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galacticwildfire · 2 years

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Fire on Fire | Jon Snow

Prologue

Rhaenyra Targaryen was raised alongside her twin Daenerys across the narrow sea, until a twist of fate brought Rhaenyra to Westeros. Separated from her beloved twin she is taken as Ned Starks ward, isolated in a foreign land. It is there she finds comfort in Jon Snow, Winterfell's bastard, outcasted as she is.

The two grow inseparable, that bond growing into something dangerous as war grows nearer, a bond Ned grows fearful of, yet he can not dare to ever breathe the truth to either of them.

Warnings: Viserys. Mentions of slavers, sexual slavery, robert baratheon

Word count: 1k

Neither Daenerys nor I knew our parents. Our father had been stabbed in the back before our mother even gave birth to us. She had barely lived long enough to name us.

Rhaenyra and Daenerys, Princesses of Dragonstone. Stormborn.

I've certainly always felt as if I was. If I had known my mother I would say Daenerys takes after her, for I always felt an anger that could only have come from my father. Anger at him for leaving us with Viserys. Anger at every time Daenerys and I wondered which of us would be wed to him and the other wed to whichever warlord for an army.

We both feared our brother, how couldn't we with his rage? Except my sister would turn her head and keep her mouth closed in fear of invoking the dragon, it stewed in me to the point that I couldn't look at him without wishing him dead.

Some nights I would sneak inside his room with a dagger in hand, wanting to end it, wanting to end the fear. Except the only reason we weren't already dead was our name, and those who wanted him on the throne. The last male Targaryen. Neither Daenerys or I had claim to anything while he lived, as much as I dreamed of putting a knife to his throat.

But I would never get the chance.

For it must have been a slip of fate, or pure horrible luck, that brought me into the path of the slavers.

It was Viserys's rage that led him to strike Daenerys after a discussion of Targaryen history led to an argument, in which Daenerys and I said my namesake Rhaenyra was Viserys's true heir and not Daemon. He despised the fact we could ever believe a woman heir over a trueborn male Targaryen. He struck her believing her to be the weak sister, for her heart was kinder than my own, but made a sore mistake, for if it had been me he struck instead of her I would not have pulled a blade on him. And if he had not screamed for his guards perhaps I would have finally done it.

But no. I ran, I ran from Illyrio's palace and through the streets of Pentos, pursued by the unsullied who guarded us. And it was a twist of fate that led me to run into the path of slavers.

I was thrown beaten with a bag over my head into their boat and taken aboard their ship. A rarity like me they said would fetch a pretty price, except they quickly realised just who they had bruised and shackled below deck was priceless.

I thought I was as good as dead, or at least I certainly wished for death by the time we reached Kings Landing. The slavers were greeted like princes while I was paraded, bloodied and bruised through the city, the spoils of war. Led to the Red Keep by the shackle around my neck.

Despite the heckling, despite the fear, I refused to lower my eyes. I kept my chin high as I was brought into the Red Keep. The entire court watching, some in horror, others in awe as I was led towards the Iron Throne. A thing I only recognised from how my brother described it.

Yet it seemed underwhelming with the usurper on it.

The room was dead silent as the king ordered "Bow before your king."

I refused to move, looking him in the eye, knowing exactly who he saw when I stood there.

"Bow!" he raged as the Kingsguard beat me until I fell to my knees. I knew the court could not help but look on in horror at the kingsguard beating a fourteen year old girl on the orders of a king.

I looked up at the usurper, my voice strong. "I am Rhaenyra Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne. You are not my king."

It was then he stood from his throne and demanded. "Bring me my warhammer! Let me show the Targaryen girl how her brother fell on the Trident!"

"Go ahead," I challenged before the court. "Are you so afraid of a woman stealing your throne that you would strike her down!"

The silence echoed throughout the room and the king breathed dangerously "Do you brand me a coward?"

"I brand you a usurper," I said as I came to my feet, despite how my body shook. "A usurper and a murderer with the blood of children you feared staining your hands."

The blood of my niece and nephew on the hands of a coward.

The king cannot speak, although he looked so consumed which rage his head would burst into flames if only I spoke once more, and so I did.

"Kill me," I told him numbly. "Prove yourself a coward to the realm by murdering the last Targaryen on Westeros soil."

It's then a bald man came and whispered in the king's ear, although the king did not seem to like what he said for he marched from the throne room, hushed whispers echoing from the court as my eyes rested on the throne my family sat upon for hundreds of years until the kings guards took me away.

I'd waited in the cells below the keep for what felt like days before the bald man came to me.

"Princess," he said, bowing his head to me. "What brought you to Westeros."

"Slavers," I replied stiffly, in no mood to exchange small talk. "Tell me, am I to die?"

He shakes his head. "Not today. After much convincing the King has permitted you to be taken North to be the ward of Lord Eddark Stark."

A name I knew not, yet it relieved me. "Thank you."

"Do not thank me, princess," he says, opening the gate of the cell. "If you wish to survive you best learn to play the game."

I blinked at him in confusion. "What game."

"The only game that matters." He extended his hand to me. "The game of thrones."

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#jon snow #jon snow x oc #jon snow fanfic #jon snow x reader #jon snow fanfiction #game of thrones #daenerys targaryen fanfiction #daenerys targaryen #daenerys fanfiction #targaryen oc #oberyn martell #oberyn martell x oc #oberyn martell fanfiction #house of the dragon #targaryen #fanfiction #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones fanfic #yes this is incesty but idgaf

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captainsophiestark · 3 years

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The Right Moves

Sam Wilson x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Fandom: Marvel

Requested: Yes, by @lovelyavengers - hope you like it Tori!

Fictober Prompt #5: “I’m not saying I told you so...”

Summary: Y/N has had a thing for Sam since they joined the team. They get along great, with the same sense of humor and their ability to tag-team-tease Bucky. But when Bucky takes a shot back, their friendship might finally turn into something else.

Word Count: 1,138

Category: Fluff

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

"Let's go Bucky, get it into gear!" yelled Sam. I clapped and cheered next to him as we watched our two friends square off in the middle of the room.

Bucky, Sam, and I usually ran training sessions in the morning, but today, Steve had stopped in to join us. He and Bucky were doing our final round of sparring, while Sam and I heckled.

"Shut up!" Bucky yelled back at us. He only took his focus off Steve for a second, but it was enough for Steve to get a few solid hits in on him.

"Keep your guard up a little higher!" Sam called.

"Yeah, what Sam said! And watch that left foot, it's a tell!" I seconded. Bucky just ignored us both, but I could see Steve grinning. One of his favorite things about training with us was having two extra people to help mess with Bucky.

Despite our heckling, Bucky managed to stayed focused on Steve. As much as we liked to tease him, he was actually an incredibly competent fighter. Still, after a few minutes of back and forth, Steve managed to beat him and the two relaxed their fighting stances. They both headed over to the benches to grab water, and Sam and I followed.

"Dude, what the hell was that?" asked Sam. He and I came to a stop in front of Bucky, and Bucky just turned to us with a deadpan expression. "We said from the sidelines that you needed to keep your guard higher, and you didn't. I'm not saying I told you so..."

"I am. I'm saying I told you so," I broke in with a grin. Steve laughed, but Bucky just glared.

"You know, I probably would've been able to hold my own a little better if you two hadn't been distracting me for the entire fight."

"Okay, sure. Whatever you need to tell yourself," said Sam. I laughed, and he turned to me with a big smile. We high-fived, and even Bucky's scoff from beside us couldn't kill my mood.

"Alright, laugh it up you two..." he grumbled. I just grinned back at him.

"Thanks! We will."

"You know, it might stop—or at least let up a little—if you got on our level," teased Sam. "You know, skill-wise and in general."

"On your level, huh?" muttered Bucky. "Well for two self-proclaimed super agents you're pretty damn oblivious."

"Oh yeah?" I challenged. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means the two of you have been flirting like a bunch of idiots for months now," said Bucky, standing up straight and raising his voice to its normal volume. "And we're all sick and tired of watching you dance around each other, so if you could step it up a little, that would be great."

I was completely speechless, and based on the dead silence next to me, I figured Sam felt the same. Now it was Bucky's turn to look at us and chuckle before heading out of the room, Steve practically cackling and following after him.

My heart started beating out of my chest, especially once Sam and I were alone. I'd had a thing for him pretty much since I'd joined the team, but I'd never been able to bring myself to really do anything about it. And now, thanks to Bucky, Sam knew.

"You have a thing for me?" asked Sam, his voice finally breaking the silence. I turned to him slowly, not quite sure how to react. He stared at me, his gorgeous eyes making me want to melt into the training mats below us.

"Uh... it's just a stupid crush, I've been working on getting over it..." I mumbled. Damn Bucky. I found myself looking absolutely everywhere in the training room except at Sam, but that changed when his hand gently came to rest under my chin and turned my head to face him.

"I've had a thing for you for so long, I've started to go a little crazy," he said, his small laugh and smile making my heart explode.

"...Really?"

"Yeah, really! You're smart, funny, and easily the best looking person on this team. And you give Barnes shit with the best of 'em, which is a serious plus."

I laughed, and Sam's smile only widened. He moved his hand from my chin to wrap around my waist, the other one quickly following. I leaned into him, his smile mirrored on my own face.

"You know, you're a pretty good catch yourself," I said.

"Oh, I know."

We shared another laugh at that, and then Sam's eyes glanced down to my lips. I could literally feel my heart skip a beat.

"So... can I kiss you now, or do you want to wait until after our first date?"

"I've already waited plenty of time," I said, leaning up to close some of the distance between us. Sam grinned, then wasted no time coming the rest of the way. We kissed in the middle of the empty training room, and as soon as our lips met, all my other surroundings faded away.

Sam was the best kisser. I'd always thought he might be, but now this was absolute proof.

We stayed like that for a long time, and when we finally pulled apart, we were smiling at each other like idiots. And neither of us cared.

"Wow," I breathed. Sam nodded.

"Wow is right. We waited way too long to do that."

"I agree."

Sam leaned back in and gave me one last short kiss, then took my hand and started gently pulling me out of the training room.

"So, where am I taking you for our first date?" he asked.

"Maybe one of Bucky's favorite places? Since he's technically the reason we're finally going on a date in the first place?" We paused and looked at each other, then spoke at the same time: "Nah."

"We're not giving him that kind of credit," said Sam.

"Absolutely not," I agreed.

"I'm sure we'll figure something out. We have plenty of time to explore all the places this city has to offer."

"Damn right."

We shared a smile, then headed off into the compound hand in hand. First we'd find some lunch, then we'd find a place for our first date, and finally we'd go back to tormenting Bucky like we'd been trying to do in the first place.

I couldn't have asked for anything better.

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prettywordsyouleft · 3 years

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Addressing Feelings

Prompt: “I have no idea where to go next.” -- @challengingwords challenge #38

Pairing: Kim Kibum (Key) x female reader

Genre: fluff / enemies to lovers / fashion au

Warnings: none

Word count: 1196

“I have no idea where to go next,” you exhaled, and your employee Karla glanced at you, soon sharing a sympathetic smile and a nod of her head.

“Me too. Life is hard, but we’ve just got to carry on, Y/N.”

Staring at the younger girl, you soon realised what she meant, and an amused grin crossed your lips. Pointing to the stack of dresses you were marking down, you waited until she noticed what you meant.

Karla merely looked at you for further explanation.

“Thank you for sharing that bit of motivational talk, Karla. Life is hard, but I’m talking about the dresses here. I don’t know why they didn’t sell! I’ve already reduced their price, and now it’s getting dangerously close to the warehouse value. I know some things don’t sell as easily as others, but I had a really good feeling about them.”

Karla made an O with her mouth and then inspected her nails. She was a nice girl, and when it came to fashion, she knew her stuff. But she wasn’t so supportive outside of that. You realised as her boss and the owner of this boutique store, she wasn’t meant to be your sounding board for everything. You just needed to be more assertive to survive in this industry.

And you had done your best with your latest season trends. You had researched daily, keeping up with the hottest styles and accessories. You had sourced out styles that were selling well and ensured the prints you chose were wearable and more unique than the other stores in the local area.

Having a brick and mortar store had always been a dream for you when you first started selling clothes online from within your garage. Now only two years later, you had achieved that dream. The reality was far from the idyllic view you once held of running your own fashion store where everyone loved your vision.

Getting clientele to shop in-store than online was harder than you expected, too.

“That dress is being sold down the road,” Karla suddenly mentioned, and you stopped ruminating over your problem, your eyes narrowing on the spoken information.

“Down the road? At Unlock? Why are you only sharing this with me now? For how much?!”

“Boss, find your Zen. Key isn’t worth getting worked up over. He has a different vision than we do.”

“But he’s selling the same items as us again,” you grumbled, your heckles still up.

Kim Kibum, or Key as he was more commonly known within fashion circles, was your biggest competition in the area. At first, you had admired the man. He had a way with fashion that always left you confused, yet inspired. Everything, even the most questionable of outfits, seemed to work on him, and when he had first walked into your store and complimented your setup, you had been stoked.

Until after his proper examination of your entire vision and layout, he went and opened a store five doors down that had several key statement pieces of your current collection in his front window.

“That thieving man,” you muttered, remembering back to when the dresses came in. You had displayed them in the front window for the first week. You had basically given him the ammunition yourself.

Kibum wasn’t the only one selling the dress, though. You knew of a couple more boutiques nationwide stocking it also. The difference was you were both in the same place trying to make the same dress sell.

And it seemed he had managed that whilst you hadn’t.

“Karla, mind the shop for me, won’t you? I’ll be fifteen.”

“Zen, Y/N! Don’t argue today!”

“Inner peace will come after this, don’t worry!” you called over your shoulder before marching down the sidewalk and right into Unlock. Unlike in your store, where you chose music that suited the tone of your vision, Kibum’s was edgier and the music was louder. You used it to your advantage to slip in mostly unnoticed and moved right to the racks near a wall.

You found the dress and gasped at the price he had it at.

“Y/N, usually it’s always a pleasure to see you, but we agreed we wouldn’t snoop around in each other’s stores personally.”

You grunted at the man who appeared at your side and placed your hands firmly on your hips. “I see your stealth tactics are still ever so impeccable.”

The smirk that crossed Kibum’s lips wasn’t lost on you and was all the invitation you required to scowl at the man.

“Now, Y/N, are you trying to flatter me or insult me?”

“I wish you would play fair.”

“I am. This is my store. What you do in yours is completely your decision. And the same happens here.”

“You know I’m carrying this dress, and you made me look like the price I’ve had it at is unreasonable.”

“Your price mark-up isn’t my concern,” he explained and then gestured to his staff only door. “However, if you’d like to have a coffee with me-”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to make my boutique look-”

A handsome man approached you both then, and you noticed the immediate unease in your opponent. The stranger glanced between you both before chuckling. “Ah, so this is that Y/N you like, huh?”

“What?”

“I’m Choi Minho, Key’s friend.”

“Ex-friend now,” Kibum muttered, rolling his eyes and letting out a sigh.

“I’m sorry, you’re mistaken. This man has nothing but contempt for me and my business,” you clarified, and Minho frowned, looking at Kibum, who was visibly facing inner turmoil.

Feeling some decency towards him, you backed off. You might dislike the man, but you didn’t like seeing him suffer either.

However, Kibum reached out for your wrist. “There’s a reason for the dress.”

“Which is?”

“It got you in here, didn’t it? You’ve avoided me forever now. You’ve got me blocked on all social media and-”

“Are you serious? You’re going to tell me this was to get me in here so you could apologise for snooping on my boutique and taking my clients?”

Kibum, cringed, shaking his head. “No. Whatever you think I’ve done isn’t something I would do. Having a good business ethic matters to me too, no matter what you think of me.”

“Then?”

Kibum glanced at his friend, who subtlety gave him encouragement with a raised fist. Returning his focus to you, Kibum’s confidence was back together. “Coffee. I want to have some time with you. Not as a fashion store owner. But as the person you are.”

“I don’t drink coffee,” you blurted out immediately, mostly from the shock. Kibum’s expression didn’t falter, but his eyes grew guarded. Waving your hands around, you laughed sheepishly. “I like tea, though!”

“Tea,” he echoed, his lips curling up. “Tea, juice, heck, even water is fine by me. Just give me an hour of your time.”

“Deal. And about the dress?”

“I’ll pull it from the line and tell people where to find it if you really want me to,” he offered, which surprised you.

“You’d do that?”

Kibum grinned wickedly. “Sure, it’s online. Everyone can find it there.”

_________________

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feeling-uncomfy · 3 years

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I've decided I'm gonna start naming these because it just occurred to me that I don't usually, so-

Code Orange

In which the league work around one of their members sleeping issues.

Warnings:

- only slight injury is mentioned

Hope you enjoy! :D

There were things Kurogiri noticed, working with the league. It was in his nature to take care of people, so bad habits often caught his eye. For instance, Shigaraki's inability to eat a full three meals, or Spinner's energy drink addiction that Kurogiri was sure was going to catch up on his heart soon. Or Dabi's pure apathy towards everything to do with pain. There's also Twice, but he's a whole list on his own, unfortunately.

Slowly but surely, Kurogiri has made an impact on the group's health. Shigaraki now eats three full meals (only if Toga does too, but it's a win) and Spinner now drinks a bottle of water every day, and if pushed, two. Dabi hasn't been very cooperative, and try as Kurogiri and Compress might, he refuses to let anyone try help him. He just walks around half dead at this point. Kurogiri decides it's a battle for another day, as Toga pointed out another bad habit among his colleagues.

Sako Atsuhiro.

For some odd reason, Kurogiri has a hard time getting mad or finding flaw in him, but now that he's aware it's there, Kurogiri can't help but focus a little more on the man's lack of a sleeping pattern. Compress stays up with Kurogiri until he's done cleaning the bar, and more often than not will stay up after Kurogiri returns to his room. Though technically Kurogiri doesn't need sleep, it's nice to lay down to de-stress.

However, when Kurogiri bids Compress goodnight at one am every night, he also finds himself up after him. They enjoy the silence they have at six am, knowing they're about to be dragged on another life threatening adventure by twelve pm at the latest. Kurogiri had never thought to question the magician, but now he had to, with Twice and Toga on his case.

In fact, as Kurogiri looked up from the glass he was cleaning, it seemed they had roped Spinner into this too, judging from the conversation they were having. "I'm just saying, you're the last one alseep and first one awake," Spinner said, leaning back as he diverted his attention from the game he was playing to the conversation. "I'm like- ninety nine percent sure you shut down like a computer."

At that, Compress laughed, a lovely and rich sound that had Kurogiri paying more attention than he was before. "I wish it were that easy, but alas," Compress shuffled his cards as he spoke. "I can't do that." Twice leaned over, watching the cards move and Compress's mask as if looking for a change in its expression. "Then when do you sleep?! I don't care, deal me in." Kurogiri caught Toga's eye, and was surprised by the thoughtful look she had. After a second, she addressed Shigaraki, who was sat next to Spinner. "Tomura, how long does it take you to fall asleep?"

Shigaraki looked over, and with a scoff, he answered. "It wouldn't take half as long if I didn't hear someone pacing around at five o'clock in the morning." For a brief moment, Kurogiri saw Compress's shoulders stiffen. The movement was miniscule, but it was a confirmation. Toga noticed as well, apparently, because she leaned over to Compress. "What's wrong, Mr.? You look a little tense." Kurogiri knew as well as Toga did that Compress couldn't exactly talk his way out of this one, especially when he didn't have the time to come up with a lie.

With a forced laugh, Compress handed Twice his cards. "Oh nothing, just remembered something important is all." Toga rolled her eyes, but didn't push as Compress stood up and made his way past Kurogiri, towards the front door. "Where're you going at this hour Mr.?" Spinner didn't bother pausing his game as he glanced over. Compress didn't answer, just bowed slightly with another forced out laugh, a little dramatically, to Kurogiri, and left.

Toga and Kurogiri met eyes again as Shigaraki looked up at the door. With a grumbled "He better be back tomorrow." He stood up and went upstairs, no doubt to plan their next move. Toga sat up on the stool closest to Kurogiri, and played with the knife she had. Kurogiri didn't pay much attention until her question had him scrambling to not drop the glass he was holding. "So, you care for Mr, right? You gonna try seduce him to sleep or something?" Twice's dry wheeze mixed with Spinner's groan of second-hand embarrassment was lost to Kurogiri's loud yell.

"I'm not going to seduce Atsuhiro into sleeping! What do you take me for-?!" Kurogiri knew that if he felt warmth at all, he'd be a blushing mess. Toga giggled and leaned forward. "So you're not going to deny you care for him? That's adorable!" Spinner ended up dying, screen flashing as he spat his drink out, Twice falling into laughter to the side of him. Kurogiri spluttered, caught off guard from the question, because no, he wasn't going to deny it. But the thought of admitting that created a sick feeling Kurogiri was unused to in his gut.

