in which Donna comforts her big alien softie who deserves all the love and healing ❤️‍🩹

For a writing prompt, can we get a what if Gary watches a classic horror/action movie with Little Cato? I adore the way you write their interactions;w;

this prompt? absolutely wonderful. dadspeed was made canon so I immediately had to do this one because ohhh my god this is perfect. and thank you!!!

After a long day of running errands and doing maintenance on the ship, Gary tosses his jacket at the chair in his room haphazardly. He quickly rips his shirt off, hissing at the slight pull on his fresh scars and the tightness in his muscles from pretty intense labor. He kicks off his boots as he undoes his belt, then he slips out of his jeans.

He really needs a shower, but screw it. It can wait until after he wakes up. Gary snatches his pair of pajama pants from the floor because this ship just cannot get warm and puts them on. Oh, the softness of the new pants makes him even sleepier than he was before. His bed sounds so nice right now.

Without hesitation, Gary sluggishly climbs up the ladder to his bed and promptly collapses, his head hitting the pillow with a content sigh. He’s going to be surprised if he wakes up at any time before ten.

The blond slides underneath the sheets and closes his eyes, ready for a much needed—

Quiet footsteps can be heard outside of Gary’s room. It sounds like someone shuffling nervously in front of his door, and Gary really does not want to deal with people right now. Can’t it wait until he’s not dead tired?

So, he ignores it. Tries to forget that it’s even there. His eyes close, the sound being ignored. Gary begins to drift off to sleep, nuzzling his head into his pillow and—

A knock. At the door. Gary’s eyes shoot open as he groans into his pillow. It was quiet though, so maybe whoever it is will go away? Maybe it was an accidental knock? A second knock, louder and more certain than the previous one. Well, crap. Now he can’t ignore it.

Gary sits up, ready to tell the person to go away so that he can sleep when the person at the door whispers, “Gary?”

Oh shit. The man flings himself off of his bed, his tiredness nearly forgotten if it isn’t for the way he sways as he tries to rush to the door. Gary shuffles over to it, slapping the button on the wall, opening the door.

“Hey, buddy. What’s up?” Gary asks with a rough yet inviting voice, looking down at Little Cato.

The kid’s fur is matted down in certain spots, his mohawk an absolute mess in the worst case of bedhead Gary has ever seen. The poor boy is swimming in a pink shirt that he had to borrow from Ash—and he really means swimming, Little Cato’s shorts cannot be seen underneath it—after his clothes got ruined earlier in the day, and Gary doesn’t know why it’s so big on him when Ash isn’t that much taller than the Ventrexian. But Gary has to admit that it’s absolutely adorable, making the kid look much younger than his fourteen years from both that and his tired, messy appearance.

Little Cato rings his hands together, refusing to lift his head from where he’s currently staring at Gary’s stomach. “I’m sorry, you were sleeping so I can just—”

“—go away and be sad by myself?” Gary finishes sarcastically. His kid winces at the callout.

Gary sighs as he kneels down in front of Little Cato. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Now tell Gary what’s going on, or I’m carrying you like a sack of potatoes to your bed.”

Gary uses his flesh hand to tilt the boy’s head upwards, finally allowing them to make eye contact. He looks upset, almost on the verge of tears as he nervously bites his bottom lip. Little Cato’s soft hands grab onto Gary’s fingers as he pulls them away from the boy’s chin, and he fiddles with them to avoid answering the question for a moment longer.

“Can’t sleep,” he admits quietly, like it’s some sort of curse that shouldn’t be heard.

Well, Gary might pass out from exhaustion at any moment, so this will be a very quick comfort session. Distraction and making the kid fall asleep it is.

Gary stands back up with a grunt. Geez, he isn’t even that old, shouldn’t this wait another decade? Well, now that he’s thinking about it, being a parent probably is not helping the stress on his still healing body.

“Go get every blanket and pillow you can, we’re making a fort in front of the TV. While you gather the supplies for what is going to be the best pillow fort in all of existence, I am making us hot chocolate. Sound good, Spidercat?” Gary says cheerfully, trying to lighten the mood.

The kid nods and runs off, so Gary heads to the kitchen. This is the moment where Gary is very thankful that he knows the random information of how to make hot chocolate from scratch because otherwise, this would be an absolute disaster. Since hot chocolate is an earth thing, and definitely is not on this ship. As the new father quickly puts together the mix into a kettle, he fondly listens to Little Cato’s bare feet running around the ship back and forth in his quest. And he can’t help but just be glad that the kid is finally approaching him without worry. Well, there’s still some hesitation, but it’ll be better soon.

He hopes.

Gary turns the stove off and fills their ridiculous matching mugs—with the ugliest drawing of a fish Gary has ever seen that just says “habpy to sea u” because yes, the misspelling and terrible fish made them lose it so much in the store that they almost got kicked out—they bought while stopping for supplies the other day. He tops it off with some whipped cream and sprinkles because damn it if he’s going to make comfort hot chocolate, he has to do it right!

He carefully brings the two mugs into the TV room and sets them down on the side table. Gary stands next to his son who is just staring down the blankets with intense focus, his fingers to his chin in thought.

“You didn’t want to at least start setting it up?” Gary asks.

Little Cato rubs the back of his neck, his ears shrinking down onto his head as he laughs nervously. “I, um–I’ve never…done this before?” he trails off uncertainly.

Gary gasps, grabbing at his chest in pain. “What?! Okay, no, I am so glad that I am a genius because I cannot allow my son to continue on without ever making a CASTLE out of pillows and blankets. Buddy, prepare to have your whole world rocked.”

