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timptoe · 2 years

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Two Lovesick Idiots

I was inspired by this lovely art of Shepard and Kaidan drawn by the incredible @sinclairsolutions - so with their permission for running with this idea, my first fic in twenty years:

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Citadel, Silversun Strip, Anderson’s apartment Two weeks before the end of the Reaper War

Tali drops it unceremoniously on the coffee table in front of them, with the air of someone who has both lost a bet and is still somehow smugly triumphant.

“Here.”

Shepard cocks his head. From his position cuddled into Kaidan’s side, the motion causes his closely-shaved scalp to tickle the underside of Kaidan’s chin.

“What?”

Leave it to Shepard to sound both irritated and intrigued at the interruption. Kaidan kisses the top of his head in amusement.

The party celebrating the demise of Shepard’s clone has been in full swing for most of the night, and it’s showing no sign of slowing down. Kaidan can hear Vega and Cortez over near the bar gleefully explaining biotiball to a surprisingly interested Javik, who’s just declared how much better the protheans would be then the current primitive teams. Kasumi is trying to teach Grunt how to play the piano, with limited success, behind the couch where Kaidan and Shepard have ensconced themselves. Kaidan can see the dance circle in the kitchen still going strong, though now absent two of its erstwhile dancers.

Both of whom are standing in front of the coffee table, Tali gesturing at what she just dropped, Garrus inscrutable as ever.

Kaidan reluctantly pushes his boyfriend—his boyfriend, heart still skipping a beat at getting to call Shepard something so intimate—off of his lap so he can lean forward to pick up what, by all appearances, seems to be a scrapbook. He dimly remembers heirlooms like this back at the orchard: binders of pictures, chintzy artwork, and scribbles commemorating the reunions or anniversaries or what-have-you of various Alenkos over the decades. None of the scrapbooks back home have the violently purple hue of this one, though. None of their titles are quite like what’s emblazoned across the front of this one, either.

Two Lovesick Idiots.

Kaidan raises an eyebrow. “Tali, what is this?”

“I, uh…okay, it was going to be a present later. After. But this one—“ she backhands Garrus in the stomach, who oofs softly “—told me I had to give it to you now.”

“Okay, but what is it?” Shepard says. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Kaidan nudges him with his shoulder fondly. “It’s a scrapbook.” At his precious spacer’s precious look of confusion, he continues, “It’s for memories, pictures and things. An old Earth practice.”

Shepard turns his adorably confused gaze to Tali. “But why? And how?”

The tipsy quarian groans in response. “Just open it.”

Kaidan opens the cover. On the first page is a full-sized photograph of Kaidan and Shepard sitting in a bar somewhere. Flux, maybe? He traces his finger over it absently. They look so young. The early days of the SR-1, perhaps. Kaidan’s in the foreground, staring into his drink—whiskey, by the looks of it. Shepard’s seated next to him, giving him a soft, almost secret smile. The candid shot is as sweet as it is striking.

All that time. How did I never know?

A sweet knot of nostalgia settles in his chest, and he smiles at the memory. “Tali,” he starts to murmur, “where did you…”

That’s when he reads the picture’s caption.

“Two Lovesick Idiots Pine for Each Other in a Poorly-Lit Bar,” photo by Tali’Zorah nar Rayya, 2183.

“What.”

Shepard gets to the caption at roughly the same time. But where Kaidan’s knot of nostalgia immediately turns into annoyance, Shepard lets out the most delighted, surprised laugh Kaidan’s heard from him in a long time.

“Tali,” Kaidan says in a measured voice, pointedly ignoring his boyfriend as he dissolves into giggles, “what the hell is this?”

“It’s a gift! A present,” Tali repeats. “Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“Just…a lot of effort went into this,” she says bashfully. “Keep going.”

He turns the page. This one has two photos, separated by a common caption. The top one is a selfie of the late, great Ashley Williams, clearly taken with her omnitool in the SR-1’s mess. Her face is frozen in mid-cackle, while way in the background over her shoulder, Kaidan and Shepard stand near that console Kaidan was forever trying to repair. The picture on the bottom is zoomed in on them, Shepard’s hand nonchalantly resting on Kaidan’s forearm in mid-conversation. The caption reads, “Two Lovesick Idiots Flirt Badly over a Busted Console,” photo by Ashley Williams, 2183.

“Ashley? Ashley was in on this?” Kaidan asks incredulously. This sets Shepard off giggling even harder somehow.

Kaidan glances around. The rest of the party is starting to notice. Fantastic.

“It was actually Ashley’s idea,” Tali responds, tipsy mirth tempered a moment by a sort of fond sadness. “She was the first one to figure you two out, I think. She thought this would be a nice memento once you two…um, what was the phrase, Joker?”

“I believe it was, ‘Once those two get their eyes off each other’s asses and get their own asses in gear,” Joker supplies helpfully from the other couch.

Kaidan doesn’t like Joker’s shit-eating grin. Or the hot feeling of the blush that erupts over his own face. He especially doesn’t like that his boyfriend is still giggling.

Said boyfriend snorts in between giggles, “Yeah, that sounds like Ash.”

Tali looks a little unsure, shifting from foot to foot. “Are…are you mad? Is this okay?”

Kaidan’s suddenly very aware that most of the party have crowded around the couch, peering with interest at the scrapbook. Well, mostly they’re staring at their giddy commander.

When it’s just the two of them, Shepard’s learned how to let down his guard. He smiles more, laughs more. The war has taken its toll on him—him more than most, especially after everything in the last three years—but in the privacy of Shepard’s cabin, Kaidan has worked hard to give him space to just be happy.

So anything that makes him happy enough to giggle like an idiot? Around other people, no less?

He shakes his head and gives Tali his biggest grin. “It’s incredible. Thank you.”

Her posture relaxes. “Everyone helped.”

They start flipping through the pages.

“Two Lovesick Idiots Find an Excuse to Touch by Scraping Plant Goo Off Each Other,” photo by Garrus Vakarian, 2183.

“Hey, we were worried that stuff might be corrosive!” Shepard says defensively.

Kaidan chuckles. That hadn’t been…strictly true. More like, he wasn’t going to pass up any opportunity to be in Shepard’s space. Sure, his face in the photo is the picture of seriousness as he plucks a piece of tentacle off of Shepard’s chestplate, but he remembers how hard he had to concentrate not to look at Shepard’s lips instead.

“Neither of you offered to clean Thorian gunk off my armor,” Garrus grumbles.

Tali pats his arm.

“Two Lovesick Idiots Don’t Know How to Drive a Fucking Tank,” photo by Ashley Williams, 2183.

“He’s the one that can’t drive, not me,” Kaidan objects, pushing his again-giggling boyfriend away.

“It does not appear that you are attempting to stop him, Major,” EDI muses from where she’s settled next to Joker.

And indeed, Ash somehow captured a shot of the Mako’s cockpit from the back. Shepard has one fist raised in celebration, while Kaidan’s head is turned in mid yell. There’s no mistaking the fondness on his face, though.

There’s also no mistaking the fact that only sky, no ground, is visible through the Mako’s front window.

“To be fair, Liara isn’t stopping them either,” Cortez says from over Kaidan’s shoulder.

To be fair, Liara’s passed out from stress in the photo, blue face tinged slightly green as it lolls to one side in her safety harness.

Present-day Liara just sighs.

“Two Lovesick Idiots Have the Mother of All Lovers’ Spats,” photo captured by Horizon security feeds, obtained by Miranda Lawson, 2185.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, really?” Kaidan says incredulously. “We’re commemorating that moment?”

“Eh, you two made up,” Miranda says from the other side of the room, raising her drink in a mock toast, mischievous twinkle in her eye.

“Two Lovesick Idiots Have the Mother of All Lovers’ Spats, Part Two,” photo captured by C-Sec security feeds, obtained by Kasumi Goto, 2186.

Kaidan rolls his eyes.

“Eh, you two made up,” Kasumi’s voice echoes with a laugh.

Picture after picture just like that, chronicling the dance that he and Shepard have been doing around each other for the last three years. And not just pictures, Kaidan realizes.

Some of the pages have text, hard copies of omnitool message chains:

== 2183.05.03 snippet from group chain == Ashley: did you see how red LT’s face got when Shepard complimented him in the debrief? Tali: It was so cute! Ashley: fuckin nerd Ashley: him, not you Garrus: He didn’t do anything, though? Just managed not to faint from Shepard’s driving? Liara: That is harder than one might think. Ashley: pfffft Wrex: why am I in this group

== 2185.09.12 snippet from group chain == Jack: okay but seriously the two of them used to be a thing, right? nobody gets that mad at someone they’re not duckin Jack: fuckin Jack: FUCK Tali: it’s…complicated Samara: We are often cruelest to the ones we love. Mordin: Unresolved sexual tension often a source of adrenaline. Recommend putting a picture of Alenko in the shuttle before missions. Could increase Shepard’s battle performance. Garrus: No Tali: absolutely not Grunt: Unresolved sexual tension heh heh heh Wrex: goddamn it, why I am in this group too

Other pages have short handwritten notes from their friends.

Adjacent to a picture of Kaidan sleeping off a migraine in the SR-1′s medbay and Shepard sleeping in a chair next to his bed, with the caption “Two Lovesick Idiots Are Bad at Sleeping,” photo taken by Karin Chakwas, 2183, a scrawl in silver pen reads: I am very glad that you two have better places to sleep than my medbay now.

Kaidan looks at Shepard. “I don’t remember this.”

Shepard ducks his head a bit, responding, “Not surprised. That one was pretty bad, you were out for a while. I just…wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“By screwing up your spinal alignment?” Traynor says, sitting next to Shepard on the couch and frowning.

Shepard huffs.

On another page, next to a picture of Shepard standing at Kaidan’s bedside in Huerta, seemingly taken through a window, with a caption reading, “Two Lovesick Idiots Have a Very Close Call,” photo taken by Thane Krios, 2186, a note in a different hand reads: It is good to see your soul tu-fira, my friend.

Shepard touches the note, sobering quickly.

Kaidan furrows his brow. “I don’t understand this one.”

Shepard puts his palm on Kaidan’s cheek, and Kaidan leans into the touch. Shepard gives him a sad smile and says, “Thane. I’ll explain later.”

The final page, though, takes the cake.

The picture’s taken from a weird angle, but it’s striking in a way that stuns Kaidan. On first glance, it’s just a picture of the doors to Starboard Observation as they’re closing. But framed in the doorway, you can see Shepard and Kaidan sitting on the couch, their backs to the door and the camera. The observation window looks out on the starry expanse, silhouetting the pair as Shepard rests his head on Kaidan’s shoulder, Kaidan’s arm around him.

The caption reads, “Two Lovesick Idiots in Love, Fucking Finally,” picture taken by Tali’Zorah vas Normandy, 2186, and for all its tongue-in-cheek snarkiness, it’s the most beautiful thing Kaidan’s seen.

He looks over at his quietly smiling boyfriend and his shining blue eyes. Maybe the second-most beautiful thing.

“Tali,” Shepard says, voice thick with emotion. He stops, swallows, and then starts again, “Everyone. Thank you. This is…unbelievable.”

“What’s more unbelievable is that the two of you finally hooked up!” Vega catcalls, and everyone cheers.

Kaidan rubs the back of his head sheepishly as everyone laughs, looking sidelong at Shepard. Shepard just laughs too and pounces, smothering Kaidan in kisses.

When they come up for air, Tali picks up the scrapbook and says, “Look, see, these rings open up so you can add more pages. You know, if you want to.”

Shepard grins. “Actually, I can think of another photo I’d like to add.”

Years later, amongst the bric-a-brac of a house at an orchard in the Canadian interior, in a row of scrapbooks commemorating the reunions or anniversaries or what-have-you of various Alenkos over the decades, one violently purple scrapbook is given pride of place. And inside, nestled between pages of pictures and printouts and handwritten notes, a specific page sits at what had at one time been the back of the book, but now precedes dozens of recorded memories.

On that page is a picture of Shepard and Kaidan, seated on a couch in an apartment on the Silversun Strip of the Citadel, looking lovingly at each other. On the couch beside them, and arrayed in rows behind them, are some of the people who loved them in that moment, too.

The caption reads, “Two Lovesick Idiots Surrounded by a Bunch of Other Lovely Idiots,” picture taken by Glyph, 2186.

#mass effect #mass effect 3 #citadel dlc #mshenko #kaidan alenko #my writing #the first fic I've written since college #the most fun I've had in a while #man this game just crawled into my head and won't let go #also GO CHECK OUT SINCLAIR'S ART IT'S AMAZING

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celestial-fucking-weeb · 3 years

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WINTER WARMTH

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Hi, everyone!! This is a part of the Citrus Dome Snowed In collab! I’m so thankful to be a part of this round and super grateful for @lemonlordleah-shinzawa-kitten and @tomurasprincess for letting me be on the masterlist! I’m so excited, but I’m not super proud of this one, so please feel free to give feedback.

Masterlist Here!

Go see everyone’s super awesome fics and art pieces they worked so hard on!!

ART BY @brttpaige on Twitter🖤 Go check out her artwork, she’s fantastic!

Warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, AGED UP (mid twenties), fluff, insecurities, smut, body worship, chubby kink, marking (hickies), Papi kink

Pairing: Sero Hanta x reader

The local news station hailed it as “the storm of the century,” and they weren’t wrong. You’ve watched the snow pile up beyond the window, building from a light dusting on the grass to literal knee-high drifts. And it shows no sign of stopping.

The place you’re stranded is stocked up on groceries, you’d charged every electronic device to your name, and you’d cranked the thermostat as high as it would go until the inevitable happens —

The power goes out.

So now you’re stuck indoors, with only a certain someone for company. The same someone you’ve been pining after for ages. Snow stacks up higher and higher outside. As the cold seeps in, and you both drift closer, you realize this was somehow the one thing you hadn’t thought to prepare for…

The snow outside was pretty at first, but now with the doors and windows to your small cottage-type home half covered, it seemed almost oppressive. With the power outage, there was no television to drown out the quiet, only deafening silence and the movement of your new roommate, Sero Hanta.

It didn’t start this way, you hadn’t always obsessively paid attention to his mannerisms. At one point in time, he was just a hero working for the same agency you provided medical care for. You were just support staff, until a dumb villain thought you were “important” and kidnapped you, leaving the heroes you saw as coworkers to rescue you. After that, the agency wanted you to live in the adjacent apartments, but you refused. Magically, two days later, Sero Hanta approached you asking about your spare room under the guise of his lease running out. You thought it seemed a bit suspicious, particularly that this gorgeous man had “nowhere else to go”, meaning no significant other to take him in. Of course, you agreed, being a nice person and maybe bit naïve. He moved his stuff in, didn’t make much of a fuss, and mostly left you to your own devices. That is, until you noticed some... abnormalities. The lingering glances, the newly installed security cameras, the not-so-subtle ideas to spend time with you of having meals together or watching movies, making sure you’d eaten or slept... He cared too much. He was so perfect- gorgeous, tall, easygoing, had similar goals as a rescue hero, funny, and he cared. He cared for you, which made living with him so much harder. You found yourself enjoying nights with him, wanting to sit a little closer, wanting to impress him with new dishes to make for dinner, ditching your ex’s sweatpants for cute sleep shorts, relishing in fantasies of his protective nature and dominating stature with your hand between your thighs... You thought you were going to choke when he started walking around in only gray sweats or a towel after his shower. You tried your best to keep eye contact, not stick around too long, not encroach upon his comfort in his own house. You failed to notice the smirk on his face when you quickly excused yourself or when you turned away too fast after being caught staring.

Sero had originally taken this as an assignment, although he did have a bit of a crush on you from the times you’d patched him up after rough shifts. He thought of himself as your own personal hero, but that mindset soon turned into more than just an assignment. He was protective over you, and he found himself getting defensive if you even mentioned another guy. He had tried flirting within reason, just making dinners and watching movies, but he got cocky when he had walked past your door one night and heard your little whimpers. He decided to test his theory, wearing his sweats lower than he normally would and walking back to his room in a towel, and delighting in strolling past your room to hear your muffled moans and the vibrations of the toy you never used to use. You were getting desperate, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t boost his ego to hear his name through the walls. This, however, was NOT something he’d planned on.

Everything was fine, being stuck in the house together was nice, until the power went out. The heat somewhat remained in the house until night, when you curled up on the couch under every blanket you had and he layered on an extra hoodie and lounged next to you. He looked cold...

“H-Hey... Sero? Um... You look cold. Do you want a blanket?”

“Hmmm, but then wouldn’t you be cold too?” He chuckled and scratched the back of his neck.

“Well... Maybe... But that’s okay! You need to be warm too!!” God, you’re so sweet.

“I mean... You could always come over here, we can be warm together!” He stretches out his arm and beckons you over, inviting you to curl up next to him. You shift over, spreading the blankets over your roommate and hiding your blushing face under the pile of softness, keeping at least 3 inches of space between you before he rests his arm behind your head.

“Thanks, y/n, this is uh... nice!” He hides his disappointment at your perceived rejection, going back to look at his phone.

After 20 minutes of scrolling, you can’t take it anymore. He smells so good, and you can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“I’M GONNA GO TO BED NOW. Uh, goodnight!” You basically shouted, too loud to be natural. You abruptly stood up before slightly shrinking from the frigid air. When did it get so cold in here?

“Hey, it’s really cold... We don’t really have a ton of blankets, and I’m worried you’re going to freeze, so maybe we could sleep in my room tonight? Just for, ya know... body heat?” He sounds nervous, like he expects you to freak out and reject him completely.

“Well... I-I guess that’s smart... You’re right. So... Let’s go?” Holy fuck, you are so nervous. You were originally escaping to your room like you normally do, too horny to continue hanging out with Sero and retain your sanity, but now you’re sleeping with him?! What the fuck are you thinking?!

He gathered the blankets and lead you into his room, holding the door for you before plopping down your nest of fabric. You stand awkwardly in the center of the room, waiting for something you have no idea what. Sero unceremoniously strips himself of his hoodies and sweats and climbs into bed, seemingly out of habit, before turning his attention to you and holding the blankets open.

“Are you coming?” He smirks, putting on a confused voice that doesn’t quite match the mischief in his eyes.

“I-...” FUCK, he’s beautiful. Lean muscles flexing with every movement, shaggy hair falling over his face, and holy... The tight black boxers are NOT helping the whole “too turned on to function” situation.

“Oh... Sorry, I read somewhere that skin-to-skin contact is better for warmth. You’d probably know better than me, I guess.” He grins, as though this entire thing is nonchalant and completely normal. “I can help you if you’d like~”

“Uh nope, yeah, you’re right!! I’ll uh just... Can you close your eyes?” You are panicking. Every insecurity you’ve ever had is coming to bite you in the ass. You’re suddenly hyper aware of how much space your body takes up, remembering everything those stupid bitches in high school said about you.

“Y/n, you’ve seen me in that skin tight hero suit and you’ve patched up most of my body. It’s totally fine! PLUS, you’re sleeping in my bed, am I gonna have to close my eyes the whole night??” He jokes, not knowing that your shyness isn’t rooted in principle, but fear. Upon seeing your face, his smile falters and he autocorrects, “You know, I think you’re beautiful, but if you want me to turn around, I promise I will.”

“No, it’s-it’s fine. It’s okay. Wait- did you just call me beautiful?” You try to cover your shocked expression as you take off your sweater and slide off your fuzzy pajama pants. Sero is thankful your head is stuck in your sweater as his jaw practically drops. Oh fuck, he’s screwed. His eyes follow your curves from your chest, down your sides, to the pouch of your tummy and the plump fullness of your thighs... If he thought he was having trouble focusing before, there’s no way there’s gonna be enough blood in his brain when you’re half naked next to him... Speaking of... Shit, he’s hard... Okay, it’s fine, just tuck it in your waistband like you did back in school...

You climb into bed as quickly as you can, still keeping a few inches between you and Sero until he wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his chest. You squeak in surprise and he chuckles, “You can’t be warm unless you’re over here! C’mere.” He nestles his face into your hair and splays a hand across the curve of your lower back. Feeling very naked and very nervous, you shift in his hold and snuggle closer to the heat he gives off, but halt your motions when you feel him twitch against your thigh. Neither of you are breathing, praying the other didn’t notice the rock hard length pressed between your bodies. Somehow, in the time you spent essentially playing dead, you both fell asleep cuddled together.

Over the course of the night, you had shifted to straddle your leg over his torso and he had turned on his back with his hand resting on the space between your thigh and your butt. Sero was the first to stir from his slumber when he felt you move against him, a small whine escaping your parted lips as your hips rolled against his. Oh... OH... Is y/n-? oh fuck y/n is dreaming... and grinding on me... fuck, this shouldn’t feel so good... He tries his hardest to go back to sleep, but the feeling of your sleeping body brushing up against his cock keeps him wide awake. He was trying to stay perfectly still until he heard your tiny whisper “Hanta~”... His hips involuntarily thrust, drawing out the most sinful moan from your throat as the head of his dick added friction on your clit that woke you up. You start to move away, embarrassed and hoping to check that he’s still asleep, but Sero’s grip tightens around your thigh and presses you harder onto him.

“Good morning to you, too~... If you needed my help getting off, you could’ve just asked, babygirl~” The lust and sleep clouding his voiced, combined with the steady roll of his hips makes you whimper and tuck your face into his neck.

“Awww so shy~ You were moaning my name earlier. Why don’t we see how loud I can make you, princess?” He speaks lowly as he flips you onto your back, hovering over you.

“I- I... Please.” You breathe wrapping your legs around his waist and stare up at him, wiggling your hips and sliding your hands up his biceps.

“Can I- Can I kiss you? Are you sure you want this? I’ve had feelings for you since before I moved in and I just... I never want to hurt you.” Cupping your cheek and searching your face for any hesitation, Sero starts succumbing to his own insecurities. He never wants to hurt you, and he knows he isn’t the flashy hero some of his friends seem to be... He needs to hear you say it.

“Sero... Yes~. I want you, please kiss me... I feel the same way. Please~...” Upon hearing your confession, Sero slotted his lips against yours. The kiss was sweet, gentle. Breathing each other in felt so right, so natural, and you followed his lead when he slid his hold to the back of your neck to deepen the kiss. His hand drifted down, following the curve of your breasts, tracing your sides and resting on the pouch of your tummy. Just as you were starting to feel self conscious, Sero groans and moves to kiss your neck, mumbling “You’re so beautiful, y/n. Fuck, so perfect. You feel so soft, I need you so bad~” The whimper he draws from you when he sucks a deep mark into the column of your throat is absolutely lewd, you can barely believe it came from you. He kisses his way down your body, leaving hickies along your skin and squeezing every inch he can get his hands on. You look down at him, his eyes dark with lust and admiration as he leaves opened mouthed kisses along your inner thighs, making you more needy than you thought possible. He strokes his thumb along your clothed slit and moans at your wetness.

“Fuck- you’re so wet for me, angel. I want to taste you, you’re so cute like this. Let’s take these off, yeah?” He looks to you and hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties, asking for permission and grinning like an idiot when you lift your hips to help him. Before you can say anything, he’s prying your legs open and diving in, moaning as he laps your slit and sucks your clit into his mouth. You run your fingers through his hair and grip him, pulling him into you and grinding against his face. His groans send vibrations straight to your core, pinning your hips with one arm and sliding two fingers into your dripping cunt.

“M-more!! Oh god, please Sero, just like that- I want more!” You moan so prettily for him, but he wants something more. He releases your clit with a pop and leans up, stilling his fingers inside you and wrapping his free hand around your neck. The pressure and dominance has you clenching around his fingers, and he takes notice.

“You either call me Hanta or Papi, nothing else. You understand? I want you to say my name when you cum.” He commands, and sends a shiver down your spine. “Oh you like that, huh?~ I can feel you squeezing my fingers. Why don’t you tell me what you want, baby?~”

Your brain goes hazy when he leans in and places little love bites on your neck and collarbones. “PAPI~! Yes, I love it! Please fuck me, I want to feel you, I need moreee~” You pant as he pulls his fingers out of you, leaving you unbearably empty.

“Oh baby, I’ll fill you up, don’t worry. But first, why don’t you suck my cock?~” He strips himself of his boxers and flips the two of you, pulling you on top of him. He’s so long, just thick enough to stretch you and reach every amazing spot inside of you. The sight of his hard length has you drooling, anticipating feeling the weight of him on your tongue. You give the head a few kitten licks, relishing in the way he groans and twitches in your hand. He laces his fingers at the base of your head and lets you set your own pace, wrapping your plush lips around him. Bobbing your head up and down, running your tongue along the vein on the underside of his dick and swirling it around the head- you love seeing his reactions. The way his breathing increases and his hips buck when you hollow your cheeks. He looks so pretty like this, you can’t help but rub your thighs together for some kind of friction. Luckily, he notices how desperate you’ve gotten and pulls you up to straddle him with one hand still on your hair and the other gripping your hip, calloused fingers digging in and massaging the fat there.

“As much as I want to cum in that perfect little mouth, I think my baby needs to be filled, yeah?” He fists his cock and strokes the head through your wetness, gathering your slick and making you involuntarily grind against him. “Beg for my cock, babygirl~, tell Papi what you want.” The smirk on his face is utterly sinful, teasing you and enjoying the fucked out expression on your beautiful face.

“PLEASE I want your cock, I wanna be full, just fuck me already!!! Please stop teasing me Hantaaa~” Just as you grind your hips down onto him, he thrusts into you, cutting off your pleading with a needy moan. “Ah~ fuck- so full, so full, oh my god! Yes Papi~!”

“Oh shit angel, fuck- you feel so good.” Hanta grabs your hips and helps you slowly fuck yourself on him, “Just like that, baby, just like that. Ride my fucking cock. Fuck- you’re so tight...”

The dirty talk pouring out of Hanta’s mouth, combined with the stretch of his hot length stirring up your insides, you find yourself embarrassingly close to climax already. Your first orgasm hits you like a train, completely knocking the air out of your lungs and causing you to collapse onto Hanta’s chest. He seizes the opportunity to flip the two of you, holding you underneath him and fucking you into the mattress.

“Ah ah ahhhhh~ Hantaaa~ I can’t! I can’t, I just came, it’s too much!!! oh FUCK Papi!!!” You feel the tears welling up in your eyes from the overstimulation and pleasure.

“Yes you can, babygirl. You’re taking me so well, you’re such a good girl. I know you love it, I can feel your pussy flutter around me. So honest, angel. You’re so perfect like this- fuck.” Hanta grips the back of your thighs and pushes your knees to the bed, hitting even deeper within you. The head of his cock kisses your cervix with every thrust and makes you scream out, nails digging into his back, and egging him on.

“Come on, mi amor, cum with me. I know you can, I can tell you’re so fucking close... Cum on my cock, that’s right. Cum for me.” His long fingers reach down and rub quick circles on your clit. He leans in to sink his teeth into the junction of your neck and your shoulder, sending you over the edge into your climax. Your vision goes white and you clamp down around him, cunt spasming as you squirt all over his thighs and abs.