"I care for all of you equally, that includes Atsuhiro." Kurogiri said instead, finding avoidance easier than defense. Toga nodded a little. "Nice save, mist man." Twice gave a thumbs up and the middle finger from the table. Kurogiri sighed a little as he nodded his thanks. "So, we're all in agreement?" Spinner finally recovered, and looked up. "Agreement on..?" Toga pointed at the cards. "That we're gonna make Mr. sleep like we helped you with your addiction to Monster, or Tomura and his food issues!" Spinner nodded, a faint "Ohhhh-" following from Twice. Kurogiri just nodded, having suffered enough embarrassment for one evening. Toga clapped her hands together, cheering. So that's how Kurogiri ended up getting roped into helping the league's resident magician into sleeping a full eight hours.

The task, however, was easier said than done.

Atsuhiro didn't end up returning until just before Kurogiri "woke up" for the day, and Kurogiri found him donning just his balaclava, scrubbing the already spotless countertop at half six in the morning. He seemed more tired than usual, movements sluggish and his reaction was delayed when Kurogiri entered the room. "Atsuhiro?" Kurogiri called, and got no answer the first time, so he walked up to the man. "Atsuhiro." Kurogiri was caught off guard by the full body flinch he received as an answer. "Yes-?" Compress looked up at Kurogiri, eyes drooped more so than last night, Kurogiri was sure.

"Are you alright? You look rather tired." Kurogiri wasn't sure why he spoke like he was addressing an angry Shigaraki, but it felt natural. Compress let out a soft laugh, though it sounded more like an exhale than anything else. "I'm well, I had a little run-in on the way back, nothing serious." Kurogiri didn't like how that sounded, nor did he like how Compress avoided his second comment. Compress made his way towards the bar, and Kurogiri spoke up again, keeping his voice low. "The other's are worried, you know."

Compress paused, but kept walking after a moment. "Worried about what exactly? Are they not aware I can take a punch?" Kurogiri barely suppressed an eye roll. "You know what I mean, Atsuhiro. They don't like watching friends suffer." Compress looked down at the drink he was pouring. "I'm not suffering," he started, only to have his coffee taken away from him. "Hey-" Kurogiri held up the cup. "Go a day without this, then we'll discuss how you're "not suffering". Alright?" Compress snorted dryly. "Very funny, can I have my drink back?"

Kurogiri didn't answer, walking back to the kitchen, Compress hot on his heels. "I mean it, go a day without a single drop of coffee, or anything made to keep people awake." Kurogiri poured the coffee down the sink, watching it with a sick sort of satisfaction. Compress glared up at the back of Kurogiri's head. "I'm not a child, Giri, don't treat me like one." Kurogiri turned to see Compress and crossed his arms. "Take care of yourself, as an adult would, Atsuhiro."

Compress sighed. "I do take care of myself," he snapped, and Kurogiri raised a brow. "And the one time I don't I'm getting heckled?" Kurogiri actually laughed at that, surprising Compress. "This "one time"? Atsuhiro, I've seen you mix Spinner's Monster into your coffee." Compress didn't have an argument to that, and spluttered for a few seconds before throwing his hands up. "That was only once!"

Kurogiri didn't hesitate. "It was not, I've seen you mix plenty of things together, you put salt in water one time to wake yourself up." Compress paused. "How did you-?" Kurogiri gestured to himself. "I see everything, Atsuhiro." Compress didn't know whether to laugh or ask what else he'd seen. "That's irrelevant, that doesn't mean I don't take care of myself." Compress argued, and Kurogiri caught himself before he snapped. "Atsuhiro, sleeping is included in the act of taking care of yourself." Compress shrugged. "And? It's not affecting my performance, is it?"

Kurogiri shook his head. "Maybe not, but that's not the point. You can't neglect yourself like this." Compress rubbed his eyes, trying to make it seem like he was more irritated than tired. Before he could speak, Twice walked in. For a second, Compress thought he was seeing things again, because Twice slept like a log, and it took forever to wake him up. "Jin? It's almost seven am, what are you-" Twice yawned loudly, obviously faking it, but Kurogiri was the only one who noticed. "I couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd come down here." Twice mumbles, putting on a sleepy voice. Compress was at his side before Kurogiri could blink. "Well it's too early for you to be awake, come on," Compress walked Twice upstairs and completely missed the thumbs up Kurogiri received from Twice.

Half an hour later, Twice came down again, and Spinner looked up from his cereal. "Did it work?" Kurogiri sighed in relief at Twice's enthusiastic nod and shake of his head. "It worked like a charm! He's sleeping like a dead man up there." Kurogiri relaxed as Spinner gave Twice a high-five. Toga sauntered down another hour later, and showed the group a photo she snapped of Compress to prove he was still asleep. It was adorable, according to Toga and Twice, Spinner thought it was unusually sweet, and Kurogiri had the photo saved on his phone, simply because it was nice.

Now unfortunately, once Compress woke up, he was pissed. He refused to speak to Twice for the rest of the day, and Spinner joined Twice in the silent treatment swiftly after he showed Compress the photo. However, Compress was well rested, and that was all Kurogiri cared for. "You don't look as tired, Atsuhiro." Kurogiri said offhandedly. Compress glared slightly. "Don't give me that now. I said I didn't need sleep." Kurogiri sighed, a little too fondly to be friendly, but he didn't care in that moment. He didn't feel the need to answer that.

The league's only issue was getting Compress to follow a sleeping pattern. Compress often avoided sitting on the couch for too long, or sitting in a car, he often shifted restlessly. Kurogiri had tried again and again to get Compress to agree with a normal sleep schedule, but he simply refused. Spinner so far had been the most successful forcing him to sleep, because the car rides with him were to often end up long and Compress fell victim to his tiredness.

Then one day, by some miracle, they made progress.

Kurogiri was cleaning the bar, the others out on a mission. Or, mostly everyone. Shigaraki got pissed at Compress for not sleeping, having also become invested over the last few weeks, and made him stay at home. Compress was on the couch, writing something down as Kurogiri worked. At first, Kurogiri wasn't aware of what Compress was doing. He looked over to check on him, having not heard anything from the man in a while, only to find him out cold, laying down. Kurogiri froze when he saw it. Compress willingly fell asleep on the couch. Kurogiri couldn't help the feeling of pride burst through at the sight of progress.

Oh so gently, Kurogiri brushed his hand over Compress's cheek, relishing in the warmth that seeped into him before disappearing. Compress stayed asleep, his only reaction being him burying his face further into the couch. The feeling of wanting to keep Compress asleep, hold him close and never let anyone near was almost vocalised, and Kurogiri found he didn't mind the feeling so much, and wrapped Compress up in a blanket. Leaving some water on the table in front of him, Kurogiri got back to work and let Compress sleep.

Soon, though, Kurogiri found they had a slight problem.

Compress was sleeping irregularly still, but now he conked out anywhere and everywhere. This wouldn't be an issue if it stayed exclusively in the base. Kurogiri had his own version of a heart attack when Big Sis Magne burst through the door, carrying an unconscious Compress. "The hell happened?!" Shigaraki demanded, dropping his controller. Toga walked over. "Who do I need to cut?" Magne shook her head, setting Compress down next to Twice, who moved to let Spinner check for injuries.

"I just found him out back," Magne explained. "I wasn't sure whether he was dead or asleep, so I brought him in." Kurogiri came back into the room, medical kit in hand. Spinner looked up from the couch. "There's no broken bones, or any new injuries." Magne sighed in relief, sinking onto the bar stool closest. "Just some scratches and bruises," Spinner continued, moving Compress so he could lay down. "They're kind of old, but still." Spinner said. Kurogiri frowned under the mist and came over. Spinner got to work, just as Dabi came down the stairs. "What's all the murder plotting about?" He asked, grabbing a beer from the bar.

"Someone hurt Mr. so we're planning revenge, wanna roast them with us?" Toga span the knife she held, a different one with patterns, Kurogiri noted. Dabi scoffed a little, but he didn't say no. "I got nothing better to do." Was all he said in response to Twice's stare. Kurogiri chose not to question Dabi, nodding to him in a small thanks, to which Dabi didn't respond. "We going or what? I could use an outlet." Twice jumped up to follow Toga out the door, Dabi following the pair after he'd finished downing the beer. "Be careful darlings!" Magne called as the door swung shut.

Spinner sat back, satisfied with his work. Kurogiri scooped Compress up wordlessly, and made his way to Compress's room. Kurogiri kicked the door open, stopping it before it hit the wall, and set Compress down on the bed in the far corner. Compress shifted, mumbling incoherently and rubbing his eyes. "Atsuhiro," Kurogiri muttered, and Compress looked up at him with half opened eyes. Compress hummed as Kurogiri brought the blankets up around him. Kurogiri heard Compress's half aware questions, and chose to not answer them and to make him comfortable.

"Kurogiri?" Compress tried again to get the bartenders attention, and only when he moved to sit up was he given said attention. "Atsuhiro, don't do that, lay back down." Kurogiri spoke quietly, and Compress huffed before complying, more tired than usual. Kurogiri finished his dotting and walked over to the door, moving to close it. He took one final look at Compress, who was already falling asleep. "Goodnight, Atsuhiro." Kurogiri didn't expect a response, and left before he could be proven wrong.

After that, the term "Code Orange" came to light. Whenever anyone stumbled upon a sleeping Compress, they'd message the league "Code Orange" and their location if they weren't in the base. It was the easiest solution to their dilemma. Kurogiri has often gotten pinged in the league's group chat he swears he regrets making, by Twice, Toga, or anyone who found Compress asleep. It's become a sort of competition, who can find Compress, and who can find him in the weirdest place. Kurogiri has gotten some weird photos the past few weeks, but it's worth it if Atsuhiro is sleeping.

Even their newest member, Hawks, has been informed of their shenanigans. Though he doesn't volunteer outright, he helps the nearest person find Compress for the fun of it. Though conversations of sleeping have been banned between the two by Dabi of all people, who once dragged Compress away from Hawks after burning him. When Kurogiri asked, Dabi explained what he'd walked in on.

Dabi simply wanted a beer, that was it. He didn't expect Hawks to be chatting up to Compress of all people, fake smiles and cracking jokes. Dabi didn't care until he heard Hawks. "So, from what I've gathered, you don't sleep a lot do you Mr.?" Compress scoffed, refusing to show the newer member a sliver of vulnerability. "Who did you hear that one from?" He said instead, closing to ignore Hawks's snickering. "Just everyone I've asked." Hawks answer smoothly. Compress sighed, putting his glass down. "Well I'm not in the mood to be lectured, so let's not." Compress said simply, and Dabi just knew that one made Hawks's feathers bristle.

"On the contrary, I think it's a good thing you get shit done instead of sleeping, Mr." Dabi stopped, refusing to give himself away just yet, but he was close. Compress didn't answer for a minute, caught off guard. "Yeah!" Hawks continued, uncaring of the lack of response. "If we remove the eight or more hours you spend sleeping, that makes up so much more room for productivity, right?" Compress nodded. "However, human bodies have their limits." Compress countered, remembering what Kurogiri had told him after one nap he took after not sleeping for a while. (Four days, but you didn't hear that from him)

Hawks shrugged. "Who cares about limits if you're making progress?" Compress tapped his fingers against the bar. While that was true, he'd hate to make the others worry more for him by going back to square one. "Mr.?" Compress snapped his head up, not realising he had spaced out. Hawks was standing, leaning over the bar, over Compress. He looked taller, or was that just the wings? "I asked if you wanted to pull an all-nighter with me to get some work done." Hawks repeated, and before Compress could even think about it, Dabi was there.

His hand met Hawks's wing and he was jumping away, yelling. Compress glanced between the two and made a mental note to stop spacing out as Dabi grabbed his arm and started moving. "Wait-" Compress started, only to have Dabi pull him over to Kurogiri. "Hawks isn't allowed talk about sleep with Mr. anymore." Kurogiri looked between the two. "Alright, why..?" Dabi pointed back at Hawks, who was still nursing his wing. "I have a point!" Compress shrugged when asked about what Hawks asked.

Compress took up on that offer, only because Hawks quite literally broke into his room.

A few weeks later, Hawks was at his agency, checking up on the league's chat and trying to handle an injury Tokoyami had received. He'd been knocked out of the air, landing with a solid crash into a car. As Hawks took the glass out, Toga called him. "Who's that, sir?" Tokoyami asked, leaning over. Hawks laughed, a little forced. "Just a random number." He hung up on Toga with a quick apology text. A few minutes later, there was a dim in the lights as the projector turned on. Tokoyami jumped up, arm half stitched, and Hawks sighed. "A heroes job is never done, huh?" The two looked up at the image projecting on the screen. "Is that—?" Tokoyami asked, and Hawks nodded.

Toga was on the screen, laughing as she went on about random things. "I hope you can see this," she said. Twice burst into the room, making Toga jump. "Oh! Jin, you have to say hi." She jumped up excitedly, only to be interrupted. "We've got a Code Orange, do you know where Dabi is? Cause Kurogiri is freaking out." Toga frowned. Hawks snorted loudly, recognising the term. Tokoyami looked over with a tilt of his head. "Nothing, it's nothing." Hawks waved his intern off.

"I haven't seen Dabi, but Spinner might've? And why's Kurogiri freaking out?" Toga stood up and started walking out the hallway, camera on Twice's back. "Just look! It's really stupid." Toga walked into the bar, and gasped. "That's adorable!" Kurogiri groaned from somewhere off camera. "Wonderful, what did I say about recording?" Toga didn't answer, and pointed the camera at the source of the problem. Tokoyami stared, utterly confused. Hawks barely suppressed a laugh.

Kurogiri was standing at an awkward angle, and Compress was sleeping against him, snoring quietly. Twice was wearing his hat as Toga snickered. "Kurogiri, scariest member of the league, also a pillow." Twice gestured as Compress would, making Toga fall into laughter. Kurogiri grumbled angrily, but didn't dare move. Hawks looked over at Tokoyami. "Guess we don't have to worry much, huh?" Tokoyami nodded after a second, sitting back down and letting Hawks continue to stitch his arm.

Kurogiri gave in, wrapping his arms around Compress as Twice and Toga snapped photos. Kurogiri gingerly picked Compress up, taking care not to disturb him. Other than an exhale, the magician stayed asleep. Kurogiri brought him to the couch, and before he could set him down, Compress's hands clasped at Kurogiri's waistcoat. "Come on, Atsuhiro." Kurogiri said quietly, trying again to put the man down. He didn't seem to want to, though. Kurogiri decided with a huff to just sit down and let himself be used as a pillow, just this once. Compress curled up, blissfully unaware of the embarrassment he was causing as he slept. Kurogiri indulged a little, holding the man close and leaning back.

Twice plopped next to them, deciding that it was nap time for him as well, and promptly fell asleep, head dropping onto Kurogiri's shoulder. "Twice?" Kurogiri was now effectively trapped, and Toga fell on his other side, so now there really was no getting out of this. Kurogiri sighed loudly, and ran a hand through Compress's hair. "You're going to be the death of me," he spoke softly, admiring how relaxed Compress was against his hand. "I think I'm alright with that, though." Compress didn't answer, nor did he hear anything Kurogiri had said, but he didn't need to. Not when eventually, everyone in the league was laying down napping, Kurogiri keeping watch. Kurogiri was just fine, as long as he got to hold those he called a family close.

[Listen, I'm in love with BlackMagic at the moment- it's just so soft-]

[I'm definitely gonna write a mini spin-off about Hawks and Compress staying up all night to do work- (and most likely get off topic-)]

[maybe even include Kurogiri finding their dumbasses-]

[Anyways- hope you enjoyed! Stay safe! :D]

#boku no hero academia #bnha league of villains #bnha mr compress #bnha kurogiri #bnha dabi #bnha toga #bnha twice #bnha shigaraki #bnha spinner #bnha hawks #tokoyami #blackmagic #some parts of this were vERY SELF INDULGENT-#totally worth it tho

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flightlessangelwings · 4 years

Text

Trust and Intuition

The Mandalorian x fem!Reader

Summary: On the search for answers about the child, the Mandalorian finds himself in front of the king of a distant planet. The king contracts him to find a rouge vigilante in the capital city as a favor before giving any answers. But Mando quickly learns there is more to this seemingly random vilgante than meets the eye, and there’s more going on than everyone let on.

Rating: PG for now

Chapter 1/?

The Mandalorian sat in the cockpit of his ship and sighed. His new mission was simple in theory, but daunting in reality: find where this child is from and return him home. He stared back at the baby as he found himself wondering where in the galaxy he should start. The child stared back at him and smiled widely. The pair stared at each other for a few moments before the Mandolorian spoke.

“We’ll figure this out, buddy,” he assured the baby, who giggled in response.

It was then that Mando remembered a planet that was renowned for its vast library and research.

“That’s as good a place as any to start,” he said to himself as he set a course for the planet Durane. The trip there was quiet and uneventful; everyone in this part of the galaxy seemed to keep to themselves, which was completely fine with the Mandalorian. He navigated his ship to a lot on the edge of the capital city.

The baby yawned as Mando gathered supplies to go out into the city. “I want you to stay here,” he told the child as he settled him into a cozy cot. The child didn’t protest as easily fell into a deep sleep. Mando gently stroked the baby’s cheek once before he turned to leave.

The capital city of Durane was bustling with life. Traders worked in the large market in the center of town, and there were libraries on every corner. The Mandalorian spent most of the morning asking around for any information on the child’s species, but with no luck. One scholar then suggested to go to the royal palace, where the most lucrative information is kept.

With no other options, the Mandalorian went to the large palace on the top of the hill and asked for an audience with the king. The palace guards and advisors scrambled: what does a mandalorian want with the king?

“Mandalorian, the king will see you now,” a guard called Mando’s attention just as he was about to give up and leave. He nodded without a word and followed the guard into the main audience chamber.

It was a lavish room filled with old weapons as decor on the walls and the best woven rugs on the floors. For how much it was decorated, the room itself was mostly bare. A few table lined the walls, and the large throne sat elevated in the center of the room. On that throne, sat the king, dressed in all black topped with a silk cape.

“I am King Jido Thalcard of Durane,” he spoke in an authoritative voice, “But you already knew that.”

Mando gave a small nod, but said nothing yet. He stood tall with his arms crossed in front of him.

“What brings a mandalorian all the way out here to my humble little planet?”

“I’m looking for answers,” he said.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific than that.”

Mando chose his words carefully as he wasn’t sure if this king was trustworthy yet, “I came across a creature that I’ve never seen before and I need to know more about it.”

The king scoffed, “A bounty that stumped this bounty hunter?! I’m intrigued,” he paused for a moment, “I’ll grant you access to the palace library, but I need you to do something for me first.”

The Mandalorian sighed quietly, of course it wouldn’t be this easy, “What do you need?”

“There’s a vigilante running around causing havoc in my city,” Kind Jido started.

“And you need me to take him out for you,” Mando guessed the end of his sentence.

“Yes and no,” the king rose for the first time, “I need him brought to me alive. You see, not only has he stolen from me and started riots in my streets,” he took a few steps towards the bounty hunter as he tapped his fingers together, “But he’s also kidnapped my queen. I need to know what he’s done with her,” his voice lowered to no more than a growl.

“Understood,” Mando said simply before he turned to leave.

You navigated your way through the busy plaza with your small embroidered duffle bag strapped tightly against your body. A hood covered your head, and you wore goggles to cover your eyes and a mask with a voice changer covered the lower half of your face. No one paid you any mind as you kept your head down and ducked around anyone you passed by. The only time you let your presence known was to help a woman that was being heckled by an unruly customer, and then went right back to your anonymity.

You came up to a stand and made a purchase quickly before you moved on, your purchase safely tucked in your bag. You took a few steps before you had a strange feeling, like you were being watched. As you looked over your shoulder, you noticed who was watching you: the mandalorian. A short gasp escaped your lips as you turned to run.

“Shit,” you cursed under your breath as you weasled your way out of the crowded part of the plaza. In the back of your mind, you knew it was only a matter of time before the king would send someone after you. He didn’t exactly approve of your presence in his city, especially since it made his citizens question his authority. You didn’t look behind you, but you knew he was still on your tail.

When you turned around a corner to a quiet alley, you almost ran directly into the mandalorian. Without a word, he reached out to grab your arm, but you slipped back before his hand closed on you. In one swift movement, you flung your bag into the shadows and pulled out two small staffs. You were determined not to go down without a fight, even if you knew what the outcome would be.

The mandalorian stood his ground and waited for you to make the first move. You exhaled before you lashed out at him with your batons. He ducked and countered with a knife. The alley was quiet save for the clangs of your weapons as you parried with the bounty hunter.

After studying your movements, Mando got the advantage and knocked you off your feet. He was actually impressed how well you fought and held your ground until this point. You feel to the ground with a grunt, and the bounty hunter kicked your weapons away from you.