Gary grabs as many chairs as he can carry and gives orders to the kid on where the chairs should go, how to lay out the blankets right, and the optimal pillow positions. After about fifteen minutes of intense pillow forting, their masterpiece is complete.

“There. How’s it look, bud?” Gary asks, surveying the absolutely massive fort before him.

“It looks sick! Can I jump in it?” Little Cato is bouncing up and down in anticipation to get inside.

Gary ruffles his hair and nods. He uses his newly discovered dad reflexes, as Little Cato likes to call them, to whip out his phone and hit record to catch a video of the kid running and jumping straight into the nest of pillows. Little Cato lands with a soft thud and rolls around in it, laughing the whole time. Gary smiles, and he laughs as Little Cato turns himself into a burrito using a blanket.

Gary turns off his phone and slips underneath the small entrance to the fort to join his kid, grabbing their hot chocolates on the way. Little Cato unravels himself to share the blanket, taking his now lukewarm hot chocolate to take a big chunk out of the whipped cream.

“It’s nice in here,” Little Cato says, shifting closer to his dad. “How have I never done this before?”

“I have no idea, but it’s a crime that has now been remedied.” Gary wraps his arm around his kid, bringing him even closer and wrapping the blanket around them both tightly. “Now, what movie do you wanna watch?”

He shrugs, licking at the whipped cream and trying to get every single sprinkle. “You can pick, but it’s gotta have action. A lot. Like explosions and guns and everything!”

Little Cato makes an explosion noise, throwing his arms out and accidentally hitting Gary in the face in the process. They both laugh, but Gary can’t possibly let the kid get away without revenge. So he puts the kid in a headlock and ruffles his hair intensely.

His boy shouts in protest, even though he’s snickering, and he starts wriggling to get out of the hold. “Dad, come on,” Little Cato laughs. “Stop it!”

“Am I ruining your mane, little man? Because it was already a mess, hate to tell you,” Gary teases, but he lets goes of him with one final noogie.

The little rascal doesn’t even try to fix his hair once Gary lets go of him, he just smiles up at Gary as he starts scrolling through the movies available.

“Gimme a joke. The dad ones that Nightfall hates,” Little Cato says.

“Okay, wanna hear a joke about construction?” Little Cato nods excitedly. “Well, I’m still working on it!” Gary delivers enthusiastically.

The kid immediately dissolves into a pile of giggles, hiding his face against Gary’s side which only means that the blond can feel how hard the kid is laughing. Gary smiles fondly as he continues to scroll, his kid failing to calm down next to him. Despite Little Cato saying his first dad joke was lame, the kid has asked him for one at least three times a day.

“Oh hell yeah, you ever seen Iron Man?” Gary asks as he stumbles across the title.

Little Cato is still laughing, but he tries to respond anyways, “Never heard of it.”

Oh, Gary is really gonna have to teach this kid about all the classics soon. He can’t stand to think of his son having lived fourteen years and not knowing about Marvel.

“Oh, you’re gonna love it. It’s a superhero movie with a ton of action, sound good to you?”

The boy nods, so Gary hits play.

The two of them get comfortable as the movie starts, and the moment that Tony’s car gets blown up, Little Cato gets hooked. He’s annoyed that they had to go and show backstory, but he waits patiently.

Until the scene where Tony hooks up with the reporter, and Gary definitely covers the kid’s eyes as Little Cato says, “Ewww.” It makes Gary laugh.

They keep watching, and Gary can see Little Cato begin to doze off during the boring beginning, but the moment it goes back to when Tony got hit with shrapnel, his kid is wide awake and ready to watch.

The poor boy loves Yinsen, and Gary can’t do anything except watch his heart get broken. But it’s okay in the end since he gets really excited when he sees the suit in action. So excited that he leans forward and away from Gary, sitting with his legs crossed, his chin resting on his hands.

The blond stretches out his back and lays down with a content sigh. At this point, he stops watching the movie that he’s seen a bunch of times and instead watches his boy, who he’s also seen a lot, but watching Little Cato is so much better than the movie. The movie never changes no matter how many times he watches it, but Little Cato? The kid is constantly changing and growing as he experiences more things, and Gary loves seeing how he grows every day. The star-struck look in his eyes as he sees Tony build the kickass first suit makes Gary’s heart clench.

So, warm and content, focused on his son’s entertaining commentary about the movie, Gary drifts off to sleep in a pillow fort.

—-

“Gary! He just saved all of these people, and he did the cool walk away from an explosion thing?! This movie is so awe—”

Little Cato turns around, only to cut himself off when he sees the man behind him, laying on his side and absolutely passed out asleep. He smiles, then grabs the remote to pause the movie. They can finish it tomorrow when Gary is awake.

Little Cato drinks the rest of Gary’s hot chocolate, which is not hot anymore, and puts their mugs to the side. He carefully lays down next to him to avoid waking him up, and the kid gently adjusts the blanket so it covers them both. Little Cato cuddles up to Gary ever so quietly, a smile on his face as he closes his eyes.

“Night, Dad,” he whispers. “Love you.”

With that, Little Cato joins his dad in much needed rest.

Body of Work

Body of Work Fandom: Code Lyoko Pairing: Ulumi Summary: AU in which there was no XANA and they’re all normal college students. Odd tricks Ulrich into helping out with an art project crisis that may or may not involve the girl Ulrich’s been pining after for a few weeks. AN: Part of my Spooky Snippets story dump. For more details please see this post.

He should have been expecting something wicked from his good buddy Odd Della Robbia.

