the local tavern for that.

The best information came from drunk idiots after all; they had the least inhibitions and didn’t care to censure what they were saying. They were often far better informants than his employers; morons continuously trying to stupidly outdo each other by going further into the haunted mansion were always a better source of information than someone who just knew that the mansion was haunted.

He left his room once he had everything laid out, locking the door securely behind him and making his way down the stairs in order to ask the Inn-Keeper about the location of the local tavern. The man happily pointed him in the right direction, eager to have him out of the establishment for a few hours.

The tavern was a quaint looking building, long and single story with a warm and inviting interior, it was obviously a small-town establishment where everyone knew everyone. Cloud felt like an outsider when he stepped inside and had the attention of all the patrons turn towards him, he didn’t allow it to affect him though; he sat himself down at the bar and ordered something, waiting for the tension to disperse from the room.

He had been sitting for barely half-an-hour when two of the locals took up a seat on either side on him, staring at him with distrustful expressions and lilting a bit where they sat. There was nothing noteworthy about their looks; their thick brown hair, hazy brown eyes and sun-touched muscular forms were the norm of working towns like this.

“What’s someone like you doing here?” The man to his left asked, voice gruff and slurring a bit. “Outsiders don’t come ‘round these parts.”

Cloud watched the man for a moment, staring at him with unblinking eyes until he moved out of Cloud’s space. “The Rhapsodos’ want me to deal with something in the mines,” he answered once the man had moved, turning his attention away from the person on his left. “They seem to think that no one around here could deal with it.” He finished with an exasperated eye-roll, purposefully downplaying the request so as to not rile the men up too much.

“We ain’t heard of nothing like that!” The man to his right boomed, voice loud enough to draw the attention of the rest of the room, indignation in his tone. “But if they want somebody to go die in the mines, then that’s fine with us!” There was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the patrons of the tavern, the townsfolk agreeing that they’d never go near the mines unless they were being paid a generous sum.

“Are the mine that dangerous?” Cloud asked, putting the right amount of disbelief in his voice to keep the man talking.

“You bet your arse they are!” The bombastic man answered, waving his hand in a wild movement. “Fuckin’ huge. Go on for miles in any direction with enough twists and turns to drive a man insane and on top of that, there’s the fact that they go pretty deep down into the earth. Nobody’s explored it all since all the maps got destroyed.”

“Sounds like a bit of a labyrinth,” Cloud said, earning a nod from the men on either side of him. “What were they for anyway?”

“They started out as natural connecting tunnels,” the first man informed him. “I think Shinra worked on them for a while, before they lost interest in us here that is.”

Cloud froze when the name ‘Shinra’ was said by the man next to him, mind rapidly turning as he tried to think of a reason why the company would have been interested in a small farm town like this one. ‘Shinra?” He eventually questioned, keeping his voice level as he attempted to get more information out of the man. “How long ago was that?”

“About twenty years, I think.” He answered with a shrug. “Nobody’s gone down into the mines since then.”

Cloud hummed thoughtfully before turning the conversation to what he had originally wanted to learn about. “You haven’t seen anything weird around here lately though? Like random fires in the night?”

“None of us have seen anything like that. I’d know if anyone had seen fires in the field or out in the orchards.”

“It’s probably nothing then,” Cloud said with a shrug, purposefully dismissing the topic. “The Rhapsodos’ are probably just overreacting over nothing.”

“Yeah, they’ve been a bit off the past year or two.” The bombastic man cut in suddenly, voice sad. “First that stuff with Shinra went down, then their son disappeared. It’s all just been a mess for them.”

“Yeah,” Cloud responded softly, empathy clear in his voice. “A lot of people got screwed over when the whole Shinra thing happened.” He paused for a moment, waiting a respectable amount of time before asking his question. “What happened with their son?”

“He was just gone. There one day and gone the next, like he’d never even been there to begin with.”

“Just gone?” He asked, brows furrowed as he listened to the man. “And he hasn’t been seen since?”