As you hit the ground, your head collided with the hard floor and your goggles shattered. You strained to push yourself up to a sitting position, and with a sigh you pulled your goggles off of your face. Your head throbbed, but you got lucky that your mask hit the ground and not your head directly.

Mando watched as you took a few deep breaths before you raised your hands up in surrender. He took a pair of cuffs out and locked your arms behind your back before he dragged you to your feet.

“Wait,” your voice sounded normal, the voice modulator in your mask must have broken when you hit the ground. You cursed to yourself; that would make things harder when he got you back to the palace.

“I’m taking you in,” he said simply.

“Just wait,” you said breathlessly, tired from your spar. This made him stop in his tracks. “Just do me one favor. Please,” you pleaded.

The mandalorian just stared at you, unsure of what to say. It was definitely bold of his target to ask anything of him.

“Please,” you started, “This is important. Just take my bag to the ruins on the outside of the city,” desperation lined your voice.

He looked into your eyes and saw the genuine concern in them. He also heard the pain in your voice, which wasn’t the voice he was expecting to hear. His grip on your arm loosened slightly as something in his head told him to trust you.

“I can pay you,” you added in a last effort to get the bounty hunter to comply with your request.

That snapped him out of his thoughts.

“In my pocket here,” you nodded your head to your right. Mando stared at your for a moment, and as if you read his thoughts you added, “I know when I’ve been defeated. I’m not going to try anything.”

The bounty hunter tightened his grip on your arm as he reached for your pocket. Right at the top, he felt the credits you mentioned. He looked into your eyes again as he pulled them out before he led you back to the palace. Neither of you spoke again after that.

The large doors of the grand hall opened to let in the mandalorian and his catch. Your arms were still bound behind you and a strong hand held you tightly. You held yourself tall and wore a fierce look in your eyes, the only part of your face visible.

King Jido sat on his throne and watched the two of you walk in. A dark smile graced his face when he saw what the bounty hunter had brought him, “Excellent work, Mandalorian,” he spoke as he walked towards the center of the room to meet you.

Mando simply bowed his head slightly as he released his grip on you. Uninterested in what the king had to say, he turned to a steward behind him for his payment. You stared at the king with a fierce look, as if you tried to stab him with your gaze alone.

“Did he say anything, mandalorian?” Jido’s voice called his attention.

He turned slightly back towards the voice, “He didn’t say a word.”

Under your mask, a smile flashed across your face, but you were careful not to let it know in your eyes. In your eyes, all you let show was hate and rage directed at the king that now stood directly in front of you.

“Where have you taken her, scum?” his voice was but a growl as he grabbed you by your clothes.

With your voice modulator broken, you knew your voice would give your identity away. Instead, you chose to answer with action and headbutted the king, and hit him right in the nose. His body flew back as he lost his footing and his guards shouted and aimed their blasters at you. Mando didn’t move, however, and under his helmet he laughed to himself. There was something about the king he did not trust, even if he couldn’t figure out exactly why. He took the distraction as an opportunity to slip out of the room with his payment unnoticed.

King Jido raised his arms up, “Lower your weapons,” he ordered as he touched his hand to his face, now coated in blood. The guards did as they were told. He sauntered up to you and took your masked chin in his hands. He studied your eyes for a moment before he spoke, “No one looks at me with that much open rage,” his voice was low so that only you could hear him, “Maybe some time in the dungeon will calm you down.”

You understood the threat in his voice, and knew exactly what his words meant. You sighed as the guards hauled you out of the grand room. The only hope you had was that the mandalorian was a man of his word and would go where you asked him to. What lay there was more important to you than your life anyway. As long as that was safe, then you were at peace with your situation.

Notes: I hope you all enjoyed the start of my new story here! I actually wanted to get a little further in the plot with this chapter but it was getting long so I’m ending it here. I’m already working on chapter 2 though! The planet the the king are things I made up for the story.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x y/n #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x ofc #mando #mando x reader #din djarin #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction

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hadestownmodern · 4 years

Text

Wedding Toasts

Happy Saturday! Here’s some more soft wedding time for you!

Danielle

................ The small gathering is in full swing; the small, spur-of-the-moment band plays an improvisational, pop-heavy setlist comprised of a guitar, a fiddle, one small drum, and the voices of the crowd singing along to as many words as they can remember. There are plenty of “something something’s” and jazzed-up humming along that just fit within the realm of voices singing along while nursing glasses of whatever alcohol had been brought along and stored in the kitchen. The tables and chairs have been rearranged by their guests-tables pushed together in clumps, chairs circling the bonfires. Their favors-blankets that had been knit by Demeter (and some very clunkily knit by Eurydice, who had wanted so desperately to learn and to help) are thrown over the chairs or draped over shoulders as the night cools the winter air even further.

The tables are cluttered with clutches and plates of food, Hades’s hard work fully admired by this small, tight-knit group of chosen family. It’s the gathering of people that makes the night; bandmates, coworkers from the bar, a few favorite patrons. This is the family that had so easily accepted Eurydice, had made her truly find a home within the newness of a loving relationship and motherhood, of pouring drinks and swapping pictures of their babies. They’d watched Orpheus grow up within the walls of the bar, watched him parade around, singing and attempting to help Hermes by wiping tables clean and taking empty glasses one at a time back to the dish sink. They’d watched Orpheus, bean-pole of a child, take an adult-sized guitar in his lap and pluck the strings cautiously. They’d watched him compose improvisational songs about the regulars at the bar, the topics of his homework. They’d witnessed the first song he’d composed about Eurydice, when she was just a girl in a coffee shop with truth hiding behind her guarded eyes.

Now, they get to witness their boy, grown-up, marrying the girl he’d been writing about.

The band has stopped playing for a moment, taking sips of water and passing a bottle of whiskey around, when Persephone climbs clunkily up on top of a cluster of slightly wobbling tables. She places a wine bottle next to her feet, raises an empty glass and begins to hit a butter knife against it. The bell-toned sound rings for only a short while, followed by a heavy crack and glass hitting the wood of the table. Persephone doubles over, puts her hands on her knees as her body shakes with laughter. Through her closed eyes she can hear Eurydice’s laugh, identically carefree as she teasingly heckles Persephone to stand back up. She obliges, watching for the cracked bits of glass Hades sweeps from around her feet and replacing the glass that had been in her hand with a whole bottle of wine. She takes a swig, responding to the slight acidity of the deep red alcohol with an outward sigh.

“My first baby is getting married today. He’s still a baby-look at him, he still looks like he did when he was twelve and had his first real crush on a girl who sat in front of him in math class. We all told him to let things play out naturally. He wrote her a letter and she laughed. I could’ve fucking decked the girl right then and there, the stupid,” Hades puts a hand on her leg, his expression somewhere between a warning and a laugh, and Persephone takes another swig from her bottle before continuing.

“Orpheus has always had more love in his pinky than anyone has ever had in their entire body. I never thought anybody would really be worthy of him, I’ll be honest. But then I met you, and It’s almost like I hand-picked you.” Persephone looks at Eurydice, tears forming in her eyes. “When I met Eurydice in my class she fought tooth and nail with almost every student I had. She wasn’t a quitter. Every paper she wrote, every word she spoke, and I kind of wanted to be her friend. What I didn’t expect when I invited her to Thanksgiving was to have a baby and a marriage come out of it, but we have an agreement.”

She laughs, pulling a neatly wrapped square from inside of her dress, where it had clearly been shoved into her chest for this exact moment. She throws the condom at Eurydice, who catches it with one hand and sticks her tongue out at her now mother in-law with wrinkled, joyful eyes.

“Eurydice joining this family-making my son the happiest he’s ever been-loving my son in the way he’s deserved to be loved his entire life…I can never repay her.”

Persephone brings her knife to the bottle of wine she swigs from and the crowd joins, calling for the tender brush of Orpheus’s lips against Eurydice’s, their smiles bumping against each other and foreheads touching over the baby in Eurydice’s arms. Hades helps Persephone from the table, shaking his head. Before she can climb down, Persephone raises her bottle one last time.

“Look at this absolute milf,” she shouts, gesturing to Eurydice, who has Melody pressed against her, kissing her chubby cheeks. “For fucks sake, have you ever seen such a hot mom? A true milf. Accomplished, successful…damn.”

“The two of you were made for each other,” Hades isn’t one to make a speech without the transformative environment of a court room, so he says it as he passes by them with a smile of doubtless warmth, keeping a moon-eyed Persephone on his arm. “Even though you didn’t take my advice and wait a damn year to propose. I’m proud of you.”

Demeter moves to the front of the group next, a tiny woman still managing to catch their attention. She is youthful in her smile, even in the crow’s feet that appear next to her eyes from years of spreading her warmth through a dimpled grin. The last of the year’s freckles are faded across her cheeks, her long curls tied up in a large, intricate bun atop her head. Her dress is simple, with long bell-sleeves and a self-tailored figure that still falls loose from her thin frame. Her voice is soft, carrying with it a sense of serenity.

“These two souls were meant to come together. Nothing about this is hasty, or rushed-not when they have been waiting to find each other their whole lives on this earth. I felt the goodness of Eurydice’s heart the moment I met her. I’d known the purity of Orpheus’s limitless love and the light he’s brought to this life from his infancy. For me-I knew that in this life I was meant to love my daughter only. It’s the way my soul was meant to be-it’s what I was made to do. I was not meant for this kind of love, so overpowering and consuming. How beautiful it is to be present for the overwhelming amount of devotion and adoration between two entities in this physical space. How lucky we all are to be part of something so special, so absolutely meant to be. I feel endlessly gifted to be able to witness this love, and I wish Orpheus and Eurydice happiness for the rest of their lives.”

Hermes is last to tap his glass, much gentler than Persephone. He immediately commands the attention of the crowd, not having to do much work at all. Their eyes are trained on him and the strange sense of power he exudes; soft, wise, yet unintentionally demanding immediate undivided attention. The patriarch, dressed in a neatly pressed yet slightly odd suit, clears his throat before beginning. The field is silent save the slight rustling of movement within the crowd.

“My boy-I am so lucky to have you in my life-to call you my son-to have watched you grow in the way that you have. To take on fatherhood so simply, so readily, as if you were meant for it. To take on fatherhood as young as I did with you. I am so proud of who you have become. And Eurydice-the girl who ate all my fries and proved yourself the most valuable employee I’ve ever had…you showed up to love my son, to care for him. You have been a gift to all of us. Look at everything the two of you have done; two young ones falling in love…graduating college, working for everything you have, raising this baby with the endless amount of love between you. Look at how far you’ve come in just a year. These kids are an example of the way the world should be.” He raises his glass and the crowd cheers, watches as Hermes brings Orpheus into a tight hug, squeezing his son and rubbing his hair affectionately. The music begins again, a small cake brought to the newlyweds. Melody reaches out her chubby hands eagerly from her place in Eurydice’s arms, denting the cake and waving her hands as they’re covered in frosting. They laugh, the newlywed parents, and cover their baby in kisses. The long-forgotten cake lays in wait as Orpheus and Eurydice become lost in their own little family once more.

#hadestown #hadestownmodern #young orphydice #wedding #orpheus #eurydice #family dynamic #danielle writes

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thecleverdame · 5 years

Text

The Woodsman - Two

Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader

Masterlist

Summary: A/B/O Fairy Tale - You’re a sheltered, thirty-something princess on the run from your brother, the newly crowned ‘Mad King’ of France. When you’re waylaid by marauders and left for dead in the forest, a gruff woodsman nurses you back to health.

Warnings: A/B/O smut, knotting, language, violence, assault, non-con

Word Count: 32,000

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There’s a chill in the air as you being the trek into the village. Sam’s pace is nearly twice yours and you scramble to keep up with him. The sun is rising just above the rolling hills and you can discern the silhouette of structures in the distance.

In the light of day, you have the chance to examine him. There’s no denying he is handsome, with a strong jaw and features that are quite pleasant to look upon. With his good looks and board shoulders, you wonder how it is that an Alpha of his composition hasn’t claimed some young peasant girl. Surely there must be many young women that would be willing to overlook his gruff disposition for a woodsman who’s able to provide a house and home, and is literate to boot!

“Try to keep up.” He glances down at you, pursing his lips.

His plan was to ride into town, making the trip quick and easy, but your injuries and aching hips couldn’t handle it. He had you on the back of his horse before you had to tap his shoulder with tears in your eyes.

“Where are we going?” You inquire, scampering up beside him.

“To the village, to speak with Martha. If there’s any news she’ll know about.”

“Thank you for the cloak,” you smile, pulling the material tight while you trot to keep up, already short of breath. “It’s warm, even if it is a bit dusty and rather old.”

“It belonged to my mother, it hasn’t been worn in years.” He quips, looking forward with steely intention.

“I imagine she’s upgraded to an attire that is a bit less threadbare.” You laugh.

“She’s dead.” His breath puffs hot into the cold air.

“Oh.” Oh no, not again. “ I’m sorry, I did not mean to sound ungrateful.”

“It’s been nearly ten years.” He shrugs.

“Samuel, may I asked you something?” You just can’t help yourself.

“If I say no, will you refrain?

“Most likely not,” you nearly trip over a root but sidestep just in time. “Why is that a man, an Alpha, of your age hasn’t taken a mate?”

Sam slows down, starting to turn toward you, but thinks better of it and picks up his pace. “I’ve yet to find a woman I enjoy the company of for more than a night. If we’re asking such personal questions, don’t you think you’re a little old to be a princess?”

“Well,” you gasp indignantly, “There is no age limitation on my title.”

“I thought princesses were supposed to be young and nubile.” His words are playful but there’s an underlying poke to your pride.

“I am not that old, and while I may not be a blushing young maiden there’s certainly never been a shortage of men eager to be at my side.”

“I can only imagine the virile quality of gentlemen that a woman such as yourself attracts. The fanciest squires in all the land.” He’s making fun, but you’re determined to show him a thick skin.

“I’ll have you know I was married, for many years, to a very fine man.” You confess.

Sam turns to you, his eyes darting to your neck as they narrow. “If you were married, how is that you’re unclaimed?”

“He was a Beta, but we had many wonderful years of-”

“A Beta?” Sam laughs, big and wide, with amusement the likes of which you’ve never seen before. “An Omega married to a Beta! I’ve never heard of such a thing...no wonder you’re so uptight.”

“I beg your pardon,” you blush at his implication, but keep your chin high. “I am not uptight.”

“You’re wound tighter than a nun on her wedding night.” He’s still amused but you’re done with the conversation.

“I think I’ll walk a little behind you and enjoy the silence for the rest of our journey.” Slowing down you fall behind, staring daggers into the back of his head.

“I would love that.” Sam just raises a hand to wave you off, “just be sure to stay within sight.”

Before your walk to town, you impressed upon Sam the importance of keeping your ordeal between yourselves. When he asked why you surreptitiously changed the subject to his dairy cow and her value if brought to market. While you’re not entirely convinced he won’t broach the subject again later, you trust that he’ll honor your request.

He leads the way along the busy path, winding through sparse cottages that pepper the roadside, and the buildings become closer and closer together as you approach the beating heart of the small town. The village center bustles with life, men hauling their wares and mothers dragging stubborn children. It’s the sort of scene that you know to be a normal part of life for most people, but you’re suddenly overcome with a sense of dread. It’s an itch in the back of your brain that you’re not able to scratch, and the lack of relief only exacerbates the feeling.

Up until this point in your life you’ve lived a cushioned existence. It’s not just having servants that tended to every need, but the comfort of ultimate security. When inside the castle you were assigned a single knight by the name of Godfrey who stood outside your chambers while you slept and escorted you to parties. When you ventured out into the city you found yourself flanked by any number of bodyguards who provided the illusion of independence, but they were ready to step in at a moments notice should any man, woman or child come too close or speak too loud. Even when you fled France you felt, perhaps falsely, a sense of security while accompanied by Peter and Luther, men who you naively believed would protect you at their own peril.

Now you’re really out in the world for the first time, with no security detail to ensure your sanctuary. Sam, this grump of a giant, is your only lifeline, and you can’t be sure of his allegiance. You can’t be sure of anything anymore. If the men you paid to bring you to Scotland turned on you after such a generous sum, what’s to keep this man from doing the same?

“Is there something wrong?” Sam asks his hand briefly on your arm, pulling you from your thoughts. He’s not known you long but you’re clearly fixated on some distressing thought, frozen in the middle of the busy thoroughfare.

“I am fine.” You blink, looking at him with a blank stare.

A man tumbles out of the tavern, whooping and hollering with a jug of mead sloshing in his hand. It would be comical if you weren’t so on edge.

“What do we have here?” The drunk hones in on you, stepping forward and listing to one side as if he were on the deck of a ship keeling on the open seas. He sniffs the air obscenely, his mouth hanging open as his head tilts from side to side. “I can smell your cunt from here. Delicious little bitch, aren’t you.”

Heat rises from your belly to your cheeks, fanning a flame of embarrassment and utter shock. No man in all your years had ever said anything so vulgar or disgusting. He steps even closer, and you back up in turn. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

He bobs his head when you call him sir, smelling the air again. “I bet you’d taste like-”

“Enough,” Sam intervenes. You feel him behind you, one hand on your lower back and the other at your hip, guiding you away from him. “You’re drunk Aldis. Stop heckling women and go home to your wife.”

“Sam,” his face lights up when he recognizes your escort, a smile pulling from ear to ear. You’re immediately forgotten as he careens forward, slapping Sam on the shoulder and chuckling. “Are you taller than the last time I saw you?”

“Only if you squint,” Sam laughs, lighthearted and sweet. If you hadn’t seen it yourself you never would have imagined such a happy expression would sit so well on his features.“Have you seen Martha?”

“Not today,” he shrugs. His eyes dart from Sam to you, and a grimace forms on his mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know she was yours. I would never have...”

“It’s alright,” Sam nods, disregarding the implications of this man’s statement. “Get yourself home.”

Taking you by the arm, Sam pulls you down the adjacent road. You scuttle beside him before wrenching yourself from his grasp. “That man was…” you sputter, searching for an accurate word to encompass how offended you are, “indecent!”

“That man is a fool who forgets his own name after enough libation.”

“He could have...what if he had tried to…” You’re not entirely sure what’s upset you this much. Yes, he was offensive, his words lewd and crude. But you find yourself shaken, truly upended by the fact that he felt so entitled to speak to you in such a way, and by Sam’s indifference to it. Your ears go hot, chest tight with a tidal wave of swelling emotion.

Don’t you dare cry.

Sam tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he examines your expression, your eyes are watery and cheeks red with distress. Perhaps this reaction is genuine, and not the production he assumed it to be.

His face softens and he steps close to you, looking down as you look up. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Swallowing, you close your eyes for a moment. Maybe Sam will turn on you, just as everyone else has, but perhaps he means what he says, it certainly seems like he does. His eyes are fixed on yours, his surprisingly pleasing eyes, that don’t shift away from you no matter how long you hold his stare. Taking a breath you smooth your skirt and lift your chin, “I was not scared, just taken off guard.”

“My mistake.” Sam nods.

Martha is a bright, bubbly whirlwind of a woman who is near as round as she is tall. When she opens the door she giggles in delight as Sam stoops down to embrace her, fussing over him like a proud mother, cupping his face in her hands and placing a kiss at his cheek.

“Come in, come in,” she beams stepping aside, welcoming the two of you into her home. “Are you hungry? Of course you are! I’ll come up with something.”

“Don’t go to the trouble,” Sam catches her by the arm. It’s interesting to watch him interact on this level, he’s almost docile in her presence. “We’re fine.”

“Let me at least warm some water,” she taps him on the chest.

“Please, just sit.” He insists, motioning for you both to take a seat at her small table.

For the first time her eyes flicker to you, looking you from top to bottom. “The last I saw you, Dean had you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I wouldn't even recognize you as the same person.” She pats your hand and turns to Sam. “You brought her back to life.”

“I did what I could.” He shrugs, clearly uncomfortable at being the center of discussion.

“She’s beautiful too.” Martha winks at you.

“She knows it.” He comments, deadpan, and you glare.

“I’m very grateful.” You let his comment slide. “Samuel has been incredibly kind to me.”

“Oh, I bet he has, a woman like you...” She chatters and Sam clears his throat.

“We came to find out if you’ve heard any news of the bandits, or anything else of interest.” He inquires.

“Nary a peep about anyone involved in the attack. I suspect the bastards are long gone by now. But she’s the talk of the village, this one. Your brother had a few too many drinks and told anyone who would listen about the Omega he found in the forest.”

“Excuse me,” you feel ill. “Are you implying that everyone is aware of...that I’m…”

“She’s worried about her reputation,” Sam interjects.

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with it sweetheart. Alpha and Omega is the most natural pairing in the world.”

“Oh my goodness,” You wring your hands together, you may just wilt to the floor. “Why would people just assume something so...so... lurid?”

“Well,” Martha just stares at you as if you’re a strange creature of some sort, unable to understand your apprehension. She leans toward Sam, whistling before she adds “she’s a bit of a prude isn’t she?”