The two had been thick as thieves after years together at a boarding school, where they started out as simply roommates and peers. Odd was an exuberant, charismatic type that oozed confidence and could work up a snappy comeback to any put-downs quick as a whip. He was known for his art and his music, which certainly helped with his pastime of being a heartbreaker as far too many had a soft spot for the artistic types, but also left a list a mile long of pranks that no student had yet been able to beat. Peering behind the curtain revealed him to be a terror as a roommates though; he was inconsiderate, nosy, messy and a pest. Ulrich was basically the opposite of Odd, what with his stand-offish nature and short fuse, which left the brunette grasping at what to do. Ulrich never seemed very interested in his peers – despite how terribly he would like to have some friends – and his situation with his teammates for soccer and his martial arts club seemed more professional, despite their age. The two were the antithesis of one another.

Part of being roommates, however, was getting adjusted and at least becoming civil with one another.

It started out with them working things out in a system of favor-swaps. In exchange for him staying hushed up about Odd’s dog - smuggled in against the school’s strict policies - he’d let Ulrich call in a favor at a later point. Ulrich had cashed that one in for Odd’s help getting Sissi Delmas, the principal’s daughter and Ulrich’s most adamant of suitors, to get off his back for a date. The trend continued that way through the first full term of the year and then things escalated right before winter break began. Ulrich had a particularly rough argument with his father and Odd had sat there and listened quietly while he spilled his guts about all the dirty details. Ulrich’s father was always hard on him, barking about how poor his grades were and how his athletic accomplishments were his only saving grace, and comparing him to his older sister, honor student socialite that she was. He expected Odd to laugh at his plight or tell he should just listen to his dad, but instead Odd simply empathized with him. “Well, my parents are kinda the opposite of that, so I can’t relate… But that’s gotta be real tough on you,” He had said with what was a hopefully helpful smile.

No one had ever told him that his feelings of frustration and anxiety were valid like that. He lessened up a bit on constantly barking at Odd for not cleaning up after himself – there were still issues with that, but he made an honest effort to not let it get to him as much as before – and he let Odd tag along with him around campus. It was strange, as Ulrich had never been sure what he expected making a friend to be like, but he was grateful that it seemed to be a gradual, comfortable process. It was through Odd he made a few other close friends that he could rely on in his more difficult times.

Odd was still his best friend, despite them both being college freshman and no longer being roommates, and he was glad. They tried to get together at least once a week at one another’s place for video games and pizza, so they could catch up and just hang out. It was during one such hang out session that Odd had asked, with a grin that screamed he knew more than he was letting on, “So, any girls catching your eye, now that we’re out of the pond and milling about a stream?”

He had choked on his soda, sputtering and looking at his blonde friend like he was daft. While his group of friends had grown a bit and he’d become a bit less grumpy, his stance and interest in dating had never wavered in his middle school and high school years. It wasn’t that he was picky or thought he was better than any of the girls that asked him out, but rather that he just never really felt any particular attraction there. The girls were all physically attractive, but they never had many common interests as him and his few relationships never lasted more than a week or two before things got boring and they would mutually agree to a break-up. It wasn’t like he expected his first girlfriend to be his one and only true love but he had at least wanted something that would be more durable than a seven-to-fourteen day shelf life. After his last relationship – his Sophomore year, with a genuinely sweet Junior that lasted just shy of two weeks – he simply stopped going out with anyone when they asked him.

There was a girl he was interested in now, though, despite their limited conversations and interaction. It was a whole new sensation that felt strange because he didn’t know much about her, but knew just enough to know she was way out of his league. He knew that if he asked her out she’d just turn him away so he stayed quiet. He could continue on with their strange little dance, assuring that he at least got to keep whatever it was they currently had until he could be completely content with it and then move on to maybe find someone he had a shot with. He admitted the whole sad situation to Odd with a defeated sigh, trying not to let the reality of if get him too dragged down.

Odd had smiled at him before clapping him on his shoulder. “Hey, you never know, buddy! Maybe fate will intervene and give you two a chance to really connect!” He beamed. Thankfully, he had dropped the conversation after sharing his nugget of optimism and let them fall back into their usual chatter about this or that. It had rubbed Ulrich as a little off, because normally Odd would take information like that and make it his goal to do fate a solid, but he figured that maybe college had mellowed him out a bit; made him realize that he didn’t need to go sticking his nose into everything, perhaps.

About a week later, Odd had asked if he could come in and serve as the model for his art class. He claimed that normally the professor handled getting the models they sketched in class, but that the person originally planned for the day had a family emergency that required them to go out of town for at least two weeks. If someone in the class could find a replacement, the lesson would commence as usual. And if not, then they’d simply take their terminology quiz a week early. And Ulrich agreed, smiling shyly at the huge grin and flurry of compliments Odd showered him with in return.

He follows Odd across campus that Wednesday evening, his friend toting an easel and his impractically large bag of art supplies, Ulrich’s own book bag slung over his shoulder, and listening to his friend’s excited chatter over having him sit in for the class. Wednesday’s were Ulrich’s long days, as he worked from six to noon in the campus café and had three classes between one and six respectively; each one running at about an hour and a half with a ten minute break between them for him to rush to the new classroom and grab a snack. “I think you’re gonna enjoy this, Ulrich! So long as you don’t mind sitting still for about two hours, that is,” Odd says, his grin so strong it could power a lighthouse for a full week.

“So long as you hold true to your promise of food afterwards, I’ll be fine. Energy drinks and granola bars aren’t exactly what I’d call a real meal,” He comments, opening the door and letting Odd walk in first. Most of the students have already arrived and are setting up their supplies, easels set up in a large, wide semi-circle around a slightly raised platform with a table on top pushed in front of the teacher’s podium. Odd scans the room before chuckling in excitement while Ulrich looks toward the front, where the instructor is chatting amicably with another student.