“F-fuck!!! That’s so fucking hot~ I’m gonna- Ah~” He fills you to the brim with his sticky release, the warmth spreading through your core and coating your walls. Hanta releases your legs and lays on top of you, sweaty bodies pressed together until he comes down from his high.

“That was so amazing, angel. You were so good for me. Such a pretty baby, all mine...” He pulls back to kiss your temple and rolls over, petting your hair and lightly scratching your back.

“You have no idea how happy that makes me... I always want to be yours.” You giggle, bubbly at his claim on you and still buzzing from your high. You curl up into his chest, wrapping your arms around his waist and holding him close. “Mine.”

“Mmhmm, all yours.” He breathes a chuckle and places a kiss to your hairline. “I’m glad I can warm you up, lovebug.” He smiles as your breathing evens out, falling asleep with you in his arms.

#sero hanta #sero hanta x reader #bnha x reader #sero hanta fanfic #fanfiction #mha sero #mha smut

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ladyfloriographist · 3 years

Text

Descent of Man

[Image source]

Pairing: Commander Joseph Lawrence (The Handmaid’s Tale (TV)) x femme!Reader

Warnings: SPOILERS, Canon-Divergence, Non-Canon, Post Season 3, Repression, Oppression, Dystopic Future, Dystopian Themes, Older Man/Younger Woman, Mentions of Pregnancy, Mentions of Death, Traditional Gender Roles, Religious Extremism

XXXX

“Straighten your back, dear. Don’t slouch.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia.”

You tighten your grip on the handle of your red leather suitcase as you walk up the concrete path that leads to Commander Joseph Lawrence’s front door. Nerves in your legs tingle back to life. The drive from the Red Center was long, and Aunt Lydia had counselled you to mind your patience when you’d grown restless. But now, as you make your way to the crescent-shaped steps, you can’t help but hope for even one minute more in the van.

The overcast sky looms grey and ominous overhead.

“Remember, the Commander is a very powerful man.” Aunt Lydia’s cane clacks on the concrete alongside your footsteps. “He is very well respected, Ofjoseph. This is quite the opportunity for you.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia.”

The old Victorian becomes grander and more imposing with every step you take towards it. Your gaze lifts higher and higher: first floor, second storey, then dormers and a tower that let light into what must be the attic. Stonework and Roman arches over the windows and doors signal the age of the house—it has to be at least one hundred years old.

“He has suffered great losses recently, as you well know.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia.” She had recited the story over and over—and made sure you could tell it back to her, too. Your and Aunt Lydia’s footsteps fall into stride along the concrete path, fast approaching the stairs up to the house.

“His dear Wife, Mrs Eleanor Lawrence—may God protect and keep her—and then his Handmaid, too.” The Aunt tuts. “Oh, that wretched girl. I’d had such hopes, Ofjoseph—but you won’t disappoint me so, will you, dear?”

“No, Aunt Lydia.” The knot in your gut tightens.

“No, good girl.” Aunt Lydia modestly raises her brown skirts to ascend the concrete steps with grace. “Posture,” she says pointedly, brow arched, looking back at you with an appraising, approving glance before she knocks on the large black front door.

Just before you bow your head to look to the concrete beneath your feet, your eye is caught by something to the right, attached to the burnt-orange bricks that make up the gloriously antiquated home.

It’s a black wooden plaque, with three golden numerals in the centre framed by a golden ovoid ring.

132

You glance down quickly. You should not even be making an attempt to read, whether it be letters or numbers or anything. If Aunt Lydia saw recognition register on your face, she’d march you straight back to the van to return you to the Red Center for the swift removal of one of your fingers.

Leniency, for your first offence.

“The Commander has been very gracious in accepting you, Ofjoseph. You have a privileged place here.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia. Praise be.”

“Mm,” Aunt Lydia hums in righteous agreement. “Praise be.”

…But still, it strikes you as unusual, as you stare at the grey concrete, that such a plaque should even exist, now. Such decorative tiles are relics from the time before Gilead—forbidden, now, and what’s more, utterly useless. How could such an inscribed plate remain intact when there are no more street signs to direct your way let alone numbered houses?

The front door swings open, shocking you out of your thoughts.

“Blessed day. Come in, Aunt Lydia.”

A female voice. Younger? Deferential.

A Martha: one of the two you’d been told to expect here.

“Blessed day, Sienna, thank you,” Aunt Lydia replies pleasantly. “Come along, Ofjoseph,” she says promptly, without a look back at you as she steps inside.

The interior of the Commander’s house greets you like, once, a warm hug might have done. Off the foyer is two sitting rooms, and they seem dark, but not sinister inside. The walls are papered with cranberry-red brocade and muted-toned, aging florals, or else—painted with rich, deep hues of colour. Dark-stained wood pocket doors with etched glass inserts lead to one sitting room and an archway with a stained-glass transom at the top leads to another. The heavy, patterned curtains inside make the sitting rooms feel cosy and private—even, dare you think, warm. Full and ornate bookshelves, rugs of paisley and Persian patterns, and an abundance of leather seating furnish the cluttered rooms.

“This way, please,” offers the Martha named Sienna, gesturing through the open pocket doors.

You follow Aunt Lydia, your eyes struggling to adequately absorb every detail of the room. Lamps on side tables, artworks from many different Schools arranged effortlessly on the walls, chests, sculptures, a chandelier, a fireplace.

Cushions and blankets strewn over the leather couches. Stacks of books lazing on armchairs.

An old, freestanding record player in one corner.

Knowledge, art, and music all reside here.

The house is lived in. Still. Even now.

“Can I getcha a tea, some coffee, Aunt Lydia?” comes a man’s voice from the far end of the room.

Before you can think better of it, your gaze snaps to the sound of his voice—relaxed, even casual in tone. He stands just inside another arched opening, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. A generous head of ghost-white hair tops his head. He has thick grey brows and a white beard peppered with silver and grey. Thin-framed glasses rest on the bridge of his nose. He wears a waistcoat, and a buttoned vest with a scarf tied like a cravat, in an ascot knot.

It’s the first you’ve seen a man of Gilead not dressed in a black suit and black tie.

“Commander Lawrence,” Aunt Lydia smiles, with only a slight waver in her voice. “Blessed day, Sir.” Your raised wings catch in her periphery and she glances at you with beady eyes.

You drop your head immediately, quickly and quietly pretending like you’d been studying the many colours in the Persian rug beneath your brown boots.

The Commander’s gaze flicks to you—not that you see it—before he looks back at the Aunt. “Hi, yeah,” he says, “blessed, good morning.” He calls down the hallway, “Sienna?”

You shift on your feet, tightening your grip on your own gloved hands where they rest in front of you. The Commander’s casual, informal, incorrect greeting stirs a sense of unease in your stomach. Was he merely distracted or… wilfully disrespectful? Could you even think such a thing, about a man like him?

Beside you, Aunt Lydia bristles, drawing in a sharp, quiet gasp. But she settles herself quickly.

“Sienna!?” calls the Commander again, louder this time before turning back to his guests.

Well, his one guest, who brought with her the newest member of his household.

“’d you say coffee, Aunt Lydia? I think Beth made scones.”

“Ah…” the Aunt hesitates, gathering herself in a way you’ve rarely seen her need to do. “Oh my. Tea would be a delight, Commander,” she recovers. “No need to waste your delicacies on me!”

“Hm,” Commander Lawrence huffs a mirthless laugh in response to Aunt Lydia’s self-deprecating smile, and the resulting silence is broken by a set of hurried footsteps that quickly enter the room.

“You called for me, Commander?”

The young Martha, her rich brown eyes wide, a sheen of sweat making her warm-brown skin glow, her voice slightly breathless.

“Auhm, yeah,” says Commander Lawrence, swivelling to address her. “Tea, please, Sienna—and bring three cups, would ya? Some of Beth’s scones, too.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Three cups?

“Thanks.”

“Three?”

Aunt Lydia’s incredulous voice cuts through the room like a warm knife in soft butter. It’s so abrupt, so much shriller than you are used to that your gaze flicks upwards.

The Aunt’s round, wrinkled face is dropped in an expression of pure shock. The room is silent, even Sienna’s retreating footsteps have ceased, as the three of you look between each other—stunned in the face of this blatant and brazen flouting of Gilead-sanctioned decorum.

It seems, as tested as Aunt Lydia has been since arriving at the Commander’s house, that this act of hospitality extended to you, a Handmaid, is the extent of what she can handle.

For the first time since meeting him, you spot a hint of a smile flicker across Commander Lawrence’s face, as elusive as the passing of a shadow, or a ghost. “Three, Lydia,” he says quietly, with a self-assured confidence that dares her to question him further—especially since he refused to use her title.

The air is thick with tension. You hold your breath.

Aunt Lydia’s lower lip quivers as she searches for words. Her brow creases, her small eyes flitting between his as she holds the Commander’s gaze.

You hear her suck in a breath before she speaks again.

“Th-hank you, Commander Lawrence.” Aunt Lydia swallows. “Praise be, you are most generous, Sir.”

Everything breathes again. Footsteps recede down the hall once more, the walls themselves sigh with relief. For a moment you almost think you hear birdsong outside—but that’s next to impossible, over all the radio chatter.

“Welcome,” the Commander replies, lazily omitting words in his speech once more. His tone is breezily self-assured once again, but his dark eyes have hardened into a cold stare. He turns his gaze on you. “Sit.”

You look to the floor so quickly there’s a twinge in your neck, and you drop into the nearest seat. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. Under His Eye, Sir.”

“Alright,” the Commander cringes at your nervous rambling. “No problem, just, yeah. Siddown.”

You clasp your gloved hands together in your lap, your eyes fixed on the tiny balls of lint that have gathered near the seams. Everything about this man, from his clothes, to his manner, to his home, is contrary to what you’d been told to expect.

“Please,” says the Commander to Aunt Lydia, gesturing and offering for her to take a seat also. He walks around one of the armchairs, picks up a stack of three books and unceremoniously drops them on top of the existing stack on a nearby side table so he can sit down, too.

Aunt Lydia, frazzled and just barely recovering from the disrespect afforded her by the Commander, uneasily sits down on one of the brown leather couches. She sits like she’s perching on it, not quite setting down all her weight, on an angle to take up only the smallest possible amount of space.

She clears her throat. “Commander,” she forces a smile, shifting to face him, “it is my great hope that Ofjoseph will bring some,” she pauses, anxiously looking around at the many artworks and stacks of books that decorate the room, “stability, to your household, Sir. By His Hand.”

“Thanks,” says Commander Lawrence. “’ppreciate it.”

“I…” Aunt Lydia stammers again, stumbling over the Commander’s audacious disregard for social custom. It’s unorthodox—or rather, much worse—it’s a deliberate, transparent, shameless violation of his role as a Commander in the Republic of Gilead.

Lost for words, Aunt Lydia merely nods her head in deference. Her fingers flex around the gilded handle of her cane.

The Commander hums to clear his throat as Sienna brings a laden tray into the room. One teapot, three teacups, a plate of scones, and one small ramekin of butter.

The Martha sets it all down on the coffee table and the porcelain rattles softly in the stifling silence.

“Thanks, Sienna,” says Commander Lawrence, leaning forward to pour himself a cup of tea as the younger Martha leaves the room. “Hey, uh,” he sits back in his armchair, cup and saucer in hand, “you.”

You feel his eyes on you. This is how he chooses to address you? To draw your attention to him? ‘You’?

The stillness in the room is expectant, now. You tell yourself to lift your head.

“Ofjoseph?” Aunt Lydia prompts you.

Commander Lawrence speaks over the top of her. “Look at me.”

You lift your gaze to meet his. There’s nothing hard or soft in his stare, nothing warm or cold in the way he regards you. He merely sees you—his eyes observing, his lips in a line that neither smiles nor frowns.

He’s a wall, but built to defend or protect, you can’t read right now.

“My last Handmaid was a bit of a rabble-rouser,” he says easily, his voice nonchalant, “so I'm gonna say to you the same thing I said to her, ‘kay?”

You swallow, absorbing his candour. Aunt Lydia had told you never to speak of the last Ofjoseph, even if it was asked of you. But this particular question posed by the Commander requires more than a passive response. You get the sense that a number of conversations with him will be like this, and so you steel yourself to speak with a clear voice. “Yes, Commander.”

He keeps his gaze locked with yours, and brings his steaming teacup to his lips. He takes a slow sip, eyes trained on yours, and you resist the urge to shrink and shrivel into yourself.

The Commander swallows and sets his cup onto the saucer. It clinks, and after letting the small sound land for beat he says lowly, “You’re not gonna be any trouble, are you?”

Your breath catches, your voice stalling in your throat. Staring at him heats your blood, makes your palms perspire in your gloves. The man is dignified; he holds himself almost regally wherever he sits or stands. Is it the power he holds that makes him handsome, or is innate attraction purling in the pit of your gut?

…What will the Ceremony be like with him?

“No, Sir,” you say, your voice so soft it cracks. You gulp and collect yourself. Timidity does not seem to be a quality Commander Lawrence respects—another lesson you’d ardently learned only to be proven useless in his house. With more confidence, but not too much, particularly for Aunt Lydia’s benefit, you say, “Praise be to you, Commander, and may He make me truly worthy.”

You can feel Aunt Lydia’s presence lift with pride. You can see the smile spread across her face without needing to look at her, and can hear her words in your head without her needing to speak them.

‘Very good, dear,’ comes the Aunt’s voice in your mind.

The Commander looks you over, stoic as ever. “Ya,” is all he says in reply.

“Ofjoseph is one of our most promising Handmaids, Commander, allow me to assure you,” Aunt Lydia chimes in, now, finally, feeling on equal footing again. “Since the horrendous tragedies that your household has withstood, we thought it right and just that you be unburdened in at least this regard, Sir.”

“Unburdened?” the Commander replies flatly, his stalwart gaze now fixed on the Aunt.

You’re not sure whether you can look away from him. Does he wish for your eyes to remain on him? Does he expect you to look at him and from him at your own discretion? Would he like you to use your own judgement?

Regardless, it is clear that the decision of the Red Center Aunts to provide a pious, docile new Handmaid as consolation for his wife’s death is—at the very best—unappreciated by the Commander.

But whether or not Commander Lawrence appreciates the gesture and the gift that the Aunts have made you into is, ultimately, not your concern. Your first and last and only priority is that you fall pregnant with Commander Lawrence’s child as soon as humanly possible—or it’s the Colonies for you.

However, you being his sixth Handmaid, the Commander needs you to fall pregnant with his child just as quickly—given, especially, the sudden exodus of most of Gilead’s children seemingly overnight.

“Forgive me, Commander,” Aunt Lydia frowns, her eyes softening apologetically. “I only meant—”

“’s fine,” he interrupts, setting his cup and saucer back on the tray. “Tea’s gone cold, anyway,” the Commander stands from his seat and straightens his waistcoat, clearing his throat. “You can find your way out, Aunt Lydia?”

“Certainly, Sir,” Aunt Lydia assures him, mirroring his movement and standing from the sofa, somewhat uneasily on her injured leg. On instinct, you rise to your feet too.

“Til next time,” the Commander says, his voice laced with sarcastic fondness, as he strolls from the room and into what must be his private study. He doesn’t spare you a single backwards glance as he pulls another set of pocket doors closed behind him.

Silence settles over the sitting room like night.

Just like that, the visit concludes, and the realisation washes over you.

You’re not leaving with Aunt Lydia, when she goes, which she’s sure to do in just a moment.

This is it. The transaction is complete.

Your place is here. This house is now your home.

“I’ll be back the day after the Ceremony, dear,” Aunt Lydia says, leaning on her cane to stand. “In about, oh!” she pauses, looks at you with bright eyes, “seven days! Oh, sacred number. Blessings, Ofjoseph. May God bring forth His miracle.”

You muster a smile for her. Despite how this woman screamed at you, berated you, withheld your food and your sleep and denigrated your sense of self until you believed you were worth nothing more than being impregnated and delivering a healthy baby, her absence from your daily routine will be an adjustment.

You say, “Under His Eye, Aunt Lydia.”

She cups your cheek. “Under His Eye, dear.”

The Aunt makes her way to the door, met by Sienna and the second Martha, Beth, who stand in the foyer to see her off. The front door closes behind Aunt Lydia, and as soon as the latch locks it’s as if a dark, heavy storm cloud lifts from the house.

The Marthas sigh and relax, chattering eagerly and bickering animatedly about tonight’s dinner and even complaining about the Commander’s fussiness as they strut down the hallway to the kitchen. From the other side of the house, you hear a flare of music go up: some kind of Big Band era song, with trumpets and tubas and horns playing vivace—lively and fast.

The sun peeks out from behind the shroud of overcast sky, lighting up the sitting rooms with the glow of mid-afternoon.

You take a breath.

This old house feels alive.

#commander joseph lawrence #joseph lawrence #commander joseph lawrence x reader #commander joseph lawrence x you #joseph lawrence x reader #joseph lawrence x you #the handmaid's tale #g writes

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rk1kheadcanons · 4 years

Note

Connor and Markus are on vacation when they first meet

Connor's workaholic ass kept trying to weasel out of going on vacation up to the last moment until his dad, Hank Anderson, literally hugged him roughly in their shared beat up the car and then pushed him unceremoniously out the door at the airport, then sped off leaving him two options: Uber home or take the damned plane and go on vacation proper. Connor shook his head; the precinct could wait a week without him.

Carl had a limo come and get Markus and ferry him to the airport. Markus hated it. It showed he was a child of money and he was always so nervous about leaving his Dad's side. He never knew if it would be the last time. He had two choices: worry himself till he was prematurely gray and call the limo back it goes on this week vacation. Begrudgingly and guiltily, he enters the airport.

Connor's a nervous mess and it shows at the bag check out. He wishes the floor would swallow him whole. There are too many people. Then the lady is telling him he's in the wrong line, this is a first-class ticket and Connor is both mad and flattered that his father splurged this much for him. He nervously moves his bags out the way to the blessedly clear first-class line.

Well, that's not quite true. There is this beautiful man dressed in a brand of a suit he could never afford in a year's worth of income, in line, getting checked in.

Connor feels like an obvious bum behind this airport God, with his bronze skin and-oh! Two-toned eyes, one blue and the other green...and crap he's staring.

Connor mumbles a 'hello' in passing as the airport God continues to stare at afterward, probably thinks he's weird.

Check out isn't a problem.

Markus has been flying since he was one year old, and first-class, too. What he didn't expect to see was this adorable wallflower staring at him absolutely terrified and a hairsbreadth from being spooked by him. Oh my goodness, he was so adorable! Soft looking curls, large brown eyes framed in large framed glasses, pale mole, freckled skin that was actively blushing. Even his graphic tee, skinny jeans, and DG shoes we're just somehow him, Markus knew. Markus walked past with a greeting...and right into some rope off markers because he was so enamored with the other man. Too bad they aren't going to the same place, that could have been markus time to get to know him.

They are row mates and the flight is surprisingly pretty much just them.

Markus is not the most religious but prays to all entities for this happenstance.

Connor has problems breathing with the man being right there in his visual range. The dude is way out of his league, probably straight as a board, and Connor's gay heart can not deal. He fucking smells good from across the row from him. Bitch.

"Hi, I'm Markus. What is your name?"

Connor flinched like he was slapped and with the added confusion as his eyes landed on where the voice came from.

Markus would have laughed if he wasn't certain that the other would probably ride the rest of the flight in the bathroom just to live down the unwarranted embarrassment.

The man, Markus, is all smiles and beautiful eyes, and Connor is melting in confusion inside. This man is talking to him?

"I'm Connor. Are you talking to me, not a phone, or?"

Markus smile dims a little. So this Connor had self-esteem issues, felt a like person like him could not be talked to by a person like him.

"Yeah, I'm talking to you directly. There are no other beautiful people taking my attention like you are."

Connor blushed even harder and tried to will his heart to not fall out of his mouth. Here this absolutely fetching male was talking to him and he was ready to put his earbuds in for the duration of the trip like a normal person would when being flirted with.

Markus knew what he was doing.

Looking both ways down the aisle, he got up with his carry on and sat by Connor.

Connor freaked out for multiple reasons: what about assigned seating? This man was too hot, and Connor was very Gay.

Markus could see the panic attack welling up in Connor.

Markus started to talk to him about himself. He spoke of how this was a 'forced vacation'/from his Dad, a point Connor could relate to. He started to relax, take in the man's calming voice.

Connor found his voice and started talking back about his own experience. It was an enjoyable experience with a perfect stranger that just happened to look like Connor's future husband.

It never crossed their minds they were on a joint flight to Hawaii even when whey they finally disembarked hours later, it still didn't click.

Connor slept on his first day.

When he did wake, he enjoyed the scenery of the beach from his verandah. He thought about Markus and the fact that maybe he could have drawn the scene before him.

He decided to hit the beach. He'd bought some ridiculously small board booty shorts, painted his nails a lovely iridescent navy blue, and parked himself under a large canopy on his doggie pattern beach towel. He was pretty and he was going to pay that aspect up.

There was a 'thud' and slight groan as someone tripped and more or less stop, dropped, and fell under his canopy with him.

It had him scrambling up, fist ready to fight. He was no pushover no matter how he may look to others. He looked down and couldn't help but snort inelegantly. Markus lay frozen in place, borderline terrified Markus, eyes wide and shifting all over Connor's figure before landing on those tiny shorts.

Markus can't help but want to stay by Connor's side, and it looks like Connor is just as receptive to that, if his eyes glued on Markus muscles have any say in it.

Baring just the good looks and obvious attraction between them, the conversation is good as well. They find they have a lot in common as well.

They decide after a fun day at the beach to sort of unanimously to enjoy the trip as whatever this would evolve into. They now were certain they both resided in Detroit, Markus a curator for his father's works and some of his own as well.

Connor was an up and coming detective that partnered with his father, Lieutenant Thank Anderson. Markus knew of his dad from a large art heist that he'd busted when he was younger and had nothing but respect for the man. Likewise, Connor enjoyed Carl Manfred's artwork from the time he could understand art concepts.

Nightlife came and the pair went out and enjoyed the energy of the clubs. Connor would not have come if not for Markus, and Markus doubted that he would have either alone given his homebody nature. They both fed each other positively in that regard, sharing drinks and laughs and dancing late into the morning hours.

At some point, they had decided to call it a night in their tipsy way of handling, Markus arm around Connor's shoulder as giggled themselves, shuffling back to the hotel that they found they also shared.

Somewhere along the trip up to their respective rooms, Connor became very brave indeed, pulling Markus slightly flushed face to his and kiss him soundly. Markus looks at him with wide, expressive eyes, the vestiges of drunkenness slipping away for confirmation of what this can mean, what it will mean if he steps a foot into Connor's room with him.

Connor murmurs his assent to whatever the night will hold and Markus kisses Connor back with more passion this time around, finagling the room key from Connor's hand and fumbling to open it, too stubborn to fly stop peppering kisses on Connor and look at the lock mechanism to which Connor just can't contain his giggles. The four finally swings open and Connor is lifted up and onto the room, the door closing slowly behind them letting his giggles echo into the hall until the slip into pleased little groans by the time the door is completely shut.

A week goes by and two fathers await their son's return. Somehow Hank is pleased with this little turn of events. He wanted Connor to enjoy himself, to truly unwind. If 'unwind' meant to bring a boyfriend home, well, as long as he was safe, Hank was proud of his boy. He seemed to have a good eye when he saw the other slightly nervous young man named Markus holding his son's hand.

Carl was the same sort of supportive. He even was having a good day health-wise so he really got to get to know (pick on and tell embarrassing stories to) Connor. Markus rolled his eyes and sighed good-natured.

To think neither we're interested in going on their vacation for their own reasons. They may have gone their whole lives and never met.

Here's to all the perfect strangers in the world that could be soul mates waiting to happen.

#rk1k #rk1000 #conkus #dbh #connor x markus #ask #anonymous #human au #rk1kweek #my addition in prompt form #🌸ask post #hella long ficlet

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detroitbydark · 4 years

Text

Part Two

Character: Commander Fox x Reader

Warnings: none

Summary: Fox gets a surprise or two from his Little Mouse

A/N: So like any fic I write, I have no clue where this is going. But half the fun is the journey. Right?

Part One can be found here on my Masterlist

It is only his own shoddy luck and his Little Mouse’s uncanny understanding of E and E, that allow her to evade him and evacuate from any interaction for the rest of the week.

A sudden surge in Anti-republic activity had the Guard running ragged to keep up. Fox refused to allow the Coruscant Security Force to regain any footing that he’d so rightfully taken from them. They were not bred and trained to do what his men could and their poor handling of one too many cases connected to the senate and its officials made it very clear that he and his men could perform at a far superior level to then any day of the week. The Supreme Chancellor seemed to agree which only made him more sure of their undertaking.

That said, by the end of the week his Shock Troopers we’re running on stims and a prayer, pulled thin by the multiple officials requiring additional security, but they were still running. Fox himself had only managed a few hours in the office between Tuesday and Saturday in between investigations. While Mouse had been present each time- as he’d expected- she managed to find reasons to wiggle out of his sight the first second she could. He’d begun to second guess his initial assessment of her interest. Luckily, he was hitting the post stim wall and everything not immediately involved with sustaining life was pushed to the far back of his mind to worry about later. It was 0800 Saturday and he was running on 3hrs of sleep in the last 36. His rack was crying out his name.

On Kamino he’d never been privy to the notion of privacy but the Supreme Chancellor has commended he and his men for their loyalty and dedication to the Republic as such he’d felt them entitled to a somewhat higher standard of living then other clones. Fox had felt unsure of the change at first but the Chancellor had insisted the guardsmen entrusted with his life and the safety of the Senate be allowed private rooms within the greater barracks facilities as reward for their service. While his room wasn’t large by any stretch of the imagination it was his and his alone offering a bed twice the size of anything he’d ever slept in and his own private fresher with hot water that never seemed to quit.

He’d already decided against the shower upon walking through the door as he worked to peel out of his armor and unceremoniously discarded his under armor shirt before collapsing in a heap atop his blankets. Sleep pulled at his consciousness and he was nearly lost to it when he heard the knock at his door, somehow managing to growl out an ‘enter’ order will still face down into the down comforter.

Like a dream his Little Mouse is standing there hesitating in the halo of light that bathes the entry. She’s not in her usual stark GAR issued uniform but form fitting civvies, pants and inky black jacket fitted over a tank top. Why was she concerning herself with him on her day off?

She takes a step through the open door allowing it to slide shut with a soft hiss behind her.

Fox pushes himself up right. He takes a moment to scrub at the sleep in his eyes before his focus narrows in on her.

Her eyes are wide and looking everywhere but at him. That’s fine. It gives him time to allow his own eyes an lazy perusal of her soft curves, so often hidden to him.