“Yeah, just gone. Hasn’t been seen since.”

“Well, hopefully he’s alive wherever he is,” Cloud said, earning a solemn nod from the bombastic man.

“Yeah, he’s a good kid. Hope he’s ok.” The words were followed by a murmur of agreement from the rest of the tavern before everyone returned to their previous conversation, their interest in Cloud lost.

He spent a few more minutes in the tavern before leaving the establishment and returning to his room, starting to plan out what he would need in order to go into the mines the next day. If the mines were indeed as large and expansive as he had been told then he would need to prepare for that, he was well aware of how confusing underground cave systems could be. Nibelheim had had a cave system like that, winding through the entirety of the Nibel mountains, he had been forced to go into them on more than one occasion to deal with a dragon infestation too close to the village.

Cloud easily picked out the things he would need to navigate the mines from what he had spread out earlier, putting the items off to the side for the moment. Then he turned his attention to his sword, taking the large puzzle-sword apart in order to set up each of the six blades for the next day.

Mr Rhapsodos had told him that they’d seen fire in the fields and though nobody else had seen the flames it was all the information Cloud had, so he set up his blades in preparation for that; putting as much flame-resistance as he could into his weapons. That was, admittedly, quite a bit after spending as much time hunting dragons in the Nibel mountains as he had. He wouldn’t be able to withstand a direct fireball from a full-grown dragon but he doubted that there’d be anything that dangerous down there.

He wasn’t sure what he was going to find in the mines but he could guarantee that it wasn’t anything too dangerous; if it was then there’d be more people aware of its existence, perhaps a few missing people or animals and other, more obvious, signs of its presence. If there was anything in the mines then it was most likely something small and not worth his time.

According to what he had learned at the tavern he would either be looking for one of Shinra’s failed experiments or the long-dead body of the Rhapsodos’ son. He hadn’t experienced it yet but he’d heard stories for other hunters of them taking on jobs just to discover that they were delivering a child’s skeleton back to their parents.

He would prefer if that didn’t happen but he couldn’t dismiss the possibility from his thoughts, especially after what he’d heard in the tavern. He set aside a large empty bag to take with him just in case.

He was as prepared as he could be with what little information he had, so he collected all the things he wouldn’t be bringing with him and returned them to his pack. He then arranged what he would be taking for easy access in the morning, placing them nearly on the small table in the room.

With everything in order Cloud relaxed and prepared for sleep, wanting to get a least a few hours of rest before his trek through the mines the next morning.

Cloud was awoken by the gently grey-light of dawn creeping into his room from the open window, the rays of early-dawn piercing his eyelids and dragging the man from his slumber. He groaned as he lifted himself from the bed, the blanket pooling around his bare waist as he levelled himself to a seated position.

He pulled himself from the sleep-warm blankets with no lack of reluctance, stretching until he felt the satisfying pop of his spine. A deep, pleased groan passed his lips, followed closely by a heavy sigh as he dropped his arms back to his side, shaking them a bit to remove the last bit of lethargy from his limbs.

He slowly moved to dress himself, sleep clinging to his mind as he proceeded with the familiar routine of preparing for his day. He forced his sleep-heavy fingers to cooperate and was soon dressed in his well-worn working clothing, the protective spells weaved into the fabric settling over him in a warm, familiar embrace. He then turned his attention to the tools he had decided he would be taking with him, tucking paper and pencils, potions and elixirs into the numerous pockets of his shirt, jacket and pants. He ensured he had more than enough food and water to last in the mines before turning to his blades.

He pieced the blades together in one large weapon and strapped it to his back, stepping out of his room once he was done. He locked the door behind him before he made his way down the stairs and out of the building all together, he didn’t worry about the few possessions he had left in his room; he and the Inn-Keeper had agreed that the room would be held for a week and if he didn’t return before then than the man would pronounce him dead, call Tifa and be allowed to keep what was left in his room. It was a normal arrangement for Hunters to make, Cloud had already made several of them in his life and would make more before his inevitable death.