“Ah, perfect! My usual spot is open!” He hums before whistling and waving at someone on the other side of the room. Ulrich follows his gaze and feels himself become a flustered deer-in-headlights, recognizing the girl waving back at Odd immediately. Her name is Yumi Ishiyama and she just so happens to be the girl he has been unable to get out of his mind for the last couple of weeks. She was one of the few members of the Pencak Silat club at the campus and he’d met her through that. They’d talked a few times but mostly they trained together, being the most skilled in the group and being around the same level in skill and technique. She always pins him, though, despite her only coming up to his shoulders. She’s got more muscle than most young women in their age bracket, though, and she’s honed her skills well over the years she’s been practicing the form. Her dedicate and passion for the practice was admirable; especially when she admitted her parents had always thought it was weird and tried to coax her into a different hobby. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit that her constantly wiping the floor with him was part of the reason he liked her.

In hindsight, Ulrich should have acknowledged that calculating, mischievous glint in Odd’s eye when he had asked him to do this favor.

Yumi spots him a second after she starts waving and their eyes lock, her own face taking on a similar frantic look. Her hand is frozen mid-wave and the smile falls away completely. Odd grins and leans back, elbowing Ulrich lightly in the side. “Oh, did I forget to mention? She’s my art class pal!” He muses happily, keeping his voice surprisingly quiet.

Ulrich is suddenly thrust back into his proper mind and he wheels his gaze to glare down at Odd, his hands starting to come up. To do what, exactly, he isn’t sure. Maybe strangle the blonde weasel until he pops? That seems like a fair and likely option. “What the Hell were you thinking? Why didn’t you tell me she was in this class with you?” He sputters out through gritted teeth.

Odd holds up one hand at him. “Because you’re a big pansy that wouldn’t have said yes if I told you she was here. So instead I just decided to set you up with a great opportunity! You can talk to her after class!” He beams at him. Ulrich glares at him before shifting back to rest on his heels, planning to dart back out of the room and leave Odd with egg on his face. He’ll have to make up an excuse for later when – or, rather, if – Yumi asks him about his quick retreat at their next Pencak Silat session but he figures he can get that settled out later. Or he could always just stop going to those sessions all together to never have to deal with the embarrassment of having to try and sputter out a lie. Then again, he seems to have underestimated who he’s dealing with, as Odd then turns and eagerly calls, “Excuse me, Professor Salva! Our model for this evening is here!”

The professor – a middle-aged woman in a tie-dye moo-moo with her hair tied back in a frizzy bun – perks up and smiles warmly at Odd. “Ah, wonderful! Please, come over here, darling,” She says, gesturing Ulrich over with one hand. He glares back at Odd, who instead scampers off to his spot, holding his easel behind him like a wooden tortoise shell. Clever, Ulrich has to admit, since he probably would have taken the chance to give the other a less-than-chummy punch to the shoulder if he was exposed.

He heads over and goes through a brief introduction with Professor Salva before she has him set his bag down on the top of her desk and remove his jacket and shirt. Turns out they were working on figure and anatomy, specifically focusing on the body from the waist up. Despite being mortified at sitting in front of a class of his fellow college students shirtless, he figures it’s better than being tricked into being their nude model. She does a quick glance at her attendance sheet and then the classroom before smiling and nodding to herself once he’s finished folding his jacket and shirt up next to his backpack. She leads Ulrich by a gentle hand on his back around her desk and to the center of the class before clapping to get the students attention. He can see Yumi and Odd talking quietly as they set their supplies up but they pause to turn their attention to their instructor with the rest of their peers. “Class, allow me to introduce Ulrich Stern, our model for this evening,” She hums happily.

Polite applause follows her words but cuts to small snickers when Odd – because of course he would, the little shit – wolf-whistles at him. He gets the feeling that Odd is doing it to try and help make Ulrich feel less awkward about his situation, but his friend also knows how he typically responds to embarrassing predicaments, so he might just be playing himself a fun little game of Poke-the-Sleeping-Bear.

Needless to say, he’s cruising for a severe mauling.

She talks about a few other small announcements briefly before having him settle on the small center area, guiding him to sit while leaning back on his hands slightly, making sure he feels he’ll be comfortable for the entirety that he needs to be still. She readjusts him a bit, tilting his head up and to the side a bit so he’s staring at a painting that looks like someone threw pastel paints and glitter in a blender then poured it on a canvas. She explains something about muscle definition to the class but he tunes out and watches Odd and Yumi from his peripheral, his head angled so that he can still see them decently well without moving. They’ve started quietly talking again, too soft to be heard and discreet enough to not be a distraction to their peers. He’s pretty sure that in the whole time since he had looked away from her earlier Yumi hasn’t looked at him once; whether that’s good or bad, he can’t be certain. Odd rolls his eyes at something Yumi says and retorts with something quickly, flapping his hands this way and that as he’s prone to do when he talks.

He keeps his eyes on them most of the time, watching them talk and debating how he’ll handle the situation once everything is said and done. He figures the first step will be to get out without having to face Yumi. There’s no way he can keep it together after being sat in front of her, shirtless, for two hours, while she drew him. He’s barely keeping it together knowing the other students are as well, but the fact that she’s a part of it makes it somehow worse. Next he figures will be to get some form of payback on Odd. He could always tell Odd’s latest squeeze about the time he had drunkenly pissed in a bush that turned out to be poison ivy.

Or he could always start by racking up a huge bill when they get food after class, too.