“It’s Saturday, Mouse.” He notes as she finds a place on the wall to stare at. “What do you need?” His voice is sharper than he’d usually use with her but he has little control over that right now, and for kriff sake, why wasn’t she looking at him?

“Sir, I’m sorry but I have these for you to sign and I wanted to get them done” she rattles through quickly. “and I’m s-so sorry to bother you and I-“

“Mouse! Enough!” He barks and she freezes “and for the love of the Senate, look at me when we’re talking.”

“But Commander your-“ she makes a gesture toward his chest. Fox realizes she’s pointing to his state of undress and slowly rises. He notes the way her eyes rake over him when she thinks he’s not looking. He offers a raised brow pointedly.

Y/N chews at her lip in that very distracting way she did when she was nervous. He groans, unable to stop the soft sound.

“Kriff, just hand be the pad and tell me what I’m signing”

She moves hesitantly and can’t help but roll his eyes as his jaw is stretched into a yawn. He can’t imagine being any less intimidating than he is now, out of armor and minutes from sleep.

“It’s your field reports and rotation schedule for next week. They’re due by 2200 tonight and you weren’t in the office yesterday and I don’t want you to get in trouble...” One arm crosses over her chest and grips her arm as he takes the pad and signs. “I’m so sorry for bothering you sir.”

He can feel the way her eyes trace the tattoos that cover his right arm from wrist to shoulder and cross over his chest. “You’re not a bother. You just have inopportune timing.” She nods absently, “Y/N?”

“Sir?” She shakes her head in confusion.

“I said something to you. Or were you too busy enjoying my artwork to listen.” Her eyes have dipped to his arms again.

“Mmhm...I mean… yes- no! Commander Fox, I’d never stare. That was very rude of me.”

Fox can’t help but chuckle. “If I had a few more hours of sleep” he flexes his arms and watches her eyes follow the movement of his muscles bunch, “we could explore each and every centimeter of ink on my body but, unfortunately, for the both of us that’s not the case.” Y/N swallows hard as he hands back the datapad. “Now, unless you’ve decided to crawl into bed with me and pretend to be my favorite stuffed Ewok…” he lets the teasing question hang in the air and is surprised by the swipe of pretty pink tongue across her lips-though less surprised at the stirring he feels low in his belly.

Later, he’ll think she nearly took him up on the offer. That, or it was simply the delusion of an exhausted man.

“Thank you Commander Fox, I’ll get these filed immediately.” She turns to leave and he clears his throat. She halts mid stride, hand already reaching for the door panel.

“79’s tonight”

“Fox?” He likes the way she drops his title and the breathless way she says his name.

“We’ll be at 79’s tonight if you want to join.”

“I- I may take you up on the offer.”

When she’s gone Fox wastes not a second collapsing back into the bed and crashing into sleep. When he wakes he doesn’t remember the dream of soft kisses and his Little Mouse curled up underneath him.

```````````

The end of another successful week always warrants a celebration. The back booth at 79’s is composed of a contingent of the Coruscant Guard. It wasn’t the most welcoming waterhole in the parsec but they managed and the end of the week brought drink specials that their small quarterly stipends couldn’t turn down. Commander Fox liked to think It did well to show the other troopers that they were just as human as they were or, as Thorn had once pointed out, to remind them that eyes were always on them. Either way the mass of other clones gave them a wide berth. Though the whispered curses, in both Basic and Mando’a, were hard to miss. Eyes from members of the 501st and 332nd- among others- were easily felt and readily ignored.

Rule, Hound and Thire, still in the red and white plastoid armor were taking bets on which would be the first to get the comms of the new waitress, a pretty Twi’lek with pale blue skin and a stunning smile, while Ryk and Wren were at the bar ordering the next round of drinks. Their Grey's blended into the sea of other clones but who knew who they were, he always kept an eye on the kits.

Fox watches quietly, eyes flitting from his guardsmen brothers and other clones meandering about. He was off the job so the amount of fucks he truly gave about the behavior of the 501st and the rest of the cadre of troops letting loose was negligible. If their command couldn't handle them that was their problem. He just wanted to drink in peace.

The ice in his glasses rattles wetly as he nurses two fingers of whiskey, Cheedoan with mature smoky notes and a peppery finish. He's on his third of the night. He doubted his invitation, thrown out on a whim, would be accepted but it doesn't stop him from occasionally glancing toward the door. He rolls his tongue along the inside of his lip and let's another sip of whiskey wash along his taste buds. He enjoys the burn though it’s becoming weaker with each passing drink. The sensation warms- like rays of sunshine over bare skin- from the inside dulling the demons that had been eating at him for over a month now.

“You want in on this, Sir?”

Fox shoots Rule a questioning look. The Sargent seems more than happy to ignore his commander’s lack of focus on the task at hand.

“You think you can get the Twil’s comm?” Rule clarifies, his mismatched eyes sparkling with mischief in the low light.

Fox lets his gaze drift to the woman in question as she moves about the room. Her steps are fluid and she manages to move through the crowd without knocking into any of the inebriated clones or allowing her tray and the drinks atop it to be disturbed in the least. She’s a professional that knows her crowd. She’s got a tempting amount of flesh on display and her lekku- long and elegant- are swept back ever her shoulders. Her hips are pleasantly curved and have a nice dip to them as she moves. He glances at his brothers from the corner of his eye. Hound wets his lips as he watches, never one for playing his cards close to his chest.

“Nah” Fox says after a moment with a shake of his head, “wouldn’t be fair to you” The trio of clones laugh and Thire elbows the younger Hound in the side, head dipping toward Fox as the Commander lets his eyes sweep back toward the main entrance.

“The Commander has a smaller quarry in mind.” He tips the bottle up in a three fingered grip as he empties the dregs of it. Hound turns a questioning look on the Commander and Fox sighs internally. This again. He doesn’t let on that he’s heard but Thire is not one to let sleeping dogs- or foxes- lie. His look is challenging. “Got a little mouse in his sights.”

Fox shakes his head as the Guardsmen begin to snicker. He’s glad Mouse hasn’t shown. He’d hate for her to be surrounded by children.

“Really, Sir?” Hound asks.

Thire answers, “I bet she’s an absolute spinner, get one that’s wound that tight to finally cut loose…?” He lets the thought hang in the air and the others hum quietly.

Fox feels his lip twitch. Thire wasn’t wrong but he wasn’t about to let it be known that he had the same thoughts. He also didn’t appreciate the cavalier way he spoke about things he knew Sithshit about. It was more than a base level attraction he had for Y/N. He couldn't put his finger on it, a feeling he hadn't felt before, but he enjoyed the way she looked after him. It was like she cared what happened to him. It made him want to do the same for her.

He’d been halfway to finding out what his Little Mouse really thought of him when they’d been so rudely interrupted earlier in the week and far too exhausted to string together any kind of seduction when she’d turned up in his private quarters this morning.

He could play the long game though and it was only a matter of time until he was given another chance. He was a patient man when the situation called for it and he would get to the bottom of whatever it was that drew his eyes to her.

He raises the glass to his lips and finishes the nearly full drink in one swallow, licking his lips as the glass comes down hard against the table, the ice tinkling merrily as he does.

Fox shakes his head once and gives the boys a calculating smile. “I’m not going to validate any of that with a response.”

“Sir,” It’s Rule’s turn to speak up, “I think your silence tells us everything we need.”

Fox offers a shrug as he slips from the booth, laying down some credits in his wake.

“Maybe so” he offers. He feels the buzz of alcohol in his veins. He needed to cut back before it became a problem but that wouldn't be tonight. “I'm going to see what's taking the kits so long at the bar.”

The Twi’lek waitress passes close as he heads toward the long garishly lit bar. Her perfume is sweet, almost cloyingly so. Fox glances over his shoulder as he begins to make his way into the thrum of clones and civilians and shouts back to his vode “my credits are on Hound”.

A roar of laughter follows him as he moves through the crowd. He leans against the bar top as other clones offer him a wide berth. He catches the bar tenders eye and waits his turn to be served.

"Are you going to b-buy me a drink, Commander?" The soft voice catches him off guard as he feels a gentle tug at his greys. He can't help the smile that falls to his lips as he turns.

"Didn't think you'd-" Fox's voice trails off as he takes in the woman in front of him. There is certainly nothing mousy about the dress she's wearing. She's got the black coat she was wearing this morning draped over her arm as she flashes him a nervous smile. He can't help but lean back and give her a long sweeping look. She's added a few inches with strappy heels she's wearing. From there he's treated to a long expanse of bare legs that seem to go on forever. The hem of her dress skims high on her thigh. It's red. Almost a perfect match for his own paint job and he bites back asking if it was a coincidence. She makes a nervous sound and he quickly remembers his manners. "You look stunning, Y/N"

"Thank you Comman- Fox. It's not too much is it?" Any other woman would sound like she was fishing for compliments but with Y/N he knew that it was a genuine question.

Fox let's his eyes trace over her face and guided by alcohol his hand smooths over her hair. it's sleek and longer than he ever thought it would be moving in gentle waves over her shoulders. She's a vision that he knows he hasn't done a damn thing to deserve. "You're lovely. Can I?" he gestures behind him as the bartender heads over.

"What you're having?"

He wastes no time in repeating his order from earlier x2. He can't help but chuckle when she takes her first sip and her face screws into a sour expression.

"i'm sure it'll grow on me" She jokes.

"If it doesn't, I owe you something else." he promises as he loops an arm around her waist. She stiffens momentarily and Fox wonders if he's crossed the line they've been straddling. She relaxes into his touch and he decides he doesn't care if he has crossed that line. The looks his boys give him as they return only serves to bring a smug smile to his face.

"Mouse!" Thire and Rule greet in tandem. Y/N presses into his side and he shoots the boys a look that says tone it down, in no uncertain terms. Hound and Ryk scoot to the side as Fox ushers her into the booth, moving in next to her as she does.

Ryk, ever the sweet youngster offers a gentle smile to their guest, "The Commander didn't tell us you were coming. You look really pretty."

His Little Mouse blushes and dips her chin, "I didn't think I was going to but" she shrugs, "here I am"

Fox feels her knee bump against his and his free hand dips down to rest over it. She looks up at him through dark lashes and relaxes into his side. Taking another sip of her drink she manages not to make a face.

"You don't have to drink that." he reminds as Thire catches his eye.

"It's growing on me." she hums.

"I hope I do the same."

She laughs, it's the first he's ever heard from her and it's light and effervescent, addictive. "Who says you haven't already?"

"Mouse?" It's Wren, Rule's batchmate, newly returned with a round of shots. "I didn't know you were here? I could have gotten you one too." He points to the neon green test tube. Hound makes a face of disgust.

"You know I hate Sith Spit." he groans and turns to Y/N, "You can have mine."

Y/N gives the trooper a sweet smile and accepts to shot he offers. When all members have them Thire let's out a raucous cheer of K'oyacyi.

The gathered Coruscant Guard answers back. "K'oyacyi!" Y/N joins in quietly a slight second behind the rest and takes her shot before setting the vial down while the others slam their own. Fox laughs and deep rumbling thing that has her smiling up at him shyly. "didn't know you knew Mando'a?"

"I was just following along."

"Careful cyar'ika" he warns playfully, "you never know what your agreeing too" She gives him a curious look and he shakes his head. "you said cheers."

"And cyar'ika?"

"Ancient Mando'a for nosey little mouse" He offers with a straight face. She swats playfully at his arm. It's entirely ineffectual and he smiles like an idiot. It was good to see her loosening up the longer she spent around them. He pushes back the grey GAR issued cap on his head. He hadn't felt this easy going in ages.

"Mouse" Rule speaks up from the otherwise of the booth, "do you dance?"

Fox looks down at her curiously as she shrugs, "Not in a long time."

"Wanna dust off the dancing shoes for me?"

Multiple sets of eyes travel to Fox who puts his hands up, "It's not my decision. If the mouse wants to dance she can dance."

He's said something right because a smile flashes across her face and she nudges at him to move out of the way. Fox relents and Rule takes her hand, helping her to her feet. His eyes follow the pair to the dance floor.

Thire slides closer, "already ready to lose her?"

Fox shrugs, "she's not mine yet and if you think Rule is going to be the one to snatch her away than your crazy." Thire laughs and goes back to his drink. Fox sips at his drink as he watches Rule's hands fall to her hips. Mouse moves them in enticing circles that make him wish he'd asked her to dance first. The music thrums and the lights flash and his Little Mouse laughs and giggles as Rule spins her around then pulls her in tight to dip her. Every member of the Guard in attendance quiets as they watch her dress ride up her thighs.

"Maker help me..." Wren squeaks.

"Tell me about it" Hound adds.

Fox is silent as he watches her hair frame her face like a silent mane. Something inside him, a possessive quiet voice purrs mine.

His vision is disturbed a second later as a soldier, clad in blue and white plastoid, blocks his view.

"vod’kyramund"

Brother killer.

The words hit him like a blaster bolt to the gut.

His shoulders have already gone tense before he’s even slipped from the booth.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that” the words are growled out- a low and dangerous sound that should have warned the clone trooper to check himself.

The trooper lurches into his space knocking against the table, his squad mates quickly moving to hold him back but he shakes them off, “hear or don’t hear what you want but it doesn’t make it less true.”

Fox looks at the pair of men behind the instigator and notes his own team of backup slipping from the booth.

A half circle has formed up around them and Fox can hear the murmur beginning to rise as more blue and white pops into view. The tension is thick, even a plasma blade would have trouble cutting through it.

The song ends and he catches Rule pull Y/N close as she attempts to move back to the table.

Fox makes sure the dreg from the 501st throws the first punch. It'll hurt like hell tomorrow but it'll make the paperwork so much simpler.

The night disintegrates into chaos from there.

#commander Fox #tCW #commander fox x reader #commander fox/reader #the clone wars

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elesianne · 4 years

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A Silmarillion fanfic – Aredhel and Celegorm

Summary: AU where Celegorm and Curufin meet Aredhel and Maeglin when they're escaping Nan Elmoth. They come to Himlad, and Celegorm and Aredhel have a late-night conversation by firelight about how things have been between them and how they perhaps will be.

Wordcount: ~3,000 words; Rating: Teenage audiences

Some keywords: alternate universe – canon divergence, fix-it of sorts, reunions, renegotiating a relationship, ambiguous relationship, mentions of sex

A/N: This is a treat fic for this beautiful TRSB artwork by @houndsofvalinor-art. I use Quenya names in dialogue because Celegorm and Aredhel speak Quenya here.

AO3 link

In another world

Investigating the leg and hoof of her horse that had suddenly started limping, Aredhel curses colourfully first in Sindarin and then in Quenya. 'She is lame', she says, straightening up and patting the mare soothingly on the shoulder. 'Shouldn't be ridden, and certainly not at the speed we were planning on keeping.' Maeglin scowls as ferociously as she must be. 'Damned rabbits, they must be plentiful here for the number of holes they've dug. No wonder one of our horses eventually stepped into one.' Aredhel cannot help but let out a crazed laugh. 'Indeed. And it has managed to cripple our journey-making.' A rabbit. 'I did tell you that we should take a third horse –' 'And I told you that that would made the servants suspicious that we were leaving to go further than to visit my cousins in Himlad.' Yet Himlad is as far as they've made it, across most of Himlad, close to the Fords of Aros. They are not that far from Celegorm and Curufin's fort in the Pass of Aglon.

Aredhel asks her son for silence to think and come to the inevitable conclusion that to continue their journey with some semblance of safety, they must go to the Pass and ask Celegorm and Curufin for a horse, or to wait for Aredhel's to heal.

She'd wanted to avoid that. Riding straight to Gondolin would be easier and safer. Eöl cannot follow them there. Just as she's opening her mouth to tell Maeglin that they must set their course north, those of her dogs that have wandered a little way away begin barking – the loud, rapid kind of warning bark – and soon the ones that remained at Maeglin's feet while Aredhel dealt with her horse join in, too. Then they are all barking and howling and making an unholy racket that makes it impossible for Aredhel and Maeglin to determine what it is the dogs are warning about.

Aredhel quietens them with a sharp command and draws her blade. Maeglin has already drawn his. There is no way to hide, not on this grass plain, so they stand and look around and listen and wait. 'We are in the land of my cousins', she reminds her son. 'And they keep it under tight guard. It is unlikely to be orcs.' And indeed, in a moment they hear noises, and they are those of dogs, not wolves or orcs. Aredhel cocks her head and listens closely to the deepest bark. 'Huan', she says, smiling widely. 'Lómion, it is my cousins. Or Celegorm, at least.' She whistles, long and loud, the signal that she and Celegorm long ago used on their hunts to summon the other. At once there is the sound of galloping hooves. Soon another pack of dogs led by Huan rushes to greet Aredhel's, and Celegorm and Curufin and a group of scouts in leather armour rides to surround Aredhel and Maeglin. It is very loud again, all of the dogs greeting and sniffing each other. 'Sheathe your sword', Aredhel tells Maeglin. 'These are my cousins.' 'Írissë! You look well. Pale, though.' With a wide grin, Celegorm brings his horse to a stop right next to her and swings down from the saddle, bending down to scratch the ears of every dog that crowds around him and Huan. 'What brings you to this part of our land?' he asks Aredhel. 'Running back to your brothers, are you, without even coming to say greet us along the way?' It is said more amiably than she'd have expected; as if hundreds of years have not passed since they last saw each other. He was not home when she did try to visit him. 'Írissë.' Here is Curufin too, with his calculating eyes on Maeglin. 'Who is this? Your son?' 'He is.' Aredhel takes Maeglin's arm and speaks proudly. 'Maeglin Lómion is his name, and he is coming with me. Lómion, these are my cousins, Celegorm whom I used to call Tyelko and Curufin who was Curvo, lords of Himlad.' Celegorm and Curufin nod at Maeglin, and all three look at each other warily. Aredhel could hardly have expected more at the first meeting, she supposes. She stifles a sigh of impatience. 'Why did you stop here?' Celegorm asks. 'Though it is good that you did, I must say. I think we'd have ridden past each other without ever knowing it if you hadn't.' Aredhel explains how her horse tripped and became lame, and says, 'We were downwind of you and my dogs smelled yours on the wind, I think. Maeglin and I certainly didn't hear you.' 'And we you', Curufin agrees. 'We were too far.' 'Good thing that it is a windy day.' Aredhel raises her eyes to Celegorm's. He is the one she was always closer to, and the one who she feels she has more to explain to. 'We find ourselves in need of assistance. A fresh horse, or time at your house to let mine recover.' 'It is always windy in Himlad', Celegorm says, a spark of something in his pale eyes. 'Come to the Pass with us, stay while your horse recovers', Curufin invites. 'Our master of horses will have her well soon again.' 'Or stay longer', says Celegorm. Aredhel turns to pat her horse. 'Thank you.' 'Is she well enough to ride?' Celegorm approaches her and her horse. Aredhel swats away his hand when he reaches down to examine the mare's leg. 'No need for that. I can tell that she shouldn't if it can be avoided.' 'That is easy enough. Ride with me.' Easy as anything, Celegorm turns back to his own horse. 'You can ride with me, mother.' Maeglin barely covers his scowling at Celegorm. 'My horse is larger', says Celegorm, and it is, another in a line of massive stallions that Aredhel used to teasingly call brutes even though any horse Celegorm chose and trained was always smarter and better-trained than most horses in Valinor or Beleriand. 'Írissë?' Celegorm prompts. 'Let me run up my stirrups', she says, and to Maeglin, 'It is alright. I am used to riding with him.' Stirrups safely pulled up and fastened in place on her mare's saddle, Aredhel takes Celegorm's hand and swings herself up on his big horse. Behind him – though she found herself in need of 'saving', she is no maiden in distress and does not need to be held by him. Still. She never rode like this with Eöl, chest to his back, trusting him to guide the horse. Oh, Valar, she thinks as they begin their slow journey north to the fortress in the Pass while Curvo and the scouts continue on their planned route. She'd missed Celegorm much more than she has realised. * The two of them sit before the fire in Celegorm's hall late into the night, long after Maeglin and Celebrimbor have gone to bed, Aredhel's dogs dozing at her feet and Huan at Celegorm's. They talk of many things without quite touching on the most hurtful ones, their tongues more careful than perhaps ever before. Aredhel tells Celegorm of her marriage in sparse words that conceal as much as they reveal, though by the look on Celegorm's face he hears many things she does not say. He bites his lip and says little. It must be nearing midnight when Celegorm rises, as abrupt in his moves as he always was, saying only, 'I'll be back soon.' 'I'll be here', Aredhel says. The Quenya words are still a delight on her tongue. She had to keep Quenya buried deep within herself for so long. Here there is no need for it, and indeed Celegorm had told her to speak the language of their shared youth. She settles back in her chair to wait, petting the ears of her most watchful dog who awoke and stood up as soon as Celegorm did. He is a faithful friend. He does come back soon, with a sword in its scabbard in his hand. He drops it in her lap unceremoniously. 'Curvo was experimenting on making more resilient blades – damn, it must be well over two centuries ago now. We hadn't given up hope on seeing you again yet so he made a sword for you too.' Aredhel draws the sword from its scabbard, careful of her curious dog's sniffing nose. The blade glitters even in the low light, reflecting the dying flames in the hearth, as she examines it. 'My weight and length', she remarks. 'A fine weapon, and the size of sword I always liked.' 'In all ways, the sword you always liked. Only the technique by which the blade was forged is different.' Aredhel raises her eyes to meet Celegorm's. He seems uncharacteristically serious, with a hint of that cold fury that took over him when he found out why she and her son were riding their horses ragged as they headed away from Nan Elmoth. 'You kept this for a long time', she says. 'Though you did not know if you could ever give it to me.' 'Things here, with me and Curvo, are the same as ever; you are welcome here with us', he says, echoing his words from when they were riding together on his horse. 'And with you and me?' Aredhel asks, still running her finger down the smooth, sharp blade. 'Am I still your friend? Still welcome in your bed?' He shouldn't be surprised at her forthrightness, but he seems to be. 'Yes, and yes', he says as soon as he recovers, as if both of those things are as simple as that. And they aren't to her, not really though she asked so baldly. Their old friendship that occasionally included falling into bed together feels changed now, however much she wishes it were the same. She stares at the fire, feeling herself slipping from flippant to as serious as he is.

Dear, dear Tyelko.

She says, 'You are…. a constant friend me, Tyelko, when you are not burning ships to keep me from following.' That is an old hurt and an old insult whose edge time and previous confrontations and their enduring mutual affection have worn dull, and without dwelling on it more Aredhel continues, 'Perhaps one day I will knock on your door again, if you are serious; I married, and had a son, and left my husband. And still you say that things are the same between us.' 'Your child has nothing to do with me and is a man grown anyway, and you left your husband, and you are the same as you ever were, Írissë. Your hair windswept and your white hems mud-splattered, running from one thing to another with your howling pack of dogs at your heels. Beautiful and free-hearted and strong-armed.' She can barely look at him when he talks like that. He has always had these moments when he strips himself bare for her: short, fleeting moments when his sincerity is more disarming than his flirting ever could be. 'I have felt a stranger to myself sometimes, this last century', she says. 'Or longer.' 'Perhaps you can rediscover yourself here. Stay and do that', he coaxes. 'Your son will be happy to stay, I know. He seemed to have an infinite number of things to talk about with Tyelpë. I'm sure he and Tyelpë and Curvo will enjoy showing and teaching each other things. They have the same kind of curious, crafty souls.' Aredhel cannot help but smile. 'Lómion does have that. His father claimed it to be all his doing but I always knew he inherited much from the Noldor. We will stay. For a time, at least. Until the spring, perhaps.' They are safe here, both she and her son. 'I am glad', Celegorm replies. 'You are free here, Írissë. Unlike your brother and husband, I know that you are not the kind of bird that can be caged. You will either escape or beat yourself to death against the bars of your prison trying to. Here you are free to come and go as you please, as far afield as you want. I only hope that you eventually come back here. To me.' His sincerity is not yet over for the night, then. Aredhel swallows hard and says, 'I always have so far, have I not?' He smiles with all his teeth but without bite, unless perhaps the kind she always enjoyed receiving and giving. 'Indeed you have', he says, and changes the subject, nodding at the sword still in her lap. 'Since you have no husband to warm your bed here and until you perhaps invite me to there, that will keep you company.' Aredhel snorts. 'No matter where I am, my husband will never again be welcome in my bed, and my dogs make for warmer company than a blade.' 'All the more reason to keep that close, then, though steel makes for a cold bedpartner. More seriously, Írissë, do you want me to deal with him if he comes here?' Celegorm watches her face closely. She shifts in her chair, uncomfortable with the subject though she has been joking about Eöl. 'I don't need you to fight my battles for me, Tyelko, in words or by blade.' 'I know.' His pale eyes are intent on her as he lounges in his chair. 'I asked me whether you want me to. We all have… weaker spots where doing things is more painful or difficult for us than it would be for someone else. I do not mind talking to your husband.' 'By talking, you mean driving him away from Himlad, do you not?' He nods. 'Telling him to leave, and leave you and your son in peace, and never again cross the border to my realm unless he wants to find an arrow in his throat. Every good bird and beast in Himlad knows me and reports to me, not to mention Curvo's scouts and my hunters that are always roaming the land.' He sits there, leaning back in his chair in that indolent, insolent manner that he always had that might mask just about any mood, but she knows that he means what he says and that he could do it: he could shoot her husband without an ounce of remorse. He is already a kinslayer, already Doomed, and always was flint-hearted with those that he did not count as his to protect and yet more so with those he saw as a threat to those he does count as his. He still counts her as his. Aredhel minds it less than she should. She says, 'I know what you mean about weak spots.' Sighing, she allows, 'You may threaten him on my behalf if I do not happen to be with you. If I am, let us do it together.' 'Curvo will be more than happy to lend his support, too, and Tyelpë if you say the least word to him about how Eöl treated you.' Celegorm stands up and stretches, then picks up the poker and pokes at the dying fire. 'It is very late indeed.' He sounds almost surprised. Aredhel is weighed down with exhaustion. From the ride and from the relief of stress and from tearing up both old wounds and new, barely-scabbed ones. She rouses her dogs and stands up. 'I had best go to bed. Let us talk more tomorrow.' Celegorm says, 'Of less serious things, I hope. For example, we have a wolf hunt to plan – you can help with that and come along, and your son, too. I think we covered everything tonight that needed to be cleared between the two of us.' Aredhel hesitates, rubbing the ears of Huan who is again patiently enduring some enthusiastic attention from Aredhel's much smaller hounds. She says, 'Tyelko, I – I asked you very flippantly whether I am welcome to your bed, but the truth of it is that I have slept alone for years now, and I think it will be some time before I want that to change.' 'You were right when you said that I am constant to you.' He scratches Huan's neck, and fleetingly touches her hand. It is the first time he has touched her since they dismounted from his horse. 'And I never wanted anyone half as much as you', he adds. 'I can wait. Any time you want, knock on my door. Leave your hounds in your room, though.' His smile to her feels as much like freedom as the sunlight on her face and the wind in her hair on her way here. Perhaps here in the windswept plain of Himlad she will not need to run away like she did from white-walled Gondolin and tree-shadowed Nan Elmoth. 'I will', she promises. 'Not yet. But someday perhaps.' He walks her to the guest room she's been given, pointing out his own room along the way. It is not far, and neither is Lómion's room. At the door of her room, Aredhel says to Celegorm quietly, 'In another world, a happier one perhaps, you and I would have realised how well we fit together long, long ago. But then I would not have my Lómion; and he is dearer to me than the air I breathe, so perhaps things went as they should.' 'There is no 'should'', Celegorm argues. 'Only our choices. You know', he tilts his head and smiles at her with his eyes only, 'I used not to believe in second marriages. I disapproved of them quite firmly, you know that.' She is very curious about the implications of that sudden statement. 'When did you change your mind?' she asks. His smile grows crooked. 'Today.'

A/N: Who knows how things will go from here – how much this changes how things go in Beleriand? I don't really know, but at least in this moment Aredhel and Celegorm are happier than they would have been had they not met again.

Thank you for reading! I would love to hear what you thought of this story. And reblogs are always dearly welcome.

#I loved writing this #huge bursts of inspiration #trsb2020 #aredhel #celegorm #silmarillion fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #in another world #my fics #elesianne's fics

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thirteen-beaxhes · 5 years

Text

Delayed - Chapter 5: Rooms

Summary: “All felt like they knew the others were far away, living ideal lives. They kept to their windows and phones for the ride, thinking about the others. They reminisced separately but prayed for the night to go by fast, to get to the places they needed to go. But the night hadn’t even begun yet.” High school ended 6 years ago, and with it, so did the friendship between Andi, Buffy, Cyrus, Jonah, TJ and Amber. But now their flight is delayed and they are stuck in a hotel together for the night. Not much can change in one night, though. Can it?

ALL LINKS IN REBLOG

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With some amount of difficulty, Andi found her way to her room, struggling a bit with her keycard. Truth be told, her vision was slightly hazy, and her actions slightly impaired. But nothing to worry about, if she slept it off she would just wake up with a pounding headache and a reason to keep her head down and not look at anyone else, jut finding her way to Bex and Bowie’s for a day’s break before continuing onwards. Finally, after what felt like aeons, she pushed open the door, slotting in the card to power the lights. She winced at the sudden light, peering around the room she had been given.

It wasn’t really bad, though the walls, painted a slate grey, didn’t do much to help the room’s aesthetics. Instead, it made it look smaller than it was, to some people, maybe even suffocating. But Andi could care less. She just toed off her shoes, tossing her duffel bag on the small armchair at one corner. On the wall behind her bed was a typical piece of ‘artwork’ displayed in many hotels. Probably to make the room look more ‘inviting’ or ‘welcoming’. The carpet was rough under her feet, a dirty blue colour. The bed was neatly made, a similar shaded blue throw pillow resting delicately against the pillows.

Within one minute, all this was unceremoniously undone. The throw pillow was on the floor by the bathroom, and the sheets were crumpled up, as Andi slumped onto the bed, sitting up as she wrapped the blanket around herself. She scrambled around, looking for the remote to the television. Not that she had much hope for the quality of entertainment on it. But trashy reality TV was better than nothing. She surfed channels, her eyes already beginning to close, when she found a rerun of the recent season of ‘The Bachelorette’ and she smiled to herself in amusement, leaning back as she immersed herself in the utter and unabashed drama.

As the episodes progressed, Andi felt groggier and groggier, and she turned off the TV, checking her phone before she decided to close her eyes and actually get some sleep. She opened Instagram, smiling slightly on seeing the notification of the post she had made with her friends 6 years ago. But soon, she narrowed her eyes, opening the messages, noticing a request. Curious, she clicked it.

john_c_12: long time bean

It took her a minute, but seeing the nickname ‘bean’, she threw down her phone as if something had burned her. Her breath hitched in her throat, a choked sob coming through as she cover her mouth with both hands.

No no no how did he find her fuck fuck fuck but she had made sure he couldn’t find her. She’d told all her friends to not give him her new account and they wouldn’t go behind her back? They wouldn’t. So how did he find her how the fuck was his name now on her phone. And he made a new account because he knew that one wouldn’t be blocked, how fucking crazy was he.

Her breath grew shallow, as she picked up the phone gingerly. She opened his profile, clicking the ‘Block’ option, but her finger hovered over it in hesitation. Her throat was dry, and she gulped, trying to calm down. She exited the menu, and instead, drawing a shaky breath, opened the keypad, her hands shivering.

shackinthemack_: what do you want bastard

john_c_12: now now thats not a way to say hi to someone after 3 years

shackinthemack_: rules for normal people don’t apply to fucking assholes

shackinthemack_: leave me alone john or

john_c_12: or what?

john_c_12: andi you don’t need to continue this conversation

john_c_12: yet here you are

john_c_12: what does that say?

shackinthemack_: I think its me telling you to leave me the fuck alone

john_c_12: sure keep telling yourself that

john_c_12: see you soon bean

Andi set down her phone, her hands shaking as she brought them up to her face, burying it in them. How could this happen to her again. She could feel a sob lodged in her throat but there was nothing she could do. Because he was right. No matter what she did, she still fell for it. She could’ve blocked him then and there, but she didn’t.

Stupid. That’s what she was. Stupid and broken and fucked up.

Andi pushed herself out of bed, shuffling over to the minibar, yanking open the door and grabbing a beer. Normally, minibars were an untouchable luxury. But hey, the airline was paying for everything. Halle-fucking-lujah.

The acrid tasting liquid made Andi wince as soon as she took her first sip, but soon enough she gulped the whole can down, vaguely acknowledging how much of a bad idea it was.

She couldn’t be alone. She had to do something, leave her room, run away, distract herself. But what could she do?

Andi lay back in bed, her head spinning slightly. In her mind, flashes flew by. Blonde hair, ocean eyes, a charming smile.

Found a distraction.

Amber and Buffy had moved from sitting up on the bed to pulling out Amber’s packed wine and laying back on their respective beds, chatting about everything and nothing.

“This is weird,” Buffy said, sipping her wine. Amber looked over at her, rolling onto her side.

“What is?”

“This,” Buffy said, giggling, gesturing between them. “We’re lying here, sipping wine and talking like best friends, when back in high school, we barely tolerated each other.”

“Huh,” Amber said, scrunching her nose. “You’re right. Hey!” she exclaimed, holding out her glass. “To breaking down stupid high school tolerances!”

“I’ll drink to that,” Buffy said, chuckling, clinking glasses with Amber. They drank in comfortable silence, Buffy staring up at the ceiling, a pleasant smile on her face.

“Hey,” Amber said after some time, looking over at Buffy. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?” Buffy asked, furrowing her eyebrows.

“Be so great at everything. From what we’ve both seen of all the people here, we’re all messed up. Like, seriously, all of us have issues. But then there’s you, you have your life together. You’re engaged! Like, how do you do it?”

Buffy’s smile dropped slightly, and she set down her glass, turning over to look at Amber, resting on her arm.

“I’m not perfect, Amber,” she said quietly. Amber narrowed her eyes, confused.

“Yeah yeah, nobody’s perfect and shit, but, your life is together! That’s amazing!”

Buffy just shook her head. “I mean, yeah. But, it’s not where I thought I’d go.”

“What do you mean?”

Buffy let out a breath. “Well, so I’m a lawyer, right?”

“Uh huh. That was a surprise, but hey,” Amber said, leaning forward.

“I didn’t plan on being one.”

“Well, duh. You always wanted to be in sports,” Amber said with a giggle, but looking over to see Buffy’s serious expression, she stopped. “Wait, are you okay?”

Buffy just shook her head, drawing a deep breath before continuing. “Well, I had a sports scholarship to my college, allowing me to pursue basketball seriously along with my major. I hadn’t chosen it yet, but I was leaning towards Sports Management, as one would expect. But, but then,” she hesitated, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“What?”

“I did some really stupid shit in college. I, I can’t even say it because, that’s not who I am. I, I just hung around the wrong people. And so, I lost the scholarship, and my grades dropped so much that, I couldn’t apply to the course I wanted. I nearly got kicked out,” Buffy said, her voice cracking. Amber reached forward, grabbing Buffy’s hand. She looked up at her, giving a small smile. “They gave me a second chance, allowing me to choose from certain majors. And Law was the only one even vaguely of interest to me. And now, here I am. So, I’m not perfect, Amber.”

Amber looked at her, and got up, wrapping an arm around Buffy’s shoulder as she sat down beside her on the bed. “But you picked yourself back up, Driscoll. That’s what matters. So, my point still stands,” she said warmly, squeezing her shoulders.

Buffy scoffed, looking up. “But I lost myself in college, Amber! Me, who calls herself strong and stuff. How strong could I be if I let myself get pulled into that?”He tiptoed down the hall,

“Actually,” Amber said with a shrug. “Even the strongest people can lose their path in college. New environment, new people. It’s overwhelming. You aren’t weak for losing track.” Amber lifted Buffy’s head by her chin, making her look at her. “Do you hear me, Buffy?”

Buffy nodded, tears brimming her eyes, as she leaned her head on Amber’s shoulder. “Thanks, Kippen.”

“Anytime, Driscoll.”

TJ pulled his jacket closer around himself as he pried open his room door, grabbing his keycard. He tiptoed down the hall, even though he knew there was absolutely no need him to do so. His was a hotel, people could do whatever they wanted. But a small part of him still felt like a child, sneaking away as if he were doing something bad. But he really wasn’t. TJ had spent the past hour or so tossing and turning in bed, trying to fall asleep, but to no avail.

TJ walked into the foyer, looking around to see if there was any place he could go, noticing a door in the back. Narrowing his eyes, he slowly made his way across the room, pushing open the door, wincing slightly at the sucking noise it made while moving. The cold night air hit him in the face, already invigorating him. Looking around, he realised he was in the garden or courtyard area. There were many potted plants here and there, scattered casually around the area. All the pots and plants were bathed in a pale white light, courtesy of the moon shining up in the sky. TJ looked up at the sky, taking a step forward. The stars weren’t so visible, thanks to light pollution, but he knew they were there. And that comforted him.

They were right there, hidden behind everything, but there. The best things are always there, no matter how many things hide it.

TJ walked slowly, taking in the surroundings. The plants were drooping, leaves scattered around the bases of the pots. Even the pots were cracked, dirt falling through. But it had a certain charm to it. TJ took a deep breath, his eyes landing on something that made him chuckle softly to himself.

A swing.

But not just any swing. A bench swing. Such an irony.

TJ shook his head slightly, walking over to the swing and sitting down. He kicked the ground slightly, sending the swing swaying a small amount. Funny how something that was a combination of two significant things to him and Cyrus was just there in the hotel when they had run into each other.

TJ tried to clear his mind of Cyrus, chiding himself, repeating the fact that he had said goodbye for good over and over, but whatever he tried, Cyrus ran through his mind. He always did.

Face it, he had never moved on from Cyrus Goodman, TJ told himself, sighing as he rested against the back of the bench. If nothing else, that was proved to him.

TJ kicked the ground below the swing, hurting his toe slightly. Made sense. Even Gabriel saw it.

Closure. Weird thing. You never know if you have it or not until you are staying up every single night, thoughts still stuck on the person you once knew in a way that made your head spin, and you bolt up, questioning the ending of your story. That was what it felt like to TJ every night after he had made peace with the fact that he and Cyrus were done. It had happened halfway through first year, and he couldn’t help but think, think, think.

You never know what closure is until you realise you don’t have it.

TJ kicked the ground again, pushing the swing slightly higher. There wasn’t much use in questioning closure anymore, given that ‘goodbye’ would have to work well enough.

TJ stared off ahead, mind blank, the swing swaying slightly. The only thing he could hear was crickets chirping. Just then, he heard footsteps approaching the swing. Probably the guard, he thought to himself as he turned around, eyes going wide.

“Is that seat taken?”

Jonah packed up his guitar after having played it for a while, his fingers sore from lack of practice. He opened the minibar, grabbing a soda and cracking it open, gulping it down as fast as he could. Why had he thought not drinking water the whole day would be a good idea?

He surfed the TV channels for a while, pausing only now and then at the news and American Idol, but ultimately decided to switch it off, opening his phone for a distraction instead. Instagram always had the answers.

He had been scrolling through a collection of cat videos, music covers, memes and challenges, when he heard a slow, dragged out knocking at his door. Narrowing his eyes, he set down his phone of the bedside table, walking slowly toward the door.

It was past midnight, who the fuck could it be?

Jonah collected himself and opened the door slightly, peering through the small crack.

“Hey Jonah.”

Andi.