“You’ve no idea,” Sam responds.

You’d like to kill them both.

“Look here, both of you,” you start, “I do not think that it’s prudish to be concerned about the commonly held opinion of one’s character. I happen to believe that the reputation of a woman is a reflection of her moral and social standing. I have no intention of being talked about as if I’m a common trollop.”

You’re so mad you could spit. How could anyone be so settled with the idea of you, an unclaimed, presumably unmarried, Omega, taking up with an Alpha you hardly know. You can just imagine Aldis, the town drunk, picturing you in heat and begging for Sam’s - No, you won’t even dignify the idea. All this is enough to make your blood boil.

“Calm down, Princess.” Sam retorts, “Your face is turning red.”

“Princess?” Martha looks up, her eyes widening. Damn him, you told him to watch his tongue.

“She likes it when I call her that.” Sam doesn’t skip a beat at his slip up, staring you dead on.

Several different waves of realization fall over Martha’s face, understanding his insinuation before you do. Lifting her eyebrows she smirks. “Pet names already, then?”

“No-” Your attempt to control the situation slips completely

“You should hear what she calls me.”

“Oh my!” Martha chuckles, clasping her hands together in delight.

---

You’re tucked into bed, sleeping soundly when a terrifying howl pierces the night. Bolting up out of a dead sleep you clutch the blanket, listening in the dark. There’s a high pitched squeal from the direction of the barn and then all the animals wake up, a cacophony of screams rising from the shadows.

“Samuel?” you call out.

“They’re in the barn,” He answers from below. You hear rustling as you look down from the loft.

“What’s in the barn?” You descend the ladder as he pulls a shirt over his head, the strong muscles of his back flexing in the dim light of the hearth.

“The wolves,” he glances at you clad in a thin nightgown, his gaze lingering just a breath too long before reaching for his ax.

“Wolves.” You repeat, eyes the size of saucers. You’ve been lucky throughout your travels not to have dealt with such terrifying creatures, but the very notion of the beasts scares you half to death. Your father told you tales as a girl of wolves that sharpened their teeth before hunting, primal violent creatures that could turn one to stone with a stare and could hypnotize young, vulnerable women before devouring them whole. While you know these stories are not grounded in reality, there is still a sickening fear in your throat at the mention of such a monster.

Suddenly that fear is shifted to Sam as he pulls his boots on, tossing hair out of his face. The mere notion of some gory, fanged fate sours the terror into something all too real. This isn’t a cautionary tale, this is raw and dangerous.

You step toward him, intending to tell him to be careful, to guard himself the best he can. You mean to offer your services if needed, not that you have any real skills, but you’d head out into the black beside him if he told you it would help. But instead, your mouth opens and closes without any sound escaping.

Sam stalks toward the door, turning to you as an afterthought. Your face is ashen, mouth agape as if you’re trying to force out muted words. Flexing the ax, he starts toward you but thinks better of it. “Stay here, shut the door behind me.”

“Samuel” you start, unreasonably breathless, hands shaking as they reach forward.

“I’ll return.” He nods. “It’s alright.”

Scampering to the door, you shut it with a resounding thud, pushing your whole body, back first, against the wood. You hold your breath, listening intently but only hearing your own heart thumping at a stallion’s pace in your chest.

There’s a horrid squawking. You’re not certain, but if you had to venture a guess you’d say it’s the chickens. It’s followed by a snarl and then a distinctly human yelp. Sam. It’s his voice howling in pain, then deafening silence.

Your body springs into action without a second thought, grabbing a lantern from the table and moving to the fire to light it. As soon as the flame sparks to life your feet are moving, racing into the night.

You turn back to secure the door. By the time you turn back around the first of them emerges out of the shadows, its body hunkered low to the ground. You want to run, want to sprint back inside but your limbs are frozen, lantern held out in front of you like a statuesque tribute to some bygone explorer. The wolf takes a step forward, its paw silent as it moves with such stealth that it would be beautiful if it weren’t so deadly. The animal’s lips pull back, muzzle opening to reveal yellowing teeth far larger than any domestic dog you’ve ever seen.

Then, like a waking nightmare, two more wolves appear, seemingly out of thin air, each flanking the first. In the half-light they could easily be dogs, but dogs don't move the way wolves do, in choreographed motions, as if controlled by one brain. You suppose they are, in a way, controlled by their alpha, as if reading his mind before making the next move. This stakeout must be the closest a non-human gets to playing chess, each movement thought out carefully in anticipation of what the other will do.

Of all the scenarios that you’ve imagined, dying by wolf attack in Scotland was never how you pictured it, yet you find yourself moments away from certain death. You want to close your eyes, but you find they’re just as immobile as the rest of you, watching in sheer horror as the three predators surround you with bone-chilling precision.

You take a deep breath, preparing for the inevitable attack, but instead, two hands curl around your waist as your feet leave the earth. Sam snatches you off the ground and the wolves growl as the door to the cottage slams shut and he drops you like a bail of hay. You land on your rear, barking in pain when your tailbone hits the dirt.

“What the hell are you doing?” He shouts. “Do you not have a lick of sense?”

“I was just, just” the tears come fast, and this time there’s no stopping them.

“You just what?” Sam doesn’t ease up. His nostrils flare as he stoops down, grasping your jaw in his hand, forcing you to look at him. There’s blood dripping from his arm onto your nightgown, thick red drops soaking through to skin. “Are you determined to get us both killed? What were you doing out there?”

Sputtering like an idiot you heave, wiping at your cheeks before yanking your jaw from his grasp. “I heard you call out, I thought you’d been hurt and I...I was trying…”

“To save me?” He finishes your statement, his voice softening, as does his face. He lets out an exasperated laugh, shaking his head. “You came to save me from a pack of wolves in a nightdress armed with nothing but a lantern?”

“I didn’t stop to think, I am sorry.” You look to him, expecting a further reprimand but he just stares at you.

Sam’s not sure if he wants to slap some sense into you or take you in his arms and hold you tight. What a ridiculous woman you are, nothing but careless action and unrestrained impulses. For a fleeting moment you seem to calm down, but then your small shoulders start shaking, your whole body trembling as fat tears start falling from your eyes. “I thought they were going to tear me apart.” The confession only makes you cry harder.

“Don’t be upset,” Sam places a hand at your shoulder, patting stiffly. “Come on now, we’re both going to live.”

Once you manage to compose yourself he lets you dress his wound. It’s clear you’ve no idea what you’re doing but want desperately to be useful. The wolf he killed in the chicken coup bit him deep before he was able to put it down. He walks you through the steps, explaining how to clean the wound, then apply a clean bandage. You wrap the cloth around his arm loosely, he’ll have to do it himself once you go back to sleep, but he doesn’t correct you. Instead, he allows you to apply possibly the worst dressing he’s ever seen.

“Is that acceptable?” You ask politely.

Sam stifles a smirk, clearing his throat. “Perfect.”

“Good,” you smile, touching his fingers lightly before sitting back in your chair and running both hands down your face. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared before. I feel exhausted.”

“You were overtaken by thieves in the woods, you lived through worse than a few stray dogs.” Sam’s mind wanders as a tendril of hair curls around your face. Questionable temperament aside, he can’t deny you’re beautiful, almost bewitching in the dying light of the fire. You’re a rare creature. An Omega, especially one that looks like you, belongs in a castle. Life tucked you away into the appropriate corner of the world. Had you grown up among the plebs an Alpha would have claimed you, by marriage or force, at a young age. Perhaps he’s been too hard on you, you’re not meant for this world.

“Thieves are men, wolves are something else altogether.” You puff. His hand is on the table, outstretched where you were tending to him. Absentmindedly, you take his hand between both of your own, the way your mother did for you when you were ill. Sam’s breath hitches as you turn it over, your two small hands cradling his larger one, thumbs running up the center of his palm. “Have you ever heard the story of the Beast of Gévaudan?”

“No, I haven’t.” He gulps when your fingers rub into his skin, massaging pressure points that seem to make every inch him relax.

“There is a region in the south of France, Gévaudan, where it’s been killing for years. Some say it’s a wolf, others a man. Once in a while, you speak to someone who thinks it’s both, a supernatural being with deadly desire.” You press down hard with both thumbs, apply pressure as his finger curl around your slender wrists. “My father would tell me stories of the beast coming to devour young women and children. He took a personal interest, sending experts to investigate. They all had wild theories, but one thing was for sure, La Bete existed, it was no myth. I think there is nothing more terrifying than the idea of the beast being a simple wolf, a blood-hungry animal that had a taste for killing and craved more. I would lay awake at night imagining two orange eyes glowing in the dark, waiting for me to round a corner…”

What are you doing? You’re stroking his hands like some kind of harlot,. If only Martha could see you now. Have you lost your mind? You pull away as if he’s burned you.

“Is something wrong?” He asks, awaking from a daze.

“I’m babbling, and very tired. We should both try to sleep, the sun will be up soon.”

Two Weeks Later

The two of you walk in silence through the village. The avenue is lined with baskets containing apples and loaves of bread. Across the way, the butcher displays his bloody lumps of meat, naked chickens hanging from rafters.

Sam’s been in what can only be described as a ghastly mood since last night. It seems, despite your best efforts, nothing you do is satisfactory. You offered to clean the cooking pots only to have him scrub them himself as soon as you were done. Then, after a rather involved argument about your inability to pick up after yourself, you managed to ruin one of his shirts, staining it with the juice of the red berries he’d told you not to touch. It’s not that you’re specifically trying to antagonize him, but there’s something about the way he orders you around that makes you want to usurp him like a petulant child.

A young boy approaches. He runs up and stops short of colliding with Sam’s legs. “There’s someone looking for you!” He exclaims, out of breath and tugging on hand.

“Who’s looking for me, Michael ?” Sam inquires, mussing the child’s hair with his fingers.

“He’s a knight, a real one, Sam!” He babbles with delight.

Your heart drops out the bottom of your stomach.

“Why would a knight be asking about me?” Sam’s eyes slide to the side, landing on you.

“I don’t know. He was asking if you had an Omega. Tom the builder told him you did.” Michael shrugs.

“Anything else?”

“No,” the child shakes his head emphatically. “But he’s headed this way.”

“Get out of here.” Sam grabs you by the arm and pulls behind one of the stalls “Tell me, and be honest, is this knight looking for you?”

“Samuel,” you exhale as your voice cracks. Sam can feel you shaking, vibrating with fear as you look at him with wide eyes. Whatever you’re running from, you’re terrified. He softens his approach placing a hand on each shoulder.

“Just tell me, we might not have much time. What happens if he finds you?”

“He’ll kill us both.” You utter.

Not only have you been on the run but you’ve been keeping house with Sam. It won’t matter that nothing happened, no one will believe that he hasn’t been between your legs. You’ve been so stupid trying to keep up appearances that you hadn’t thought of the consequences for Sam if you’re found. You’re an unclaimed Omega who was given an order by her king, and instead chose to flee. You’ve been living with an Alpha. A common street whore would be shown more mercy.

“Listen to me,” he shakes you out of your internal monologue. “For once you need to do as I say.”

He takes you by the hand and drags you down the street to the small booth where Edmund and his wife, Ingrid, are selling their pelts. Edmund starts greets you, but Sam stops him cold.

“I need your help.”

“Of course.” Edmund nods, “What can we-”

“I need Ingrid,” Sam explains, shoving you toward Edmund. “And I need you to hide her. Do it now.”

“What are you playing at?” Edmund hesitates.

“You owe me. Your children would have starved to death if I hadn’t brought you meat last winter. I’ve never asked for anything in return until now. We have to hurry.”

“Alright,” Edmund affirms, placing a hand at your back and ushering you toward their booth. There’s a large basket on the ground and he pats the edge, “get in.”

You look to Sam for a sliver of comfort but he’s got Ingrid by the arm, whispering something in her ear. You lay down in the basket, pulling your knees to your chest as Edmund covers you with furs, one on top of the next until you’re buried.

“Be still,” Edmund instructs.

You can see through the weaving of the basket, and suck in a pregnant breath as the knight comes into view. You recognize him instantly, your handmaidens called him “The Wall”. He’s half a foot taller than Sam and twice as wide. You knew someone might come looking for you, but you didn't imagine it would be him. He would know you on sight as he had many occasions been your personal guard.

“You,” The Wall calls out, his voice so deep you swear the earth shakes with his words. “Are you Samuel the woodsman?”

“What if I am?” Sam retorts standing his ground. He takes Ingrid by the hand and pulls her behind him.

“You’d be smart to answer me. I’m a knight of the inner council to King William of France.”

“I am the person you’re looking for,” Sam confirms.

“I’m told that you found a woman in the woods before the spring. An Omega that you kept for yourself.”

“What business is that of yours?”

“One of the King’s personal maids absconded with valuables that belonged to the crown. I am not looking to retrieve the jewels, just the handmaid.”

“I did come across an Omega, but she’s not the one you’re looking for.”

“I need to be the judge of that. Is this her?” The Wall tried to step around Sam to get a good look at Ingrid.

“I told you already, she’s not the woman you’re looking for.”

“I can’t leave until I’m sure. You can appreciate that your word means nothing to me.”

Sam is still for a moment and then pulls Ingrid from behind his back. She looks to the larger man in front of her, cowering in fear before burying her head in Sam’s chest.

It’s brilliant.

If he’s going off nothing more than a description of a woman who was discovered in the wood, the two of you are close enough in looks that the details are interchangeable. You’re the same height and weight, same hair color and features. And while anyone would agree that your beauty dwarfs hers, she’s not unpleasing to the eyes.

“What is your name girl?” He asks, tipping his head to inspect her.

“Y/N.” Ingrid whispers.

“And you’re the one who was injured?”

“I was,” she sputters. “My father and brother were killed by thieves. I almost perished myself.”

“Satisfied?” Sam questions, stepping in front of Ingrid.

The Wall takes in a deep breath, his cheeks hollowing as it releases. He chuckles goodnaturedly and pats Sam in the shoulder. “Yes, woodsman. France appreciates your cooperation.”

Sam drags you home in a formidable combination of silence and utter rage. He doesn’t speak until you’ve reached the yard of his cottage.

“Are you even who you say you are? Or are you a servant and a thief?”

“I am! William would never want people to know I’ve run from him.” You try to explain. “I wouldn’t lie-”

“How would I know that?” Sam shouts, pounding his fist against the side of the barn. You jump at the outburst, suddenly unsure of his composure, you don’t think he would ever hurt you, but you’ve been wrong before.

“I swear to you, Samuel. I know I’ve put you in such a horrible position but I have always been honest.”

You seem earnest in your plea for him to believe you, and to his own surprise finds that he wants to, but he needs more. “It’s time you tell me what you were running from.”

“I do not want to.” You hang your head, pressing your palms together.

“Why?”

“I’m ashamed.” You feel the tears threatening to spill, but you swallow the emotion.

Are you a child? Have you always cried this much, been so emotional? You’re no better than your three-year-old nephew who pitches his small body to the ground every time the wind blows in the wrong direction. You won’t let anyone have the satisfaction of seeing you broken, especially him.

“Too bad.” Sam presses. “I want to know what I’ve gotten myself into. I need to know if someone else is going to come looking for you. I can’t protect either of us if you don’t tell me the truth.”

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#alpha!sam winchester #Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader #abo dynamics #sam winchester x reader

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ravenvsfox · 6 years

Text

The much requested Rockband AU Chapter Two! (Coming soon to an AO3 near you)

The bleached hair doesn’t match his skin tone. His shirt is too big for his shoulders, and it slips to one side or the other so that he keeps having to tug the neckline up to his throat, but Andrew’s already seen the white raking down his shoulder, the scars worked into his skin like sequins and thread.

Neil reminds Andrew of the foster kids he used to live with, the hand-me-downs pulled over stunted identities, oversized cuffs dragging their feet down when they tried to run, bruises on wrists under oversized sleeves.

He can’t help the way his eyes keep skirting back to Neil, like he’s the only frequency in all the static of the crowd that’s coming through clearly.

He thought maybe if he was sober that the bubble trapped in his throat would burst, but it’s so much bigger now that he’s choking on it.

Neil is tossed back and forth with the rest of the crowd, but he stands out; there’s something in his eyes that makes them visible from the back of the stage. He glows like neon, white hair and white scars, glinting piercings in his nose and ears, stud flashing in his tongue.

Andrew throws himself at his drum-kit like it’s a punching bag, and the tempest of the crowd roars back at him. Kevin tries to skid sideways into a solo, but Andrew keeps playing, falling into a brand new tempo, a gallop that Kevin can’t keep up with. The sounds grate, sparks fly, and Andrew would be feeling it, if he were high, the discord would make him laugh and laugh.

It all sounds intentional, and Kevin’s sweating when he plays chunky chords and stinging vibrato, ad libbing his way back to the chorus. Andrew lets him do what he wants. It doesn’t feel worth it to sabotage their set. He can feel distraction setting in like winter.

When he’s at his lowest, sober and dried up, he feels sick, all stuffed up with no sense of taste. He can tell from the textures and the sense memory what the flavours are supposed to be, but he can’t feel anything.

The song ends in lyrics that Kevin yells more than sings, and Andrew smashes the cymbal a few times until it matches his heartbeat. The crowd erupts in applause, hollering so loudly that he can’t hear himself anymore.

He looks back at Neil, like scratching an itch, and finds him grinning at the ceiling, caught up in the adrenaline and a high that Andrew can’t parse, booze or pills or euphoria.

Their eyes brush. Neil slicks his sweaty hair back with both hands and pops his tongue between his teeth, silver winking. Andrew just barely raises an eyebrow. He throws his drumsticks on the ground and they clatter between mic stands and cables as he leans forward to swipe the flask from Nicky's back pocket. He jolts, his guitar swinging away from his body when he rounds on him.

“Thought you were staying sober tonight?” he hisses.

“Changed my mind,” Andrew says, unscrewing the flask. Their fans are laughing, heckling affectionately, shouting their support when Andrew knocks back most of the whiskey.

His stomach is empty and so are his chest and his head, so when the first shot hits his stomach, his whole body burns. He holds the back of his hand to his mouth while he waits for a buzz to take. Nicky hands him his sticks back and wrestles the flask away.

“Someone thought now was a good time to pre-game,” Nicky says into the microphone. “The good news is,” he laughs, “there’s a bar on your left, and we’re all in this together.” He raises the flask and the crowd laughs and clinks glasses.

Andrew hits the snare angrily, and it makes a sound like a startled snake.

“Listen up,” Kevin says, more strict teacher than bassist in a rock band. The houselights are wound down to nothing, and his face is hollowed out by the crossbeams of blue spotlights. “We’re gonna play a song called ten times faster.”

“A song for all you lovers out there,” Nicky jokes.

“Not quite,” Aaron says, lazily retuning his guitar.

“More like, a song for when you’re tripping balls and you hit the fucking ceiling.”

“It’s about escaping,” Andrew corrects. He says it low, away from the microphone, but he could swear that Neil’s head snaps towards him; his gaze climbs up the stage and takes Andrew by the shoulders.

He says, ‘I know what you're after

we’ll do it in the dark, call it natural disaster’

you’re out for blood, I’ll draw it ten times faster

if my teeth are bared you can’t call it laughter

top floor, I’m too high for you to catch, uh

I’m running out so this is never gonna last, your

not catching up, ‘cause now I’m ten times faster

The whiskey is blood-hot on his tongue, but the lyrics burn hotter. He can’t touch them without recoiling. They were rotting inside of him before he wrote them down. The crowd tries to ingest ideas that they don’t understand, and their bodies spasm like they’re rejecting a transfusion.

Letting Aaron bow his head over his guitar and streak through the chords he wrote to accompany one of his breakdowns is one of the ugliest things Andrew has ever allowed to happen.

He thinks about putting the words in Neil’s mouth and it makes his fists clench around his sticks.

He kicks into overdrive until his wrists strain and sweat gets in his eyes, and then he hammers his way through the line up of drums, looking for a crash big enough to punch his eardrums out, to shriek with feedback and blow out the sound system.

The song screams to a close, fans clap and call for more, Kevin drinks vodka from a plastic tumbler, Nicky keeps curtseying to get the audience to laugh. Neil peers up at them with his shirt falling down all over again, grey fabric patched with humidity and spilled liquor.

Andrew thinks, bleak, flushed down to his wrists, I brought this on myself.

_______

Neil finds them when they’re hefting their equipment out from a backstage platform to the parking lot. It’s an assembly line of passing and loading that Andrew stays apart from, sitting sideways in the front seat of the van with his feet kicked up on the door, smoking from the clear, petite bong that Nicky usually keeps in his cupholder.

He meets Neil's eye for a second, then viciously ignores him, slipping the bowl out by its stem to clear the smoke. It’s too much for one hit, and it spills out of his mouth, fogs his vision, sits down on his chest so he can’t really focus on anything but the high.