He gets so lost in his musings that it takes Professor Salva lightly tapping his shoulder to snap him to attention when class ends. While the students start putting away their supplies he hurriedly yanks his shirt back on, tosses his bag over his shoulder, and makes a beeline for the door. He clutches his jacket in his hand, opting against spending time putting his jacket back on when he could spend that time making a speedy getaway.

He opens the door and is met by Patricia “Cia” Delorme, the latest notch in Odd’s bedpost. She comes from an old money family line and has the reserved, cold persona associated with a lot of rich kids. He still doesn’t understand how Odd managed to pique her interest but as he stares at her it dawns on him he really should have seen this set-up coming. Patricia had looks that most girls would have killed for – olive skin and thick brown curls and cloudy grey-blue eyes and an Honest-to-goodness beauty mark at the corner of her left eye for crying out loud – and almost always looked like she was posing already. Pair that with Odd’s tendency to brag when he hooked a catch that was considered impossible for him and it made more sense for her to be his classes’ subject than Ulrich. Odd would have loved showing her off to his peers.

She blinks a few times in surprise at him before letting out a vague sound of amusement, the corner of her lips twitching up like she wants to smile. “Ah, so he actually went through with it, did he? I have to admit, I’m a bit impressed,” She says evenly, though there is a note of mirth to her tone.

Ulrich glares. “You knew what he was planning? Why didn’t you say anything?” He hisses at her lowly.

She shrugs. “To be honest I thought he’d chicken out. Or that you’d see through him. Seems I gave him too little credit and you too much, though,” Her tone is matter-of-fact, eerily similar to the tone his mother uses when he tries to defend himself against his father’s berating, and it makes him flinch. She notices the gesture but her expression remains the same. “Regardless of that, I hope you had fun sitting in for Odd’s turn on rotation.”

“Rotation?” He asks.

“Yeah, that’s how the class works. Each student takes a turn bringing in a subject to model for the class. This week it was Odd’s turn. He told you that much, didn’t he?” Oh, that’s how his good buddy wants to play it.

He’s about to respond when Odd shoves his way past Ulrich into the hallway, throwing one arm over Patricia’s shoulders and tugging her away a bit. “Cia, baby! Did you really come here just to see me? You’re such a sweetheart!” He coos affectionately.

Patricia quirks an eyebrow at Odd. “You told me to meet you here after class to get dinner and a movie,” She says flatly.

Odd simply laughs and starts hurriedly leading her toward the nearby double doors. “Right, right! I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached!”

Ulrich growls and prepares to go after the two and call his friend out on his bull when he hears a quiet, “Excuse me,” from the doorway.

He stumbles away from the door and turns, blinking in surprise to see Yumi standing there, one hand up in a meek wave. He stares for a moment before clearing his throat and uttering a small, “Uh… S-Sorry.”

“For what?” She asks with a half-laugh.

“Standing in the doorway. You probably want to get home,” He says hurriedly, his gaze falling to his jacket in his hands. He never noticed what a nice shade of olive green it was before.

“Oh,” She says, “well, yeah, I guess class is over, huh? But I don’t actually have anywhere to be; don’t have very many friends and my brother already has plans tonight.”

“Hiroki, right?” He asks, recalling her mentioning her younger brother a few times before. They didn’t talk very much about their personal lives in their Pencak Silat sessions, but they had shared a few small stories. She told him about the time Hiroki once stole her diary and gave it to his crush on the school newspaper to try and get brownie points for getting her a juicy story. Ulrich had in turn told her about the time he hid a live frog in his sister’s ballet bag before she left for a recital.

He glances up and sees an impressed grin on her lips. “Huh, I didn’t think you’d remember something like that,” She says lightly. She then shifts, readjusting her supply bag in her shoulder. Hers is much smaller and simpler than Odd’s but it’s the same one she uses for their sparing sessions; a black drawstring bag with a few worn out patches stitched to the bottom.

“I remember a lot of things,” He says, his tone toeing the line between being casual and defensive despite himself. His gaze quickly turns to the ground – counting the scuff marks and splashes of mud on her combat boots – and he hears her chuckle slightly.

“Good to know. Anyway, have you eaten yet?” She asks. He looks up at her slowly and she readjusts her bag again, nodding her head toward the exit. He takes the implication and starts walking with her toward the doors.

“Nah. Originally Odd was going to buy me dinner, but clearly he bailed out. Probably knew I was going to be less than pleased about the whole situation,”

“Hm. He did run off pretty quick. Then again, he said he and his girlfriend had a small fight last night so that might have been part of it,” Yumi comments evenly. Ulrich says nothing about her explanation, despite knowing it was a lie. He and Odd had hung out for a few hours the night before and the other had been gushing about how good things were going between them. And pairing that up with Patricia actually coming to meet up with Odd like he had asked her to seemed to lead credence to his theory of his friend lying to Yumi.

“He tends to do that a lot. Guess I’m on my own for food then,” He shrugs. He glances at her from the corner of his eye to see she’s watching him. He forces himself not to blush from her attention. “Unless… I mean… Did you want to go get something to eat?”