~~~~~~~~

Let me know what you thought of this chapter!

@pixieangelprincess @luzawithoutu @terri-does-gods-work @sxshx-sxshx @tozbier @alittletooliteralleah

HMU if you wanna be tagged in future updates!

#andi mack #my fic #delayed fic #tyrus #ambi #muffy #jandi #buffy driscoll #cyrus goodman #amber (andi mack)#amber #andi #jonah beck #tj kippen #fanfiction #fanfic

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amatterasus · 6 years

Text

Issun Comes Home

“...”

Issun stared at the stump in the woods before him, taking a deep breath. He’d been putting this off long enough; it was time to go in and face his people. Best get it over with, anyway, as much as he didn’t want to.

He closed his eyes and released the air.

“Now or never. Leap first, think later.”

The warmth of Amaterasu’s cheerful sun left his skin as soon as he entered, replaced by a comfortable and familiar humidity that he’d be generous in calling amiable. Ponc’tan never did rub him the right way, but it still felt like home, and something in his chest gave off a warm and fuzzy feeling that he hated. He continued on nonetheless, glancing about; it was fairly early in the morning, still, and he’d be lucky to see anybody up and about at this hour.

“Issun-Boshi? Is that you?”

The sound of a voice had him tense, but he relaxed when he spun on his heels, a grin pushing its way onto his face in spite of himself at the woman he saw.

“Sobo!”

Ms. Seal stood not far behind him, looking shocked at first before she smiled in turn and opened her arms expectantly. Issun was not one to turn her down, pushing his helmet back before taking her in a tight embrace.

“Oh, little one, you had us worried sick! Miya told us you had come by, and we saw Amaterasu... I knew then, of course, but your grandfather was just too prideful to admit the truth until he saw your work.”

A heavy sigh escaped the Envoy. Ms. Seal released him, though still held his arms firmly, and frowned.

“I’m expecting an apology tea later… But for now, you have some words to exchange with your grandfather.”

“Ech… Can it wait?”

Issun tried to summon a sweet smile, to worm his way out of what his grandmother figure was pushing him into, but it was met only with a stern glare. The sealmaker shook her head, spinning him before pushing him towards the old chief Clan’s home.

“Geez! Alright, I’m going, I’m going!”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he approached the tall stalk. On the second floor, he saw the door to his living space; he was sure it had gone unoccupied since his leave. For a moment, however, there was the fleeting panic that Ammy had gone through his things during her visit. She had taken a suspiciously long time here, now that he thought about it…

I swear, if she took anything, I’ll skin that stupid furball…

More pressing, however, was the door before him, on the first floor. Isshaku’s living space, pristine as always. The guards, usually stationed just outside, were entirely absent from the scene, likely taking a few hours of rest or whatever they did when they weren’t sucking up to the old coot. Inwardly, Issun groaned, sidling up to the door and taking another deep breath before knocking.

No response.

For a moment, he just stood there awkwardly, hugging himself and glancing around before just plain opening the door, stepping inside quietly.

“... Hey, gramps! I’m home…!”

He shut the door behind himself, looking around in confusion. The room was void of life, much to his surprise, though a few brushes and ink pots that had clearly been used recently still laid themselves on Isshaku’s desk. The dampness caught Issun’s eye, and he approached slowly, putting his hands on the corner and staring at the canvas. The fuzziness in his chest blossomed forth when he looked at the illustration on display; though still a work in progress, the image included Issun himself and Amaterasu, the poncle brandishing his sword in noble fashion while Amaterasu let loose a roar.

He knows. And he actually cared enough to paint it.

Behind him, he heard the creak of the door, and jolted up, spinning quickly to face the warrior who came in.

“... Hi, pops!”

Isshaku stared blankly for a moment, unresponsive to Issun’s awkward smile and wave, before snorting and approaching quickly, giving Issun a rough swat over the head.

“Ow! What the-?!”

“That’s for peeking. You should know better, Issun-Boshi, than to look at a work in progress without permission!”

The elder grumbled, rolling up the scroll while Issun rubbed his head; there was a pause before he was swatted again, this time with the artwork, earning a squeak from the younger poncle.

“Hey, what was that for?!”

“That was for not visiting while Amaterasu did. And this -”

For his final act, Isshaku flung one of his thicker brushes towards his grandson. It hit him square in the face, leaving not only a red mark at the impact point, but a black smear from the end of the brush along his cheek. Issun cringed, bringing a hand to his face as it fell to the floor.

“Oww!”

“ - is for leaving in the first place!”

“If I knew you were gonna beat me up within the first five seconds of seeing me, I wouldn’t have come back…”

The younger growled venomously, wincing and rubbing at the quickly forming bruise on his face while his grandfather retrieved the brush and cleaned up his workspace, silent for the now. Issun huffed, lowering his hand and shifting the bag on his shoulder to retrieve the scroll from within.

“Look, I just came back to return this and say sorry for the trouble. Now that I’ve done that, I’m gonna go. I’ve got places to be, and people to talk to that won’t try to kill me after three seconds.”

He dropped the scroll unceremoniously on the table; it unrolled partially to reveal Isshaku’s work of Sakuya, making the chief stop. Issun, however, made to leave, shrugging his bag on properly before freezing as Isshaku spoke.

“Wait.”

The young artist hesitated, then turned, fixing his grandfather with a stoic expression; the elder kept his own gaze on the scroll, folding his hands together.

“... I felt nothing but pride and joy when Miya brought in your painting of Ammy. It was the kind of work I had always expected from you; the kind that stirs faith and comes to life on the page. Old Ms. Seal came down to talk with me when the girl delivered all the art, after the sun began to shine again.”

There was a prolonged pause. Isshaku let out a sigh, slowly sitting down; Issun recognized the gravity of the situation almost instantly, and came forward, taking a seat nearby and lowering his gaze to the floor.

“I only realized then how foolish and blind I had been. I always knew you had the potential, but rather than looking for a way to properly help you reach it, I was trying to force a lock open, with water as a lubricant. It was my own fault that you lost your spark; it took Amaterasu herself to give you the resolve to be an Envoy. I realized…. I have failed you, as a teacher, and as a grandfather.”

Something hit the floor, the sound soft. Issun looked up, then, before sitting up altogether, shocked at the sight of Isshaku tearing up.

“G-gramps?!”

“Issun, my boy… I am so, so sorry for having not been better. I should have shown you how proud I was of your progress, and let you work at your own pace, rather than pushing you to your limit so fast. I drove you away, and I have no excuse.”

Issun sat in total shock for a few minutes, blinking dumbly at his grandfather before shaking his head and reaching out to put his hand over Isshaku’s. He gave a gentle squeeze after a moment’s pause, taking a deep breath before piping up.

“Look, gramps, I… I talk big a lot, yaknow? And I can be pretty stupid and impulsive. Leaving this place was one of the best decisions I ever made - I mean, heck, I did so much out there! But if you didn’t push me away, I wouldn’t have seen any of it. I… I still don’t forgive you for everything, but…”

He paused, searching for his words before nodding and looking his grandfather in the eyes.

“I can forgive you for the teaching, and the pushing. At the end of the day, everything we did was for that big ol’ furball. She’d probably want us to hug and make up, anyway.”

Isshaku let out a weak chuckle, tilting his head up just slightly to meet his grandson more evenly before releasing his hand and standing up, holding out the other.

“Best not keep her waiting then, hmm?”

There was another moment’s hesitation before Issun rolled his eyes, climbing to his feet with the help of the chief’s support, and sighed.

“You’ve gotten all sappy without me, old man.”

Still, he held out his arms, and the two generations of Celestial Envoys met in a tight embrace, taking the first steps to mending a familial bridge.

The sweet moment didn’t last long, however, as Isshaku soon chuckled and caught Issun in a headlock, roughly ruffling his hair while the younger yelped and squirmed.

“Hey!”

“Sappy, hmm?”

“Alright, I take it back! Sorry! Let me go, you crazy old coot!”

Just outside the door, Ms. Seal smiled, pulling away from where she had leaned up against the surface with a satisfied nod before shuffling her way up the stalk, heading home to prepare some reconciliation tea.

#okami #poncles #ponc'tan #issun #issun-boshi #isshaku #ishaku #ms. seal #i always held the hc that ms. seal was a grandmother figure for issun #they weren't actually wholly related but that was her role in his life

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paperbackcat · 7 years

Text

Hues (Sasodei fanfic)

Set in an alternate universe where the characters are college students, Deidara finds himself stuck in a rut, having to team up with the most infuriating piece of work, in the entire universe. (Okay, maybe he’s over-exaggerating but) Of all people, he had to partner up with the least liked student in the entire class.

(A/N: Was supposed to be a one-shot but welp)

First quarter

Second quarter

Third Quarter

Words: 8,749

FRIDAY

Fiery, sizzling hot. Scorching hot scarlet and maroons. Bold berry red, a dash of maroon.

There was a twist and a flick.

Never be afraid of the rage that is fire.

A splatter of paint.

Fire burns hot and dies fast.

Bright vivid soaked brushes laid scattered around the empty dorm room.

Steel blue eyes narrowed.

It was vexing. Uncannily, what he felt was almost not human, the way it twisted and distorted itself inside his body. It burned so bad like fire lacing his veins, creeping up his spine. His pale skin was sore, drenched in puddles of burgundy. He felt intoxicated with an emotion he had no intention of ever feeling so much of. The acidity of it, residing in his belly, waiting to be spat out in foul vulgar strings of incomprehensible words. He wanted to screech them with every living ounce of breath that dwelled in his lungs.

He really did.

But what he entered to was a just an empty greyscale room: sitting the middle of which was the painting. That very painting that brought him so much distraught. That was his breaking point.

Blinded by rage with not a soul to take out on, he decided the next best thing was the painting itself. It was preposterous. He knew it, internally shrieking at himself to stop but in his moment of anger, the warped logic in his mind took control of the bold strokes that now littered the painting.

Before, it stood rigid and grey, fluffy clouds saturated in amounts of pearl white that sloped around the edges of the canvas. The hills etched in a dreary dark concrete colour, grained with small stones of beige. A hint of perhaps azure in the distance but too small, too insignificant to notice.

Deidara watched, enthralled as the deep claret sank into the paper, creating soft swirls in mixture with the misty grey. Almost like flickering flames, he realised, dying out in the cool grey.

After such an inferno, watch the ashes fall into place.

The sudden discernment hit him.

For nothing fights the frost than the flames.

He dropped the brushes, fingertips trembling, coated in a dance of colours.

Be schooled by the flame so that you never know the torment of the ice.

It’s beautiful. He thought, gasping in euphoria.

The painting sat now, covered in a calamiform of bright shapes and colours, harlequin in a multifarious enflamed greys and whites. There lay scored shadows of dark purple, creating soft blurred outlined of the hills. It was strange how interwoven the bright reds and the dull greys were with the astonishing bold blushes of cinnabar that stood distinctively, catching the eye of Deidara.

Light streaming from the window panes fell upon the shadows of the painting, the straw-coloured hair boy beaming at his handiwork. It was luck as well, that lent a hand, for Sasori was nowhere to be seen. Deidara gallivanted around the room, letting out a whoop of exhilaration, whatever it had aggravated him was feckless now.

Primarily, the blonde’s mission was to barge in to give Sasori a livid earful of insults.

After managing to break the door down – Deidara noted inwardly about how weak the dorm doors were – he stormed in, ready to hurl vulgarities at the red-head but was greeted with a none other than bare room. Since it was vacant of any living being except for himself, the blonde decided to screw with Sasori’s “perfect artwork” but ended up creating a stunning mess of paint. So much for being mad and screwing with the latter.

“I can’t believe I skipped class for this.” The blonde snorted to himself.

Perhaps Sasori was still having lessons, judging by the unoccupied grey space.

Deidara gazed dreamily at the painting, with his own contribution, it looked more like a mixture of two artists working together. Well, at least, somewhat.

There was a pause.

He couldn’t just leave it here. Sasori’s bound to destroy it somehow, knowing that his greyscale masterpiece was ruined – if anything the red-head would probably try to ‘save’ his artwork. Now that the painting exactly looked decent, Deidara was definitely going to keep it. Hand it up. Proudly proclaim that he saved their work with his ingeniousness.

A thin grim line set on his face.

He had to steal his own painting.

He had to.

Kakuzu had settled himself deftly into the folds of Deidara’s bottom bunk, his jewel green orbs squinted at the sight of the blonde and his giant obstruction of a painting. He watched with mild amusement as the flaxen-haired male tried to hide his work of art behind his rickety looking easel.

“Deidara.” He greeted calmly, ignoring the snigger that came from the top bunk.

“What are you doing?” Hidan immediately stopped sniggering when the blonde covered the painting with the white-hair teen’s towel. “Why are you using my towel?”

Looking flustered, Deidara pressed a finger on his lip.

“Shut up. It’s my business.” He grumbled, examining the smirk that formed on Kakuzu’s face. “You,” he pointed a finger to the raven haired male, eyes fixed on him like a hawk on its prey.

“I’ll pay you twenty and not a word about this to Sasori.” The blonde dug his pocket and fished out a twenty dollar note, striding forward and slamming it onto Kakuzu’s open hand. How obliging, he thought darkly, glaring at the smile that graced the raven haired male’s face.

The older male dipped his head mockingly and pocketed the cash.

“You know he’s going to be furious.” He commented dryly before turning back to his sketchbook, outlining what seemed to be a tree.

Deidara scoffed, rolling his eyes. Of course he knows. Sasori’s going to lose his shit when he realises the painting’s missing. If his ego’s as big as Deidara presumed, he’s not going to come running for help; in fact, there’s a high probability that the red-head is just going to start work on another piece.

“I won’t be bunking in this weekend either, by the by.” Hidan remarked, peering down.

The blonde froze.

“Wait what?” He blinked, confused. “I’m not planning to stay here either!” Hastily, he pointed at the hidden painting.

“I can’t leave this here unguarded! Someone has to keep an eye on it so that Sasori doesn’t see it.”

Hidan chuckled.

“It’s your business.” The sly voice echoed, grinning sweetly. “B'sides,” Hidan gestured to Kakuzu, “I’m going to sleepover at his place to finish our work this weekend.”

Deidara paced back and forth, hands clenching his golden locks as he fought to figure out a way.

