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cdyssey · 10 months

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Simpler Times

Summary: After Kelvin falls asleep in the middle of their movie, Jesse asks if Judy misses the simpler times. Set during 1x09.

AO3 Link | T Rating

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“Don’t you ever miss the simpler times?” Jesse asks when the end credits of The NeverEnding Story finally start to roll, and Judy is nearly asleep on Kelvin’s couch, idly thinking about how much she’d like to dream about BJ. BJ and his straw-colored hair. BJ and that slender, little nerd body. BJ and those big, wet eyes that look at her and not through her, that acknowledge her and really see her, fuck ups and all.

She’s damaged goods, she told him in that Outback Steakhouse, and for the first time in her life, actually meant it.

She doesn’t deserve him.

She’d still like to dream about him anyway.

BJ and his liberal politics. BJ and his stupid electric car. BJ and that shiny, new earring that he’s got. (It’s gaudy as hell. Her daddy wouldn’t approve. It’s fucking sexy anyway.)

BJ and his genuinely kind smile.

(She doesn’t meet too many people with one of those nowadays, vaguely aware that her own smile is carefully manufactured in the coffers of the Gemstone Vault, that her father and brothers’ are too—perfectly calibrated to appease a broader audience, a steady demographic of adults ages thirty to eighty-five. When the Gemstones smile, they smile with precisely the right shape and none of the proper dimension. When BJ smiles, it warms his entire face like lightning bugs in the night.)

Really, there are a lot of good and lovely things to dream about when it comes to Benjamin Jason Barnes—his passion, his goodness, the way his ass looks in her jeans, his slinging, slappin', hanging and hung cock ‘n juicy ass bal—

—but unfortunately, before any of these fantasies are realized, she jerks fully awake at the unexpected question, startling Kelvin who had conked out nearly thirty minutes ago with his head resting on her lap.

“Shhh,” she instinctively soothes, running her hand through his shock of dark hair. It’s not an easy feat with the metric shit ton of product he uses.

But nevertheless, she persists because Mama used to do the same when they were all younger, threading her slender pianist fingers through their curls, filling the delicately shaped pews of their ears with soft hymns. Judy hardly remembers the lyrics of any of them, but it was always something old and Jesus-y, like it came straight from a Carter Family cassette.

Mama had a beautiful voice—all angelic and holy.

Listening to it was probably the closest she’s ever come to actually hearing God.

“Go back t’sleep, baby bro.”

And to her surprise, Kelvin actually does, burrowing slightly against her stomach, mumbling something that she doesn’t quite catch. Of course, he absolutely needs the sleep. He’d been talking pretty cray cray all night, blabbering on at one point about how he might actually be Jesus Christ incarnate.

Dumbass.

She loves the little bastard all the same.

“Nice goin’,” Jesse teases. He’s looks pretty darn comfortable where he's at with one of his beefy arms thrown over the head of the velvet couch, the other cradling a half-empty beer—his fourth that Judy knows of. “Wakin’ the baby.”

“Shut up,” she immediately bristles, more than reluctant to be chastised, especially by her sanctimonious donkey dingus of an older brother. He can be such a dick sometimes—always messing with her ass. “I wouldn’t have woken him had you not said anything.”

“Had to get your attention somehow, Judes. Didn’t have any bright lights on me.”

“I ain’t a fucking cat, Jesse.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why d’ya keep talkin’ about your pussy, huh?”

She flips him a bird with her free hand, and Jesse flips one right back, but then, per their usual vicious tango, in accordance with all the childish games they're accustomed to playing, he smiles crookedly at her, apology in his eyes, and she relents with a long and melodramatic sigh.

Truce.

Kelvin begins to snore again, his mouth stupidly wrenched open, a gaping hole, and Judy resists the frustrated urge to pinch his nose.

“The simpler times,” Jesse repeats after another beat, his smile suddenly disappearing, an older man’s sadness just as quickly taking its place. There are lines beneath his bright eyes, sagging shadows. Scruff that hasn’t been shaved. All of that overgrown schoolboy juvenescence chewed up, choked upon, and painfully swallowed, and suddenly her eldest sibling resembles their rapidly aging father more than ever before.

Solemnity isn’t a good look on him; he can’t wear its gravitas as comfortably as a cocky smile or big, bellowing laugh.

“Do you miss ‘em?”

Judy scrutinizes him in the faint light wash of the TV, trying to glean the answer from his pensive stare without having to pry. Jesse’s dumber than a squirrel on crack most of the time, but he can be thoughtful when he wants to—a little philosophical even—very much like their father who’s prone to monologuing about existential crap when he gets in the mood. She hates when her brother does it, though, ‘cuz then it means she’s gotta do some meaningful reflecting herself to actually have a conversation with him.

And if there’s only one thing she hates more than having a serious conversation with her brother, it’s having a serious conversation with herself—looking inwards and finding something that she doesn’t instinctively flinch at seeing.

“Simpler times? Like before you went and snorted coke off hookers’ tits in Atlanta?” She finally asks, intending for it to sting, half-hoping that it’ll really fucking hurt. Maybe he’ll pull away and they won’t have to have this shitty feelings talk; maybe they’ll get into a fight, and that’ll be mutually beneficial distraction for them both.

But Jesse is either oblivious or undeterred.

Probably both knowing him.