She smiles up at him. “Sure, I’d like that,”

Sparks Against The Railing

*Jesus fucking Christ. I could feel everything and nothing at the same time and it drove me insane. Calloused and rough fingers slipped unseen over my skin, salty-slick with sweat and I fought back the need to cry out, to say something, anything. Fuck to even move just a little bit would be absolutely perfect.  If I could just get a little closer; move just a little bit, then I could maybe get what I needed.  I could feel breath on my neck; wet and hot and it pushed me just to the edge, drove me past insane and right back again; pretty, filthy words whispered with a smile that I could feel against the hollow of my neck.  That would be my undoing, it always was.  Everybody had their downfall, that one thing that could push them over the edge quicker than anything, and that was mine. I didn’t recognize the voice not exactly, and I couldn’t see anything but I knew the touch; it was familiar in a way that I couldn’t place. The words enough were almost enough to get me what I needed, whispered and harsh against my ear.  Almost.. Almost…  My gasp echoed in my ears, breathing labored as I sat bolt upright in my empty bed.  Fucking fuck. The sheets were soaked and twisted around my bare legs. My hair, which was usually a mess anyway, was plastered to my neck and cheeks despite the almost arctic air blowing from the vents above my head.  My chest heaved as I fought to catch my breath and my vision was blurry.  The bright red numbers on the clock were clear as fucking daylight, although right now that lied. Blackout curtains were a necessity when you had my job. 5:43 PM.  I’d been asleep for all of three fucking hours after an eighteen hour shift. I was still exhausted as fuck, to say nothing of all kinds of worked up.  On any other day, I would just take a few shots and go back to bed but between the state I was in and the fact that I actually had plans that required being a functioning goddamn adult, that was out. Falling back down on my pillows with a huff, I let my eyes close for just a moment longer as I attempted some kind of stupid breathing shit to calm down.  It didn’t work, it never did.  Yanking the useless sheet from my legs, I threw it aside as I headed towards the bathroom, tossing my t-shirt along the way.  My skin felt hot and sticky but there were sparks just barely jumping across it; memories of touches that weren’t real, my dreams taunting me even after I opened my eyes.  I didn’t bother with the light as my bare feet hit cool tile, it was pointless.  There was something freeing, in a weird fucking way, about showering in the dark.  As long as all your shit was in different shaped bottles, you were good to go.  Mine was; I had been doing this for a very long time. Wrenching the taps to get the water running, I pulled my hands out of the shower and quickly flipped through my phone as I attached it to the sound system.  It was quiet and, although I could handle a lot of things, quiet was not one of them, not at home anyway.  The second that frenzied guitars and pounding drums hit my ears, I let out a breath I wasn’t aware that I had been holding. Swiping my hand back under the water, a smile pulls at my lips.  It wasn’t hot, barely even warm, but it worked for me.  I ducked easily under the cool spray; squeaking as it pelted against my overheated skin.  It felt fucking glorious; not as good as those phantom fucking hands from my dream, but close enough. Then again… I let my own fingers follow the patterns of the drops that cascaded down my torso, giving in to the remnants of the dream disappearing and giving in to flashes of fantasy behind my closed eyes, ones that would never fucking happen, for all of the goddamn reasons. Still… inked knuckles and streaks of paint worked for the moment and it wasn’t long after my hand slipped between my legs that I cried out and my knees buckled, the wall supporting me as I slid to the floor, my eyes closed and head falling back against the cold tiles, still trembling.  Holy shit. The water from above was falling in increasingly colder rivulets and it took me a moment to completely come down so I could get myself cleaned up. It didn’t take long at all and I was stepping out of the shower, still in the dark, before the next song was over, clean and pinked from the increased  heat of the water after I’d finally stood again.  The scent of strawberries hung in the air and it brought a smile to my lips even as I flipped the light on, squinting my eyes at the almost painful brightness.  As much as I liked the dark, it just wasn’t conducive to many things, least of all primping and I would need a fucking lot of it. Just under an hour and I was ready to leave, with almost five minutes to spare. The gallery was just far enough to be out of walking distance and, to be honest, I couldn't be fucked to deal with traffic. Uber it was.  As I waited on my ride, I took an extra few moments to indulge my inner fourteen year old girl in the full length mirror in the hallway. My dark hair had been blow-dried almost straight and pulled back into a soft, messy ponytail, the ends of the loose strands brushing over the collar of my white blouse which was probably the WORST color for me to be wearing.  Somehow, and I had no fucking clue how, my makeup managed to stay put.  Smoky eyes and red lips were essentially my go to, and could get a bit cliched, but they worked for me so why fucking change? The black leather skirt was tight around my waist but not at all trashy, flaring to a modified a-line that ended just above the tattoo on my thigh and matched my knee high boots.  Appropriate attire for an art opening?  I had zero fucking clue, but I didn’t have the time or want to second guess myself as my phone chimed that my ride was here. Grabbing a jacket and a small purse, I headed out into the rapidly cooling night to the sleek black car at the curb and let myself get lost in my thoughts for the duration of the drive.  The invitation had come as a surprise, almost an afterthought it seemed. I couldn’t explain it, not exactly, but there was something off about Keith lately.  Not onstage, never, that was always fucking on, but as soon as those lights went down, there was a distance that was almost palpable.  The same could not be said for Jeremy. The man had the same kind of passion about his art that Keith did about his music, although he expressed it in a different way. It was easy to see why they worked so well, even for someone on the periphery like me.  