“I’m not staying over again, god knows Sasori might come in and stab me in my sleep!” He shuddered, brushing away that thought.

“You’ll have to take the terrible duty of protecting your ego- I mean art work.” Hidan purred, his lavender pools lit up with a glint of anticipation. “It’s really the only way to hand up your handiwork.”

Rubbing his face in exhaustion, the blonde couldn’t help but wonder if he had made a mistake improving the art work that was Sasori’s. Then again, he glanced furtively at the towel draped unceremoniously on his easel, then again, it only became much better after he had opportunely slapped along some colour to it.

“I don’t wish to pry into your business.” Kakuzu’s deep voice broke his thoughts, “But is all this silly fighting truly necessary?”

Deidara frowned before turning his steely gaze to him, nodding quite curtly.

“Then I wish you the best in your future endeavours.”

He might’ve heard a hint of pity in Kakuzu’s voice, but Hidan’s loud hyena cackle drowned it out before he could even confirm it.

“I’m not the one at fault here.” Deidara muttered, looking at his stained hands, still inked with faded splashes of colour. “I’m right. I know I am. I’m right and he won’t listen. I could explain all damn day and he still won’t get it.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets, imaging Sasori’s half lidded eyes staring back at him.

“I try to work with him but in his warped logic, my incapability means he’s right. Every stride I take, every breath I make, he’s mocking me.”

Deidara let out a groan of exasperation.

There was a pause.

“What if he’s just not good with words?” Hidan asked quietly, sounding oddly mature, “He’s never been vocal about anything except his own art tantrums.”

Kakuzu snorted in agreement.

“I just want this project to be done and over with.” The blonde growled, kicking a stray piece of paper on the floor.

“Believe me,” The older man chipped in from the bottom bunk, “I bet the feeling’s mutual.”

There was a short pause.

“You do deserve some form of congratulatory compliment.” Kakuzu added hastily, “I’ve never seen someone actually manage to stay in the same room with him for more than an hour.”

Deidara rolled his eyes.

“He’s lucky he looks like a serial killer, no one dares to approach him with that surly attitude of his. It’s akin to his paintings!” He pointed viciously at the hidden portrait piece, “Grey, grey, grey! Have you seen anything else as boring as that?”

At that, Hidan let out a roar of laughter, slapping his thighs, his giggles shaking the double bunk bed.

Kakuzu snorted once more.

“Truth to be told, not really.”

His green eyes danced with a strange sort of fire within them.

“This is the first time I’ve seen him paint something like this.”

Evening dusted the sky, the magenta rays of the last sun shrouding the quiet room with a strange sort of calm, the snow drifting down onto the ground was mesmerising, like an old nostalgic video tape looping over and over again. Sepia soon coloured Deidara’s shared dorm before the inky glow of the night seeped through the curtains.

It was noiseless.

It wasn’t Hidan’s lack of presence that struck the blonde’s sudden fear.

It was Sasori.

He did not appear screaming like a maniac, slamming down and digging through Deidara’s room for his lost project. Neither did he pop by to give a cynical quote that probably to insult him. It was oddly quiet. Technically, the red-head didn’t talk much but it was definitely peculiar that he hadn’t dropped by to give a snip or a snap.

He did consider to attempt to give a little jest.

He however, value his life, so he pushed that thought back into his mind.

The silence was deafening.

“It’s fine.” Deidara tried to placate himself, huddling into his comforters, “It’s all fine.” He snuggled himself into the corner of his bed before hearing a crinkle that struck his heart cold.

Heart in his mouth, he turned around hesitantly, eyes desperately searching the bed for the noise before finally stopping onto the 20 dollar note that he had originally gave Kakuzu.

There was no way that man would’ve accidentally left money on the bed.

That could only mean one thing.

It was almost midnight when he found himself standing once again in front of Sasori’s dorm. The letters 303 seemed to mock him now, jeering at the fact that he actually felt guilty enough to come running back, tail between his legs. By now, Deidara had familiarized all the cracks and dents on the dark oak door, and was just assembling up some sort of courage to lift his arm to knock on the door.

The dormitory hallways now devoid of students, stayed grey and silent, watchful.

“Sasori.” The blonde managed to muster up, urgently whispering to no one in particular. “Are you there?”

Perhaps he made a mistake and Sasori actually went home for the weekends. That seemed highly impossible considering that the red-head never headed home for the weekends – something about living alone or some sort. Deidara never truly paid attention.

“Sasori.” He undertoned once more.

There was no reply.

Right.

Fine.

Deidara turned away from the door, twiddling his thumbs worriedly. Did Kakuzu tell Sasori about the painting? If so, the red-head should be furiously hacking at the blonde’s room right this moment, however, it seemed as if the school was dead silent and no one else remained in school except for him.

He decided to check the dormitory’s front yard for any signs for life.

With the warm bronze sunlight swallowed by the horizon, the scintillating moon hovered in the cold night, lustrous dancing stars glinting the sky. Deidara huddled in his jumper, rubbing his gloved hands in the wintry air as he trekked down the path to the front yard of the dorm. From the end of the dorm’s gate, there was the flicker of the school’s overhead lamp lights, breathing in a glow of orange in the dusty ink black.

A shuffle of movement caught his attention.

In the soft silvery moon beam, the familiar sight of red was strangely reliving, it coiled its flowing tendrils upon the dark maroon pullover that Sasori was donning, dipping him in a radiant, almost hypnotic glow. The red-head glanced up, his pale face showered in the moon light, casting shadows that bathed in its intrinsic charm. But then, in a trice, the frown appeared on the male’s face, mercilessly tearing the illusion of beauty, leaving Deidara feeling suddenly austere, miserable and dark.

His mouth went dry, suddenly unable to speak.

There was a crunch of footsteps on the snowy ground as Sasori moved towards the blonde.

Dediara didn’t say anything – he didn’t know what to say, conscious of the glare that was being sent his way, he dipped his head down quickly, staring at his boots.

Another pair of boots stopped right next to his.

With the excruciating silence hovering between them like a heavy fog, Deidara found himself squeaking a soft greeting that sounded awfully like a grunt.

Sasori did not reply.

Deidara glanced up, suddenly aware that the latter was standing rather close to him.

“The painting is gone.” Sasori announced coldly.

The blonde tried not to look guilty.

“Oh.” He managed to mutter, scratching the back of his head innocently.

“I know you took it.” The red-head continued.

Deidara bit his tongue.

Great.

“Oh.” He slapped himself mentally.

“I’m glad.” Sasori added after a pause.

That took Deidara by surprise as he glanced curiously at the red-head, who was observing the snowflakes falling onto the ground.

“You’re glad.” He echoed, blinking. “You’re glad?”

Sasori sounded strangely hollow.

“Grey like the colour of the window curtains that I have spent hours behind, watching.” He whispered into the night, “Like the serenity that flows from the crevice of the same lips that cause the ground to crumble and break. The colour of the duvets that stop me from shaking, the grey of mind, trying to forget my miserable life.”

The blonde raised a brow.

“Grey like your eyes.”

Deidara froze.

“I’m glad it’s gone. It was a stupid painting anyway.”

With that he left.

He should be mad.

Sasori was insulting him just a day before.

He should be furious.

Yet, Deidara felt peculiarly disappointed. There wasn’t a word to describe how he was feeling, but if anything it felt like the music of a great orchestra. At times it was quiet, and it allowed him to remain passive towards what had happened. And suddenly, the violins would play and he would feel oddly sad, then it would rise to a crescendo and a fiery rage would burst from his chest in a vicious confused anguish.

He stood, stock still, unmoving.

No prizes guessing who prompted that poetic response.

Grey like your eyes.

The blonde sighed, snuffing the snowy ground with his boots.

“Grey like your eyes.” He murmured.

Hidan was definitely wrong about Sasori not being with words.

And Deidara was definitely digging his own grave when he found himself knocking violently at dorm 303’s door, the towel-covered art piece standing unwisely at his side. He wasn’t trying to tease the red-head by bringing the stolen (albeit it was their painting anyway he couldn’t really steal it) painting back – he just wanted to make it clear that he didn’t destroy it. Well – at least not physically maul it.

There was a loud sigh behind the door.

“Please leave me alone.”

Deidara slammed his fists against the wooden frame.

“It’s not gone or destroyed,” He tried to explain, “It’s here. It’s here.”

He motioned wildly at the hidden painting, knowing well that Sasori probably couldn’t see what he was doing.

Once more, the sigh escaped from behind the door.

“You have no idea what I meant by saying 'I’m glad that it’s gone’, haven’t you?”

“The painting.” Deidara declared loudly.

“Please leave me alone, Deidara.” Sasori sounded tired.

The blonde frowned.

“Fine.” He gave the door a final slam with his fist. “But I’m leaving the painting here.”

Twirling around, the blonde left, storming across the corridors and heading down the stairs back to the shared dormitory bathroom, hoping that a hot shower of some sort would fix his messy head.

He stepped into the shower, toes flinching as they touched the chilled ceramic floor. His mind was in shreds, torn between viciously jubilant at Sasori’s sudden melancholy and guilty for seemingly being the one who caused it. He turned the dial, old and metallic, lukewarm water drops dampening his hair, trickling down his back as he closed his eyes, feeling the warm splash of water wash away his confusion. The water poured down, drip, dripping down his fingertips as his minds fades into dullness, stilling the time to a stop. The sensation of steamy water calming his nerves, his mind swirling, standing under an everlasting waterfall.

Irritation gnawed on his skin.

Having Sasori acting like a forlorn puppy didn’t help his annoyance.

Deidara towelled his hair dry with Hidan’s towel.

What would the red-head gain from acting like a miserable sack of potatoes? He could’ve barged in, shrieked at Deidara for 'stealing’ the painting or perhaps even rebuke the fact that the blonde was truly someone he hated with a malice but he didn’t – in fact he stated that it made him glad?

And what about that cryptic prose – what about grey colours and his eyes – Deidara rubbed his temples, trying to figure Sasori out was harder than trying to finish a damn Sudoku puzzle. He dragged himself back into his empty cold dorm room and dumped himself onto the warm comfort of his duvets.

Grey duvets.

He huddled beneath it, a sudden memory of the first time Sasori had huddled in beside him and shared friendly conversations about their life on the first day of the project work, merely just a week ago. What did Sasori say about his grey duvets? Something about shielding him from shaking or some sort.

Grey like the colour of the curtains.

Deidara’s eyes fell onto his own curtains.

Grey like your eyes.

The blonde’s heart skipped a beat.

Hold on.

Kakuzu did mention how it was the first time Sasori had decided to go all greyscale on a painting and it was definitely odd how he kept it a single colour, even with hues of concrete. After all, art was a way to express something – an idea, an emotion. Could it be that the red-head had become fond of Deidara?

The blonde shook his head.

No way.

Impossible. If anything Sasori probably had already plotted 50 different ways to murder the blonde.

Then what did he mean by being glad that the painting was gone? Was that he eager to throw his handiwork? He didn’t sound any happier, Deidara noted quietly, tugging his duvet closer to himself, if fact, he sounded awfully miserable.

The blonde tried to piece the puzzle that was his partner with the permanent scowl, curling his toes deeper into his bed covers and eventually falling asleep.

SATURDAY

Nightmares plagued his sleep. Vivid images of Sasori repeatedly stabbing him with a paint brush woke the blonde up with a start. Steely blue eyes shot open like wide saucers, hands and feet tangled in a mess of cotton and slate grey. Deidara glanced about, half of him hoping that the red-head had actually sneaked into his dorm in the middle of the night.

He shook his head.

This is a guy who called you a fag.

Still, the blonde unravelled himself from his sheets, tiptoeing around his dorm, slowly picking up pieces of paper that had decided to plant themselves all over the floor. Probably his biology homework, he thought as he shifted around when a folded sheet of parchment caught his eye. Jammed halfway through his door, the parchment looked nothing like his and Hidan’s homework sheets and he made a quick grab for it.

Speak of the devil.

He recognised that scribbled handwriting anywhere. Addressed to him was a short note that came from none other than Sasori. Hurriedly unfolding it, Deidara peered at the scrawls, trying to figure out what beautiful insult the red-head had crafted for him – instead what met him was a few lines.

'Anger is useful only to a certain point. After that, it becomes rage, and rage will make you careless. I apologise, I’m sorry you had to hear that. I did not mean it.’

Deidara blinked owlishly.

Nothing about the painting?

He stopped gawking at the piece of carefully worded paper.

It gave him an idea.

The blonde wasn’t a fan of note-passing, but this will have to do. Scrunching up the piece of paper, he slotted it carefully under Sasori’s dorm door and sat there, waiting patiently. It was about 10am in the morning and he was pretty sure the red-head was an early bird.

He glanced accusingly at the painting that sat outside of the Sasori’s dorm, not moved an inch since yesterday night.

The almost noiseless crinkle of paper was heard as Deidara’s note disappeared from under the door. There was a pause and a grunt of annoyance before the paper was once more shoved out, landing in front of the blonde’s toes. Excitedly, he grabbed the note and opened it up.

Scrawled on top was his own handiwork of “You will only be forgiven if you promise to answer my question.”

Below was a hastily written reply of “fine.”

He grinned, penned down his question and shoved it back through the tiny gap of the dorm’s wooden door.

Once more, the paper was slickly pulled from the inside.

The blonde waited.

And waited.

There was a sigh from behind the door.

“I’m not answering that.”

Deidara was about to hurl a fairly timed insult when there was a click of the door being unlocked and being pushed open. Behind the opening crack of the door frame, stood Sasori, bed head and all. Clad in a thick fluffy looking jumper and pastel burgundy socks, the red-head peered out, his eyes weary. He blinked in surprise when he saw the blonde on the ground, huddled in a grey duvet.

“Hey.” Deidara greeted softly.

Sasori’s mouth twitched, as if he was about to spit out a sardonic remark but decided hastily against it.

“How long have you been -” He gestured at the clump of duvet on the ground, searching for a word to describe the chaotic mess that was Deidara, “Camping here?”

“Just a bit.” The blonde muttered, struggling to get up. “So did you see it?”

As if on cue, Sasori’s eyes flickered over to the canvas on the easel, standing stoically outside of his dorm.

“I told you; I’m not answering that.”

His face, however, spoke volumes.

Sasori’s face was definitely pale.

Not that his face was already as pale as milk, but the second the red-head’s eyes landed on the painting Deidara called a masterpieces, the blonde could see the fiery hot cinders of disenchantment, disgust and rage form like a thundercloud.

Deidara took it as a yes.

Yes, Sasori had seen it.

Yes Sasori despises it.

“We need to talk,” Deidara concluded, hurriedly moving to stand up, almost tripping over his duvet in haste. “We are adults, we should act like it.”

It was the most ironic thing that left his lips, but this – whatever this was – war between the two of them had gone on too long. It was a never ending tug of war, directionless and making the blonde baffled beyond belief.

Sasori kept mum but pushed the door wider, signalling the blonde to enter his abode. What met the blonde’s eye was appalling. Instead of the clean neat space that was originally Sasori’s room was now covered in ink splatter and torn paper, shredded across the floorboards. Paintbrushes lolled on the ground, dried up colours of blue and red splattered on his chairs.

“What on earth happened here? A tornado?”

“A tornado of emotions.” Came the quip.

Sasori sighed.

Deidara side stepped into the room, tiptoeing over the discarded papers and strewn paintbrushes, worriedly eyeing the red-head with mild concern. Scrutinizing the mess, the blonde noticed that Sasori had been trying to recreate his – their – Deidara corrected himself - art piece with a bunch of new bright colours, but had ended up ripping whatever he had twisted into life, finally left scattered onto the grayscale ground like party confetti.

Squinting his slate grey eyes, the blonde exchanged a perplexed peer over to the dorm’s owner.

“You heard.” He spoke, breaking the awkward silence.

The blonde tilted his head in curiosity; what did he mea- oh. Oh. Right. That fateful night he heard the disingenuous word that made his lungs shudder, the toxicity of the way Sasori had put it had made the blonde contemplate murder, even. Right, that he heard – yes. Deidara bit his tongue from spitting out an equally poisonous remark. There was no point in fighting, after all, Sasori looked as if he had been utterly defeated.

“Yeah.” Deidara scratched his head sheepishly. “It’s okay. I’ve been called that.”

“Kakuzu told me.” Sasori begun, running his hands down his messy locks. “Look, Deidara, I know we didn’t get off on a good start-” (“Try me.” The blonde snorted.)

“But I’ve been arrogant, yes.” The red-head shoved his hands in his grey slacks, eyes downcast, “I did not show you any respect and yet I demanded you to give me all of yours. I don’t know if an apology will suffice, but I am sorry.”

Biting his bottom lip, Deidara shook his head.

“I’m sorry too – but this is kinda the third,” He lifted his three fingers up, “or fourth time we’ve apologised to each other?”

He gestured to the mess.

“And it always ends up like this.”

Sasori pursed his lips in silent agreement.

There was a long pregnant pause.

“What now then?” The red-head broke the ice, examining the demolition of his dorm with crestfallen look on his face.

Deidara regarded the cast-aside painting with an expectant expression on his face, wriggling his eyebrows keenly at the red-head.

Sasori retorted back with a threatening glare.

The blonde took it as a no.

“We have to come to some sort of agreement.” The red-head assented, reaching down onto the ground and picking up a paintbrush from a stack of torn paper confetti.

“I concur.” The blonde picked up a paintbrush as well, twirling it around his fingers. “I still say we paint the sky.”

Sasori narrowed his amber eyes but nodded nonetheless.

“I think,” Deidara licked his lips, waving the paintbrush now and narrowing his eyebrows in deep thought, “I think, the reason why we didn’t come to a consensus is because we didn’t take any time to understand each other.”

Sasori looked bemused.

“Properly, that is.” The blonded added hastily. “Look, do you know what’s my favourite colour?”

The red-head rolled his eyes.

“Any colour that’s ablaze with phosphorescent it causes anyone in the vicinity a headache?” He suggested, watching Deidara’s face contort into an irritated scowl.

“No.” The blonde huffed.

“And knowing the colours you like will help us get along?” Sasori snorted with disbelief.

“It’s not about knowing the colours,” Deidara stabbed the paintbrush towards Sasori’s direction, “It’s about knowing the other person, how they think, how they act – how they,” The blonde gallivanted about, waving the paintbrush once more, “Feel.”

“Cheesy.” The red-head wasn’t impressed.

Deidara ignored the other, too deep in his own thoughts.

“I like the colour red.” The blonde declared. “Deep, picturesque with streaks of flashes of carnelian and patches of cerise. Russet rich blare, burning like fire! It’s wild, weaving into the alabaster of the gloomy dreary world. It’s captivating and elysian in a unstable way, ephemeral murmurs of vermilion – it hypnotizes me.”

“You should be a poet.” Sasori commented dully.

Deidara grinned.

“Eunoia.” The red-head commented, a small smile on his.

“Eunoia?” The blonde blinked.

Sasori shook his head, brushing Deidara off.

“Why? Why the idea of captivating through dazzling colours? Why the need for so much,” Sasori jabbed a thumb and tilted it down at the blonde, “Attention?”

The blonde froze, dropping his paintbrush.

A quiet flash of memory resurfaced through the oceans of his mind, the blonde teenager holding on his first art piece, being brushed aside by his parents – others laughing and mocking his emblazoned canvas within his arms – leaving one by one. Ablaze of fiery persimmon red washed over him, fury, wretchedness slowly dissolving into splattered paint.

He blinked the thought away.

Speechless, he shrugged. Maybe. Maybe it was the constant discouragement, maybe it was the laughter – maybe it was the fact that no one ever believed he was an artist. His splashes of colours were nothing but a mess to them – they called him a mess. A clutter of cluelessness, a chaotic thunderstorm. Litter. Trash. Useless.

But that mess they called – it meant so much more to him.

It meant dreams emerging from a part of ourselves, a way to communicate with the deeper self of both artist and audience. Each piece invokes different emotions, sculpted by the artist in a mosaic of colours that invites the curiosity of the mind.

“I just like to paint what I feel.” Deidara dusting himself, pocketing his hands, eyes downcast, a swell of lonesome aching in his chest. “It’s not a mess. It’s me. No one understands that.”

Sasori raised a brow.

“And what makes you think I don’t do that as well?”

Deidara blew a raspberry and snorted.

“Grey? Grey. And more grey.” He pointed at the red-head. “Don’t tell me that all you feel all day is grey?”

Sasori’s face fell and the blonde felt a sudden surge of guilt. Did he say something wrong again?

“Perhaps.” The red-head drawled, turning away. “Unlike you, I have no such experience with bright colours that are associated with anything – anything good that is.”

There was a long quiet pause.

“Yellow lemon meringue was that of the bright lights of the car in the deep absolute night, obsidian sheets and blaring sirens, flashing red and blue.” Sasori murmured quietly, “The rumble of thunder in the white four walled room, smelt of medicine and felt of misery.”

Deidara kept mum.

Sasori glanced at the window, his eyes distant now.

“Persimmon, the colour of their casket, lowering into the cocoa brown soil.” He folded his arms, refusing to look at the blonde now and Deidara could see his arms tremble at the recollection of coloured memories. “All these colours, they only remind me how empty I feel. How alone I am.”

Deidara wanted to reach out to say something – anything but he remained sedated. There are times where your brain fries up and stops working, it’s no excuse, he knows: he owns his own behaviour. He wanted to help, maybe try to be good and then a trigger is flicked. Emotions run cold, fearful anxious and he backs away, flees – Deidara didn’t know what to do, but remain noiseless and impassive.

All this time, Sasori’s thoughts were a strange ocean to him.

“I – I’m sorry.” The blonde’s eyes widened, shaking his head.

There was silence that clouded the dorm room before Sasori let out a soft snort.

“Looks like we’re both a mess huh?”

A lightbulb went off in Deidara’s head.

A mess.

“I have an idea.”

The room was finally cleaned out.

Sasori’s bed of stripped pine and rough canvas mattress now visible. Empty, the greyscale room looked cavernous, perhaps with its stone floor and corniced ceiling, it might even seem quite grand if not for the dust grey colour that bled through the dorm.

In the middle stood an empty canvas, backed up with the easel, with both Deidara and Sasori hovering over the biscuit white sheet.

“This might be a bad idea.” Sasori muttered, tapping his face with a finger sceptically. “I’m not used to disorder.”

He raised his paintbrush, now dipped in a splatter of carmine, a dubious look on his face.

“I’m also not used to bright colours.”

“Just go with it.” Deidara rebuked firmly, raising his own paintbrush, covered in dusty grey with fervour. “I’ll be the puppet, and you be the puppet master.”

The red-head shook his head.

“The most enduring battle is between head and heart,” The blonde coaxed, “What would be efficient and logical is nearly always triumphed by what is messy and illogical.”

Sasori flashed Deidara a glare.

“What do I do again?” He scanned the biscuit white canvas with anxious tight lipped frown on his face.

“Make a mess. Paint yourself.” Deidara gesticulated wildly. “Think of fireworks, think of your messy hair. You keep your feelings all bottled up in here,” He pointed at his chest, “And I well, I let too much flow – that breeds antagonism, lots of it.”

He let out a snort.

“We’ve got to learn how to be each other’s messes.”

Sasori’s face went a bold red.

“I do not.” He lied through his teeth.

“Paint.” Deidara commanded.

And so Sasori did.

It started as a splatter. Sasori’s fingers were too precise, the stiffness of his brushstrokes reflected his unwillingness to make a single mistake. The boldness of the bright maroon was contrasting against the bone white canvas, and all the red-head was doing was dipping small outlines on the edges of the paper, afraid – petrified to make longer, bigger harmonized movements.

Deidara shook his head.

The muted strokes were light, barely flushing across the canvas, a dramatic contrast to the negative space of white – and the blonde could tell the red-head was still mentally calculating the measurements of the sky and clouds in his mind.

“Stop, stop, stop.” The blonde grabbed the red-head’s hands, dragging it away from the easel.

Sasori seemed defeated.

“I tried.” He deadpanned, knitting his brows in frustration.

The blonde gritted his teeth – desperate times called for desperate measures.

Swooping under Sasori’s arm and earning a nonplussed (and distressed) 'what?’ from the red-head, Deidara’s left arm wrapped around the other’s shoulders and right arm coiled round Sasori’s – the blonde’s fingers clenched tightly on the red-head’s wrist – it was a terribly awkward position to be in.

Especially since he could feel the red-head’s burgundy eyes burning a mammoth hole at the back of his head.

“Paint.” Deidara forced Sasori’s hand onto the paper, watching the blood red ink dash across, wildly creating a lash that made the red-head try to wriggle away.

“Stop, stop!” Sasori yelped, shaking his head, trying his best to jerk away, “It’s dreadful!”

The blonde couldn’t help but snigger. Watching the normally cool-headed Sasori squirm in distress was rather oddly fascinating. Once more, Deidara firmly tugged on Sasori’s wrist, smudging the spill of crimson and watching the colour fade into saffron – a patchy tawny tangerine like the evening sky. The alarmed expression etched on the red-head made the blonde giggle in triumph.

“The sky is capricious,” Deidara steered the red-head’s, reciting the words that Sasori had once told him, “unstable, volatile. It’s unpredictable.” Once more, their hands moved enchantingly in bold dramatic strokes, “Kinda like you.”

There was a pause.

“Kinda like me.”

“Inconstant but elegant.” Sasori whispered under his breath.

Deidara nodded, mesmerised by the bright splatter of red.

His reverie was broken when Sasori’s hair brushed against his cheek.

The blonde drew in a long breath.

He had his arms draped around the petite sized painter, close enough to smell the comforting scent of pine and musk. Heart pounding in his chest, the blonde’s face flushed a rosy claret. He examined the heavy lidden eyes of the red-head, a nebulous gaze that raked the canvas as the paint brush glided through paper. The colour of burnt sienna and dashes of umber feathered like ripples in the ocean as Sasori anchored his attention from paper to the blonde.

The mild surprise on his face didn’t turn into the glare of unnerving thoroughness that Deidara had expected. Long lashes swept up as he blinked owlishly, fixing the blonde with a thoughtful expression.

Deidara felt his throat run dry.

Hurriedly, he swung his restless gaze back onto the painting, loosening his grip on the other’s wrist. An odd sensation stretched throughout his entire body – flames dancing around his chest, heart constricted as if there wasn’t any oxygen left in his lungs.

Mesmerised by the bright splatter of red.

The blonde internally blanched.

He felt suffocated.

Throwing his hands up in the air and side stepping aside from the red-head, who watched furtively in bemusement, the blonde hurriedly jammed his hands into his front pockets, lowering his head away in hopes that the strange sensation in his chest would stop.

The red-head let out a soft scoff.

Why didn’t he spit out a scornful quip? Deidara inspected his fingers, trying to feign his impassivity. Or shrink from the touch? His browns knitted in bafflement. Sasori didn’t seem to be livid.

Above all, Sasori didn’t seem at all bothered.