The farm town was starting to wake around him, the people used to waking early to start their work for the day. He missed the energy of towns like this, there was something about small working towns like this that just couldn’t be found in large cities like Edge; the two simply couldn’t compare with each other.

He responded to the few people that greeted him as he retrieved Fenrir from the garage attached to the Inn, recognizing them as men from the tavern the night before. He walked the bike out until he could mount the vehicle and turned it towards the direction of the mines. The entrance was on the other side of the apple orchard, less than an estimated half-an-hour by Fenrir if he took things slow and less than an hour away if he only travelled by foot.

He started Fenrir and set off away from the middle of the town, moving through the street towards his destination with little effort or struggle on his part.

The orchard was silent as he passed it, driving under the archway created by the numerous trees that had grown bent over the road leading from the town to the mines. The tree trunks were a dark grey and the leaves were a brilliant emerald, the deep purple things he saw hanging from the branches were what he assumed to be the Banora White apples the town was famous for. They seemed to be close to being ready for picking, odd considering summer and the usual picking season was still at least a month away.

Cloud forced himself to turn his attention away from the fruit, focusing on the rapidly brightening road in front of him. The early-morning light trickled through the leaves of the trees, casting the scenery around him in a warm light. This place was beautiful, he would have to consider returning when he wasn’t working.

The orchard fell away suddenly, the trees giving way to a large grassy hill with a single large tree standing proudly atop it. Beyond the hill was the entrance to the mines, tucked into the side of the hill and leading down into the earth below. Cloud slowed Fenrir to a halt next to the entrance, dismounting from the bike and cautiously approaching the dark hole built into the side of the hill.

There wasn’t any sign of a monster nearby; no footprints or charred patches were visible in the area surrounding the entrance and he could hear nothing out of the ordinary, in fact the air was filled with the sounds of early-morning birds uncaring of his presence of the ordeal he was about to face. Their bright songs added an eerie quality to his surroundings, as if they were cheerfully sending him off to discover the horrors that awaited him inside.

Cloud took a breath, lighting a small lantern and attaching it to his hip before retrieving one of the pieces of paper he had stored in his pocket along with a pencil. He marked his starting place on the paper and stepped into the mines fully, starting his exploration of the vast labyrinth spread out before him.

There were several twists and turns within the labyrinth and he reached numerous dead ends as he slowly made his way through the mines, he marked everything on his makeshift map as he explored. He ensured that he kept to the same wall as he moved through the caverns to avoid turning back on himself, he also placed a marker on each passageway he went through, printing a noticeable symbol and placing a corresponding one on his map.

It was slow going but Cloud knew that that was necessary due to how expansive he had been told the mines were, he didn’t want to make a mistake and end up lost down here. His slow progress also ensured that he knew exactly where the exit was situated at all times, even as he descended further into the earth.

He spent two days in the labyrinth, mapping out it’s twists and turns and the various levels he had managed to reach, before he found what he had been looking for. The passage he was in had opened up suddenly to a wide, spacious cavern and he had been forced to pause to take in what he was seeing.

The cavern was large and empty, lit by a variety of crystals that glowed blue with an inner light. He could see a large pool of deep, still water taking up a large part of one side of the cavern, the soft light reflecting off it in a pleasing display. The stale air of the rest of the mines was suddenly replaced by the overwhelming smell of sickness and decay that permeated the cavern; Cloud recoiled at the scent, needing a moment to steel himself before he entered the cavern properly.

He was sure that he had seen something moving at the very back of the cavern, he needed to investigate what was back there before he continued his search. The smell of decay and death hanging in the air set his stomach rolling and it only got stronger the closer he got to the shadowed for at the other end of the cavern.