It didn’t hurt a fucking bit that they were both abso-fucking-lutely beautiful; that shit was all kinds of unfair. Broken images from my showertime indulgence flashed through my mind as the car pulled to a stop and I shook my head gently to push them away as I tipped my driver and climbed out, heading up the granite steps towards the door, the warm golden light spilling from the windows. I was late, but only a bit. What I could only imagine was a veritable who’s who of the Seattle art world already milled about the vast space, speaking in low tones and sipping from delicate crystal flutes as they flitted from painting to painting. The crowd was eclectic, although that was exactly the opposite of a surprise, and I brushed away a piece of fuzz from my skirt before snagging a glass of champagne from a passing white coated waiter. I didn't see anyone I knew quite yet, but Keith would be here, as would the rest of the boys, and obviously Jeremy as well because it was his damn show. I couldn't help but smile as I thought of the blue haired artist and the frontman who had been decidedly hostile towards me of late. Then again, that wasn't exactly a surprise. I was a flirt, and always had been, thank you years of Catholic school, and I don't see fit to alter or censor myself, especially outside of work. It was harmless, really; I just enjoyed pretty people. Anyone in a relationship was decidedly off limits but I could see how Keith was more than a bit upset. Jeremy and I talked quite a bit, and we hit it off like gangbusters, but that was that. He was very much taken, and happy as fuck, so I was content to file that ridiculous smile away for future use. Along with his boyfriend's pretty fucking hands. Jesus Christ. As I fought away the thought, I caught sight of the owner of those hands, such as he was. Keith was in a suit which was kind of like living in bizarro world, but he pulled it off perfectly. He was standing with his back to me with a group of people I didn't know, laughing at something or other. I wanted to say hello but it really didn't seem like the time, especially with the increased coldness between us of late.  Shaking my head, I down my champagne in a single swallow, giving a smile to the passing waiter as I swapped the empty flute for a full one. That was NOT where my mind needed to be drifting right now. At fucking all. Glass in hand, I meandered over to the nearest painting and eyed it appreciatively. I had never doubted Jeremy's talent, I couldn't even consider it with the way Keith went on, but there was very little that could have prepared me for actually seeing it. Every word of praise was deserved. Each piece was different from the last, but still cohesive enough to form a collection.  The colors were almost palpable and I had to literally tighten my grip on my glass in order to keep my fingers off the canvas. I had very little intention of purchasing anything but that flew right the fuck out the window as I paused in front of a piece by the corner.  An idyllic scene in muted, hushed tones was the background and that, in itself was lovely,  but it was the spatter of bright red and the patches of black that slashed almost violently through the scene that caught me. It was painful, beautiful and almost grotesque in the most amazing of ways; this spoke to me in the same language that music did, a feat that had not been accomplished before this moment. I needed it. There were no ifs, ands or buts about it. Taking note of the title, I meandered over towards the petite girl at the entrance, who sported an impressive head of aqua hair and a disaffected expression that only came with youth, to find out what I needed to do in order to purchase the piece that had me so captivated. She was exceedingly helpful, although oddly begrudgingly so, and after taking my information, gave me a bored wave and turned her attention back to the door like some kind of technicolor anime sentry. Returning to the well dressed crowd, I let my gaze wander before catching sight of a familiar head across the gallery by the same piece that I had just left. Blue hair had been replaced with a vibrant red that would look ridiculous on anyone else, and I smiled as I sidled up beside Jeremy, my boots clicking on the floors.*  It's fucking obscene and hurts to look at. I love it. *“Obscene. I like it. Thank you, Tom. ” Jeremy’s earnest voice reached my ears, although it was almost muffled as I caught sight of his blinding smile that I couldn’t help but return. Aqua-haired anime greeter slipped by us and placed a small black ‘SOLD’ sign below the description, and Jeremy’s eyes widened in surprise. “Did you buy it?”  I was barely able to open my mouth to reply, however,  before a clearly angry guitarist nearly stalked in front of Jeremy and I, the anger radiating off him in waves. Fuck. I wasn't stupid, not in the slightest and had no doubt about what had set him off and I felt guilty for all of a single breath. I got his defensiveness, I really did, but I wasn't exactly the home wrecker that Keith had somehow decided that I was. My respect for Keith was paramount, both as a person and my boss and I knew him well enough to know, even in just the short time I had been playing with him, that a personal conflict, and there absolutely was one at this point, would never affect the band dynamics. At least I thought as much. Giving Jeremy a sad smile and letting my gaze follow the pissed off guitarist, I shake my head.  My gaze darts from the painting to the man that created it and I nodded as he ran a hand through already disheveled pillar box red hair. He looked pained, and the hint of a smile on his face didn't even begin to touch his eyes. There were some things you couldn't fake, not even for a crowd. “Yeah, I saw. I can try and talk to him if you want, I don’t mind.” The offer was genuine and I shifted my weight from foot to foot  as I refocused on Jeremy,  his art and the conversation we had been having before we had been interrupted.* Most people would take that as an insult,  you know, but it works for you. And yes, I absolutely did. It's just broken enough that it needs to be in my house. There is a certain gravity to it… it makes people uncomfortable and I like that. But it's beautiful at the same time. They all are, and in vastly different ways. I fucking love beautiful things, especially ones that aren't conventional. *The words were true, in every sense, and I could have elaborated on them but this was neither the time nor place for that. Aqua Girl had passed beside us again, hanging yet another small ‘sold’ sign beneath the painting to our right.* Well it looks like a good evening for you. You should be proud. *My attention was pulled, once again by Keith in my peripheral vision as he came back into the gallery proper, and I deposited my champagne glass on the tray of a passing waiter, giving Jeremy a small smile as I turned on my heel towards Keith. He looked a bit less ragey, no doubt thanks to the cigarette that I could still smell clinging to him. It made my fingers twitch for the lighter in my pocket and I managed to refrain, somehow as I stopped short beside him.* You doing okay? * I wasn’t exactly sure what I had anticipated Keith’s answer to be, but there was nothing in the world that could have prepared me for the look that was in his eyes when he lifted his head to meet my gaze.  Usually so full of fire and life, they seemed almost empty now, even under the bright lights of the gallery.  He looked so resigned, almost, as though he had seen something in the alley while smoking that had changed his entire life.  “Come back to our place.” The words were delivered with a measured, almost cool indifference, although there was a definite air of something behind them, that I couldn’t qute put my finger on.  Whatever it was though, it wasn’t exactly right. It was a statement, not a question and it threw me for a moment. I could feel my eyes widen but aside from that, I schooled my features into a practiced mask of disaffection. It was no small feat. A thousand thoughts flew through my head in the same moment, all bright and some bordering on violent, although not in the physical sense. That wasn't Keith's style, not ever. He may not have known it but he showed that every time he performed. It was electric and visceral, fucking beautiful. He purged himself of whatever demons were trapped in his head as he writhed and spit on the stage, eventually leaving them broken as he walked off.   No, someone with that kind of energy didn't get violent. But that didn't mean he couldn't get angry, and he did. Fuck, it was almost palpable between us in the moment. Flicking my gaze over to Jeremy, I found the flame - haired artist in conversation with a reporter. Jimmy Olsen looked all of twelve-fucking-years-old and I shook my head before returning to the conversation with Keith. I regarded him for a moment, simply taking him in as my fingers itched for another glass of champagne. He was angry, that was evident, but that resignation behind his eyes still confused me; an acceptance that settled over his stupidly pretty features even as his inked hands clenched and released into fists. He wasn't intimidating, not in a traditional sense, but there was a certain gravitas in the way that he carried himself; a confidence that was earned and well so. Plus… he was my fucking boss. So. My eyes lit on the tray of a passing waiter and I weighed the implications of one more drink.   Nope. Denied. No more alcohol tonight, not if I wanted a clear head for the goddamn showdown the was bound to happen later. Running my tongue over my dry lips, I could taste lipstick and made a mental note to reapply as soon as I could. Now, however, that was not a priority.* I can do that. I took an Uber here so I just need to know when you plan to leave.  *I was rewarded with a curt nod before Keith was off again, circling the room and returning to Jeremy’s side once the small crowd around them dispersed. I wasn't expecting much from Keith, the anger was practically rolling off him in waves. He wore it well though, and I blamed my subconscious for continuing to project fragments of my dream into my night. His  nod was curt and about as far from friendly as it could get and I decided to throw caution to the wind and grabbed another glass of champagne as he turned his attention back  towards Jeremy. I couldn't help watching them, I never had been able to. They were magnetic together, such a juxtaposition of light and dark that anyone who didn't stare was fucking blind. Or just stupid. The familiarity between them; the ease of movements and unspoken words were what truly captivated me. Yes, the were both fucking beautiful and dynamic as hell, but it was the subtleties that really drew me in. Unspoken volumes communicated in just a look; sonnets read with a touch… I wasn't stupid, or in denial, not in the slightest. I was jealous of that connection,  as much as it pained me to admit it. I was always honest, especially with myself. The rest, well… that was just a bonus.  I wished I could read lips as I watched them but eventually gave up, twirling my glass between my fingers as I made my way over to where the guys from Joyriding were standing. Yes, I was just a fill in member, but I had never felt like I didn't belong on the stage with them. In the music industry, having a woman in your band was a novelty; tits and ass were a gimmick to pull in word of mouth. I never felt like that, ever, even though I tended to play up my attributes. It didn't matter to Keith or the rest of Joyriding what was under my skirt and that was one of the fucking reasons that I loved playing with them. I pasted on a bright smile as I sidled up to the guys, making easy conversation.  Christa, Yvonne and Kristin had joined their respective other halves, and some would say better, halfs and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t happy to see them again. Although the discussion covered everything from art to the next stop on Kristin and Justin’s honeymoon, I was hard pressed to really contribute as my mind wandered. I took a moment to glance back over to Keith and Jeremy, just in time to see the red haired artist brush his fingers across the hem of Keith’s jacket. My mind was reeling with possible outcomes of this evening, most featuring incomparable amounts of yelling and some glass breaking, and I finally dropped my champagne glass on a passing tray, excusing myself politely to find a bottle of water. Or maybe twelve. Once I had my prize in hand, I slipped out the side door and fished my cigarettes from my purse, flicking open my beloved zippo and smiling at the hiss as the flame kissed the end of my cigarette. Pulling in a bracing lungfull of acrid smoke, I held it for a moment, relishing the burn before exhaling and watching it drift up, blue-white against the black sky.  “We’re going to head out if you want… if that’s still okay.”  I was pulled out of my slight reverie by Jeremy’s soft voice.  It was almost hesitant and I glanced up quickly.  Taking a last drag on my cigarette, I drop it to the concrete and catch it under the heel of my boot, grinding it out with little to no effort. My gaze was focused on first Keith and then Jeremy, as he spoke, pushing off the cool wall that I had been leaning against as I headed towards the car, gravel strewn across the small walkway crunching under my soles.  I had no idea what Keith had planned, although I assumed it would involve vast amounts of yelling, considering the amount of open hostility that swam behind his eyes. I only caught his gaze for a second, just moments after flashing Jeremy a smile as I climbed into the car. Keith looked… I don't know. I held his eyes in the rear view for an instant, trying in vain to search for some kind of answer in their stormy hazel depths, but failing miserably. I should have spoken up, said something but I couldn't.  Usually I was outspoken as fuck, cause I didn't give a goddamn what anyone thought, but this situation was as far from usual as it got.  Leaning back against the seat, I fastened my seat belt with a soft click and rested my hands in my lap; my nervous fingers picking out silent notes on my leather covered thighs. It was an old habit. One that calmed me more than anything, and I even found myself doing it when I was working although that was a bit less often; gloves made it a little more difficult. The engine purred to life and quiet, familiar music flowed through the air of the car as we pulled away from the gallery, the yellow lights in the windows twinkling against the dark night.* #SparksAgainstTheRailing #SurrenderTheNight