“Sorry,” The blonde muttered under his breath, meekly glancing up to see the copper pools staring back.

The red-head gave a dismissive wave.

“So,” Deidara cleared his throat, “You’ve um, got to just paint how you feel.”

Like a storm cloud thundering through his entire body, tinsel coloured strobes of slate echoed in Deidara’s mind. He couldn’t comprehend the disorder of his head, the pounding in his chest so awfully loud, he was sure Sasori could hear it as well.

The red-head continued on, dabbing gently on the easel with different bold strokes of rose to cerise, ruby to rust. He was still too careful, Deidara noted, watching with apprehension, almost as if he was unsure. Red, the colour of blood, and of fire – the rage, malice, wrath, radiance and determination of the wielder of the paintbrush – seemed meek, hesitant when Sasori weaved through the artic white canvas, each smooth stroke was a shy pat on the paper.

It took roughly ten minutes before the red-head slammed the paintbrush back onto the edge of the easel, exhaling with exhaustion.

“This is aeviternal. I can’t picture what you see.” Sasori grumbled, folding his arms and stepping back to view his work.

A frown materialized on his face.

Deidara found himself sulking as well, it didn’t bode well for either of them. The painting looked none like how either visualised, and in place stood an amateurish work that even Hidan would better excel at.

Sasori arched an eyebrow at the blonde.

“Any other bright ideas?” He scowled darkly, picking up a piece of cloth and wiping his hands. Amaranth smeared across the beige cloth and the blonde’s eyes widened in realisation.

“Soup!” Deidara gasped.

“Soup.” Sasori deadpanned.

Saturdays were meant for soups.

At least, that what Deidara thought.

Both the blonde and red-head found themselves strolling through the nearby street for a café that wasn’t too crowded on a weekend. A wide variety of shops lined the street – from antiques and art stalls, the silvery melody of bells that tinkled as people sauntered in and out of different stores.

Deidara had considered making instant soup back at the dormitory but he felt that it was essential that Sasori escaped the greys of his room. The lunch crowds dissipated through the late afternoons, and the blonde managed to find a quaint tiny café, huddled despondent among the tall shophouses.

Washed out under the overcast sky, it hunched in itself, fighting against the mizzle of snowflakes.

Sasori remained silent and stoic through the walk, and Deidara wasn’t about to ruin the mood with a wisecrack about how boring the red-head was. Instead, he hurried to the café’s entrance and pushed the mahogany door with fervour.

A welcoming blast of coffee wafted through the air, and the blonde sighed in content. Furnished in wooden picnic tables and chairs, the café was relatively empty, the buzz of machines whirring in the background over the quiet conversations from the corner.

“Go on,” Deidara nudged Sasori, who shot him a dirty glare. “Sit anywhere.”

The door swung closed behind them as the red-head made his way to a corner seat next to the open glass windows, looking as dull as the dusty skies outside.

The blonde pouted.

Really now, no one but Sasori seemed to relish the idea of staying indoors instead of having tea at a quaint polished café.

Sighing, Deidara found his seat in front of the red-head, ignoring the sulk on his lunch companion and decided to stare at the display racks near the counter. From the chocolate drizzled cakes, to the sugar lace pastries, the blueberry muffins and steaming puffs, everything was a feast to the eyes.

Just as he was internally drooling at the sandwiches on display, a waitress teetered over in beige and forest green uniform with a small notepad in her hand.

Deidara blinked, noticing at the warm smile on her face.

The blonde managed a lopsided grin back.

She pulled up a pencil from her back pocket, going through the routine questions she probably asks every customer that visited the café.

“Soup of the day.” He glanced at Sasori.

The red-head frowned.

“Two of it.” Deidara ordered, flashing what he hoped was a suave smirk.

Sasori sighed deeply.

“A warm latte, please.” He added, turning away to stare at the snowflakes drifting from the window.

The waitress nodded before sauntering over to the counter.

The blonde closed his eyes, inhaling the smell of vanilla and coffee beans. It was a comforting scent, something that Deidara had missed, a warm hug from the cold winter days. He opened his eyes once more, observing the plants positioned around the racks of the windows, their leaves casting elegant shadows in the muted lighting. Pine wood panels cover the bottom half of the wall, the tan colour on the top half of the walls a shade darker than the pine, tying the pine panels to the dark shades of the ceiling.

He tilted his head up, watching the ceiling fan spin leisurely, moving just enough to keep the aroma of coffee and baked goods circulating throughout the room. The whirring of the coffee grinder, the gurgling of the coffee brewing and bubbling of the steamer warming the milk created a relaxing symphony of sounds, and Deidara found his eyelids getting heavier, the serenity of the comfy café eloping him like a warm duvet.

He let out a soft jubilant hum.

“Ain’t this just picturesque?” He murmured to no one in particular.

“Passable.” Sasori answered disinterestedly. “At least it’s not Starbucks.”

Deidara whipped his head back down to glower at the red-head.

“Gee thanks, way to ruin the mood.” He grunted, folding his arms.

Sasori rolled his eyes.

The waitress waltzed over with wooden bowls and placed the auburn coloured liquid gently on the table top. A dash of terra cotta surrounded by burnt umber greeted Deidara’s eyes and he grimaced slightly. Why the colour red? He was hoping for the colour of autumnal vegetable gardens in the deepest greens

“It’s red pepper cauliflower soup.” The waitress assured, dusting her spruce uniform. “I’ll be back with your latte.”

She strode away, hips swaying.

The burnished soup stood in view. It smelt of tangy piquant, the hues of the soup softened just a bit with the addition of cream and cheese. Even though he was rather bothered by the shade of crimson, he ladled in the wooden spoon, dipping it as if he were plummeting paintbrush into paint.

He sipped on it and let out a contented hum of approval.

The rich aroma of the red pepper wafted around and Deidara couldn’t help but whip up delightful sensations from inside his memory; it was comforting to say the least, even was Sasori glowering darkly opposite from him.

Picking up the fresh, warm bread that was beside the soup, it smelled rich – almost as if promising a scrumptious taste. He dipped the spongy white bread into the red pepper broth, ripping off a chunk and stuffing the piece into his mouth. The pleasant smoothness of the warm bread blended perfectly with the bitter-sweet taste of the soup.

Deep in his own thoughts, Deidara didn’t even notice when the waitress brought over Sasori’s latte until he smelled the aroma of coffee wafting heavily through, piercing through the foggy veil of his dream-like state with the smooth, rich scent of roasted beans. The invigorating odour drew Deidara’s eyes onto the ivory black mug and he looked up expectantly at the red-head.

As if on cue, Sasori rolled his eyes once more and pushed his mug over to the blonde.

The smooth brown milk created a striking contrast against the mug. The lustrous texture of foam was topped with chocolate crumbles, the smell bringing up images of Deidara curled up with a warm fire place, cosied up on the couch. He took a small taste.

It was exotic, bitter-sweet and earthy.

He wrapped his fingers around the mug, enjoying the heat that spread through his heads. Taking another sip, he let the warm liquid sit on his tongue for longer. Once accustomed to the bitterness, the flavour steps forth shyly. It is the undertone that is so apparent in the aroma – one can’t smell the bitterness of it.

Sasori was staring.

Deidara blinked, swiftly pushing back the mug to its rightful owner and adjusting on his jacket lapels in embarrassment.

“It’s good.” The blonde spluttered out, spooning his soup once more.

The arched eyebrow was a reply.

They remained in mutual silence as they ladled their soups, sipping it carefully.

It was calming, the blonde realised. Dull, but comforting. Like the colour grey.

The steam that had risen from the coffee when the waitress first placed it on the table was quite gone. The top bore tell-tale signs of a skin forming, yet Sasori sat there with his hands clasped around it, as if he liked the idea of drinking it but lacked the will power to lift it to his lips.

“The word 'eunoia’ means beautiful thinking.” Sasori muttered, eyes still latched onto the snow fall from the window pane.

Deidara glanced up from his soup.

“What?”

He dropped his spoon back onto his almost empty bowl.

“Classy.” The red-head snorted.

“When you described your paintings.” He clutched the mug tightly “It’s eunoia to me.”

The blonde held back a mighty grin.

“I wish,” Sasori fixated a stare at the soup in front of him, still half full, “That I could imagine the colours of red like how you do so.”

Deidara forced himself not to clap out loud and guffaw at the sight of Sasori. The arrogant prick was finally asking for help! He forced himself to smile gently – he probably looked like a fool, grinning from ear to ear – because Sasori had decided to glare hotly through the pools hidden under heavy lidden eyelids.

Brushing the dispassionate glower that was sent his way, the flaxen haired boy crossed his fingers together, leaning forward and nudging his chin towards the half-emptied soup bowl that sat in front of the red-head.

“The soup is comforting no?” Deidara explained, “So my soul resonates with the colour red as something reassuring. I feel at home.”

“I feel nothing but misery.” Sasori bit back, eyes like daggers, narrowed into slits.

The blonde frowned.

“C'mn now, Sasori. If you told me that the colour of onyx fuels the misery in your heart, I would understand.” He grumbled, shaking his head.

“And what do you feel about the colour black?” The red-head enquired softly.

Deidara thought for a moment.

“It seems aphotic. Dark, cold, lonely.” He rested his chin on his entwined fingers, “Like an ebon hue that’s nothing but a void of velvet dusk. It is the absence of colour but with the mist of visible silvers, or azuline outlines, it stands ablaze against the silhouettes created by obsidian. Like a backdrop for trees, stills as an oil painting and darker than the ravens.”

Sasori blinked.

“Without black, no colour has any depth. But,” Deidara grinned, “If you mix black with everything, there’s a shadow – no, not just a shadow, but fullness.”

The red-head pursed his lips.

“It surprises me how euphonious you make things sound,” Sasori snorted, bemused. “Even as crude as you are.”

The blonde arched a brow, unsure whether he felt insulted.

There was a beat.

“My memories taint how I view vivid colours.” The red-head murmured, his grip on his mug loosening. “I watched my parents die in front of me. Red. It was everywhere.”

Deidara’s eyes widened.

“I see red as the blush of blooming pools of blood, and it reminds me that I lost them – that I wasn’t able to do anything to save them.” Sasori’s fingers were trembling now. “I feel empty.”

The blonde felt his heart drop.

“If I choose to paint with my heart, it would be incomprehensible.” The Sasori sighed. “Perhaps I’m a coward for electing not to feel any sort of misery again. Perhaps I’m afraid to feel mirthful. I don’t want to get excited about cubes and geometry, contrasting shapes and colours. It takes too much out of me, I can’t be bothered. Art should be pretty, end of story.”

The red-head sipped his drink.

“The pain seeps out through the colours of red, and it hurts to see them, to feel them.”

Deidara inhaled deeply, feeling the dull ache in his chest.

“You know you are in endless pain when you wake up one morning and realize that you’re the only one left, the rest dead, buried and forgotten – left to nothing but memories.” Sasori rubbed his face tiredly, before glancing up, almost shyly, back at the blonde.

“Don’t give me that look.” His face contorted into something of antipathy.

“I’m not!” Deidara snapped abruptly, his mind now clanging on a single thought.

“Why not make new memories?”

He pointed at the soup.

“Look, we’re having a pleasant time here, drinking red pepper soup in a quaint cozy café on a Saturday afternoon. The smells, the sights, the sounds – take it in – and create a promising memory of it!”

Sasori scrunched his face.

“With, -” He paused. “You?”

“You did mention how my grey eyes made you feel some sort of comfort, didn’t you?” The blonde tilted his head curiously, still wondering why the red-head even said that in the first place.

Sasori lowered his head immediately, staring at his lap.

There was a pregnant pause.

“I suppose.” He muffled, almost inaudible.

Deidara nodded.

“Look man,” He bit his lip, unsure if he should placate his companion. “I’m really sorry about your parents.” The blonde moved back, leaning against his seat and watching the other bristle slightly at his remark.

However, Sasori’s gaze remained passive as he continued to observe his own lap.

“The absence of someone who was once there, like the colour of black. You got to be willing to mix black into your palette if you want to create something that’s real.” Deidara whispered, eyes drifting over to the window pane before he finally fixated a stare on Sasori.

He had strange eyes – a clear, pale brown, like amber from the tall forests across the sea.

Sasori held his gaze for moment.

“Thank you.” He murmured back kindly and Deidara found his face heating up once more.

The blonde gave Sasori a lopsided grin.

“Hey, how 'bout we take a little walk after this? We can make new memories and attach them to the colours we see.” The blonde tapped his finger on the table thoughtfully.

“I know it sounds really childish (Sasori snorted at that) but maybe, just maybe –” Deidara glanced at the snowy terrain outside.

“Maybe it’ll work out.”

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methodizedataxia · 7 years

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Vinny is Haunting Thee! - Facebook Prompt

Friend of mine on Facebook was being silly and making up what he called GGA, or gay ghost adventures. I may have started a short story series for him thanks to it. Here goes! ------------------ Denial ain't just a river in Egypt. One would think that a discounted home would be a trap. Not in California. A discounted home with more than two bedrooms, air conditioning and a decent sized yard near Los Angeles was a miracle. And his family had hit the jackpot. Robert, and his three siblings had traveled from coast to coast to arrive in time for the movers to start unpacking the two trucks filled with their items. They were to unpack the house themselves, as their parents were still out in Boston, waiting out the next two months before they were done with their project. At least it was easy for Allie, a graphics designer and Robert, a freelance artist to pick up and move. And bonus, Lawrence was already living out in L.A, working as a voice actor. But now all three were going to be living under the same roof again, something that hadn't happened in some seven years. He was ecstatic to pick his room, having not actually seen the house before their parents bought it. At least he was, until they called their mother and she told them what was what. This was not normal. Not one bit. Or at least not to the tall male staring at the formerly empty attic room, now filled with boxes, a desk and a large bed, that was newly his domain. Between he and his twin sister, he had pulled the short straw and got this as a bedroom. “Seriously, there are three rooms upstairs and somehow I end up with this one. Why couldn't this be mom's sewing room? Ugh… Such a terrible room.” Robert was fully expecting to cook to death, turning into jerky in the heat. At least until he got upstairs. Guess it was more insulated than he thought, as well as a decent size. “Hey… this room is far better than it looks, asshole. Sheesh. What's with people these days?” He turned around to look for the source of the voice, fully expecting his older brother to be practicing his voice acting by teasing him. It would be too easy though, too predictable. Instead of his brother, a shimmering cloud stood behind him, its form slowly drawing into a humanoid shape. After what seemed to be such a long time to stare at something, a mostly opaque male dressed in black slacks, a blue button down shirt and a purple bowtie stood behind him. He definitely was NOT Lawrence, his older brother. And totally not his sister Allie. The unknown, bespectacled male grinned wolfishly and waggled his finger at the other before making a tsk sound. “What's the matter, Bobbie? You look like you've seen a ghost.” In a fit of laughter, the figure was gone, leaving Bobbie rubbing his eyes in confusion. Did he just see…? How in hell’s teeth did he know his name? Nah… couldn't be. Granted, the 21 year old had had just a few beers earlier while coordinating the movers, but that shouldn't have him seeing things. But he'd chalk the illusion up to being tipsy and hot. “I'm laying off the alcohol for the rest of the day. I'm seeing shit.” He said while unpacking boxes. A distraction from whatever that was, was needed. His voice boomed down the hall towards downstairs. “Hey, I'm gonna work on my room up here. Be down later.” There was a faint “okay” of confirmation from two voices down below. In what was probably about two hours time, he had much of his important items put away and his computer up and ready for some artwork to be done later. Two commissions needed to be finished by week’s end in two days. At least until he heard rustling coming from his drawer. Glancing over, his eyes widened in shock as articles of clothing seemed to jump from his opened dresser to land in sorted piles on the floor and bed. “Nope. Nuh uh… Eww… do you even know how to dress yourself? The 90s called. They want their grungy rebel ripped jeans back. Oh my Sweet Zombie Jesus, how long have you had these underwear?! There’s holes the size of Texas in them! No wonder your sister joked about you still being single. Your drawers could scare a ghost. By the way, intro needed. I'm Vinny. And you need a new wardrobe.” The strangely now slightly translucent male stood up from ransacking the bottom drawer with a handful of clothing. He dropped them unceremoniously onto the bed. “These are okay, for now. You need to buy more.” With that said, Vinny disappeared again, along with the piles of clothing on the floor. That got Robert’s attention and he booked it out of his room and down the stairs, running straight into his sister and older brother, both of which were screaming at the top of their lungs. The three of them could see the night as daylight with how wide their eyes were. All stammered and gestured wildly at the same time, their ability to complete coherent sentences delayed at the moment. “I-i-in my room! Clothes moving. All gone. WHAT THE FIDDLY DIDDLY HOO HAH?” Apparently Bobbie was first to make a sentence. As for Allie and Lawrence, they pointed down the stairs. Bravely, (more like, he was pushed in front of the other two as a human shield) Bobbie moved towards the banister to stare downstairs. His mouth dropped open as he saw what had frightened the two siblings. Scrawled on the wall above a pile of their collective shoes were the words “WHAT ARE THOSE?!” in red, dripping letters, an arrow pointing to the pile below. And as sudden as he had seen it, the words and pile were gone. He and his siblings rubbed their eyes in disbelief. Bobbie turned to Allie, a tick taking over function in his eye. “How much have y'all had to drink? Or else there's a fucking gas leak and we're high as fuck.” “Whole bottle of tequila and some beers. But we didn't think we were wasted enough to see that shit! I'm going to bed. I think I had too much for one day. That might explain it. ” Allie yelled before shaking her head and heading to her room. Lawrence did the same, mumbling about this being too much like a Facebook post turned into a bad short ghost story for him. As for Bobbie, he stood there, his head whipping between the two of them in disbelief before he went back to his room. It had to have been too long of a day for this. There was a plop heard as he made his way to his bed, snoring lightly with his head buried in his pillow. “Well, that was utterly amusing. Obviously, I'm gonna have fun with these three. They are in such denial. Sounds about right for folks these days.” -------------------- More coming later!

#Art by kaos #kaos writes stories #short story #silly ghost story

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evxlynxxh · 7 years

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Hues (Sasodei fanfic)

Chapter 1: First quarter (HERE)

Chapter 2: Second quarter (HERE)

Chapter 3: Third quarter

FRIDAY

Fiery, sizzling hot. Scorching hot scarlet and maroons. Bold berry red, a dash of maroon.

There was a twist and a flick.

Never be afraid of the rage that is fire.

A splatter of paint.

Fire burns hot and dies fast.

Bright vivid soaked brushes laid scattered around the empty dorm room.

Steel blue eyes narrowed.

He really did.

But what he entered to was a just an empty greyscale room: sitting the middle of which was the painting. That very painting that brought him so much distraught. That was his breaking point.

Deidara watched, enthralled as the deep claret sank into the paper, creating soft swirls in mixture with the misty grey. Almost like flickering flames, he realised, dying out in the cool grey.

After such an inferno, watch the ashes fall into place.

The sudden discernment hit him.

For nothing fights the frost than the flames.

He dropped the brushes, fingertips trembling, coated in a dance of colours.

Be schooled by the flame so that you never know the torment of the ice.

It's beautiful. He thought, gasping in euphoria.

Primarily, the blonde's mission was to barge in to give Sasori a livid earful of insults.

After managing to break the door down – Deidara noted inwardly about how weak the dorm doors were – he stormed in, ready to hurl vulgarities at the red-head but was greeted with a none other than bare room. Since it was vacant of any living being except for himself, the blonde decided to screw with Sasori's "perfect artwork" but ended up creating a stunning mess of paint. So much for being mad and screwing with the latter.

"I can't believe I skipped class for this." The blonde snorted to himself.

Perhaps Sasori was still having lessons, judging by the unoccupied grey space.

Deidara gazed dreamily at the painting, with his own contribution, it looked more like a mixture of two artists working together. Well, at least, somewhat.

There was a pause.

He couldn't just leave it here. Sasori's bound to destroy it somehow, knowing that his greyscale masterpiece was ruined – if anything the red-head would probably try to 'save' his artwork. Now that the painting exactly looked decent, Deidara was definitely going to keep it. Hand it up. Proudly proclaim that he saved their work with his ingeniousness.

A thin grim line set on his face.

He had to steal his own painting.

He had to.

Kakuzu had settled himself deftly into the folds of Deidara's bottom bunk, his jewel green orbs squinted at the sight of the blonde and his giant obstruction of a painting. He watched with mild amusement as the flaxen-haired male tried to hide his work of art behind his rickety looking easel.

"Deidara." He greeted calmly, ignoring the snigger that came from the top bunk.

"What are you doing?" Hidan immediately stopped sniggering when the blonde covered the painting with the white-hair teen's towel. "Why are you using my towel?"

Looking flustered, Deidara pressed a finger on his lip.

"Shut up. It's my business." He grumbled, examining the smirk that formed on Kakuzu's face. "You," he pointed a finger to the raven haired male, eyes fixed on him like a hawk on its prey.

"I'll pay you twenty and not a word about this to Sasori." The blonde dug his pocket and fished out a twenty dollar note, striding forward and slamming it onto Kakuzu's open hand. How obliging, he thought darkly, glaring at the smile that graced the raven haired male's face.

The older male dipped his head mockingly and pocketed the cash.

"You know he's going to be furious." He commented dryly before turning back to his sketchbook, outlining what seemed to be a tree.

Deidara scoffed, rolling his eyes. Of course he knows. Sasori's going to lose his shit when he realises the painting's missing. If his ego's as big as Deidara presumed, he's not going to come running for help; in fact, there's a high probability that the red-head is just going to start work on another piece.

"I won't be bunking in this weekend either, by the by." Hidan remarked, peering down.

The blonde froze.

"Wait what?" He blinked, confused. "I'm not planning to stay here either!" Hastily, he pointed at the hidden painting.

"I can't leave this here unguarded! Someone has to keep an eye on it so that Sasori doesn't see it."

Hidan chuckled.

"It's your business." The sly voice echoed, grinning sweetly. "B'sides," Hidan gestured to Kakuzu, "I'm going to sleepover at his place to finish our work this weekend."

Deidara paced back and forth, hands clenching his golden locks as he fought to figure out a way.

"I'm not staying over again, god knows Sasori might come in and stab me in my sleep!" He shuddered, brushing away that thought.

"You'll have to take the terrible duty of protecting your ego- I mean art work." Hidan purred, his lavender pools lit up with a glint of anticipation. "It's really the only way to hand up your handiwork."

Rubbing his face in exhaustion, the blonde couldn't help but wonder if he had made a mistake improving the art work that was Sasori's. Then again, he glanced furtively at the towel draped unceremoniously on his easel, then again, it only became much better after he had opportunely slapped along some colour to it.

"I don't wish to pry into your business." Kakuzu's deep voice broke his thoughts, "But is all this silly fighting truly necessary?"

Deidara frowned before turning his steely gaze to him, nodding quite curtly.

"Then I wish you the best in your future endeavours."

He might've heard a hint of pity in Kakuzu's voice, but Hidan's loud hyena cackle drowned it out before he could even confirm it.

"I'm not the one at fault here." Deidara muttered, looking at his stained hands, still inked with faded splashes of colour. "I'm right. I know I am. I'm right and he won't listen. I could explain all damn day and he still won't get it."

He shoved his hands in his pockets, imaging Sasori's half lidded eyes staring back at him.

"I try to work with him but in his warped logic, my incapability means he's right. Every stride I take, every breath I make, he's mocking me."

Deidara let out a groan of exasperation.

There was a pause.

"What if he's just not good with words?" Hidan asked quietly, sounding oddly mature, "He's never been vocal about anything except his own art tantrums."

Kakuzu snorted in agreement.

"I just want this project to be done and over with." The blonde growled, kicking a stray piece of paper on the floor.

"Believe me," The older man chipped in from the bottom bunk, "I bet the feeling's mutual."

There was a short pause.

"You do deserve some form of congratulatory compliment." Kakuzu added hastily, "I've never seen someone actually manage to stay in the same room with him for more than an hour."

Deidara rolled his eyes.

"He's lucky he looks like a serial killer, no one dares to approach him with that surly attitude of his. It's akin to his paintings!" He pointed viciously at the hidden portrait piece, "Grey, grey, grey! Have you seen anything else as boring as that?"

At that, Hidan let out a roar of laughter, slapping his thighs, his giggles shaking the double bunk bed.

Kakuzu snorted once more.

"Truth to be told, not really."

His green eyes danced with a strange sort of fire within them.

"This is the first time I've seen him paint something like this."

Evening dusted the sky, the magenta rays of the last sun shrouding the quiet room with a strange sort of calm, the snow drifting down onto the ground was mesmerising, like an old nostalgic video tape looping over and over again. Sepia soon coloured Deidara's shared dorm before the inky glow of the night seeped through the curtains.

It was noiseless.

It wasn't Hidan's lack of presence that struck the blonde's sudden fear.

It was Sasori.

He did not appear screaming like a maniac, slamming down and digging through Deidara's room for his lost project. Neither did he pop by to give a cynical quote that probably to insult him. It was oddly quiet. Technically, the red-head didn't talk much but it was definitely peculiar that he hadn't dropped by to give a snip or a snap.

He did consider to attempt to give a little jest.

He however, value his life, so he pushed that thought back into his mind.

The silence was deafening.

"It's fine." Deidara tried to placate himself, huddling into his comforters, "It's all fine." He snuggled himself into the corner of his bed before hearing a crinkle that struck his heart cold.

Heart in his mouth, he turned around hesitantly, eyes desperately searching the bed for the noise before finally stopping onto the 20 dollar note that he had originally gave Kakuzu.

There was no way that man would've accidentally left money on the bed.

That could only mean one thing.

It was almost midnight when he found himself standing once again in front of Sasori's dorm. The letters 303 seemed to mock him now, jeering at the fact that he actually felt guilty enough to come running back, tail between his legs. By now, Deidara had familiarized all the cracks and dents on the dark oak door, and was just assembling up some sort of courage to lift his arm to knock on the door.

The dormitory hallways now devoid of students, stayed grey and silent, watchful.

"Sasori." The blonde managed to muster up, urgently whispering to no one in particular. "Are you there?"

"Sasori." He undertoned once more.

There was no reply.

Right.

Fine.

Deidara turned away from the door, twiddling his thumbs worriedly. Did Kakuzu tell Sasori about the painting? If so, the red-head should be furiously hacking at the blonde's room right this moment, however, it seemed as if the school was dead silent and no one else remained in school except for him.

He decided to check the dormitory's front yard for any signs for life.

With the warm bronze sunlight swallowed by the horizon, the scintillating moon hovered in the cold night, lustrous dancing stars glinting the sky. Deidara huddled in his jumper, rubbing his gloved hands in the wintry air as he trekked down the path to the front yard of the dorm. From the end of the dorm's gate, there was the flicker of the school's overhead lamp lights, breathing in a glow of orange in the dusty ink black.