As he cautiously approached the form, he noticed that the ground was slowly becoming more charred as he moved forward, the stone of the cavern gradually showing more signs of exposure to intense heat the closer he got to the other side of the cavern. It seemed that Mr Rhapsodos might have been onto something when he had told him about the fires in the orchard, though he was starting to doubt that whatever this was had somehow managed to drag itself through the mines and up to the surface to do so.

He froze a few feet from the shadowed form, horror filling his chest as he finally identified what it was that was before him. This wasn’t a monster like he had been hoping for, nor was it the skeleton he had realistically been expecting to find.

No, the figure frantically attempting to force itself back into a crevice and away from him was a human. A terrified young man grabbed in little more than a pair of ragged pants and staring at him with a glowing, petrified gaze, tracking his every moment with a single-minded intensity. Cloud found himself trapped by the other’s gaze and dropped to his knees thoughtless when he noticed the tight, iron shackles around the young man’s wrists that were connected to the floor of the cavern by large, heavy chains.

He remained there, watching the shaking young man stare at him with shock and terror and took a deep breath before he started to speak in a soft, quiet voice. “Hey, it’s alright.” He promised the human in front of him, keeping his hands pressed to the ground in front of him where the other could easily see. “I’m not going to do anything to you, I promise.” He continued to speak in soft words, trying to coax the other away from where he was pressed against the wall.

The other slowly uncurled himself from his position against the wall, watching Cloud intently as he shifted in place and caused his chains to shift with the heavy sound of metal on metal. The cavern was just lit enough for Cloud to be able to make out the details of the man’s features, sunken from starvation and covered in a thin layer of dirt. The man had sharp aristocratic features; a narrow face with sharp cheek bones, a refined nose and bright, almond eyes. He bore a striking resemblance to the Rhapsodos’, but Cloud couldn’t think about that at the current time; he needed to focus on this over the implications that were slowly becoming apparent to his mind.

What was also visible to him were the few extra limbs that declared the young man to be one of the draconics created by Shinra decades before, the same draconics that had led to the company’s fall from grace and power. Though there was quite a bit off about the state of the features; there was only one horn visible amongst the matted, filthy mess of the other’s hair and one double-jointed bat-like wing dragging along the ground beneath him. Cloud couldn’t tell the colouring of the limbs due to the soft blue light the glowing crystals were bathing the cavern in.

Cloud watched as the young man halted his movements once he was away from the wall, remaining huddled around himself as he stared back at him. There was no doubt that the smell of disease was coming from the form in front of him.

“Hey there,” Cloud muttered, shifting forward slowly as to not freak out the other too much. “How about we get you out of those? They’ve got to be pretty uncomfortable.” He continued to shuffle forward, remaining prepared to defend himself from an attack as he cautiously approached the draconic.

The young man opened his mouth and attempted to say something but was unable to do so and only managed to barely croak out a rough, hoarse sound. His features twisted at the noise, eyes clenching shut as his wing folded tightly against his bare side. He took a soft, shuddering breath and turned away from Cloud, curling into himself once more.

Cloud continued to shift forward, slowly retrieving a water skin from his belt and offering it to the other. “Here, drink this.” He said, stilling himself when the glowing gaze snapped back to focus on him. “It’s alright, you need it more than I do.”

There were a few moments of stillness between them before the other slowly reached out to take the skin from Cloud’s hand, using his left hand instead of the closer right hand which remained stiff by his side, the sight of his humanoid hands confirmed that he was one of the less dangerous of Shinra’s creations. He turned away from his as he took a few sips from the skin, shifting closer to where his chains connected to the floor so he wasn’t forced to strain his limbs in order to bring it to his mouth. He turned back to Cloud once he was finished, breathing a soft “thank you,” in a voice quiet that contained small hints of what sounded like a high-class accent.

Cloud nodded, returning the skin to his belt before focusing once again on convincing the young man to let him remove the shackles from his form and get him out of the labyrinth of the mines. “Let’s get you out of these,” he said, repeating his earlier words. “You look awful.”