Neil’s saying something to Nicky, hopping down out of the loading docks to help them.

“You were good,” Neil says, closer now, “without the drugs.” He has this pointed look on his face, those viciously blue eyes are street signs that Andrew can’t read.

He puts the bong down behind him, focusing hard, and when he looks up, whatever usually holds his tongue isn’t there anymore. “Ah, but I don’t want to be good, Neil,” he says, thin laughter like syrup drizzled over everything. “I want to see how badly I have to play to be kicked out of the band. It’s a game I play.”

“I don’t believe you,” Neil says, angry, defensive on Andrew’s behalf. “If you really wanted to, you’d pull one of those knives.” He nods at Andrew’s unassuming black armbands, heavy with concealed blades. “Trash the place.”

“Oh,” Andrew says. He doesn't want to laugh again, but the weed makes him overly conscious of the way his mouth works, and of Neil's mouth, and of what they are and aren’t to each other. “He thinks because he’s been watching for a minute that he knows who I am.”

“No.” Neil’s brow twists. “I’m trying to figure out why someone with your talent isn’t living up to your potential. You could play stadiums with that talent, I mean, your—the stage presence alone—Andrew?”

He hops out of the car and slams the door to overcompensate for the way he stumbles. The high softens his joints and the ground bucks up and tries to pull him close. “Hmm. Rather not.”

“That’s crazy,” Neil says, following him. His shoes are scuffed and his shirt is coming untucked and that tongue piercing, that red split of his mouth—

“Don’t really like that word,” Andrew says, feverish and unstable, his whole body a balancing act gone wrong. Neil’s starting to look like a smoky mirage, a fantasy who doesn’t know how to be one.

“I don’t care what you like,” Neil says, impatient, and Andrew tips his grin up to the dusky sky, on the edge of panic, feeling the drugs make everything huge, feeling himself get smaller.

“That’s what they all say.” He stops short, on the edge of the parking lot, cold air buffeting against the heat of the drugs, both trying to find purchase in his addled brain. Neil comes around to face him, and when Andrew steps forward, he steps back, maintaining the pocket of space between them. Something in Andrew’s chest gets crushed flat like a soda can. “For someone with no identity, you seem overly interested in mine.”

Neil’s face contorts. He’s so easy to read when he’s caught off guard. That, or the drugs make Andrew think he can see things that aren't there. “I’ve told you who I am.”

“No, no, no,” Andrew replies. “You’ve given me a first name, and a debt, and a conflicted childhood, but you don’t sound like you’ve meant a single word of it.”

“I can’t convince you of the truth if you don't want to believe it,” Neil retorts. His piercings are like scattered silverware. His lies curl so prettily in his mouth that Andrew thinks, I could suck you until there’s nothing left but honesty.

“I’m tired of this conversation,” Andrew says definitively. “You underestimate how many times I’ve been lied to.”

“Josten,” Neil says. Andrew cocks his head, sluggish. “Neil Abram Josten. I’m a singer. I don’t like you, or understand you. That’s all you need to know.”

“It’s mutual,” Andrew says, meaning it. He hates the way Neil looks and acts and the way the two never match up for long enough to create a clear picture. “Your obsession with performing is already grating.”

“Your indifference is infuriating,” Neil replies. “We’re even.”

“We’re not,” Andrew says. It’s dangerous, how much he’s starting to feel. All the colour he’s putting in his voice is sticky and saturated on the roof of his mouth. “You were floundering and I stopped you from drowning, remember?”

“Do you want me to say thank you?” Neil snarls, that fascinating, hair-trigger temper. He fists his hand in his own shirt and Andrew tracks the movement, off-centre, hazy, when Neil yanks the collar down to expose the vicious blue brushing from where Andrew hit him with the guitar. The scars slither into the window of exposed skin, and Neil seems to realize all at once what he’s doing. The shirt bounces back, wrinkled.

“If you think I needed to be saved from the back of a bar with my pockets full of cash, then you don’t really know what drowning looks like.”

Andrew grabs him by the scruff of his shirt, that grey slipping neckline that he’s been eyeing all night. He trips them both back a couple of steps, losing his balance, but Neil must think he’s being intimidated, because he grabs Andrew’s wrist hard.

The tattooed word yes stares back at him from beneath the dramatic slope of Neil’s jaw. “Au contraire,” he says, and he’s smiling, but he can’t pry the seriousness from his tone, or his hands from Neil’s chest. “Everything I do is from underwater.”

“Then what exactly is it that you think you can do for me except slow me down?” Neil asks, forcing himself away from Andrew’s grip and stumbling into the patch of sidewalk right before the curb becomes open road.

“I gave you a spot in our line up, but that won’t keep you alive,” Andrew says. “I’ve heard there are people out for your blood. Or was that another lie?”

Neil ignores his last question, shoulders rising. “Are you threatening me?”

“So touchy,” Andrew teases. “I’m doing the opposite, actually. If you’re with us you’re with us. No one can touch you.”

Neil’s eyes flicker over him, brows pulling further and further together. “You’re offering—what? Protection? Before you even know what I’m dealing with?”

“Your monsters don’t scare me.”

“Yours do,” Neil huffs, looking out at the blinking, spinning, beeping cityscape. “But okay. Deal.” He can tell from Neil’s face that he’s not really taking him seriously.

“Hey! Stop running off!” Nicky calls, out of breath, jogging towards them from halfway across the parking lot.

Andrew wasn’t even aware of covering that much ground. His fists go loose at his sides. He can’t tell if it’s the pot or Neil’s devastating presence that’s scrambling everything into pieces.

“But that’s his M.O.,” Andrew calls back, and Neil snaps him a burning look, the crack of a match, the miracle of a flame.

“Well cut it out,” Nicky says good-naturedly, rolling to a stop in front of them. “I wanted to hear what you thought of the show while the adrenaline’s still fresh.” He leans down to Neil’s level, hands on his knees like he’s talking to a child, and Andrew shoves him back without thinking.

“You guys are better than me,” Neil says frankly. “I don’t know how I’m going to fit into your sound.”

“Oh fuck off,” Nicky says, at a measured distance now. “You’re a natural, like Andrew. And you’re obsessed, like Kevin, so there’s no way you’re not going to fit in. Now please can we get in the van, I packed a new bowl and I’m jonesing.”

“Where are we going now?” Neil asks carefully. Andrew can see the way he’s chafing in the Annapolis air, like he’s having an allergic reaction.

“Home,” Nicky says. “South Carolina.”

Neil nods jerkily. Andrew squints through the fog of his high, and he can see for the first time that Neil’s pretty drunk, he’s just been holding it in the pocket of his cheek and talking through it.

“How long is that drive?”

“Not long if you’re wasted,” Nicky says, and the energy of his excitement tips against Neil like a flame and sets him going. Andrew watches Neil smile through bitten lips and accept the refilled flask. “If we get you drunk enough can we hear those golden pipes of yours again? No one ever does karaoke with me.”

He’s steering them back through the parking lot, encouraging Neil to drain the swampy mixed liquor he’s put together from the drinks fans bought him. He always has this way of getting you where he wants you without you knowing it was his idea.

Neil sways forward like he’s grooving to music, his cheeks pink from the cold and alcohol. “I’ve never done karaoke before,” he says.

“You’re killing me,” Nicky complains. “What sort of sheltered fucking town did you crawl out of?”

Neil hesitates, and Andrew’s filterless mouth curls. “Baltimore,” he guesses. “One of his big bad secrets.”

“Oh shit!” Nicky exclaims, shoving Neil a little by the shoulder. “Less than an hour from home. You know, I can talk to Kev and we can totally drop in—“

“No,” Neil says, quick and harsh as a pulled tooth. “That’s not my home.”

“You don’t have one of those, right?” Andrew says. Neil’s eyes flicker towards him.

“Right,” he agrees, all the fight sapped out of his voice. Andrew looks out at the sleek shape of his van, the fogged up windows, Aaron and Kevin haloed by the yellow interior lights. He doesn’t know why, but his chest is a kicked in drum.

“We’ll make you one,” Nicky says gently. “Did you know that SC is famous for its peach pie? Doesn’t get homier than that.”

_______

Nicky nurses his bong from the back seat of the van as soon as they get back on the road. The water bubbles, and he deftly lights close to the side of the bowl to keep the burn steady.

Andrew slouches in the middle seat, watching the low light exaggerate Nicky’s hollow cheeks and tease moving pictures out of Neil’s mouth when he sucks on his tongue piercing.

“It’s still cherry,” Nicky says hoarsely, and passes to Neil, who crooks the base against his knee and leans down to smoke.

His ashy hair brushes his downcast eyes, and Andrew shakes his head so that he doesn’t keep watching him.

“You shouldn’t be smoking,” Kevin calls from the passenger seat. When Andrew looks up, he’s twisted around in his seat to look at Neil, pupils too wide open to be natural.

“Forgive me if I don’t take advice from the man who choked me out today,” Neil says, smoke spilling out around his words. Andrew inhales.

“It’s not advice,” Kevin snaps. “It’s an order.”

Neil laughs, mean. “Nice try. I’ll follow your ‘orders’ when you prove you’re a worthy leader. Hasn’t happened yet.” He bows his head to take another hit.

“Andrew,” Kevin says imploringly.

“Uh uh,” Andrew scolds. “He said no.”

“No one takes this band seriously at all, do they?” Kevin says. He looks so perpetually disappointed. His talent is withering, and Andrew will only ever do enough to keep it alive, not to see it bloom.

“Ding ding ding,” Andrew says.

“Hey, I care, Kev,” Nicky says. “Ausreißer is like the second best thing in my life.”

“What—“ Neil starts.

“Don’t ask,” Aaron says, not looking away from the road.

“My fiancé Erik. 6’2” German supermodel. Swimmer’s body, blue eyes. You know my type.” Nicky winks at Neil, and Andrew’s lip curls.

“I didn’t know,” Neil says. His expression whispers that he’s even more uncomfortable with Nicky’s flirtation.

Nicky waves him off. “Fans don’t know much about us. Some don’t even know I’m related to the twins. Makes it easier to be kind of shitty if they don’t even really know our last names.”

“I suppose that’s not an option for you anymore, Josten,” Andrew says, loopy, the orange glow of the pot keeping him half distracted. Neil looks at him with those paint-spill eyes, and Andrew feels stupid for the way his feelings are talking over his thoughts.

“Good thing I have nothing to hide,” he replies.

“Oh, I hope that’s not true,” Nicky says.

“It’s not,” Andrew says. Headlights outside flash and fade over the three of them huddled in the back seats, crashing waves of bright white.

Andrew wants to take Neil by the scars, like reins, and pull him up short. He wants the whirring behind Neil’s eyes to stop so he can take the tape out and unspool it.

“Can we talk music now?” Kevin says impatiently. “I want to figure out some backing vocals now that we have a lead.”

“Yes,” Neil says immediately. “What’s the plan?”

Andrew tunes them out. The air is still heavy with smoke. He’s not wearing a seatbelt, so the van is tossing him a little, his seat bucking, engine buzzing in his feet.

He watches Neil drape himself over the back of the empty middle seat to look at Kevin, both of them talking about harmonies, using sound affects and hand gestures for time signatures, cocked towards each other like two loaded weapons caught in a stand off.

Andrew wonders what makes someone so obsessed and so detached at once.

He wonders if the flip and burn of his attraction to Neil made him do something stupid like tie himself to a runaway train.

The van cracks down the highway, and South Carolina charges towards them. He wonders if either of them will flinch before impact, or if he’ll hit home head-on like he always does.

________

They skid into Columbia before the sun’s all the way up, but it’s already steaming hot. Andrew squints at the familiar shape of the studio from the parking lot. It’s an obnoxious sunset orange building with graffiti around the side that says ‘no more monsters’. Underneath, someone’s spray-painted a rabid looking wolf in a circle with a bar through it.

Andrew waits to feel the roar and snap of anger, but his temple pulses with a headache, and he’s unmoved.

“Welcome to Palmetto Records, home of Ausreißer,” Nicky says, beaming. “And Foxes, if you’ve heard of them.”

“Foxes as in the girl group on the radio?” Neil asks incredulously. He looks a little grey and burnt out, hair raked back and shoes kicked off. He didn’t sleep all night, like he was proving a point about privacy, or he was insistent on keeping Andrew aware and preoccupied until sunrise.

“Their guitarist is Matt Boyd,” Kevin corrects.

“Nice dude,” Nicky says.

“But you sound nothing like them,” Neil says. “How can you even be part of the same label?”

“That’s not really how labels work,” Aaron says. He’s looking out through the windshield like he doesn’t want to go inside.

“We’re multi-genre,” Kevin says airily. “But we don’t really interact with them anyway.”

“He doesn’t,” Nicky says, rolling his eyes. “I like them. Dan’s kinda icy, but she’s a catch, Matt’s lucky. Allison’s a bitch. Renee’s definitely the best. Do what you will with that.” He rests his hand on the door handle and taps his fingers, jittery.

“Are they here a lot?” Neil asks. “Will I meet them?”

“You’re stalling,” Andrew interrupts.

Neil doesn’t even look at him, just sighs and reaches down for his bag.

It’s clear that he thinks this is the end of the road. The nebulous space in their lives between streetlights and chains of shared cigarettes could evaporate as soon as he crosses an official threshold.

Andrew can see the crease between his dark brows, his squared shoulders, the fingers pinching his belongings as if he’s getting ready to run with them.

Neil moves to open the door, and without thinking, Andrew says, “Wymack does not turn away talent.”

“He might turn it away if it’s attached to an idiot,” Aaron mutters.

Neil ignores him, and his mouth twitches in Andrew’s direction. “Talent? I thought you were difficult to ‘wow’?”

Andrew looks away. His head hurts.

“Come on, freaks,” Nicky says, pushing at Neil’s shoulder until he pulls the door open, dropping his shoes out on the pavement and stepping into them.

“Paperwork first, studio second,” Kevin says. “Don’t touch the equipment until you’ve read the contract.”

“This is all moot if your manager doesn’t want me,” Neil says, shouldering his bag and squinting against the pale morning sun.

“Whatever,” Nicky says. “We want you. Bad.”

“Don’t speak for me,” Aaron says.

“Debatable,” Kevin says.

Andrew says nothing.

They trudge towards the backdoor, and Andrew pushes past them to punch in the code. They push into the air-conditioned hallway, dark grey walls against pale flooring.

He watches Neil react to the curve of the hall opening up into an orange and cream waiting room with leather couches, hallways forking in every direction, recording studios peering out from behind glass.

Neil’s eyes are wide, his shirt is still stained, tucked into jeans that are ripped up too high to be intentional, and his hair is fried, red bleeding into yellow. He looks the same way everyone looks when Wymack baits them into Palmetto, damaged and bribed, desperate for an out.

He also looks like he doesn’t trust the decor, like he felt safer in the claws of a crowd of strangers or the teeth of a hangover than he does in this quiet, tidy atrium, with four people between him and the exit.

“What did you drag in this time?”

Wymack stands sideways in the doorway with a hand on the wall, like he was passing by when he spotted them.

“We found a singer,” Nicky announces, grinning.

Wymack grimaces. “No.”

Nicky’s face falls. “Come on, boss.”

“We’re not making any more changes to the line up, Hemmick, no matter how much you want to bang them.”

“But Kevin worked out great! Kind of.”

A shadow passes over his face. “Kevin’s different.”

“This is Wymack,” Andrew tells Neil. “You are nothing to him until you’ve proven yourself to be useful.”

“You’re not nothing,” Wymack says sharply, addressing Neil directly. “I just don’t trust these fuckers as far as I can throw them.”

Neil’s eyes narrow. “Neither do I.” Wymack quirks a smile, doubtless picturing Neil trying to punt someone twice his size any distance at all.

“You should sign him,” Andrew says. Wymack steps further into the room, crossing his arms.

“You’re vouching for him? I don’t know if that should be a warning bell or a glowing review.”

Aaron snorts.

“He can sing,” Kevin chimes in. “He needs work, but I’m willing to put in the time if you are.”

Wymack raises a brow. “You’re all in on this? That’s new.”

“They’re desperate,” Neil says. “But I’m not. So if you’re going to interrogate me for much longer, I’ll go ahead and hitch a ride back to Virginia.”

“Oh he’s one of you, alright,” Wymack says tiredly. “You got a name?”

“Neil,” he says, swallowing. “Josten.”

“Neil Josten,” Wymack repeats. “You know what Ausreißer means?”

He shrugs, listing, “outlier. Runaway. Wild shot.”

“Right. Does that sound like a group that I have any control over?” he asks. His eyes are narrowed but his mouth is turned up, unthreatening.

“I think you think you do. You have their names written on some papers in a drawer somewhere, and you think that means you own them.” Neil’s expression is wild. He’s trying so hard to get out of a trap that he’s hurting himself.

“All I own is the nameplate for that office,” Wymack gestures behind him at a door that’s ajar halfway down the hall, “and the mini fridge in studio two. Sprung for it myself.”

“You’re the boss,” Neil says flatly.

“That’s what they call me,” Wymack agrees. “I open the door for people. They walk in or they don’t. Their call. Do you want in?”

“Depends. Does the door lock behind me?”

Wymack rolls his eyes. “You’re going to be a problem, aren’t you?”

“He already is,” Aaron says.

Wymack looks back and forth between them, vaguely amused. “Are you even legal, kid?”

Andrew watches Neil hesitate. “I’m twenty-one.”

“Well, come on in. Let’s get you someplace to sing.”

_______

Wymack leads them to the main recording studio, and as soon as they’re inside, Aaron drops his heavy backpack, and Nicky collapses into the wheeled leather chair in front of the control board.

“Alright.” Wymack jerks his thumb towards the live room. “Get in there. Sing me something pretty.”

“Can I make a request?” Nicky asks sweetly.

“No,” Neil says easily. He abandons his duffel and crosses the threshold towards the sealed off equipment, propped up microphones, and heaps of wires. “I know what I want to sing.”

He worries his tongue stud briefly, pulling the mic down to his level. He looks so washed out in the harsh overhead light, but it’s not bad on him. He’s too athletic and cocksure to look sick.

“Now?” Neil asks. his fist is clenched at the base of the microphone, and his gravity is clipped to that point.

“Unless you’re waiting for some sort of divine intervention,” Wymack says, “now would be good.”

Neil breathes in. Andrew doesn’t.

He starts singing one of Andrew’s songs, but he’s pitched it higher, trussed it up in that crystal clear tone he’s got, and thrown in candied pieces of ornamentation.

Just like the first time, his shoulders relax, his neck arches, and the music wanders out of him like it’s looking for victims, like it’s stronger the more people it absorbs.

Andrew’s so gutted, so trapped, that he almost doesn’t realize that it’s the song they were playing when he first spotted Neil, when he was playing a character, drunk and lost, skulking around for things to steal.

They’re both completely sober now, and Neil is incredible when he’s glass-clear. His voice expands and expands, and he’s so close to the microphone that his lips whisper across it.

Andrew’s words aren’t ugly when Neil sings them. He makes his crumpled papers into airplanes. He sets the studio on fire. Andrew looks away, and it’s like pulling a hand off a stovetop and losing half his skin.

Wymack is easing back on the couch, smiling, and Nicky’s spinning laughing circles in his chair. Kevin’s gone perfectly still like he does when he’s reading Andrew’s lyrics for the first time. Aaron’s leaning all the way forward, head propped on his hand, focused.

When he turns back to watch Neil’s cracked face, heart pounding, he wonders how someone with such tough, impenetrable skin can sing like he’s being bled.

#I'm having fun and andrew is NOT #andreil #aftg #the foxhole court #tfc fanfic #rockband au #mine #drugs tw #abuse mention #alcohol tw

1K notes · View notes

sharksabrejr · 5 years

Text

You and Finn Pt 2

Warning: Explicit and angsty and love triangles

March 2014

“Love, please. I’m sorry I said all of those things, I’m sorry that I hurt you. I didn’t mean any of it- I’m a fucking wreck right now. I don’t want to lose you. Please, pick up the phone. I love-”

Message deleted.

November 2013

Finn repeats your name like a mantra as his lips trail across your skin. You lay together on his bed, fingers intertwined, your back joined to Finn and his leg hooked over your hip. It’s rare that you both have a day off and are able to enjoy a lazy Sunday like this.

“We should get up,” you murmur, checking the time on your phone. “It’s nearly noon.”

“Hmm… no.” Finn reaches around and palms your breast, tweaking a nipple and parting your hair to the side to kiss your exposed collarbone. “We’re going to spend all day in this bed and I’m going to make you come five million more times.”

You giggle, but persist. “I still have to finalize my lesson plan for tomorrow and do laundry and we’ll probably need to eat eventually.”

“Silly woman, here I am offering you my body and sexual prowess and all you can think about is your job and food and-” Finn’s words are suddenly cut off by a loud growl from his stomach. You both squeal with laughter.