A shuffle of movement caught his attention.

In the soft silvery moon beam, the familiar sight of red was strangely reliving, it coiled its flowing tendrils upon the dark maroon pullover that Sasori was donning, dipping him in a radiant, almost hypnotic glow. The red-head glanced up, his pale face showered in the moon light, casting shadows that bathed in its intrinsic charm. But then, in a trice, the frown appeared on the male's face, mercilessly tearing the illusion of beauty, leaving Deidara feeling suddenly austere, miserable and dark.

His mouth went dry, suddenly unable to speak.

There was a crunch of footsteps on the snowy ground as Sasori moved towards the blonde.

Dediara didn't say anything – he didn't know what to say, conscious of the glare that was being sent his way, he dipped his head down quickly, staring at his boots.

Another pair of boots stopped right next to his.

With the excruciating silence hovering between them like a heavy fog, Deidara found himself squeaking a soft greeting that sounded awfully like a grunt.

Sasori did not reply.

Deidara glanced up, suddenly aware that the latter was standing rather close to him.

"The painting is gone." Sasori announced coldly.

The blonde tried not to look guilty.

"Oh." He managed to mutter, scratching the back of his head innocently.

"I know you took it." The red-head continued.

Deidara bit his tongue.

Great.

"Oh." He slapped himself mentally.

"I'm glad." Sasori added after a pause.

That took Deidara by surprise as he glanced curiously at the red-head, who was observing the snowflakes falling onto the ground.

"You're glad." He echoed, blinking. "You're glad?"

Sasori sounded strangely hollow.

"Grey like the colour of the window curtains that I have spent hours behind, watching." He whispered into the night, "Like the serenity that flows from the crevice of the same lips that cause the ground to crumble and break. The colour of the duvets that stop me from shaking, the grey of mind, trying to forget my miserable life."

The blonde raised a brow.

"Grey like your eyes."

Deidara froze.

"I'm glad it's gone. It was a stupid painting anyway."

With that he left.

He should be mad.

Sasori was insulting him just a day before.

He should be furious.

Yet, Deidara felt peculiarly disappointed. There wasn't a word to describe how he was feeling, but if anything it felt like the music of a great orchestra. At times it was quiet, and it allowed him to remain passive towards what had happened. And suddenly, the violins would play and he would feel oddly sad, then it would rise to a crescendo and a fiery rage would burst from his chest in a vicious confused anguish.

He stood, stock still, unmoving.

No prizes guessing who prompted that poetic response.

Grey like your eyes.

The blonde sighed, snuffing the snowy ground with his boots.

"Grey like your eyes." He murmured.

Hidan was definitely wrong about Sasori not being with words.

And Deidara was definitely digging his own grave when he found himself knocking violently at dorm 303's door, the towel-covered art piece standing unwisely at his side. He wasn't trying to tease the red-head by bringing the stolen (albeit it was their painting anyway he couldn't really steal it) painting back – he just wanted to make it clear that he didn't destroy it. Well – at least not physically maul it.

There was a loud sigh behind the door.

"Please leave me alone."

Deidara slammed his fists against the wooden frame.

"It's not gone or destroyed," He tried to explain, "It's here. It's here."

He motioned wildly at the hidden painting, knowing well that Sasori probably couldn't see what he was doing.

Once more, the sigh escaped from behind the door.

"You have no idea what I meant by saying 'I'm glad that it's gone', haven't you?"

"The painting." Deidara declared loudly.

"Please leave me alone, Deidara." Sasori sounded tired.

The blonde frowned.

"Fine." He gave the door a final slam with his fist. "But I'm leaving the painting here."

Twirling around, the blonde left, storming across the corridors and heading down the stairs back to the shared dormitory bathroom, hoping that a hot shower of some sort would fix his messy head.

He stepped into the shower, toes flinching as they touched the chilled ceramic floor. His mind was in shreds, torn between viciously jubilant at Sasori's sudden melancholy and guilty for seemingly being the one who caused it. He turned the dial, old and metallic, lukewarm water drops dampening his hair, trickling down his back as he closed his eyes, feeling the warm splash of water wash away his confusion. The water poured down, drip, dripping down his fingertips as his minds fades into dullness, stilling the time to a stop. The sensation of steamy water calming his nerves, his mind swirling, standing under an everlasting waterfall.

Irritation gnawed on his skin.

Having Sasori acting like a forlorn puppy didn't help his annoyance.

Deidara towelled his hair dry with Hidan's towel.

What would the red-head gain from acting like a miserable sack of potatoes? He could've barged in, shrieked at Deidara for 'stealing' the painting or perhaps even rebuke the fact that the blonde was truly someone he hated with a malice but he didn't – in fact he stated that it made him glad?

Grey duvets.

Grey like the colour of the curtains.

Deidara's eyes fell onto his own curtains.

Grey like your eyes.

The blonde's heart skipped a beat.

Hold on.

The blonde shook his head.

No way.

Impossible. If anything Sasori probably had already plotted 50 different ways to murder the blonde.

Then what did he mean by being glad that the painting was gone? Was that he eager to throw his handiwork? He didn't sound any happier, Deidara noted quietly, tugging his duvet closer to himself, if fact, he sounded awfully miserable.

The blonde tried to piece the puzzle that was his partner with the permanent scowl, curling his toes deeper into his bed covers and eventually falling asleep.

SATURDAY

He shook his head.

This is a guy who called you a fag.

Still, the blonde unravelled himself from his sheets, tiptoeing around his dorm, slowly picking up pieces of paper that had decided to plant themselves all over the floor. Probably his biology homework, he thought as he shifted around when a folded sheet of parchment caught his eye. Jammed halfway through his door, the parchment looked nothing like his and Hidan's homework sheets and he made a quick grab for it.

Speak of the devil.

'Anger is useful only to a certain point. After that, it becomes rage, and rage will make you careless. I apologise, I'm sorry you had to hear that. I did not mean it.'

Deidara blinked owlishly.

Nothing about the painting?

He stopped gawking at the piece of carefully worded paper.

It gave him an idea.

The blonde wasn't a fan of note-passing, but this will have to do. Scrunching up the piece of paper, he slotted it carefully under Sasori's dorm door and sat there, waiting patiently. It was about 10am in the morning and he was pretty sure the red-head was an early bird.

He glanced accusingly at the painting that sat outside of the Sasori's dorm, not moved an inch since yesterday night.

The almost noiseless crinkle of paper was heard as Deidara's note disappeared from under the door. There was a pause and a grunt of annoyance before the paper was once more shoved out, landing in front of the blonde's toes. Excitedly, he grabbed the note and opened it up.

Scrawled on top was his own handiwork of "You will only be forgiven if you promise to answer my question."

Below was a hastily written reply of "fine."

He grinned, penned down his question and shoved it back through the tiny gap of the dorm's wooden door.

Once more, the paper was slickly pulled from the inside.

The blonde waited.

And waited.

There was a sigh from behind the door.

"I'm not answering that."

"Hey." Deidara greeted softly.

Sasori's mouth twitched, as if he was about to spit out a sardonic remark but decided hastily against it.

"How long have you been -" He gestured at the clump of duvet on the ground, searching for a word to describe the chaotic mess that was Deidara, "Camping here?"

"Just a bit." The blonde muttered, struggling to get up. "So did you see it?"

As if on cue, Sasori's eyes flickered over to the canvas on the easel, standing stoically outside of his dorm.

"I told you; I'm not answering that."

His face, however, spoke volumes.

Sasori's face was definitely pale.

Not that his face was already as pale as milk, but the second the red-head's eyes landed on the painting Deidara called a masterpieces, the blonde could see the fiery hot cinders of disenchantment, disgust and rage form like a thundercloud.

Deidara took it as a yes.

Yes, Sasori had seen it.

Yes Sasori despises it.

"We need to talk," Deidara concluded, hurriedly moving to stand up, almost tripping over his duvet in haste. "We are adults, we should act like it."

Sasori kept mum but pushed the door wider, signalling the blonde to enter his abode. What met the blonde's eye was appalling. Instead of the clean neat space that was originally Sasori's room was now covered in ink splatter and torn paper, shredded across the floorboards. Paintbrushes lolled on the ground, dried up colours of blue and red splattered on his chairs.

"What on earth happened here? A tornado?"

"A tornado of emotions." Came the quip.

Sasori sighed.

Squinting his slate grey eyes, the blonde exchanged a perplexed peer over to the dorm's owner.

"You heard." He spoke, breaking the awkward silence.

"Yeah." Deidara scratched his head sheepishly. "It's okay. I've been called that."

"Kakuzu told me." Sasori begun, running his hands down his messy locks. "Look, Deidara, I know we didn't get off on a good start-" ("Try me." The blonde snorted.)

"But I've been arrogant, yes." The red-head shoved his hands in his grey slacks, eyes downcast, "I did not show you any respect and yet I demanded you to give me all of yours. I don't know if an apology will suffice, but I am sorry."

Biting his bottom lip, Deidara shook his head.

"I'm sorry too – but this is kinda the third," He lifted his three fingers up, "or fourth time we've apologised to each other?"

He gestured to the mess.

"And it always ends up like this."

Sasori pursed his lips in silent agreement.

There was a long pregnant pause.

"What now then?" The red-head broke the ice, examining the demolition of his dorm with crestfallen look on his face.

Deidara regarded the cast-aside painting with an expectant expression on his face, wriggling his eyebrows keenly at the red-head.

Sasori retorted back with a threatening glare.

The blonde took it as a no.

"We have to come to some sort of agreement." The red-head assented, reaching down onto the ground and picking up a paintbrush from a stack of torn paper confetti.

"I concur." The blonde picked up a paintbrush as well, twirling it around his fingers. "I still say we paint the sky."

Sasori narrowed his amber eyes but nodded nonetheless.

"I think," Deidara licked his lips, waving the paintbrush now and narrowing his eyebrows in deep thought, "I think, the reason why we didn't come to a consensus is because we didn't take any time to understand each other."

Sasori looked bemused.

"Properly, that is." The blonded added hastily. "Look, do you know what's my favourite colour?"

The red-head rolled his eyes.

"Any colour that's ablaze with phosphorescent it causes anyone in the vicinity a headache?" He suggested, watching Deidara's face contort into an irritated scowl.

"No." The blonde huffed.

"And knowing the colours you like will help us get along?" Sasori snorted with disbelief.

"It's not about knowing the colours," Deidara stabbed the paintbrush towards Sasori's direction, "It's about knowing the other person, how they think, how they act – how they," The blonde gallivanted about, waving the paintbrush once more, "Feel."

"Cheesy." The red-head wasn't impressed.

Deidara ignored the other, too deep in his own thoughts.

"I like the colour red." The blonde declared. "Deep, picturesque with streaks of flashes of carnelian and patches of cerise. Russet rich blare, burning like fire! It's wild, weaving into the alabaster of the gloomy dreary world. It's captivating and elysian in a unstable way, ephemeral murmurs of vermilion – it hypnotizes me."

"You should be a poet." Sasori commented dully.

Deidara grinned.

"Eunoia." The red-head commented, a small smile on his.

"Eunoia?" The blonde blinked.

Sasori shook his head, brushing Deidara off.

"Why? Why the idea of captivating through dazzling colours? Why the need for so much," Sasori jabbed a thumb and tilted it down at the blonde, "Attention?"

The blonde froze, dropping his paintbrush.

He blinked the thought away.

But that mess they called – it meant so much more to him.

"I just like to paint what I feel." Deidara dusting himself, pocketing his hands, eyes downcast, a swell of lonesome aching in his chest. "It's not a mess. It's me. No one understands that."

Sasori raised a brow.

"And what makes you think I don't do that as well?"

Deidara blew a raspberry and snorted.

"Grey? Grey. And more grey." He pointed at the red-head. "Don't tell me that all you feel all day is grey?"

Sasori's face fell and the blonde felt a sudden surge of guilt. Did he say something wrong again?

"Perhaps." The red-head drawled, turning away. "Unlike you, I have no such experience with bright colours that are associated with anything – anything good that is."

There was a long quiet pause.

"Yellow lemon meringue was that of the bright lights of the car in the deep absolute night, obsidian sheets and blaring sirens, flashing red and blue." Sasori murmured quietly, "The rumble of thunder in the white four walled room, smelt of medicine and felt of misery."

Deidara kept mum.

Sasori glanced at the window, his eyes distant now.

"Persimmon, the colour of their casket, lowering into the cocoa brown soil." He folded his arms, refusing to look at the blonde now and Deidara could see his arms tremble at the recollection of coloured memories. "All these colours, they only remind me how empty I feel. How alone I am."

Deidara wanted to reach out to say something – anything but he remained sedated. There are times where your brain fries up and stops working, it's no excuse, he knows: he owns his own behaviour. He wanted to help, maybe try to be good and then a trigger is flicked. Emotions run cold, fearful anxious and he backs away, flees – Deidara didn't know what to do, but remain noiseless and impassive.

All this time, Sasori's thoughts were a strange ocean to him.

"I – I'm sorry." The blonde's eyes widened, shaking his head.

There was silence that clouded the dorm room before Sasori let out a soft snort.

"Looks like we're both a mess huh?"

A lightbulb went off in Deidara's head.

A mess.

"I have an idea."

The room was finally cleaned out.

Sasori's bed of stripped pine and rough canvas mattress now visible. Empty, the greyscale room looked cavernous, perhaps with its stone floor and corniced ceiling, it might even seem quite grand if not for the dust grey colour that bled through the dorm.

In the middle stood an empty canvas, backed up with the easel, with both Deidara and Sasori hovering over the biscuit white sheet.

"This might be a bad idea." Sasori muttered, tapping his face with a finger sceptically. "I'm not used to disorder."

He raised his paintbrush, now dipped in a splatter of carmine, a dubious look on his face.

"I'm also not used to bright colours."

"Just go with it." Deidara rebuked firmly, raising his own paintbrush, covered in dusty grey with fervour. "I'll be the puppet, and you be the puppet master."

The red-head shook his head.

"The most enduring battle is between head and heart," The blonde coaxed, "What would be efficient and logical is nearly always triumphed by what is messy and illogical."

Sasori flashed Deidara a glare.

"What do I do again?" He scanned the biscuit white canvas with anxious tight lipped frown on his face.

"Make a mess. Paint yourself." Deidara gesticulated wildly. "Think of fireworks, think of your messy hair. You keep your feelings all bottled up in here," He pointed at his chest, "And I well, I let too much flow – that breeds antagonism, lots of it."

He let out a snort.

"We've got to learn how to be each other's messes."

Sasori's face went a bold red.

"I do not." He lied through his teeth.

"Paint." Deidara commanded.

And so Sasori did.

It started as a splatter. Sasori's fingers were too precise, the stiffness of his brushstrokes reflected his unwillingness to make a single mistake. The boldness of the bright maroon was contrasting against the bone white canvas, and all the red-head was doing was dipping small outlines on the edges of the paper, afraid – petrified to make longer, bigger harmonized movements.

Deidara shook his head.

"Stop, stop, stop." The blonde grabbed the red-head's hands, dragging it away from the easel.

Sasori seemed defeated.

"I tried." He deadpanned, knitting his brows in frustration.

The blonde gritted his teeth – desperate times called for desperate measures.

Swooping under Sasori's arm and earning a nonplussed (and distressed) 'what?' from the red-head, Deidara's left arm wrapped around the other's shoulders and right arm coiled round Sasori's – the blonde's fingers clenched tightly on the red-head's wrist – it was a terribly awkward position to be in.

Especially since he could feel the red-head's burgundy eyes burning a mammoth hole at the back of his head.

"Paint." Deidara forced Sasori's hand onto the paper, watching the blood red ink dash across, wildly creating a lash that made the red-head try to wriggle away.

"Stop, stop!" Sasori yelped, shaking his head, trying his best to jerk away, "It's dreadful!"

The blonde couldn't help but snigger. Watching the normally cool-headed Sasori squirm in distress was rather oddly fascinating. Once more, Deidara firmly tugged on Sasori's wrist, smudging the spill of crimson and watching the colour fade into saffron – a patchy tawny tangerine like the evening sky. The alarmed expression etched on the red-head made the blonde giggle in triumph.

"The sky is capricious," Deidara steered the red-head's, reciting the words that Sasori had once told him, "unstable, volatile. It's unpredictable." Once more, their hands moved enchantingly in bold dramatic strokes, "Kinda like you."

There was a pause.

"Kinda like me."

"Inconstant but elegant." Sasori whispered under his breath.

Deidara nodded, mesmerised by the bright splatter of red.

His reverie was broken when Sasori's hair brushed against his cheek.

The blonde drew in a long breath.

He had his arms draped around the petite sized painter, close enough to smell the comforting scent of pine and musk. Heart pounding in his chest, the blonde's face flushed a rosy claret. He examined the heavy lidden eyes of the red-head, a nebulous gaze that raked the canvas as the paint brush glided through paper. The colour of burnt sienna and dashes of umber feathered like ripples in the ocean as Sasori anchored his attention from paper to the blonde.

The mild surprise on his face didn't turn into the glare of unnerving thoroughness that Deidara had expected. Long lashes swept up as he blinked owlishly, fixing the blonde with a thoughtful expression.

Deidara felt his throat run dry.

Hurriedly, he swung his restless gaze back onto the painting, loosening his grip on the other's wrist. An odd sensation stretched throughout his entire body – flames dancing around his chest, heart constricted as if there wasn't any oxygen left in his lungs.

Mesmerised by the bright splatter of red.

The blonde internally blanched.

He felt suffocated.

The red-head let out a soft scoff.

Why didn't he spit out a scornful quip? Deidara inspected his fingers, trying to feign his impassivity. Or shrink from the touch? His browns knitted in bafflement. Sasori didn't seem to be livid.

Above all, Sasori didn't seem at all bothered.

"Sorry," The blonde muttered under his breath, meekly glancing up to see the copper pools staring back.

The red-head gave a dismissive wave.

"So," Deidara cleared his throat, "You've um, got to just paint how you feel."

Like a storm cloud thundering through his entire body, tinsel coloured strobes of slate echoed in Deidara's mind. He couldn't comprehend the disorder of his head, the pounding in his chest so awfully loud, he was sure Sasori could hear it as well.

It took roughly ten minutes before the red-head slammed the paintbrush back onto the edge of the easel, exhaling with exhaustion.

"This is aeviternal. I can't picture what you see." Sasori grumbled, folding his arms and stepping back to view his work.

A frown materialized on his face.

Deidara found himself sulking as well, it didn't bode well for either of them. The painting looked none like how either visualised, and in place stood an amateurish work that even Hidan would better excel at.

Sasori arched an eyebrow at the blonde.

"Any other bright ideas?" He scowled darkly, picking up a piece of cloth and wiping his hands. Amaranth smeared across the beige cloth and the blonde's eyes widened in realisation.

"Soup!" Deidara gasped.

"Soup." Sasori deadpanned.

Saturdays were meant for soups.

At least, that what Deidara thought.

Both the blonde and red-head found themselves strolling through the nearby street for a café that wasn't too crowded on a weekend. A wide variety of shops lined the street – from antiques and art stalls, the silvery melody of bells that tinkled as people sauntered in and out of different stores.

Washed out under the overcast sky, it hunched in itself, fighting against the mizzle of snowflakes.

Sasori remained silent and stoic through the walk, and Deidara wasn't about to ruin the mood with a wisecrack about how boring the red-head was. Instead, he hurried to the café's entrance and pushed the mahogany door with fervour.

"Go on," Deidara nudged Sasori, who shot him a dirty glare. "Sit anywhere."

The door swung closed behind them as the red-head made his way to a corner seat next to the open glass windows, looking as dull as the dusty skies outside.

The blonde pouted.

Really now, no one but Sasori seemed to relish the idea of staying indoors instead of having tea at a quaint polished café.

Just as he was internally drooling at the sandwiches on display, a waitress teetered over in beige and forest green uniform with a small notepad in her hand.

Deidara blinked, noticing at the warm smile on her face.

The blonde managed a lopsided grin back.

She pulled up a pencil from her back pocket, going through the routine questions she probably asks every customer that visited the café.

"Soup of the day." He glanced at Sasori.

The red-head frowned.

"Two of it." Deidara ordered, flashing what he hoped was a suave smirk.

Sasori sighed deeply.

"A warm latte, please." He added, turning away to stare at the snowflakes drifting from the window.

The waitress nodded before sauntering over to the counter.

He let out a soft jubilant hum.

"Ain't this just picturesque?" He murmured to no one in particular.

"Passable." Sasori answered disinterestedly. "At least it's not Starbucks."

Deidara whipped his head back down to glower at the red-head.

"Gee thanks, way to ruin the mood." He grunted, folding his arms.

Sasori rolled his eyes.

The waitress waltzed over with wooden bowls and placed the auburn coloured liquid gently on the table top. A dash of terra cotta surrounded by burnt umber greeted Deidara's eyes and he grimaced slightly. Why the colour red? He was hoping for the colour of autumnal vegetable gardens in the deepest greens

"It's red pepper cauliflower soup." The waitress assured, dusting her spruce uniform. "I'll be back with your latte."

She strode away, hips swaying.

He sipped on it and let out a contented hum of approval.

The rich aroma of the red pepper wafted around and Deidara couldn't help but whip up delightful sensations from inside his memory; it was comforting to say the least, even was Sasori glowering darkly opposite from him.

Deep in his own thoughts, Deidara didn't even notice when the waitress brought over Sasori's latte until he smelled the aroma of coffee wafting heavily through, piercing through the foggy veil of his dream-like state with the smooth, rich scent of roasted beans. The invigorating odour drew Deidara's eyes onto the ivory black mug and he looked up expectantly at the red-head.

As if on cue, Sasori rolled his eyes once more and pushed his mug over to the blonde.

It was exotic, bitter-sweet and earthy.

Sasori was staring.

Deidara blinked, swiftly pushing back the mug to its rightful owner and adjusting on his jacket lapels in embarrassment.

"It's good." The blonde spluttered out, spooning his soup once more.

The arched eyebrow was a reply.

They remained in mutual silence as they ladled their soups, sipping it carefully.

It was calming, the blonde realised. Dull, but comforting. Like the colour grey.

"The word 'eunoia' means beautiful thinking." Sasori muttered, eyes still latched onto the snow fall from the window pane.

Deidara glanced up from his soup.

"What?"

He dropped his spoon back onto his almost empty bowl.

"Classy." The red-head snorted.

"When you described your paintings." He clutched the mug tightly "It's eunoia to me."

The blonde held back a mighty grin.

"I wish," Sasori fixated a stare at the soup in front of him, still half full, "That I could imagine the colours of red like how you do so."

"The soup is comforting no?" Deidara explained, "So my soul resonates with the colour red as something reassuring. I feel at home."

"I feel nothing but misery." Sasori bit back, eyes like daggers, narrowed into slits.

The blonde frowned.

"C'mn now, Sasori. If you told me that the colour of onyx fuels the misery in your heart, I would understand." He grumbled, shaking his head.

"And what do you feel about the colour black?" The red-head enquired softly.

Deidara thought for a moment.

"It seems aphotic. Dark, cold, lonely." He rested his chin on his entwined fingers, "Like an ebon hue that's nothing but a void of velvet dusk. It is the absence of colour but with the mist of visible silvers, or azuline outlines, it stands ablaze against the silhouettes created by obsidian. Like a backdrop for trees, stills as an oil painting and darker than the ravens."

Sasori blinked.

"Without black, no colour has any depth. But," Deidara grinned, "If you mix black with everything, there's a shadow – no, not just a shadow, but fullness."

The red-head pursed his lips.

"It surprises me how euphonious you make things sound," Sasori snorted, bemused. "Even as crude as you are."

The blonde arched a brow, unsure whether he felt insulted.

There was a beat.

"My memories taint how I view vivid colours." The red-head murmured, his grip on his mug loosening. "I watched my parents die in front of me. Red. It was everywhere."

Deidara's eyes widened.

"I see red as the blush of blooming pools of blood, and it reminds me that I lost them – that I wasn't able to do anything to save them." Sasori's fingers were trembling now. "I feel empty."

The blonde felt his heart drop.

"If I choose to paint with my heart, it would be incomprehensible." The Sasori sighed. "Perhaps I'm a coward for electing not to feel any sort of misery again. Perhaps I'm afraid to feel mirthful. I don't want to get excited about cubes and geometry, contrasting shapes and colours. It takes too much out of me, I can't be bothered. Art should be pretty, end of story."

The red-head sipped his drink.

"The pain seeps out through the colours of red, and it hurts to see them, to feel them."

Deidara inhaled deeply, feeling the dull ache in his chest.

"You know you are in endless pain when you wake up one morning and realize that you're the only one left, the rest dead, buried and forgotten – left to nothing but memories." Sasori rubbed his face tiredly, before glancing up, almost shyly, back at the blonde.

"Don't give me that look." His face contorted into something of antipathy.

"I'm not!" Deidara snapped abruptly, his mind now clanging on a single thought.

"Why not make new memories?"

He pointed at the soup.

"Look, we're having a pleasant time here, drinking red pepper soup in a quaint cozy café on a Saturday afternoon. The smells, the sights, the sounds – take it in – and create a promising memory of it!"

Sasori scrunched his face.

"With, -" He paused. "You?"

"You did mention how my grey eyes made you feel some sort of comfort, didn't you?" The blonde tilted his head curiously, still wondering why the red-head even said that in the first place.

Sasori lowered his head immediately, staring at his lap.

There was a pregnant pause.

"I suppose." He muffled, almost inaudible.

Deidara nodded.

"Look man," He bit his lip, unsure if he should placate his companion. "I'm really sorry about your parents." The blonde moved back, leaning against his seat and watching the other bristle slightly at his remark.

However, Sasori's gaze remained passive as he continued to observe his own lap.

"The absence of someone who was once there, like the colour of black. You got to be willing to mix black into your palette if you want to create something that's real." Deidara whispered, eyes drifting over to the window pane before he finally fixated a stare on Sasori.

He had strange eyes – a clear, pale brown, like amber from the tall forests across the sea.

Sasori held his gaze for moment.

"Thank you." He murmured back kindly and Deidara found his face heating up once more.

The blonde gave Sasori a lopsided grin.

"Hey, how 'bout we take a little walk after this? We can make new memories and attach them to the colours we see." The blonde tapped his finger on the table thoughtfully.

"I know it sounds really childish (Sasori snorted at that) but maybe, just maybe –" Deidara glanced at the snowy terrain outside.

"Maybe it'll work out."

22 notes · View notes

astarisms · 7 years

Text

Chemistry

Pairing: Natan

Rating: SFW

Word Count: 3200

A/N: Skype SS rival teacher au for @skelegiel! Merry Christmas babe ilu <3

Lucifer Morgenstern was the teacher everyone dreaded. From students’ first days as freshmen, they heard the horror stories of the strict, tough-grader who taught chemistry. While girls swooned over him in the halls, they balked in his classroom.