He felt his brow furrow when the young man shook his head venomously, “I can’t,” he muttered, clutching his hands close to his chest with a rattling sound. “I can’t. I’m a monster.”

Cloud blinked a him, flicking his gaze over the other quickly before responding. “You look like a human to me,” he said, ignoring the stunned stare that was fixed on him for his words. “A little worse-for-wear but still human.”

The other blinked at him slowly, creeping forward to ask in a broken, hopeful voice. “Y… you think I’m human?” His words were barely audible over the sound of the shifting chain but Cloud heard him all the same. The wing twitched a bit where it was pressed to the young man’s side, the gesture drawing Cloud’s attention.

“Well, yeah,” Cloud answered with a shrug, moving closer to the other to press the young man into his warmth. “Why wouldn’t I?” He was well aware of a few reasons why the draconic before him would believe that, especially if the other’s current state was anything to go off of.

A harsh noise fell from the other’s mouth but he moved with Cloud’s gently coaxing and pressed forward into his space in a desperate search for reassurance and safety. Cloud paused for a moment before he wrapped an arm around the other’s form, nothing the soft fur-like texture that seemed to run along the other’s spine when his hand stopped there.

He also noted the way one half of the draconic’s back radiated heat but forced the discovery from his mind, focusing instead of getting the young man out of his shackles and back to the surface. He would need to be careful of touching the other’s back, since it seemed that whatever infection the other had was on that area.

But before that, it was probably in his best interest to introduce himself to the draconic before things progressed and he started to attempt to remove the iron chains trapping him in the cavern. “What’s your name?” He asked, earning a confused look from the other. “Mine’s Cloud.”

The draconic blinked at him for a moment, slowly realizing what he was asking. “Genesis,” he muttered, wing lifting from where it had spread out next to them. “Genesis… Rhapsodos.”

Cloud nodded with a soft hum, forcing himself not to show any reaction to the other’s name. He definitely needed to question his employers about this little discovery; the fact that they had done something like this to their child, hurt him in such a way and trapped him here until they found someone to murder him for them left him enraged.

“Well, Genesis,” he said, testing the other’s name on his tongue. “Let’s get you out of these.”

Ko-Fi 

#strifesodos #gencloud #cloud strife #FFVII #Genesis Rhapsodos #Urban Fantasy AU #my stories #fanfiction #fanfic #The Strife of a Failure #Dragon AU #Angst #Implications of bad things #a lot of bad things #... I'm really happy with the general idea I have for this thing #Skyee Writes

[himbowelsh]

Highschool / Uni AU for Baberoe: Babe really needs help with his French classes. He registers for that one on one study group. He gets paired with Gene. He whines to Bill that he's gonna fail because the guy who helps him with French is so gorgeous he can't focus. Bill advice is to get to know the guy. Babe takes it to heart and offers Gene to teach him something in return, like footie. Bonus: Gene refuses to call Babe anything but Edward in English but in French he calls him "cher".

insightfulinsomniac asked: MORE BABEROE please Idk what, but something. Your slightly-steamy baberoe makes me wanna die (in the best way)

AN: babe i got u covered ;)

"It's not fair," he exclaims, tossing his head back in dismay. "Evans totally has it out for me. You should see the way he picks on me in class!"

"I was smart enough not to take a language this year," says Bill around a mouthful of bologna and rye. "So I don't need to. And I don't wanna. Quit whining and gimme those chips.""Those are my chips," Babe complains as Bill snatches them from his side of the table. "You don't even like 'em." His friend tears into the bag, clearly not able to care less. Over the crunch of potato chips, Babe rests his cheek in his palm and sighs.

He doesn't care what Bill says. He's not sulking, he's not whining, and he's definitely not slacking off in French class. It's not possible to slack off in French class. All Evans ever does is bitch at them, and then he assigns so much work that Babe is drowning in it come the end of the day. Is it any wonder he never gets it all done? He has other classes too. He has more work, and way more important things to focus on than conjugations in a language he couldn't care less about.