“Eggs?” You ask him and Finn nods eagerly. He lets you go after a mild struggle and you pull on your panties. You’re about to throw on your sweater when he tosses you the button up dress shirt he’d worn the night before. You look up at him in confusion.

“Much hotter, believe me. Leave the top buttons open if you love me.”

You scoff at his request, but put on the shirt and leave the top two buttons undone just the same. “Happy?” you ask him, waving your arms and flashing your cleavage at him theatrically.

“Yes.” Finn’s triumphant grin tells you that he got exactly what he wanted. It isn’t until you really notice the exhilaration in his blue eyes that you realized what he’d said.

You stare at him dumbly, stuttering, something about how did he want his eggs? Finn had told you that he loved you more than a week ago, and while he hadn’t been pressuring you to return the statement he had certainly not kept quiet about it. He would repeat the declaration every so often, often when you were least expecting it.

Finn crashes his lips to yours in a short, charged kiss and gives you a light swat on your bottom. “Kitchen, love. I’m starving.” Whistling cheerily he walks out of the room, and after a moment you follow him.

You get to work right away scrambling a dozen eggs as Finn boils a pot of water and pours it into a French press for your tea. For himself, he brews a pot of strong black coffee. You’re still reflecting about what just happened back in the bedroom that you don’t notice the bread on your plate until you’re sitting next to Finn at the counter.

“Surprise,” he laughs, when absentmindedly you take a bite of the slice of wheat bread and drop it back to your plate in disbelief. “I know you miss having toast with your breakfast when you sleep over, so I picked some up at the grocer’s.”

“You bought bread for me,” you sigh in amazement, and then chuckle. Finn could go through a half-dozen eggs in minutes but had always refused to have any bread in his kitchen before.

Damn it, how could you not fall in love with this man?

Finn is still smiling, as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

December 2013

“It’s not that I don’t like you- I actually do, as a matter of fact- but that man you’re with is my best friend, and I want what’s best for him. Right now, you are notthat. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not anything you’re doing, it’s plain bad timing. He’s on the verge of achieving his dream here. That other company won’t give him an inch.

“He’s crazy about you. If you feel the same way about him, you would understand why it’s best to end it now. He will ruin himself if you let him.”

October 2013

You argue it’s too soon, but Finn insists on taking you home with him. It’s your first proper holiday together, and you had excitedly agreed when Finn brought up the idea of making the trip to Ireland. The idea of meeting his family didn’t sink in until you were on the plane and Finn casually mentioned how his family were looking forward to meeting you. “It’s not too soon love,” he assures you, throwing his arm around your shoulder and pressing a kiss to the side of your forehead.

You stand aside and smile awkwardly as Finn’s mother opens the door and immediately showers her son with hugs and kisses. “Gerroff Mum!” Finn blushes and laughs.

“Well, you don’t come home enough and I’m making up for lost time,” she admonishes him. Still beaming, Finn’s mother turns to you. “Lovely girl, look at you!”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs.-” You hold your hand out, but Finn’s mother shakes her head and draws you into a hug.

“None of that, dear! I’ll take Leonie or Mum, nothing else. Come in, come in you two, out of the cold now. Dad is in the kitchen taking the roast out and the rest are already at the table- you know how your brothers get if you delay lunch for even just a few- look who’s home! Boys, Amo! Looky, your brother brought a guest. Dear, you sit right by me. Half of my boys are thirty, but there’s no telling if something goes flying around. Up there, next to Amo.”

Quick introductions are made between you and Finn’s brothers and sister. Finn’s dad sets a huge pot of roast down on the table and wraps you in a big bear hug. “I was beginning to think my boy was never going to bring anyone home. Fair play son, you got a fine thing here.”

Finn’s younger brother wolf-whistles at you, and Finn smacks him on the forehead. Finn’s other brother grabs him in a headlock and keeps him in the hold until Finn’s dad intervenes. The brothers are a boisterous bunch, and you’re glad Finn’s mother sits you between herself and Finn’s sister. It should have been a given that you feel like an outsider in such a tight-knit family unit, but they all take turns asking you questions and telling you stories about Finn.

“This is a wonderful town to raise children in. Have you thought about having children?” (”Dad, leave her alone!” - Finn)

“You know your fella keeps these stacks of girly comics under his bed with his wrestling magazines. I’ll show you if you’d like.” (”Feck off Eoin!”- Finn)

You meet Finn’s eyes across the table at every comment, his looks ranging from stifled laughter to mortified. He shakes his head at you incredulously when his older brother loudly starts listing the names of all of his Secondary School girlfriends. You wink back at him.

As they say he hadn’t been home in months, Finn’s siblings heckle him into doing the washing up. You go to help him, but in no uncertain terms, Finn’s mother asks you to take a walk outside with her “to help with my digestion. It’s not wise for an old girl like me to be eating big meals like this anymore.”

“Mum,” Finn calls out in a warning tone, but his mother shoots him a sly look and gently prods you outside. Her voice is still kind, but Finn’s mother gets straight down to business.

“You know, my Finn is the most tenderhearted of my boys. The sweetest of the bunch. I hope you know that, dear.” You nod. “All these years, he tells me all he’s doing is his wrestling until about a few weeks ago when he told me you were coming home with him. His dad and I were shocked you know, he really hasn’t brought anyone to meet us since school.

“I wasn’t very welcome to the idea. When he called, he said that you and him have only been seeing each other for some weeks and I told him, ‘do not bring this girl home if you’re not serious about her.’ But he told me ‘I am, Mum.’ He has a good head, but I wasn’t sure if my son was telling me the truth. But now, seeing the two of you together… I’m glad he brought you home.” Finn’s mother stops walking, and she hugs you again, more warmly than before. “ I’m getting on you know, and so is his dad and we want to get a bit of time with all of our grandkids.”

The idea of having children with Finn catches you off guard and you began stammering that it was a topic you and Finn hadn’t talked about yet. Finn’s mother laughs and dismisses your weak protests. “Just a matter of time. I see you love my son.” It’s not a question. “I’m going to frighten you a bit more, dear. I saved the dress I wore when I married Finn’s father. We’ll have to take it in and let it out here and there, but you would be perfect in it.”

April 2014

“Finn,” you gasp. You stare at him disbelievingly when you open your front door, unable to believe it’s actually him on your doorstep.

Finn holds up his hand. “Just wait. I want you to know it’s taking all of my willpower not to take you in my arms right now and kiss the hell out of you, but I want you to hear me out first. Will you do that for me?”

You hesitate for a long moment, then step aside to let Finn into your apartment. Showing him into the living room, you invite him to sit on the sofa and you take the opposite armchair. Finn watches you wring your hands in your lap as you think of something to say.

“Do you want some tea? Water?” You offer. You can’t stand the silence, the tension in the air, how Finn glowers at you.

“No.” Finn looks over you, observing how deliberately you distance yourself from him. You’re fidgeting, eyes wandering everywhere but in Finn’s direction. “You cut your hair.”

“Yeah.” You run your hand through your shorter locks. “Better for this climate.”

“It looks good on you.” Finn licks his lips.

You feel yourself flush. You tuck your hair behind your ear and change the subject “How are your parents?”

“They’re well. Mum was disappointed you didn’t come for Easter. Yours?”

“They’re happy I’m closer to home.” Nervously, you ask him, “Did you tell your mother what happened between us?”

“No, but I’m sure she’s guessed. She’s good at knowing when I’ve fucked up.” He chuckles bitterly.

“Finn…” There were so many things you wanted to say to him- everything you wanted to say to him in the months you’ve been apart- but the words don’t come out.

Finn is quietly fuming, his fingers tapping the shoulder of the chair. His shoulders are tense. “Do you miss being with me at all?” he asks you abruptly.

Tears spring to your eyes. “Of course I do.”

“Who’s the guy you’ve been seeing?”

It was the question you’d been dreading. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I want to kick his ass.”

“What?” You scoff. “Don’t joke.”

Finn isn’t smiling. “I’m not joking. I’d very much like to kick the ass of the man who’s screwing my girlfriend.”

“Finn, you’re being ridiculous.”

He explodes. “Why won’t you just tell me who you’re fucking!”

Those blue eyes always looked at you with love before. You still saw remnants of love there, but it was clouded by hurt and anger. “No one,” you whisper.

“What?”

“I’m not dating anyone. I thought that if I told you I was with someone… it would be easier.”

Finn’s voice is full of derision. “So what, you lied to me? Thought I’d take it easier if you said you were with someone else? Because that made it worse- thinking of someone, anyone else with his hands on you- it makes my skin crawl.”

“I didn’t lie to you. I’ve met someone, but he-we haven’t done anything. I won’t let him.”

“You’re lying!”

“I’m not! I really wish I could move on because this guy is fantastic- he’s kind and passionate and funny- just like you! I can’t move on because I can’t fucking stop thinking about you, Finn!”

Finn stands up and marches towards you swiftly. Before you can react, he cups your face and tilts your chin up. After such a long time, the feel of his hands on your jaw is electrifying, cutting off your every single thought. Your eyes flutter close as his mouth brushes yours, and you feel so weak you lean into him for support. Your lips open for him hungrily.

Finn pulls you to your feet from the chair, his hands moving from your face to your waist. You rake your fingers over the hard muscles of his back, then reaching for the hem of his shirt, pull it over his head. “Oh god,” you whisper, kissing his chest and stomach and automatically you’re on your knees, pulling at his belt and the zipper on his khakis.

Finn hisses when your hand closes over his cock, stroking him and taking him into your mouth. His fingers fists in your hair, keeping it from falling on your face. “Fuck,” he moans, thrusting softly into your mouth. At this, you gag and Finn quickly checks on you in concern. Your eyes stare back at him heatedly even as your lips bob around his cock.

Knowing he would come if you continued, Finn forces you back to your feet and turning you away from him, pushes you over the arm of the chair on your stomach. He pulls down the waistband of your shorts and feels the lips of your pussy. Seeing how wet you already are, Finn pushes your panties to the side and enters you swiftly, grunting at the feel of you around his cock.

“Finn!” you cry, your voice strangled. His movements are urgent, the movements of his hand on your clit precise. He smacks your rear cheek as he rides you. There is none of his usual sweetness, nor could you call it lovemaking. He was fucking you.

Your climax comes quickly, coursing through you in waves and waves of euphoria that leaves you woozy. Finn doesn’t last much longer, his fingers leaving indentations on your skin when he grips your hips. His satisfaction is quiet and almost guilty. You surprise Finn when you turn your face towards him for a slow and lasting kiss.

“I have a meeting with the head of talent here,” he tells you. “I fly out to Stamford tomorrow.”

“Oh.” That changes things.

July 2014

“I cleared out half the closet and some drawers for your clothes. If you need more room, we’ll probably have to shop for a bigger dresser, it’s a tight fit already.” You unlock the door to the apartment. “I have two sets of keys, but I gave the other to the neighbor upstairs in case of emergencies so we’ll have to share until we can make a trip to the hardware store for a copy.”

“I didn’t bring much with me.” Finn’s nose wrinkles as he stares around the living room. You watch him, worrying that he doesn’t like the apartment.

“I know it’s small, but it’s close to work and school and it will be an easy drive for you to the PC. We didn’t pass it on the drive here, but we’re also really close to ponds and lakes which help with the heat somewhat and also hiking paths and the woods are-”

“Love, it’s great. Really.” Finn smiles at you, but it doesn’t help to make you feel more at ease. “Do you want to give me the grand tour?”

You show him where things are stored in the kitchen and the linens in the hallway closet and the bathroom and to the bedroom, helping him with bringing his bags outside. Awkwardly, you watch as he starts unzipping his bags. “Would you like help putting away your things?” You hear yourself, and think you sound like a flight attendant. Finn shakes his head at your offer. “Okay, well I’m just going to take a quick shower, just yell if you need anything.”

You spend a moment deciding whether or not to lock the bathroom door and ultimately decide to keep it unlocked before undressing. You didn’t know why you were acting so strangely around Finn. Within a few weeks of when you had first started dating, you had practically lived at Finn’s apartment but here… it felt different. Like you didn’t know each other. You step into the shower, standing still under the showerhead and letting the droplets rain on your face.

The sound of the water drowns out the sound of the door sliding open. Finn’s arms circles your waist, and you flinch when you feel his hands on your stomach.

“Wow,” Finn breathes, “you really don’t want me here, do you?”

“No!” you quickly deny. “It’s not that. Finn, I’m really happy you’re here.” You turn to face him, unable to articulate your discomfort. “I can’t describe it, it just feels… It’s not like it was before.”

“Maybe. But we’re the same people.” Finn puts his arms around you again, and this time you let him. “And I love you.”

You smile, but don’t reply. You respond to Finn’s kisses and submit to his touch but in the back of your mind you’re thinking about that other man you let go of and wondering how it would be if-

#finn bálor #finn balor #finn balor x reader #finn balor imagine #you and finn

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redsdesktop · 5 years

Text

RK1700 Week: Day 5

Warnings: None

AU: Medieval / Omegaverse

Pairings: RK800, RK800-60, RK900

The sun was high, meaning the heat of the sunlight made him sweat under his padded cloth armor, dripping down into chocolate brown eyes. However, that didn't deter him as he simply blinked it away the best he could, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword with a firm but flexible grip. His adversary was not one to be taken lightly, Conrad wasn't Knight Commander without a reason, he was brutally efficient in the art of war. Connor had never surpassed Conrad, but he had come close time and time again. It was only a matter of how long Connor could last before he was exhausted, so far, he was beating his record time. He peered out from behind the face plate of his helm, concealing his identity, he'd suspected Conrad had been taking it easy on Connor during their sparring sessions because not only was he a Prince, but an omega on top of that. People tended to treat him like fragile glass for those reasons.

So he'd... borrowed Collin's sparring gear, it reeked enough of his guard's scent that it masked his own scent for the most part. Connor knew Conrad never took it easy on Collin, so Connor wanted the same as he'd never improve in his fighting if he wasn't properly challenged. However, nothing felt like it had changed, maybe he was treated equally with Collin, just that maybe Connor was simply getting better. Not enough to surpass Conrad as Connor was currently panting and sweating like a pig. Though Connor didn't quite understand that metaphor as pigs couldn't actually sweat, something he'd learned as a kid when he'd been tasked to help a local farmer herd his pigs back into their pen. No task was too lowly for a Prince, as Hank often reminded him to remain humble, to grow up to be a proper ruler.

Conrad stared at him with cool gray eyes, even his ivory skin seemed to have a glossy sheen of sweat on it, but he looked in much better shape than Connor right now. Connor lifted up his sword again, the steel blade glinting a little in the sunlight. Despite wielding steel blades, they were dull and neither had dealt severe harm on each other, Conrad made certain of that. Once again, Connor took a step forward, going on the offensive as he braced himself in the correct stance that would allow him to move with ease but not be caught balance. He took a horizontal swing, not putting his full power behind it as that would make him fully committed to a swing that might be avoided or blocked, leaving him vulnerable to a counter. He struck metal but it wasn't a loud clash as Conrad caught Connor's blade on the flat of his own before easily redirecting the force upwards. This forced Connor's arms up, exposing his torso for Conrad to lift up a foot and kick Connor away, sending the older prince to the dusty ground of the training area.

Connor coughed a bit, spiting out dust that had gathered in his mouth, making him distracted from Conrad advancing on him. With a flick of the younger knight's blade, Conrad sent Connor's helmet flying off into the dirt with Connor's sword. While Connor looked exactly like Collin at first glance, under the observant glare of Conrad, the differences were obvious to the alpha.

"Shouldn't you be getting ready for tonight's guest, prince?" Conrad's voice was steady and even, most would call it apathetic but Connor knew better. The war trained knight had been taught at an early age not to give anything away, emotions that could be used against him, not all battles were physical.

"I still have plenty of time to get ready." Connor countered as he took the offered hand to pull himself up onto his feet. He took a moment to dust himself off, ignoring Conrad's doubting look. "I needed a distraction as well, tonight is a big night. The neighboring king is visiting, so I need to make a good impression as heir." He reasoned out, but the visitation wasn't the only thing he was nervous about either. However, that was another matter entirely that he wasn't exactly keen on sharing with Conrad at the moment.

"And I don't suppose you told Collin where you'd be either? I almost feel sorry for anyone who runs across him right now, he's certainly going to be a ball of aggression." Conrad sounded almost slightly amused, though he shifted his gaze up over Connor's shoulder with raised brows. "Speak of the devil and he shall appear."

"Connor! What the hell are you doing?" Collin snapped, taking a moment to eye Connor for a moment. His anger seemed to shift to something else for a moment when he caught sight of Connor wearing his training attire, Collin was always more obvious with his possessive nature while Conrad was more subtle about it. Collin gave himself a shake of his head to clear his thoughts and get back on task. "Your hellish maids won't stop nagging my ear off, demanding I get you at once. I swear they're like a bunch of hens raising a fuss, dealing with maids is not what my title entails. Bandits with bloodlust, certainly. Maids with a vengeance, never."

"Now you see reason to why I made my escape while I could." Connor teased but allowed Collin to help him out of the padded armor so he was back to wearing only a sweaty tunic and trousers.

"Yes, and leave me to the wolves I see." Collin groused as he pawned off the padded armor to one of the nearby squires so they could tend to it.

"Collin, you seem to be frightened, what happened to all that bravery and courage you boast to me about?" Conrad replied, his brows raised as he couldn't help but to taunt the epsilon.

"I don't see you volunteering to go deal with them, Conrad." Collin snapped back before grabbing Connor by the shoulders and urging him away from the training area. Connor lifted up a hand to wave a farewell to Conrad before he gave himself over to Collin's direction.

As to be expected, bathing, getting his clothes fitted took extraordinary patience, Connor had a generous amount though his nerves were testing it. Collin wasn't helping either with his constant bickering with the maids, neither seemed too serious as it was simply routine between the group, both heckling each other over the care of Connor and Connor doing whatever he pleased regardless. By the end of it all, Connor was dressed regally, charcoals with hints of silver and blues, making himself look as regal as he was supposed to be. He rarely dressed so elegantly, but tonight was a special occasion and demanded he showcase his title as Prince. He was placed to sit next to Hank, who looked equally uncomfortable in his regal attire, as a king, Hank rarely acted like one would expect.

The neighboring king, Makus, was easy going and kind, not what Connor expected from the stories he'd been told. A man who had led a revolution in his country to overthrow an oppressive regime. Markus looked his age, not wartorn or bitter from his experiences. He had a soft voice but it could command a room with ease, inspire legions, it was no wonder that he managed to become king. Connor found himself easily falling into conversation with him, sharing stories back and forth. He was unaware of Conrad and Collin watching from the sidelines, only royals were allowed at the table at the time, so Conrad and Collin were regulate to keeping watch just in case something bad happened. Though from the looks of it, everything seemed to be running smoothly. Too smoothly between Connor and Markus. Still though, Collin and Conrad managed to control themselves, for now. It was far too dangerous to interject, no matter how much it strained them to watch Connor getting friendly with the other king.

When everyone seemed to be finishing their meals, preparing for dessert, Connor suddenly stood up with his crystal goblet, tapping his spoon against it to gain the attention of the room. He waited until the conversations died down and he had the attention of the room, giving the occupants his usual awkward but charming half-smile before speaking up. "I'm pleased to have you all here tonight and under such a happy occasion of alliances and peace. I would like to take this opportunity to announce that I have finally come to a decision on who I am to marry." He paused as there were a few murmurs throughout the small crowd of royals and nobles.

"I have chosen both my personal guard, Collin, and the Knight Commander, Conrad, to be my official partners in matrimony."

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reallygrossstuff · 5 years

Note

How about jade and roxy sumo-wrestling

It took me a while to get this one nailed down, but hopefully it’s worth the wait.

The circle had been drawn in Jade’s backyard with chalkborrowed from Terezi, bright red against the soft grass. Jade had drawn it byhand, bending down every few inches to do so while her competitor watched inamusement.

“Don’t work up a sweat before we start, Jadey!” Roxytaunted, stretching her arms slowly above her head before leaning forward asfar as her body would allow to stretch her legs.

Jade looked over her shoulder, still bent down at her sideof the ring. Her modesty was only vaguely preserved by her mawashi, whichcovered only the bare minimum and left the rest of her weighty body exposed. “Doyou see me sweating?” She wobbled her backside teasingly, showing that therewasn’t any sweat – not before the match had even started.

The two of them had been wrestling for a while, meeting inone place or another to pit their equally heavy bodies against each other. Neitherof them took the bouts too seriously, but the pre-match heckling was part oftheir tradition, and a part they both enjoyed.

With their makeshift ring completed, Jade stood and waddledover to her mark on the ground, eyeing Roxy up. Both girls had grownsignificantly since starting their meets – they sported matching round belliesthat jiggled with every step, fat breasts that sat bare on top, sausage-likearms and legs to keep balance, and wide, flabby backsides to cushion the fallsthat they both took regularly. They each wore nothing but a mawashi, leavingonly their crotches covered while the rest of their soft bodies remained opento the crisp air – and to the occasional wandering hand, during matches likethese.