It wasn’t that he was a bad teacher, necessarily. It was more than possible to get a good grade in his class, as long as you really wanted one and as long as you followed instructions to the ‘t’. But, as many of the students joked, he also had a degree in being a professional asshole. Their favorite story to tell was about the time a kid brought in a chocolate bar to lab, and Lucifer had confiscated it and eaten the whole thing in front of him.

He knew all of this, and cared for none of it.

He cared even less for all the whisperings about the new art teacher. It was all that anyone could talk about the past few days, and especially that morning — it had been a bit of a slow news week, he supposed.

While he was aware of her, he hadn’t seen her yet, and he didn’t plan on going out of his way like many of his coworkers had done. It didn’t look like he could escape the talk of her no matter where he went, however, and it followed him even when he walked into the printer room to get his handouts.

“She’s a sweetheart.”

“A real looker, too.”

“It’s a little weird, though, how much she smiles, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. Hey, Lucy, have you met her yet?”

Lucifer ground his teeth at the nickname, grabbed his handouts, and left without comment.

He sincerely hoped she’d be old news, fast — and that old Humphrey would stop fucking calling him “Lucy”.

The following Monday, Lucifer found himself at the school far earlier than usual. He was demonstrating an experiment today, and needed to get things set up before his first period class.

There were only a handful of other cars in the staff parking lot, some he recognized as the janitors’, one he knew was the secretary’s, and then one he had never seen before.

He didn’t pay much attention to it, already not in the best mood at having to be up this early and already wishing it was 4 o’clock so he could go home.

He gathered his things from his car and crossed the short distance from the parking lot to the front doors of the school, pushing the door open with his side since he didn’t have much in the way of free hands.

He got halfway to his classroom before he stopped, hearing something coming from down the opposite hallway. He tilted his head, before he recognized the noise as singing.

“What the hell,” he muttered under his breath, but continued his trek to his classroom, deciding it wasn’t worth his time. So much for his hopes of a quiet morning, though.

Nudging the door open with full hands, he entered his classroom and began setting up for the demonstration. He preferred to work in silence, but it seemed like that was impossible that morning.

Since he finished a bit earlier than expected, he cracked his door and glared in the direction the singing was still coming from with no sign of letting up anytime soon. Who was cheery enough this early to be singing?

Determined to get to the bottom of things and stop the noise this early, he ventured out of his classroom and towards the voice, finding himself in the hallway dedicated to the art classes and chorus and other silly extracurriculars.

He was standing outside the art room before he realized that the voice must belong to the new teacher, and felt a bit silly for the delayed comprehension. He attributed it to the fact that it wasn’t even 7:30 in the morning and he was still in the process of waking up, a full 2 hours after his alarm had gone off.

The door was open, and he stood there for a moment, just staring in at the scene before him.

The first thing he noticed was that the room was in the process of being bedecked with flowers and greenery. There were potted plants, fresh flowers stuck in old paint-stained cups, and a lot of lights threaded between. The far wall was left completely blank, but other than that, not an inch of space was left undecorated.

The second thing he noticed was the redhead teetering precariously on the top step of a stepladder in an attempt to string a few lights above the old lockers that had been converted into an open sort of supply area filled with different kinds of paints, brushes, markers, pencils, and other art shit he didn’t care to examine further.

She was still singing to herself, though it was a bit strained with her efforts now, and the words were choppy with her concentration.

“If I do that will you stop with the singing?”

His crass intrusion startled her, and she gasped, dropping the lights and catching the edge of the lockers to steady herself.

“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” she said, once she’d caught her balance. She promptly abandoned the lights and clambered down the stepladder, coming to stand before him and holding her hand out with a bright smile. “Hi! I’m Natalie McAllister, the new teacher. Nice to meet you!”

He stared at her just long enough to make her hand hanging in the air awkward, then took it and shook once. He dropped it unceremoniously and moved around her.

“Yes, I gathered that much on my own.”

He climbed the stepladder and had much less trouble stringing the lights along the back of the lockers. He wasn’t sure how she wanted it but he really didn’t care to make it pretty at this point.

“I — oh, thank you.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, as he flicked the lights on and got down. “Just – no more singing.”

Her cheeks colored in embarrassment, but she never stopped smiling. She was way too perky and it was way too early for him to deal with her.

“Yeah, yeah, of course. Sorry, I didn’t think anyone would be here this early.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

He skirted around her to go back to his own classroom, but she stopped him.

“Wait! I didn’t catch your name.”

“...Lucifer.”

She laughed, and he turned to look at her, eyebrow raised. She covered her mouth with her hand.

“No, seriously?”

“I am serious. Lucifer Morgenstern. I teach a real subject across the hall and I’d appreciate if you kept the singing to a minimum.”

Even though he’d meant it to be offensive, it didn’t look like she had taken it that way. Instead, she looked vaguely amused and intrigued.

“Sorry, and what would a ‘real’ subject be?” she asked, complete with finger quotes and a cock of her hips.

He arched a dark brow at her.

“A real subject is chemistry. Biology. Physics. Math. Something students can use in their real lives and get them decent jobs. Not something useless like art, for example.”

At that, Natalie’s smiled widened conspiratorially.

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. A subject is never useless if it means something to even one person. You’d be surprised at how many people art touches, Mr. Morgenstern.”

He opened his mouth to retaliate, but it was at that moment that the first bell rung. He hadn’t even noticed that it had gotten so late.

“Time for class! Hopefully I’ll see you around,” she said pleasantly, and turned away from him to finish getting ready for the day. He was left with his mouth hanging open for several beats before he turned and walked back to his own classroom.

The next few weeks that followed were… interesting, to say the least. What Lucifer never expected from his encounter with the new, too-nice art teacher was her retaliation.

He found miniature printed artworks in every corner of his classroom. He recognized some of them, but for the most part all were completely different from one another. He shoved all of the small slips of paper into the bottom drawer of his desk.

He discovered some of the more harmless chemicals replaced with paint. The chemicals were never hard to find, usually just pushed behind their replacement, but it was exceedingly annoying, especially when he realized too late that the ionized water was now an identical bottle of clear glitter paint.

He arrived every Monday and Friday, without fail, to his whiteboard intricately decorated with dry erase marker recreations of Van Gogh and Monet and Picasso, and other pieces he assumed were original, and would spend at least 10 minutes of his morning cleaning it off.

And everytime he passed Miss McAllister in the hall, she would smile at him so innocently and wish him a good day.

It was infuriating. Even moreso, the fact that he couldn’t help but admire her efforts in whatever game she was playing. He was impressed by her, and he was irritated at himself for his own amusement at her antics.

One day, after a demonstration during which he discovered his worksheets with careful lab instructions were misplaced in favor of a stack of paint by number worksheets, he decided this needed to come to an end.

When the final bell rang, he waited until the last student had rushed out before crossing the hall to the art room.

He hadn’t been in there since his first encounter with her, but standing in the doorway now, he understood what the previously blank wall had been for. It was decorated with student artworks, filled from top to bottom with oil and watercolor and colored pencil assignments. Some were cringey, while others looked like they had potential.

Natalie was cleaning up, wiping off the tables and straightening up stations as she went. She looked up when he came in, and her greeting smile made him suspicious despite the fact that it seemed completely genuine. Her hair was coming out of the loose bun she’d thrown it up in, and when she reached up to tuck it behind her ear, he noticed a streak of paint on her cheek.

“Lucy! What brings you to this side of the hallway?” she asked brightly, and his eyes narrowed at her.

“I see you’ve been talking to Humphrey.” She giggled, leaving her rag on the table and instead pushing the stools beneath it.

“He’s just the funniest man. He’s been very welcoming, too.”

“Fantastic,” he said, and while Natalie didn’t miss the sarcastic edge to his tone, she didn’t let it bother her either. “Don’t call me that.”

“You got it, Lucy.”

He ground his teeth, but decided against arguing with her more about it. Besides, that wasn’t the bone he’d come to pick with her that day.

He opened up his hand and all the slips he’d found over the course of the month scattered all over the floor.

“What the hell are these?”

She kept a surprisingly convincing poker face, if it weren’t for the twinkle in her eyes.

“Looks like a collection of art. Why, Mr. Morgenstern, I would have never pegged you for the type.”

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Ms. McAllister.”

“Really? I figured my games to be fun and maybe a little silly. Dangerous was the last thing that occurred to me while filling up your fancy water with glitter paint.”

She wasn’t taking him seriously, he could tell. She was far too amused. For a moment, he wondered what it was about him that made this woman think he was so easily prankable.

“Two can play at this game, and if I were you, I’d drop it now.”

“Having a second player would make things way more interesting, don’t you think?”

He glared, seeing no point in talking to her further, and turned to walk out.

“Do let me know when you’ve found the rest of the prints!” she called out behind him, and he heard the laughter in her voice.

For a moment, he paused. What did she mean, the rest? He didn’t leave himself room to ponder though, immediately resuming his stride to gather his things and leave.

He smirked to himself. She hadn’t won. He’d get her back.

He found it incredibly limiting and annoying, to have to reduce his pranks to be innocuous enough for a public school setting, but he did so anyways.

While he was still walking in to art on his whiteboard and having to dig around for the correct chemicals and finding mini art prints falling out of every crevice (those of which he was beginning to wonder if she hadn’t hid all of them at once and he was just continuously finding their various hiding places), the frequency had lessened a bit since he’d confronted her.

But now it was his turn. He replaced their art smocks with cheap lab coats. He took all the jewelry and beads from the cabinets and replaced them with model kits. He covered up Natalie’s whiteboard, full of definitions like “perspective” and “chroma” with chemical formulas. He replaced every paintbrush he could get his hands on with the brushes they used to clean the flasks in lab.

They weren’t as grand as he wanted, but given his limited resources and the setting, they were satisfying enough.

He reveled in the sounds of confusion and dismay from the art students when he passed the classroom on the way to his own that morning, and when he met Natalie’s eyes, she gave him a conceding tilt of her head.

For the rest of the week, there was little response from her side. Her door had been shut all week and the Friday morning piece wasn’t on his whiteboard when he walked in that morning. On the tail end of his victory high, he accepted this as surrender, ignoring the little twinge of disappointment he felt at the absence of the bright colors he’d come to accept as the norm.

He’d won, and that was all that mattered.

On Monday morning, however, he was surprised to find Natalie waiting for him in his classroom, sitting on his desk and flipping through the stack of mini artworks he’d still been accumulating.

She looked up when he walked in, and smiled (he couldn’t possibly fathom how someone smiled as much as her, but he found himself grateful for it that rainy Monday — he was unwilling to admit how much he’d missed it).

“Good morning.”

“...Morning,” he said, with no small amount of suspicion.

“Oh, c’mon. I’m not here to prank you. You won, didn’t you? I just came to ask if you’d like to have lunch with me today. My room, my treat.” She sounded sincere, but he was still at a loss.

“Why?” She laughed at the question, tilting her head at him.

“Gosh, Lucy, who hurt you? I don’t know. As a truce or something. Can’t a girl just invite a guy to lunch without all the third degree?”

“No.” She rolled her eyes playfully at him, and leaned forward, elbows on her knees.

“Well?”

“...Fine.” Grinning again, she hopped off her desk.

“Great! I’ll see you then.”

She was out his room before he could respond, and he glanced over his shoulder as she disappeared into her own classroom in confusion. He shook it off, and walked around to the desk she had just been sitting on as the first bell rung.

It was time for class, anyways.

He did a decent job of keeping lunch off his mind, until, of course, the bell rung. He surprised himself with how much he was actually looking forward to it.

He followed his students out into the hallway, but continued straight ahead instead of to the left towards the lunch room. Her door was closed, which he found a bit weird, but he didn’t look into it further as he opened it himself and walked inside.

Immediately, he stopped. Her entire class was still there, staring at him. It took him a second to understand what he was looking at, until he noticed they were all in the lab coats he’d hung on the racks instead of their smocks. The only thing was that they weren’t white anymore — they were painted. Some of them had intricate patterns and swirls, some had big, looping letters, others had been tiedyed.

“Thank you for the new smocks, Mr. Morgenstern,” they chorused.

“And for the model kits!” one kid off to the side said, and when Lucifer looked, his eyes widened at the structures on the table behind him. They had definitely been made with the pieces in the kit, but they hardly looked like what had been pictured on the boxes. Instead, it looked vaguely like a recreation of some ancient Greek or Roman statue, from what he could tell.

Before he could examine it too closely, another kid was thanking him for the new cool brushes, and when he swiveled to look in their direction, he saw the back wall, previously covered with artwork of every imaginable medium, decorated solely in paintings that had clearly been done with wide brushes with stiff bristles.

“I — um…”

He heard Natalie’s too loud laugh, and she whispered something to the kids before ushering them all off to lunch. They hung up their coats on the way out, waving to Natalie before disappearing one by one out the door.

“I believe I promised you lunch?”

“What the hell was that?” he asked, finally having regained his voice. She smiled at him, and it was that same conspiratorial little grin she’d had when he’d first met her.

“That,” she said, “was a demonstration.”

“Of?”

“There’s art everywhere. In everything. You just have to see it, or rather, you have to be willing to see it. These kids have a purpose. They have something they love and that’s creating. What does it matter what they’re creating? Why do they have to use formulas to make what they do mean something?”

“I… That’s what this was all about?”

Natalie nodded, coming around to stand in front of him and looking up at him.

“Yeah. That’s what it was all about. Art is not useless if it means something to someone. Do you get it?”

He stared down at her, for a moment too long. If art was in everything, then he supposed he could see what she meant, when he was looking at the defiant light in her eyes, the arch of her brow. He could see the art in her.

“Yeah. I think I do.”

She grinned and his heart skipped a beat.

“Fantastic. Now, lunch?”

“I can’t believe you fooled me like that.”

“Can’t you?” she said, laughing. “You’re surprisingly easy to fool.” Before he could get another word in, she took his hand and pulled him over to the meal she’d ordered for them. “Truce? For real this time?” she asked, a smile teasing the corners of her lips.

“Yeah. Sure. Truce,” he said, and found it hard to keep the smile off his own face.

#natan #satan and me #thisiskindagross #star light star write #skype #i dont know what this is tbh #alternatively titled:#The Fine Narts #Chemister Morgenstern #Show Me Your Private Arts #A Paint In The Ass #thanks buttie

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Game 316: Caverns of Mordia (1980)

Caverns of Mordia

Australia

Lothlorien Farming (developer and publisher)

Date Started: 4 January 2019

Date Ended: 13 January 2019

Total Hours: 8

Difficulty: Moderate-Hard (3.5/5)

Final Rating: (to come later)

Ranking at Time of Posting: (to come later)

Caverns of Mordia is a recently-rediscovered entry in what we might call the “establishing age” of CRPGs–that brief period between 1975 and 1983 (even briefer, between 1978 and 1983, for the microcomputer), when developers repeatedly asked themselves how best to adapt the qualities of tabletop role-playing to the computer. By 1983, it was clear that the approaches taken by Ultima and Wizardry had answered the question to almost everyone’s satisfaction. But during that establishing age, we saw a lot of variance in approaches, most unsuccessful, and while RPGs may have improved in the following decade, rarely again do we see so much diversity. My summary of the early era has links to a number of titles with fun ideas that went nowhere. In the case of Mordia, its unique contribution is to map every potential action that a player might take–subject, verb, and object–into a single numeric command. Where most games might offer a command for “attack” and then let you specify that you want to target the orc, Mordia puts that all together as command 22: Attack the Orcs. It’s almost like the game was developed by a police officer, used to describing every potential action or situation in a 10-code. Some of the many commands include:

30: Eat Lymphas [a type of bread]

33: Draw the double-handed sword

40: Use the net to trap dragons

50: Climb up one level

63: Remove the gas mask

66: Put on the gas mask

89: Open the chest

90: Attack the balrog

One of three pages of game commands.

As I read and annotated the various commands, I couldn’t help but imagine all kinds of intriguing possibilities with this system. One problem is that all of the commands are manifestly useful in at least one room. It would have been fun if the author had sprinkled patently absurd commands throughout the list

32: Feed Lymphas to the orc

64: Put the gas mask on the dragon

I also imagined such a list extending to the complexity of a modern RPG:

10318: Stab the necromancer in the back, then run away and hide until he forgets about you, then enter sneak mode and stab him in the back again.

15906: Lead the deathclaw to the raider camp and watch the result from behind a nearby rock.

29055: Position the bodies of Ulfric Stormcloak and Galmar Stone-Fist in an obscene manner.

30117: Lasso and hog-tie the Skinner, heave him onto the back of your horse, ride 90 minutes to the swamps of Lemoyne, feed him to an alligator

Of course, such complexity is why the system was doomed to fail in the long run. You can’t have a unique command for drawing each weapon or attacking each monster unless you only have a few potential weapons and monsters. Still, it works for this game better than I thought it would when I first read the description.

At this moment, I can: (-1) descend the “dropoff”; (3-16) flee to any of the listed rooms; (20) use my Charm Ring on the demons; (21) try to take an emergency tunnel to Room 1 of this level; (22) attack the orc; (30) at some Lymphas Bread; (33) draw my double-handed sword in anticipation of attacking the dragon; (37) try to blind the monsters with an elven flare; (40) try to trap the dragon in a net; (44) attack the dragon; (55) try to make a passage upward with my magic wand; (70) go invisible by putting on the One Ring; (80) try to blast all the monsters with the Magic Staff.

Caverns of Mordia was written by Hans Coster, with assistance and manual artwork by Tony D’Assumpcao, and published in 1980 by Sydney-based Lothlorien Farming. It is the earliest known Australian CRPG, pre-dating the next known title (Citadel of Vras) by 9 years. It was marketed via direct magazine sales, and by the author’s account it did well domestically, but Lothlorien soon shifted to educational software rather than game software. Mordia languished in obscurity for decades–not appearing on any of the lists I used to compile my master list–until 2016, when Neville Ridley-Smith of OldComputerStuff.com happened to buy an original disk as part of a lot, then made contact with Dr. Coster, now a professor and department director at the University of Sydney (Neville’s account begins here). Neville’s efforts not only produced a meeting and interview with Dr. Coster, but also a new set of disk and manual images to distribute on the Internet. This disk has some upgrades that were not available in the original version, but it’s hard to tell exactly what’s new because the original versions floating around the Internet are bugged to the point of unplayability. I’ve annotated the things that I think are new, based on changes to the manual and command list. It’s worth nothing that even the “new” stuff isn’t 2016 material; rather, Coster programmed it in the few years after the original 1980 release but simply never released the second version.

The subtitle screen from the revised edition.

The backstory has you play an agent of the wizard Pallandoin. Your mission is to deliver an Orb of Power to Lady Elleda of Locklorien, whose land is besieged by the forces of the evil spirit Sharnoscet. (In case it’s not obvious, almost all proper names in the game are slight alterations of characters and places in the Tolkienverse. “Sharnoscet” is an anagram for “Hans Coster.”) To get to Locklorien, you have decided to travel through the Caverns of Mordia, full of horrid creatures and encounters, because it is the route the enemy will least suspect.

The game suffers from a few originality issues.

Character creation involves answering a few simple but unusual questions. After your name, you’re given the option to start at the surface with a basic kit or jump right into a lower level of the dungeon with a full set of equipment–in effect a shortcut for players who have already been through the opening a bunch of times. The normal exit to the game is on Level 25, but at the outset you can also specify that you’d like a second exit on Level 35, in case you fall down a pit or just want to amass a higher score before winning. I’m not sure that there are any drawbacks to saying “yes” to that question.

A few questions during character creation.

You begin at a dwarven market, where you don’t have enough gold to buy anything, but can later return. Your opening resources are a dagger, a dragon net, a magic staff, a wand, a lamp, the Orb of Power, 400 agility, and 400 strength. Strength serves as both literal strength and a health reserve.

The game begins in an empty room.

Upon entering the caves, gameplay proceeds something like a roguelike with a concept map instead of an actual map. The dungeon consists of at least 35 levels. The manual is unclear, but it’s possible that levels are generated indefinitely (I made it to Level 44 before I died). Each level can consist of up to 16 rooms, with the contents of the room and the connections between them randomly established every time you change levels. They can even be reconfigured while you’re still on a level if you encounter “tremors.”

A text simulation of an earthquake.

Room 1 on each level is a special room in which you can do a couple of useful things. First, you can (Command 0) use the Orb of Power to return to the dwarven market and buy a gas mask (500 gold), a magic two-handed sword (3000 gold) or extra Lymphas Bread. Second, you can (Command 27) exchange your accumulated experience for extra agility or strength. You don’t always want to exchange all of it, however, because your unspent experience is used in some of the formulas for hitting and damaging monsters.

Spending some of my hard-won experience.

Other rooms can contain all kinds of perils depending on the dungeon level, including:

Poisonous gas, which depletes your two characteristics unless you quickly put on a gas mask, and then the gas mask itself causes a 5% attribute loss per turn.

The game warns you about poisonous gas at the beginning, but you won’t be able to afford that gas mask for a while.

Drop-offs, including ones that you can see and hidden ones that dump you unceremoniously to the next level.

Gusts of wind that blow out the lamp and make it impossible to see what’s in the room until you make a movement for a turn and the lamp re-ignites.

Webs spun by the giant spider Araneida, which immobilize you for one or more turns.

Orcs. You can kill them in regular combat.

Dragons. You can also kill them in regular combat or try to trap them with a net first.

A dragon and an orc guard this room with a chest. Because I have a Dragon Occular, I can see the dragon’s health.

Trolls. They always appear to guard the Mithril Armor. I believe they’re new to the second edition.

Balrogs.

Giant vampire bats.

Demons, which can’t be killed through normal combat, only charmed.

Araneida, the giant spider.

Goblins, who can’t be attacked and simply steal one of your potential inventory items (the Dragon Occular) and flee.

Mithril armor is guarded by orcs, demons, vampire bats, and trolls.

The same rooms can also contain useful equipment and assets, including:

Gold. You can’t directly pick it up. Instead, every time you make a move, there’s a chance of grabbing a certain percentage of it.

Chests with gold, elven flares, or Lymphas Bread. Chests can be trapped with serpents that bite you.

The Charm Ring, which stuns demons.

Finding the Charm Ring is a key moment in early gameplay.

The Dragon Occular, which lets you see the relative strength of dragons

Mithril Armor. I believe it is new to the second edition.

The One Ring, which works pretty much as in the book. It renders you invisible while you wear it, but the “evil one” can sense its presence, and every turn you wear it carries an increasing chance of a debilitating spell. I also think this is new to the second edition.

Rooms with various assets and dangers are a staple of games in The Wizard’s Castle variety, but what keeps Caverns of Mordia unique is that any combination of these things can exist together in the same room. You might wander into a room with poison gas, an orc, 500 gold pieces, and 6 vampire bats, and then immediately have your torch blown out. You might descend into a room with an orc, and a dragon, have your Dragon Occular stolen by goblins, and then immediately fall through a hidden hole in the floor. You might be in the middle of a battle against four trolls for some Mithril Armor only to have a tremor reconfigure the dungeon level before you can defeat them.

A fairly simple room with demons, a few room connections, and a way up.

You have a surprising number of options for dealing with these threats, all with potential risks. You can run away to another room, or climb up or down if those passages are open, but running carries a risk of getting swatted by enemies as you leave. You can simply attack with your dagger, or spend an extra round pulling out your two-handed sword (after you’ve bought it), but the sword sucks your strength every turn and only improves your chances against some monsters. You can light an elven flare to blind monsters and improve your chances of hitting them. You can use the staff, which will obliterate orcs, demons, bats, and poison gas and create a tunnel down, but only if it doesn’t backfire and damage you instead. You can try to reach Room 1 in a hurry by taking one of Araneida’s tunnels, but it carries a risk that she’ll bite you on the way. You can point a wand at the ceiling and try to create an escape hole upward.

A more deadly room on Level 6 has an orc, a dragon, and demons.

In short, every room has a lot of tactical possibilities depending on who and what you find there, your current attributes, and what equipment you carry. Upon arrival in a room, you have to decide what takes priority, and whether it makes most sense to fight or flee. You get experience for every successful action, and it adds up fast. Your fortunes wax and wane with astounding swiftness. At times, I’d be down to a few thousand strength, reach Room 1 exhausted, and then find I had 600,000 accumulated experience points to pump into the attribute. Other times, I’d be wandering around confidently with over 100,000 in each attribute, fall through a few holes, meet a balrog, and get the “game over” screen.

Every nine moves, the game has you camp for the night–sometimes, this happens right in the middle of combat. (The manual hand-waves this by saying that you’re magically transported to a pocket dimension for the duration of your rest.) The sleep has a chance of adding 20% to each attribute, and it shows you a currently inventory and mission log when you awaken. You can call this report at any time with a numeric command.

The “cave report” is a simultaneous inventory screen, status report, and rest break.

Overall, the strategy is to build agility and strength slowly on lower levels by killing orcs and charming demons. Rooms get more complex and events more chaotic the further you descend. Once you start killing dragons, and particularly once you start killing balrogs, your experience can increase by hundreds of thousands per level, but your strength and agility can also decrease with equal rapidity, and after Level 15, I was constantly searching for Room 1, often risking Araneida’s tunnel to get there. Such gameplay provided an exciting, nerve-racking experience, mitigated only by the fact that you can save every time you find Room 1 and teleport back to the dwarven market.

Although mostly text-based (and without any sound at all), the game occasionally offers some ASCII animation of your character fleeing battles or descending dungeons.

Running from monsters sends a little ASCII guy scurrying across the screen.

The same guy transitions between levels.

If you die, the game gives you a summary of your character’s actions and an estimation of how close he was to winning the game.

This guy didn’t do so well.

Winning involves exiting the dungeon successfully on Level 25 or 35, which you do as soon as you wander into the room with the exit. You get a satisfying text narrative and a summary screen of your activities. It took me about six total hours and four characters to win. To do so, I did take advantage of occasional saving. Winning without saving, as in a roguelike, would be a hardcore way to do it.

The final text wraps things up nicely.

My final stats for my winning character.

I recorded about 10 minutes of video to include the opening, exploration, combat, and the ending. The character dies a couple of times, and the encounters leading to his death give you some idea of the “oh, #$@*” nature of gameplay, as you careen from room to room trying to get a break from the relentless onslaught of demons and dragons.

youtube

I don’t like to stress the GIMLET rating for early exploratory titles like this. I gave it a 20, scoring it best in “gameplay” (5) for a certain replayability and a difficulty and duration commensurate with its content. It doesn’t check all the RPG boxes, but that’s not quite as important as the spirit of innovation that the game represents. On the cusp of an era where 80% of their titles will receive their DNA from Ultima or Wizardry, it’s nice to see a few games that imagined computer role-playing in different ways.

source http://reposts.ciathyza.com/game-316-caverns-of-mordia-1980/

#retro games #dos games #retro #crpg #adventure #amiga #oldcomputers #8bit #16bit #blog #repost

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