He's Irish. His entire family is Irish. Why the hell does he have to learn French, anyway?He takes another sip of his juice and reduces the urge to blow frustrated bubbles through the straw (the last time he did that, Bill smacked the juice box across the cafeteria). If he doesn't get his grade up before the end of the semester, his mom is going to murder him. But how the hell is he supposed to turn a D into an A in a month?"How do I know he's even teaching us French, anyway?" Babe demands. "He could be teaching us freaking Mesopotamian, for all I know. I have no clue."Bill glances up at him. "Parlez-vous français?" he asks, Philly accent thick enough to cut with a knife."What?""Nothing." Bill sighs, dropping his fist back down on the table with a thud. He has that look on his face, like he's not sure whether he wants to shake some sense into Babe or smack him. Bill's been known to do both on more than one occasion, do Babe wisely shrinks back. If Bill wants to steal his lunch, he can have it. Cafeteria food tastes like cardboard and carbs anyway.Bill doesn't try to grab Babe. (He does, however, steal what's left of his sandwich.) His friend regards him with narrowed eyes for a long moment before he nods to himself."You know what you should do?""Even if I did, you'd still tell me.""You --" Bill points straight at him, like a dollar store Uncle Sam knockoff. "Should get a tutor."Babe snorts. Bill, as he always does when his brilliant ideas are ignored, bristles like an affronted cat."I'm serious, Heffron. There's this one-on-one study group the seniors are doing. Spina and Frannie are both a part of it. You need help, sign up."Babe purses his lips. What's the point? He really doubts any tutor is going to be able to bring his grades up. It isn't like he's going to be paired with his friends, either -- Fran's tutoring in math, a subject Babe is actually decent at, and Spina doesn't share any of his subjects. All that would happen is Babe would be paired up with a stranger, who'd get a front row seat to how pathetic he is at French.He's not signing up to be laughed at by some tutor who probably can't speak the language any better than he can. No thanks."Just give it a try, christ," Bill says, rolling his eyes. "If you fail, your mom'll kick my ass. Then my mom'll kick your ass. Then they'll both kick my ass, cause I'm the one who's supposed to make sure you don't crash and burn before you get to college. So I'm telling ya, sign up for the study group."Bill is making the face he only makes when he's not messing around. (Bill has an assortment of faces for different situations, and they all fall under a single word description: constipated.) One look at him tells Babe that this isn't a decision he gets to make for himself. If he decides he doesn't want to sign up, it's not just Bill who’s going to be hounding him. Bill will get Fran on his back, Julian, Spina -- hell, someone might even go to his mom (probably not Bill, he's got too much honor, but Julian would, the sly little bastard).

Babe’s shoulders slump, and he watches his best friend’s lips curl up, chest inflating in victory. He knows he's won.

Babe is getting a tutor whether he likes it or not.

Babe has never heard the name Eugene Roe before in his life. Bill keeps a wide circle of acquaintances, and as Bill’s best friend Babe has a working knowledge of most of them. He's never met Eugene Roe. Until he was assigned him as a tutor, he never even knew there was a Eugene Roe in this school. He's not sure what he goes in expecting when he takes a seat at an empty library table; but it is certainly not the senior who joins him minutes later.

Gene, he thinks, subverts all expectations. He'd expected his tutor to be the same sort of pompous, snobbish asshole as the man who’s failing to teach him French in the first place. He'd expected scathing looks, corrections on his work made in red pen, maybe a stupid French accent to top it all off. (Babe has watched too many bad high school movies, admittedly.)

Instead, Gene is the opposite of loud and bombastic. Babe doesn't even notice him when he walks into the library. He dresses in neutral shades, slipping through the milling packs of students with an ease that suggests he hasn't been noticed at all. When he slides into the seat across from Babe, there's no helping the way Babe’s eyes widen.