“You start?” Jade stretched one last time, rocking her bodyforwards slightly as her heels left the ground before straightening herself andlining up with her chalk line.

Roxy didn’t reply, but Jade didn’t expect her to. The offerhad been made, and the brunette knew from experience that she’d be best to stayon alert, keep her eyes fixed on Roxy’s casual grin, her hands ready at hersides.

Her vigilance paid off when Roxy lunged forward, as fast asshe could with her whole body weighing her down. Jade raised her hands in timeto get two handfuls of her sides as she was pushed at and shoved, widening herstance to resist the force being applied to her.

The two girls grappled at each other, each pushing andsqueezing their flabby body against the other in an attempt to overbalancethem. Neither of them followed the actual rules of the sport very closely –Roxy didn’t care to read them, and Jade didn’t mind ignoring them as long asthey could be good sports – and neither were averse to some squeezing and fondlingin pursuit of their goals.

Roxy giggled as shepushed her hands into Jade’s belly, her fingers parting and squeezing to tryand catch her off guard. “Looks like you’re working up a sweat now!” It wastrue – though the crisp air kept them pretty cool, Jade was starting toperspire, her folds slick with sweat.

“And you’re not?” Jade grinned, doing the same to Roxy andfeeling the slickness of her fat. “Feels like you’re sweating more than I am!”

“Maybe you’ve just got clammy hands.” Roxy teased, shakingher hips slightly to maker herself jiggle in Jade’s grip.

“Why would I have – woah!”

Roxy’s casual banter had served its purpose of distractingher opponent, and she pushed forward suddenly until Jade was forced off her feet.Her arms pinwheeled slightly in the moments before she lost her balance, butshe could do nothing to prevent her from falling onto the dewy grass, her wholebody quaking as her round ass made contact.

Roxy giggled from where she stood above, resting her handson her hips. “Oh, I got you! You should’ve seen the look on your face, that waspriceless!”

“Ha ha, very funny.” Jade pouted, crossing her arms over herchest. “Ew, my butt’s all wet now, gross…”

“Aw, poor Jade.” Roxy rolled her eyes, holding both handsout to the loser. “Here, lemme get you up.”

Jade took the offered hands, looking at them for a momentbefore a mischievous grin crossed her face. Before Roxy could react, she’d beenpulled off her feet and was crashing into Jade, the troublemaker laughing allthe while. Roxy rolled to the side, trying to get back up, but Jade clung toher, pressing their fat bodies together in the closest approximation of a bear-hugthat she could manage.

“Gross, Jade, you got me all wet!” Roxy squirmed, the coldgrass wicking dew all over her.

“Not so funny now, huh?” Jade kept giggling, keeping Roxy onthe ground and almost smothering her.

Their play-fighting continued for a while longer before bothgirls calmed down, just laying down together for a breather. Both of them werebreathing heavily, thoroughly coated in sweat and dew, faces flushed from exertionand with goose bumps raising over their bodies. Eventually Jade spoke, stillsmiling.

“Wanna have a second round?”

“Um, duh!”

#really gross stuff #homestuck #fatstuck #jade harley #roxy lalonde #sumo wrestling #nobodyimportantorunimportant

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scriveyner · 6 years

Text

symbols in the sand p1

“What’s there, at Oriande?” “A lot of sand, and a lot of death.”

There were worse things than waking up in a crowded, dirty prison cell. Shiro could name at least five, out of hand; although the thought didn’t make him feel any better as the elbow of another prisoner jabbed into the vicinity of his kidney. He managed to roll over, off his stomach, and kick a leg out at his attacker, warding the other man off. Shiro stared at him, dirty and rancid, as he scuttled back amidst the crush of prisoners and felt more than slightly out of sorts. The entire population of the cell was human - at least as far as he could tell, and for reasons he was entirely unsure that knowledge sat strange with him. As he stared about the glut of humanity another prisoner took the opportunity to relieve himself entirely too close to Shiro’s head, and he scrambled out of the way before climbing unsteadily to his feet.

That was when the hangover hit, and the cell spun around him.

Shiro staggered toward a wall that prisoners were crowded against and looked like they had no interest in moving any time soon. That was okay, when he vomited they moved quickly, scrambling to get out of the way as bile and the remnants of what felt like a week’s worth of drink made themselves known again. Shiro panted loudly, retching slightly still as he leaned, one arm against the wall and the other cover his mouth. His head was pounding like there was a bull elephant trapped in his skull and trying to break free, and there was a significant chance that he was going to vomit again, especially as the piquant bouquet of the cell’s inhabitants was beginning to make itself known.

As he recovered, still panting, a commotion near the front of the cell drew his attention. From the left two armed guards entered the cell, and Shiro watched them distractedly, more focused on keeping the contents of his stomach in place when he realized that they were making a beeline for him and holding shackles. The two men spoke in a foreign language that felt familiar, like he should understand them but he didn’t, and then one grabbed him firmly by the arm and yanked and Shiro’s first reaction was to immediately punch the man in return.

Hungover and dehydrated, that was perhaps a poor choice. When Shiro’s face was slammed against the bars of the cell hard enough to rattle him further he recognized that maybe leading with his fists hadn’t been the best course of action, but at least he hadn’t made it easy on the guards shackling him.

“And here is your friend now,” spoke someone unfamiliar, his tone thickly accented and just out of Shiro’s line of sight. He squinted through the bars, his vision temporarily doubled, and he saw a lot of white. His eyes traveled up the cream-colored skirts and finally rested on darker skin, a familiar face pulled into an unfamiliar expression underneath a wide-brimmed sun hat.

“Princess Allura?” Shiro slurred, before he got his shackled hands around the bars and was able to push himself up. He sent a glare over his shoulder at the guard who prodded him with the butt of his bayonet, but his attention was drawn back out to the other side of the cell at a familiar burst of laughter.

“Princess? Oh please, don’t give her any ideas,” an equally-familiar older man in an ill-fitting cream-colored jacket said, and Shiro’s brain must really be rattled because he knew this person too, although he was certain he’d never set eyes on either of them before in his life. “I wasn’t aware you were acquainted with my sister, Mr. Shirogane.”

Everything about the way this person spoke and held himself was wrong, sat wrong, and Shiro had the strangest memory of this person in a smoky dive bar that didn’t feel like his memory. His memory contained a lot of … teal. Shiro squinted again and fought with dueling memories to try to identify him. “You look familiar,” he said, as the woman - Allura? Was that actually her name? - turned to the third member of their party, a rather portly and greasy-looking man in creased linen.

“May we have a few minutes with our friend?” she asked, her voice tight but pleasant.

The warden looked at the man in the cream coat suspiciously, but finally nodded at the lady in the sun hat. “You have five minutes,” he said, and left them.

“I know you,” Shiro said, address the man with the ginger mustache, but the woman stepped forward, discretely producing a small, weathered, golden box from her handbag.

“What can you tell us about this?” she asked, and Shiro stared at the box that she kept slightly concealed in her hands. Baffled, Shiro didn’t recognize the box - but he did , and it produced a violent retch in his gut that he somehow managed to keep contained. The box was connected to sand and blood and death, and it looked so damn foreboding held cupped in the warm skin of the woman’s hands.

“Look, lady,” he said, and she stiffened slightly.

“That’s Miss Carnahan to you.”

He plowed on without being stopped, “I don’t know anything about that stupid thing.”

She turned toward her brother, tucking the trinket away. “Coran, you said this is the man you-” aware that her voice had raised she dropped it somewhat, “ stole it from.”

Coran. The name was familiar to Shiro and he wasn’t sure why. The same way that Allura’s name had resonated, but he was most certain now that he didn’t know either of them. “My dear sister,” Coran said, looking mildly panicked, and Shiro reckoned it was because pick-pocketing was intensely frowned upon in Cairo. “My friend here allowed me to borrow it, clearly recognizing the immense amount of trouble he was about to find himself in.”

“Immense amount of trouble,” Allura repeated, clearly not believing a word of it for a second. “I’ll wager you started that bar fight to get away with the map.” She turned back to Shiro and leaned in close to the bars, close enough that he realized the wisps of hair framing her face weren’t blonde but a white so fair it looked like it was spun from the clouds themselves. “There is a map in this trinket you … loaned my brother, Mr. Shirogane, and I am quite curious how you came across such an interesting piece.”

It didn’t feel like him speaking, when the words escaped this time. “You’re talking about Oriande,” he said, and Coran sprung forward, hissing quiet. There was a guard still in the cell with Shiro, and while he might not speak the language they were using, that name would perk up any ears.

“And why would you feel I was speaking about a fabled lost city?” Allura said, and there was an undercurrent of smugness to her tone, like she had tricked something out of Shiro that he wasn’t going to willingly give.

“Maybe that’s where I was when I picked up that ‘trinket’,” Shiro said, and felt the memory of blood and sand surge. “That’s what you’re after, isn’t it?”

“You’ve been there?” Coran sounded incredulous. “He’s pulling our leg, Allura. He probably won that thing in a card game, or stole it, more likely.”

“What’s there, at Oriande?” Allura asked, and Shiro shook his head.

“A lot of sand, and a lot of death,” he said, certain that this was true. “They aren’t kidding when they say that place is cursed. You need to steer clear.” There was a familiar look of determination on Allura’s face, and he knew that steering clear was in fact the exact opposite of her plans. “But … if you need to find it, I might know a guy,” he said.

“Really?” She leaned forward again.

“Yeah. Me. ” The guard behind him had clearly grown tired of their conversation, whatever the contents, and grabbed Shiro by the back of his roughspun tunic, but Shiro had a good grip on the bars of the cell. “Get me the hell out of here, and I’ll take you there!”

A second guard joined the first, and this one encouraged Shiro to release the bars of the cell by liberal application of the butt of his rifle to Shiro’s ribcage. He grunted in pain as the guards dragged him off, leaving the matched pair of siblings standing in front of the cell and exchanging a glance.

The guards did not return Shiro to the crowded holding cell where he had awoken. Shiro was half-dragged past jeering inmates and around through an arched doorway, into the blinding brilliance of the desert sun shining harshly down from a cloudless sky. He squinted, dazzled, as the noise level of the screaming prisoners rose slightly, and he realized that the guards had stopped a moment, giving him time to get his bearings. He was faced with a courtyard, squared off, and he could see the prisoners in this jail pressing their faces to the bars of various cells, trying to get a better look at the proceedings.

The thing that drew most of his attention, though, was the rickety gallows that sat centered in the courtyard.

This produced a visceral reaction as soon as he saw it. Shiro dug his heels into the dirt but the guards had him in too tight a grip to get free. The prisoners continued to heckle and jeer as he struggled, and then he heard Allura’s voice rise slightly about the crowd. “One hundred pounds!”

He looked involuntarily toward her voice and saw her seated on a balcony that overlooked the courtyard, beside the greasy form of the warden. She was turned toward the warden and not looking at him; but her brother stood slightly behind her and was staring at Shiro with some fragment of familiarity. Shiro couldn’t focus on that, though, as the guard shoved him toward the wooden stairs that would take him to his fate.

His hands and feet were both shackled and it was suicide, but so was mounting that set of stairs. So, Shiro did the first thing that came to mind when the guard brought the heel of his rifle to bear on Shiro again; he twisted, bringing the manacles up and catching the butt of the guard’s rifle in his chains and twisting them around it. This caught the man completely by surprise as Shiro yanked, pulling the weapon from the man’s grip and flinging it away.

The noise level of the prison rose immensely as the two guards rushed him, and several other guards started fighting their way through the crowd to get to the courtyard and help their brethren. Two at once Shiro could handle; or at least he felt he could, ducking under the first guard’s haymaker and surging into the second guard, shoulder-first, before the bayonet at the end of his rifle could be brought to bear. He didn’t get far as the second guard staggered back because the hangman joined the fracas, yanking Shiro by the back of his tunic hard enough to bring him down backward. He was off-balance enough that the hangman’s fist only glanced his head but he landed on his back against the stairs, the wind driven from him by their angle.

He thought he heard Allura’s voice again, five hundred pounds! , but he couldn’t be certain what he was hearing over the ringing in his ears as the second guard slammed his rifle into Shiro’s solar plexus - before he could even catch his breath, he was wheezing for air a second time. The first guard drew a dagger from his belt, holding out his hand toward the second guard, and Shiro rolled… or at least, tried to, but the hangman’s boot was on his shoulder.

The warden’s voice rang out, authoritative and sharp, in that same foreign language that most of the prison used. The first guard hesitated, his dagger still in hand as he argued back. The warden barked out something else and the guard snarled but tucked his weapon away, and Shiro tried again to get up but this time, the heel of the hangman’s boot found his face and that was the last thing he saw.

read on AO3 | buy me a ko-fi

#voltron legendary defender #crossover #multipart #unfinished #also on ao3

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the-unlost-wanderer · 7 years

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This past month and a half was both a blessing and a curse for me. A blessing because, ohmygoodness, I found so many amazing books; and a curse because, well, I spent my time reading instead of doing things I should have done. For example: school. I am so behind on school because of these books, I kind of hate them as much as I love them. I have no regrets, though. These books were worth it.

The Lunar Chronicles

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Goodreads Synopsis: Sixteen-year-old Cinder is considered a technological mistake by most of society and a burden by her stepmother. Being cyborg does have its benefits, though: Cinder’s brain interference has given her an uncanny ability to fix things (robots, hovers, her own malfunctioning parts), making her the best mechanic in New Beijing. This reputation brings Prince Kai himself to her weekly market booth, needing her to repair a broken android before the annual ball. He jokingly calls it “a matter of national security,” but Cinder suspects it’s more serious than he’s letting on.

Although eager to impress the prince, Cinder’s intentions are derailed when her younger stepsister, and only human friend, is infected with the fatal plague that’s been devastating Earth for a decade. Blaming Cinder for her daughter’s illness, Cinder’s stepmother volunteers her body for plague research, an “honor” that no one has survived.But it doesn’t take long for the scientists to discover something unusual about their new guinea pig. Something others would kill fo

I must admit, I wasn’t a huge fan of Cinder, but once I started Scarlet, I began to fall in love with the series.

Also, random fact, Thorne and I have the same birthday!

Cinder | Scarlet | Cress | Winter

The Wrath and the Dawn + The Rose and the Dagger

Goodreads Synopsis: One Life to One Dawn.

In a land ruled by a murderous boy-king, each dawn brings heartache to a new family. Khalid, the eighteen-year-old Caliph of Khorasan, is a monster. Each night he takes a new bride only to have a silk cord wrapped around her throat come morning. When sixteen-year-old Shahrzad’s dearest friend falls victim to Khalid, Shahrzad vows vengeance and volunteers to be his next bride. Shahrzad is determined not only to stay alive, but to end the caliph’s reign of terror once and for all.Night after night, Shahrzad beguiles Khalid, weaving stories that enchant, ensuring her survival, though she knows each dawn could be her last. But something she never expected begins to happen: Khalid is nothing like what she’d imagined him to be. This monster is a boy with a tormented heart. Incredibly, Shahrzad finds herself falling in love. How is this possible? It’s an unforgivable betrayal. Still, Shahrzad has come to understand all is not as it seems in this palace of marble and stone. She resolves to uncover whatever secrets lurk and, despite her love, be ready to take Khalid’s life as retribution for the many lives he’s stolen. Can their love survive this world of stories and secrets?

Everything was so beautifully written in these books, I wish I could speak as eloquently as they did in the books! The audio books were great as well, now I know how to pronounce everyone’s names.

The Wrath and the Dawn | The Rose and the Dagger

The Shatter Me Series

Goodreads Synopsis:

I have a curse I have a gift

I am a monster I’m more than humanMy touch is lethal My touch is power

I am their weapon I will fight back

Juliette hasn’t touched anyone in exactly 264 days.

The last time she did, it was an accident, but The Reestablishment locked her up for murder. No one knows why Juliette’s touch is fatal. As long as she doesn’t hurt anyone else, no one really cares. The world is too busy crumbling to pieces to pay attention to a 17-year-old girl. Diseases are destroying the population, food is hard to find, birds don’t fly anymore, and the clouds are the wrong color.

The Reestablishment said their way was the only way to fix things, so they threw Juliette in a cell. Now so many people are dead that the survivors are whispering war – and The Reestablishment has changed its mind. Maybe Juliette is more than a tortured soul stuffed into a poisonous body. Maybe she’s exactly what they need right now.

Juliette has to make a choice: Be a weapon. Or be a warrior.

I’ve seen the covers to the books of this series everywhere these past few years but never picked it up. I eventually decided to borrow the audio books from the library and was so glad I did. The narrator did an amazing job, I was able to feel the emotions just by listening to the audio book, and trust me, this series had a lot of them. This is literally the most angsty series I have ever read. Edit: I just found out that there is going to be three more books in the series, and I just have to say: if anything bad happens to Kenji, I will start a riot.

Shatter Me | Unravel Me | Ignite Me

The Scorpio Races

Goodreads Synopsis: It happens at the start of every November: the Scorpio Races. Riders attempt to keep hold of their water horses long enough to make it to the finish line. Some riders live. Others die.

At age nineteen, Sean Kendrick is the returning champion. He is a young man of few words, and if he has any fears, he keeps them buried deep, where no one else can see them.Puck Connolly is different. She never meant to ride in the Scorpio Races. But fate hasn’t given her much of a chance. So she enters the competition — the first girl ever to do so. She is in no way prepared for what is going to happen.

I honestly loved Puck so much. And Sean. And Corr. And Dove. And Finn. I think it’s safe to say I loved everything about this book.

Flame in the Mist

Goodreads Synopsis: The only daughter of a prominent samurai, Mariko has always known she’d been raised for one purpose and one purpose only: to marry. Never mind her cunning, which rivals that of her twin brother, Kenshin, or her skills as an accomplished alchemist. Since Mariko was not born a boy, her fate was sealed the moment she drew her first breath.

So, at just seventeen years old, Mariko is sent to the imperial palace to meet her betrothed, a man she did not choose, for the very first time. But the journey is cut short when Mariko’s convoy is viciously attacked by the Black Clan, a dangerous group of bandits who’ve been hired to kill Mariko before she reaches the palace.The lone survivor, Mariko narrowly escapes to the woods, where she plots her revenge. Dressed as a peasant boy, she sets out to infiltrate the Black Clan and hunt down those responsible for the target on her back. Once she’s within their ranks, though, Mariko finds for the first time she’s appreciated for her intellect and abilities. She even finds herself falling in love—a love that will force her to question everything she’s ever known about her family, her purpose, and her deepest desires.

I already wrote a review of this book but I must have re-read it again like two times in the past month.

Alex, Approximately

Goodreads Synopsis: The one guy Bailey Rydell can’t stand is actually the boy of her dreams—she just doesn’t know it yet.

Classic movie fan Bailey “Mink” Rydell has spent months crushing on a witty film geek she only knows online as Alex. Two coasts separate the teens until Bailey moves in with her dad, who lives in the same California surfing town as her online crush.Faced with doubts (what if he’s a creep in real life—or worse?), Bailey doesn’t tell Alex she’s moved to his hometown. Or that she’s landed a job at the local tourist-trap museum. Or that she’s being heckled daily by the irritatingly hot museum security guard, Porter Roth—a.k.a. her new archnemesis. But life is a whole lot messier than the movies, especially when Bailey discovers that tricky fine line between hate, love, and whatever it is she’s starting to feel for Porter.

And as the summer months go by, Bailey must choose whether to cling to a dreamy online fantasy in Alex or take a risk on an imperfect reality with Porter. The choice is both simpler and more complicated than she realizes, because Porter Roth is hiding a secret of his own: Porter is Alex…Approximately.

Literally the cutest book ever, not to mention the numerous times cookies and churros were mentioned. I must have eaten like three pounds of sugar while reading Alex, Approximately.

What do you think about these books? And what books have you been obsessed with lately?

love, jane.

the unlost book nook | twitter | goodreads | instagram | bloglovin

What books have YOU been obsessed with lately? This past month and a half was both a blessing and a curse for me. A blessing because, ohmygoodness, I found so many amazing books; and a curse because, well, I spent my time reading instead of doing things I should have done.

#All Blog Posts #Book Review #Books #Fiction #Teen #Teenage #Teens #YA #Young Adult

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creativesage · 5 years

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(via Your failure of imagination is not my problem – anthro{dendum})

January 10, 2019

Written by: Zoe Todd

In November 2016, I flew to Zurich to deliver a talk on my work on Métis legal-ethical paradigms, prairie fish, and the Anthropocene. When we booked the tickets earlier that summer, it didn’t occur to me that I’d asked my hosts to book my travel for the night of the US Presidential election. So, as I set out from Ottawa, the Canadian capital, on the evening of November 8, I entered a strange and disorienting patch of space time that took me through multiple timezones, geographies, and national boundaries while the fate of American governance hung in the balance. At 6 PM, in the Ottawa airport, things still seemed hopeful. Maybe Trump wouldn’t win. Two delays later, I finally made it to Toronto. There, at our international departures gate, things were taking a turn for the grim. TV screens around us showed that Hillary was slipping, and Trump was gaining steam. I turned to a fellow passenger and said ‘wow, we might wake up to a Trump presidency’. Her face widened in horror: “don’t you dare say that!”.