Gene doesn't demand attention, but he captures it anyway. He's undeniably good-looking, with fine features and alabaster skin. The shock of dark hair upon his head sticks up as if he's dragged his hands through it one time too many. His eyes, a deep midnight brown, settle on Babe, and he feels his impulsive teenage hormones surge.

For a long moment, he finds himself at a loss for words. Gene’s the one who has to break the silence. “Edward Heffron, right?” he says, raising an expectant eyebrow.

Babe’s gaping mouth shuts with a click. “Yeah,” he says immediately; then, “no! That's not -- I mean, yeah, that's my name, I'm Edward, but I'm not really -- nobody calls me that. I'm Babe.”

He thrusts a hand towards the guy’s chest, almost like he's trying to hit him. Gene blinks down at it for a moment before raising his eyes to Babe again, quizzical.

“Babe,” he echoes. Babe nods.

Gene takes his hand. There's no reason his (surprisingly) firm grip should thrill Babe as much as it does, but it does, and his hand feels electrified from the touch long after Gene has pulled away.

“Okay, Heffron,” says Gene, setting a textbook down in front of him. “You need some help in French, is that right?”

Babe doesn't have to be a genius, and he definitely doesn't need to know French, to see that a horrible mistake has been made. He would have been better off learning from somebody, anybody else. Hell, he would learn more if his tutor were Spina, and Spina has never taken a day of French in his life.

There is no way he's going to get any work done with Gene Roe as his tutor. It's a lost cause, and they haven't even cracked open the books yet.

He's just so incredibly gorgeous that Babe can't think of anything else.

His grade is going to crash and burn because his tutor’s too hot, and the worst part is Babe can't even regret it.

That is, he can't regret it until he gets his most recent French test back, to reveal a “57” scrawled in bold red print across the front page.

“I don't get it.” Bill slams the test down on the table. His jaw is sticking out so far that Babe half-expects it will dislocate -- just pop off his face and start tapdancing away, like one of those really screwed up cartoons his little sister makes him watch. “How are you doing even worse when you've got a damn tutor?”

“It's the tutor’s fault,” Babe grumbles, and takes a sulky sip of his orange juice.

“Really? The tutor took this test for you?” He meets Bill’s eyes with a glare, and Bill glares right back. “What's the problem? Is he not teaching you French?”

“Sure he is.” Actually, Gene’s a great teacher. He's patient, he's thorough, and he's fluent -- the reason Babe’s never heard of him before is that he transferred to school at the beginning of the year from Louisiana, and he speaks French with a cajun accent rich as summer fruit. Every word that comes out of his mouth makes Babe wants to melt, and that's his whole problem. He's hanging off every word Gene says, but he's not hearing any of it. His mind is millions of miles away -- at his and Gene’s wedding years in the future.

“It's just -- I --” He can't tell any of this to Bill. He'll be teased for life. He takes a deep breath, and bends the truth like a piece of plastic. “I'm finding it hard to work with the guy.”

“Is he annoying?”

“No, no, he's -- quiet. And smart. And he seems really, really nice.” Babe shuts his mouth before he can give himself away. “I just don't know much about him’s all.”

Bill narrows his eyes. It's obvious that he suspects something. Babe has never been able to hide things from Bill for long, half because he's rotten at keeping secrets, and half because Bill’s just too damn nosy. He tries not to shrink under the force of his friend’s stare, instead meeting Bill’s eyes head-on.

“Well,” Bill finally says, “get to know him.”

“What?”

“Get to know your tutor.” He enunciates each word, like Babe is a particularly stupid toddler. “Maybe if you talk to him, your brain will actually start working, and you'll remember some shit. Either way, this --” He slams his finger down on the shameful exam. “Will not stand. Step up your game, Heffron.”

Babe purses his lips and frowns down at the table. Much as he hates to admit it, maybe Bill does have a point.

“Wait, wait, hang on -- so your grandma spoke French to you all the time? Like, only French?”

“She wanted us to grow up learning the language.” Gene shrugs, raising his water bottle to his mouth and taking a sip. Droplets of water linger on his lips once he's finished. Babe can't help staring until Gene’s tongue flickers out and brushes them away. “Without her, I doubt I'd be able to speak it half as well as I do now.” He pauses, considering his words. The furrow in his brow makes Babe’s pulse race. “Bayou French is different from what you learn in school. Different from what they speak in Europe or Canada, too. It's almost like a language in itself.”

A smile breaks across Babe’s face. “Wow, so I guess that means you know three languages!”

Gene blinks at him for a moment, contemplative, before his lips twitch. “Yeah,” he exhales, chuckling softly. “Guess I kinda do.”

He hates admitting that Bill is right, ever, but in this case Babe is willing to swallow his pride. Bill’s advice wasn’t just on the money; it was genius. Getting to know Gene is probably the best choice Babe has ever made.

He’s a tough nut to crack. It’s not even that he’s shy; Gene is just quiet, and keeps his distance so well that getting close to him seems almost impossible. Babe is nothing if not determined, however, and slowly but surely he’s managing to coax Gene out of his shell.

And the best part? He’s learning all about Gene, but he’s learning French while he’s at it.

“See, you made a mistake on this one -- you put the conjugation of vous instead of nous. You just gotta fix it.”

Babe frowns down at the worksheet in front of him. His leg is brushing against Gene’s own, and that makes it a little hard to focus, but he forces his brain to zero in on the words in front of him.. “So it should be appellons, right?”

“Right.” Gene looks up at him, offering a small smile. “Good work, cher.”

The rush of euphoria floods Babe’s system, electrifying him. Gene’s smile is without a doubt the most amazing thing he’s ever seen. It’s shy, on the right side of tentative, but just large enough to show that he means it. It, like everything else about Gene, is beautiful.

(Cher has become Gene’s favorite term for him over the last few weeks. Babe has no clue what it means, but Gene still refused to call him Babe, so he figures he can roll with it.)

“Thanks,” he sighs, pushing the completed worksheet away. The more he meets with Gene, the easier French seems to become. It’s like the subject is really settling into his brain for the first time. It makes sense, and it’s all thanks to Gene. “You know, you’re a real good teacher, right?”

“Thank you, Edward.” Gene looks humble, but Babe isn’t just trying to flatter him. He’s serious.

“I mean it! You know, if I could teach things like you do…” He trails off, lips pursing as an idea comes to him. That’s it -- that’s perfect. It’s the perfect excuse to spend more time with Gene outside of tutoring sessions, and to show off his many talents at the same time. “How about I teach you something? Just like you teach me French!”

Gene looks puzzled. “Teach me?”

“Sure! I could teach you anything! Whatever you wanna know!”

Gene raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”

This gives Babe pause. He has to stop and think for a moment. What skill could he possible have that he could offer Gene? He can chew twelve pieces of gum at once.. He can write with his toes. He knows how to do a cartwheel.

Suddenly it comes to him, and he lights up like Christmas in New York. Gene looks taken aback by the wide grin that spreads across Babe’s face, but he can't find it in himself to be ashamed. He's just had the best idea. “I can teach you how to peel a banana using only your mouth!”

For a second, Gene doesn't react. He blinks at Babe. Babe blinks back.

Then Gene’s lips quirk, as if he's trying desperately not to smile, and almost managing it. Victory washes over Babe like a tidal wave, and he doesn't bother hiding his own grin.

“Heffron,” Gene huffs, “read the goddamn textbook.”

As Babe drops his eyes back down to the book in front of him, he once again nudges Gene’s leg with his foot, and feels Gene nudge back.

On Friday morning, Babe receives his first ever ‘A’ on a French test, and proudly shows it off to Mr. Evans, Bill, his ma, and the rest of the world.

That afternoon, Gene comes over to Babe’s house to learn something of his own.

#Anonymous #baberoe #babe heffron #eugene roe #gene roe #bill guarnere #my writing #insightfulinsomniac