As we boarded the plane, many of us realized there was no wifi onboard. There would be no obsessive refreshing of twitter feeds or CNN polls as we flew over the moonlit expanses of the Atlantic. We were locked in, for better or worse, for the next seven hours. As we flew up and over the eastern coast, over Newfoundland and out into the Atlantic, whatever was going on back in America was inaccessible to us. When I awoke in the morning, we were readying to land at Heathrow. Just seconds before the tires touched the tarmac, I felt an overwhelming sense of nausea. I can’t explain it, but somehow I knew in those seconds when we came back into contact with the earth, that Trump had won. (The canny pilots waited until we were about to deplane to announce the election result, and the spirit of the entire economy section deflated, save for one man who shouted a muted ‘woohoo’ before reading the room and shutting the heck up).

This made for a dramatic backdrop for my first visit to Switzerland.

The evening of November 9th, strangers gathered in a large auditorium style classroom on the campus of ETH, the fabled Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics university in Zurich. My lovely hosts welcomed me, and I gave a talk on Métis law, watersheds, fish collapse, kinship, and oil and gas spills in my home province. At the end, the audience engaged in a deeply respectful way, asking questions about Indigenous theory, environmental issues, etc. However, the mic made its way to a young man who seemed to be somewhat agitated. He lobbed a softball question at me about spirits, I think. And then, his body language shifted. He had caught me in his snare! Aha! If I believed in spirits, then clearly this wasn’t science! I can’t remember the exact details of his next question, but it was not the words that mattered. It was the form, the energy, and the weaponization that mattered. He pounced on the mic — and launched into an accusation of my work being ‘anti-science’ (a sin to end all sins in a STEM institution).

I tried to answer, but he kept going, working himself into a froth. This clearly wasn’t about the content of my work, or even about ‘questions’. This was about the affront of my Indigenous presence in his rational space. How. Dare. I. Exist. In. Academia.

My hosts grew concerned with his hostility, and he was eventually asked to leave. When he left, the audience erupted in spontaneous applause. And we continued on.

(They weren’t going to let a Trump win, or the emboldened rage of the right, stop them from being good hosts, from looking after their guest, or from enacting some basic forms of care for their invited speaker).

A little while later, I shared this experience with a mentor. I shared my account of being heckled by a member of the audience. She compassionately corrected me:

“You were attacked, Zoe. That is an attack.”

Since that conversation, I’ve reframed my understandings of my experiences of white hostility in the academy. They are many. They are sometimes hilarious (“he said what to you?” a colleague will laugh as we parse out the latest experience). They are often dispiriting (you can only put up with hostility from dominant society for so long before it starts to wear you down). They are monumental (‘a whole department behaved that way?” a friend will whisper in shock as I share a story over a long overdue lunch). They are sometimes mundane. I am not the first nor the last to write about this — so many brilliant BIPOC scholars have outlined their own stories of surviving white hostility in academia and beyond. Sara Ahmed (2018) draws on her work with interlocutors working in diversity policy contexts to demonstrate how refusal to absorb certain forms of hostility from dominant groups impacts those who speak up:

“Another practitioner describes: “you know, you go through that in these sorts of jobs where you go to say something and you can just see people going ‘oh here she goes.’” We both laughed, recognising that each other recognised that scene. The feminist killjoy, that leaky container, comes up here; she comes up in what we hear. We hear each other in the wear and the tear of the words we share; we hear what it is like to come up against the same thing over and over again. We imagine the eyes rolling as if to say: well she would say that. It was from experiences like this that I developed my equation: rolling eyes = feminist pedagogy.”

In Citizen: An American Lyric, Claudia Rankine (2015) states: “Because white men can’t/police their imagination/black men are dying.” (cited also by Kellaway in this interview with Claudia Rankine in the Guardian). White imagination is murderous.

As Ahmed references in her above mentioned 2018 piece, in his work in the UK with the UCL campaign “Why Isn’t My Professor Black?”, Dr. Nathaniel Adam Tobias C—- (2014) challenges the failure of the white british imagination to formulate the academy as one that includes Black professors:

http://www.dtmh.ucl.ac.uk/videos/isnt-professor-black-nathaniel-coleman/

These forms of white imagination, which inform violent white supremacist actions against Black people in America, the UK, and other white supremacist nations, are pervasive. I do not want to co-opt this work that Ahmed, Rankine, and C—- are doing, but rather to explain how it informs my own understandings of how white imagination operates to evacuate — sometimes very aggressively evacuate — Indigenous bodies and thinking from academic spaces.

Informed by this work, what I have come to realize is that many of the hostile encounters I have experienced in academia are, at least on some level, about failure of white people’s imagination. Failure to imagine Black, Indigenous and other racialized bodies in the hallways of academe. Failure to imagine epistemologies beyond those that fester in euro-western academic paradigms. Failure to imagine possibilities beyond jealously guarded white (often male) syndicates. Failure to imagine that white folks occupying space on stolen land ought to perhaps….ahem…tread a big more humbly. They are also about racism, white supremacy, sexism, classism, elitism, insecurity, jealousy, and greed.

But it is failure of (white settler) imagination that I can tackle the most directly with the energy and resources that I have at my disposal right now. (I keep doing my fallible best to disrupt white supremacy, sexism, and other forms of structural violence, but those are a much longer term struggle). When someone lashes out at me at an invited event for my use of Indigenous methodologies, Indigenous philosophy, Indigenous citational praxis — I reframe it for myself as their failure to imagine something bigger than they occupy. Through this framing, I am able to stop, or at least try to stop, taking these attacks personally. To mentally reframe these attacks in a way that doesn’t destroy me. I have to do this to survive. (I am not saying you have to do this. Everyone’s survival is multifaceted and complex).

But, I also want to address my white academic colleagues directly: this hostility is happening on your watch. When you invite Indigenous scholars into your colonial institutions, as guests, as colleagues, to share our knowledge on lands stolen and violated by the institutions you occupy and uphold, you have a duty to be good hosts and good colleagues. The toxicity or dysfunction of your department, the decades long disputes that shape your Faculty or Senate or tenure processes – these are not my problem. If these explode during my visit, you might want to, energetically speaking anyway, clean house a little. Because your guests aren’t consenting to travel hundreds, sometimes thousands, of miles to be attacked or mocked. When you invite a guest into your space, there is an implicit expectation you will be on your best behaviour. In fact, visiting is one of the things that deeply informs Métis being. Hosting and being hosted is one of the ways we build up our nationhood, renew kinship obligations, and restore relationality. We take hosting, and being hosted, very seriously.

This goes beyond visiting and hosting, though. It stretches into the very fabric of academia. To how we conceive of how to be and how to formulate knowledge. But the casual dismissal of pervasive white settler hostility in academe is conspicuous when juxtaposed with how frequently any form of refusal or accountability from Indigenous scholars (and BIPOC scholars) is immediately parsed as inexcusably hostile. Isn’t it a little rich for white scholars to be able to be dismissive, rude, to raise their voices, to shout, to bodily intimate people, to go out of their way to humiliate Indigenous and other scholars? But if we so much as firmly refuse this, let alone openly address it, we are unprofessional and shrill? Marked as ‘difficult’ and whispered about by the very people who take glee in ‘cutting us down a peg’ at any opportunity?

A further concern: if you are a white scholar treating me, your peer and colleague, with hostility and contempt, it gives me a VERY good indication of how you treat Indigenous students. In 2004, Comanche scholar Joshua K. Mihesuah wrote about the reasons that Indigenous students drop out of school in the USA, and among the most significant reasons he lists are hostility in academic environments:

“Many dropouts and “stopouts” (those who leave for a while but return) choose not to conform to the values of the dominant society, and many remain frustrated because the academy does not meet their needs.” (Mihesuah 2004: 191)

“There still is a lack of respect among many university faculty, staff, and administrators for Native cultures. In Flagstaff, for example, despite the Navajo, Hopi, Walapai, Havasupai, and Yavapai Apache reservations’ geographic proximity to the border town (there are twenty-two tribes in Arizona), it is surprising to learn that few faculty have visited those communities. Insensitivity and stereotyping, both blatant and subtle, of Indigenous peoples are pervasive in classrooms. “Given” tribal names such as Papago, instead of the self-determined Tohono O’Odham are still used by professors; Squaw Peak and Squaw Peak Parkway are names that persist in Phoenix (although they have been renamed after fallen Hopi soldier Lori Piestewa); and despite Natives’ concerns about the ski resort on Natives’ sacred Mount Humphreys in Flagstaff, plans are in the making to expand the resort by using reclaimed water for snowmaking (which many Natives and environmentalists fear will increase the number of ski runs). New legislative and congressional lines have been drawn to include Flagstaff and large portions of the Navajo and Hopi reservations. Natives have high hopes for more political clout, but many non-Natives are concerned that Natives will get more than their share of funding, although there is no historical precedent for this concern. These topics are debated in classrooms, and quite often, Native students are too intimidated to speak up to express their views and stance about the ignorance of their instructors and classmates. Students continually fail Gateway courses (basic math, English, and science) because professors tend to have a “cut it or you’re out” attitude.” (Mihesuah 2004: 192-193)

Many of the behaviours Mihesuah details here are things that students have quietly brought to my attention that my own colleagues have perpetuated against them at myriad institutions across North America and Europe. So, again, if you can barely treat an Indigenous professor with respect, I can safely assume students are not being treated with respect either. So let’s cut the niceties and start addressing this white academic hostility directly.

(January 12 edit: for an article that explores what happens when white hostility is formalized into a wholesale dismissal of a discipline, please see Dr. Robert Alexander Innes’ piece “Introduction: Native Studies and Native Cultural Preservation, Revitalization, and Persistence” in American Indian Culture and Research Journal 34:2 (2010) 1-9. In this piece, he articulates how a white political science scholar in Canada elevates a misinformed understanding of Indigenous scholarship to dismiss the entire field of Indigenous Studies. Hostility indeed.)

Ultimately, I hope that white settler scholars will step up and do the labour necessary to address the way that their peers lash out at Indigenous scholars and other marginalized communities. I hope that my white peers will pay attention to the tone their peers use when they don’t understand an Indigenous philosophical approach, or how they respond when they feel threatened by Indigenous law and praxis. I hope they will challenge their colleagues when they, unabashedly and unapologetically, attack that which challenges their very ontological claims to knowing and being. I hope they will take note of the ways that BIPOC scholars are policed for their tone, language, wording, bodies, and being but white scholars are often allowed to be inexcusably hostile and violent.

You can take a cue from my colleagues in Switzerland, who kindly told their peer to find a way to engage respectfully or to leave. I mean, if you are hosting a guest or building any kind of collective, why would you allow your community to treat someone disrespectfully? It’s really that simple.

Works Cited:

Ahmed, Sara. 2018. Refusal, resignation, and complaint. Feminist Killjoys blog. https://feministkilljoys.com/2018/06/28/refusal-resignation-and-complaint/

C——, Nathanial Adam Tobias. 2014. “Why Isn’t My Professor Black?”. http://www.dtmh.ucl.ac.uk/videos/isnt-professor-black-nathaniel-coleman/

Mihesuah, Joshua K. 2004. “11. Graduating Indigenous Students by Confronting the Academic Environment”, pp. 191-199 in Indigenizing the Academy, Devon Abbott Mihesuah and Angela Cavender Wilson, editors. University of Nebraska Press.

Rankine, Claudia. 2015. Citizen: An American Lyric. Graywolf Press.

Zoe Todd

Zoe Todd (Métis/otipemisiw) is from amiskwaciwâskahikan (Edmonton), Alberta, Canada. She writes about fish, art, Métis legal traditions, the Anthropocene, extinction, and decolonization in urban and prairie contexts. She also studies human-animal relations, colonialism and environmental change in north/western Canada. She holds a BSc (Biological Sciences) and MSc (Rural Sociology) from the University of Alberta and a PhD (Social Anthropology) from Aberdeen University. She is an Assistant Professor of Anthropology in the Department of Sociology and Anthropology at Carleton University in Ottawa, Canada. She was a 2011 Pierre Elliott Trudeau Foundation Scholar.

[Entire article — click on the title link to read it at anthro{dendum}.]

#indigenous #indigenouspeople #academia #racism #prejudice #discrimination #culture #anthropology #sociology #decolonization

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ramrodd · 5 years

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Where were you on May 4, 1970?

On 4 May 1970, I wanted to get out of the Georgia sun and into some air conditioning before the starch in my summer khaki uniform wilted completely.

COMMENTARY:

I assume that you mean, where were you when you heard about Kent State?

My first visual memory that comes up is walking just south of the Post PX/Commisary cluster at Ft. Benning with the packet of my orders to Vietnam in my hand as I was clearing off post going to some office I had to present a copy of the orders to. The US Army has always depended heavily on personal initiative from the Seven Years War, going forward. It is still pretty much the frontier society it was the day George Custer dropped a letter to his wife off at the Quartermaster and trotted cheerfully off to glory. As a result of MacNamara, the Army community was beginning to lose some of this capacity that showed up for me on C-SPAN in the run-up to Desert Storm: the community was very sluggish. The Army noticed and began to fix that in 1994 just in time for the continuing decades of high cycle deployment the applied stupidity of Richard “Dick” Cheney and the neo-cons created with their historic and totally unnecessary diplomatic blunder compounded by their cosmic incompetence when they got us into Iraq and realized that the planning for occupation based on chocolates and flowers suffered from the basic operational assumptions inherent in “The Art of the Deal” and Duck Ass Don’s government shut down and tarriff wars.

But on 4 May, 1970, I was done with spring training as a Boy Soldier and the next step was the Big Leagues. I mean, you don’t go to Ranger School to run a Wall Street bucket shop and Vietnam was where the series was being played that year.

Kent State was not a surprise to me: it was an accident waiting to happen. The Nation Guard had been gunning down black folks since 1963 in places like Watts, Detroit and DC: the only difference this time is that it was white kids getting shot down and the reaction of the mostly white anti-war mob was, from my perspective, virtually the same as Roger Stone’s complaints about being arrested like your average black male who happens to be in the room when the FBI breaks down the door with the right address on the warrant but the wrong address afor the perp. I mean, they let him pull on some pants and polo shirt for his perp walk and he got about the same kind of coverage the times George Clooney got arrested for DUI or something. I mean, come on. But I digress.

I was in ROTC at Indiana University from the beginning of the drafts in 1965 until I graduated in the lull between Nixon’s election and Kent State. On my way to report to Infantry Hall, I picked up a couple going to the Atlanta Pop Festival on the 4th of July and I took them there and stayed unti almost dark and listened to a lot of music I didn’t recognize and drove to Atlanta for a shower and a little clubbing. The Atlanta Pop Festival was the first in a series of concerts leading to Woodstock. I was going through the Patrolling Committee training of Officer’s Basic that weekend and I didn’t really get the scope of the gathering, but it was like a migration celebrating what they believed was the end of the war because the Selective Service was shutting down and the All Volunteer Military coming on line. And, all in all, I think Woodstock is probably the one thing that has prevented assholes like Steve Bannon and Newt Gingrich from finally blowing up America like John Galt in Atlas Shrugged. If you were there and you remember the underlying moral statement being made by everybody being there (I think first of Joan Baez’s cover of Joe Hill soaring across the crowd and, today, I can see AOC guiding a generation of Secular Humanists into the tabula rasa of the 19th Amendment), I went to Vietnam for exactly those values.

I know why I went to Vietnam and I haven’t changed my mind. AOC validates my expectations and, before her, Barack Hussein Obama. On 4 May 1970, I was on my way to do my bit to make sure Obama got elected President. I wasn’t surprised about Kent State except in the timing, because I was surprised by the sheer brilliance of the Cambodian Incursion, after the fact, and by the sheer chutzpah of Nixon launching the operation at all.

As I say, I am an Army brat and I was raised around major headquarters all my life until I actually reported for duty. I knew about the Tet Offensive Christmas before the Tet Offensive. Ft. Monroe knew about the godless commie cocksuckers were going to spring something and it was clear to everyone that the holiday of Tet was the first pitch. My Professor of Military Science at IU didn’t know it was coming during the last class of the semester. I may have asked the question, how did he, a Major with at least two tours at the company level behind him, measure progress in Vietnam and his answer was the party line coming out of Saigon at the time, but it wasn’t informed of Saigon’s expectations in the next three weeks.

I was surprised by Cambodia because I was no longer hooked into that command level except when I was home. It was now literally above my pay grade. At the time, my first response was that it was a very gutsy move on Nixon’s part because the memo the Woodstock Nation was circulating. This was before the Oliver Stone version of Vietnam solidified around the mythology Ken Burns presents in Vietnam because it was still happening, but the first complaint about the incursion was that Nixon was widening the war and that establishes the boundaries of the emerging mythology. The common wisdom of the Woodstock Nation is that we invaded Vietnam in 1961 and 1961 in order to prop up French Colonialism. Noam Chomsky riffs of several versions of what happened in Vietnam in 1962 and he’s full of shit, lingusitically speaking.

Anyway, Nixon stole the march on the NVA in Cambodia and Laos and on the expectaions of the MSM and the Woodstock Nation and landed the sucker punch on the godless commie cocksuckers that let Nixon keep his promise to turn the war over to Saigon and to pull the troops out of the country without reprising either Dien Bien Phu or Dunkirk. The NVA was a world class military and Hanoi fanatical about siezing Saigon as a property of the People, etc, but the US military kicked ass and took names and kicked what was left to the curb and, when I got there in July, just after everybody got back from their road trip, there were 525,000 American soldiers in Vietnam and when I left in May 1971, there was less than 165,000. The Army knew what it was doing and Nixon let them do it. The Cambodian Incursion probably avoided 30,000 US casualties as a low ball estimate and the only cost the Woodstock Nation tallys is 4 dead in Ohio. They don’t even count Jackson State, because, after all, it’s a black university and the National Guard had been gunning down black folks in places like Watts and Detroit and DC since 1963 and they weren’t white boys and girls.

Do you see how I could turn this into a sermon about #BlackLivesMatter and why it was important for me to to go Vietnam to make sure Obama got elected? I mean, if I was wrong in 2008, I’ve been wrong since 4 May 1970. And, if I was wrong in 1970, I might as well pony up for a MAGA hat and go kiss Nick Sandman’s ass at half-time in the Super Bowl for ever suggesting his MAGA hat was hate speech.

So, anyway, my first real response, walking across post in the sub-tropical George sun at high noon, was not surprise that it happened but that it took so long for it to happen if it happened at all. After all, the only thing about the Chicago Police Riots in 68 that prevented it becoming a lethal blood bath like something out of the Russian Revolution or Ghadi’s peaceful resistance movement. I’ve had a chance to review what happened and I think the troops just wanted to frighten the crowd by putting some live rounds over their heads: the sizzle of volley fire can discourage a heavy investment in a “fuck you” attitude facing troops with fixed bayonets. And a couple of them didn’t fire quite high enough.

And here’s why I believe it was an accident: I could put myself in the place of that company commander. I wouldn’t have issued live ammo in the first place. If even weekend warriors can’t handle a crowd, defensively, with fixed bayonets, they need to transfer to the Air Force. That’s the first thing. They had secured the public property and why anybody felt a need to clear the meadow is a bit hazy to me. It’s like a high-speed car chase: you don’t really want to catch him so much as pen him in: let time work for you.

I wasn’t there. I don’t know, but from what I do know, that’s what I would have planned to do. The Kent State protests were not really structure but spontaneous, kids on their way to class up for a little heckling of the National Guard. There were professors there, talking the crowd down and outrage was going to drain away, nation wide, as the military operation completed its mission and returned from the thrust, no harm, no foul. And then these kids get shot and it mobilizes everything, all over again.

But it was an accident. If I had been the CO and determined that lethal force was the necessary action, I would have killed everything going up that hill side and anybody trying to get away at the top. Not 4 dead. 400.

In the numerology of the Bible, 4 is what’s left after the Finger of God touches down. There were 67 rounds fired up that hill at Kent State and, in my application of the numerology of the Bible, 67 reduces, first, to 13 and 13 is an ideogram that symbolizes the triune crown of Yaweh, Queen of Battle, with a lightening bolt above Her crown, the Finger of God. And, then, 13 devolves to 4.

From a military point of view, Kent State was an accident waiting to happen, but, as a Secular Humanist and Christian heretic, I have come to see divine purpose in the event.

But on 4 May 1970, I really just wanted to get out of the sun and into some air conditioning before the starch in my summer khaki uniform wilted completely.

And that’s the truth.

#transformingamericafirst

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