“Wasn’t their tits,” he shakes his head gravely. “And nah, before that even, little sis. Like, before Mama passed on and things were, y’know… they were actually, uh—"

But he stumbles pathetically at the end, groping around for the right words, and Judy feels herself something inside her unclench and relent as it always does when Mama is brought up nowadays. She’s not exactly Daddy, a pillar of salt slowly eroding in front of Mama’s polished bust like it’s her own personal idol, but she’s not necessarily Judy anymore either, a ball of excessive nerves and live wires and unbridled sexual energy. She’s just a little girl again, scared of the dark in her sepulcher of a room, waiting for Mama to swoop in and save her with a gentle kiss goodnight.

Growing up, she was always needing to be saved in some way or another.

She had hated that about herself.

She’d always had an inkling that everyone else around her hated it too.

“Happy?” She suggests quietly, glancing down at Kelvin because she can’t look Jesse in the eye. None of the Gemstones are intensely vulnerable people. Any visible weakness is typically pounced upon and made into a vicious joke at church lunch. She and her siblings especially have made a bit of a game outta one-upping their cruelty towards each other.

(Implicitly understood but never said aloud—whoever Daddy smirks at from behind his hand wins.)

But to Judy’s relief, Jesse doesn’t seem to be in a mocking sort of mood and hasn’t particularly been all night. Earlier, he even told her that she’d have ten to fifteen boyfriends, and that they’d all go down on her butthole.

That’s nearly the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to her, and that’s counting the time that BJ said that she was talented with a whip.

“Yeah, for sure,” Jesse agrees, though he sounds more-than-uncertain, scratching his head, that thick mass of curls. “But I guess I was just thinkin’ that life was so much clearer then too. We knew right from wrong ‘cause Mama showed us the way.”

“Daddy’d say that Jesus is the one who’s supposed to show us that,” she says automatically. She’s not sure that she believes it—only knows that it’s what she should say, what Christianity and its thousands of stuffy edicts demands of her.

“Shoot,” her brother laughs. “I think Daddy agrees with me deep down, though. He’s all lost without her too.”

“Don’t say that, Jess,” she protests immediately, pressing two fingers over her brow. She can feel a headache beginning to form, its nucleus pulsing right behind her eyes.

“What? That Daddy’s lost? Newsflash, Sis—that ain’t exactly news.”

“No,” she pouts, the syllable dredged up from her chest like muck after a summer rain. “That we all are. I don’t wanna think about that.”

Can’t, really.

It’s like throwing a brick through her own glass house. Once it’s shattered, she’s afraid of what she’s gonna cut herself on in all the rubble.

(Maybe she is as untalented as Uncle Baby Billy says. Maybe she’s got nothin’ to show for her nearly four-decade long life except for a fine ass body and a knack at stealing money from the church. Maybe Daddy will never love her in the way that she desperately wants him to. Maybe she hurt BJ in a way she can never, ever take back. And maybe that’s the true token by which she can be damn sure that she’s condemned—her astonishing ability to keep pushing away the folks who love her unconditionally. They’re few and far between—those people, those endlessly patient souls—and they scare the living shit outta her because of that very fact. Reckless, damn near always, she tries to terrify them as a fucked up form of thank you.)

(You love me; how noble of you; here, have at me; I'm a goddamn train wreck in motion.)

“Like, shit, Jesse,” she continues, violently swiping at her eyes. They’re leaking, and she hates that—despises that her older brother can plainly see. “I’m too fucking sober to be talkin’ about this.”

The quarter-bottle of wine she brought over was hardly sufficient. Didn’t touch a thing except for her lips.

“And I’m too drunk to stop, so I think we’re at an in past here.”

“Impasse,” Judy corrects him, sniffing profusely.

“Whatever,” he rolls his eyes but plucks a tissue from a nearby end table and hands it to her anyway. She dabs at her eyes first, then blows her nose rather loudly.

To Jesse’s rare credit, he doesn’t say a thing.

“‘Least grab a gal somethin’ to drink before you start makin’ her cry over her dead mommy issues,” she grouses, not willing to let silence fill the space between them. Not talking about her emotions is somehow even more unbearable than talking about them; at least if she starts spouting stuff, it doesn’t necessarily have to be the truth.

“I’d offer you somethin’, girl, but I think all Kelvin has in his fridge are White Claws ‘n those weird ass home-brewed beers the Satan kid makes. Frat boy shit.”

“Ugh.” She flicks their youngest sibling on the center of his head. He doesn’t stir. “Shithead.”

“Yeah,” Jesse snorts, patting Kelvin’s leg. “Fucker.”

They share the fond and self-righteous chuckle of the two older siblings then, the pair who grew up together, who then protected and tormented their baby brother in turns, and it’s kind of happy, and it’s somehow terribly sad all at once. Jesse looks away at the end of it, rubbing the side of his reddened nose, and Judy takes another pass at her eyes with the crumpled-up tissue.

Her mascara is already smudged.

She guesses there's no use trying to hide the damage anymore—the pain and the incalculable toll.

Fuck it.

She’s all soft 'n gooey tonight, apparently.

“Okay,” she starts slowly. “You asked a question. Simpler times.”

Jesse nods affirmatively, still not quite meeting her in the eye. It’s better like this. Judy can breathe easier without the weight of his gaze sitting on her chest.

He’s gotta Mama’s eyes—vivid and piercing.

She’s always loathed that about him.

Envied.

“Uh… let’s see… I-I dunno if I miss the simpler days ‘cuz we didn’t have as much then, and Mama and Daddy still didn’t have a lotta time to hang with us anyway… but I just miss Mama, y’know? There’s a difference between those two things in my head.”

It’s hard to explain, but Judy’s never been one to get all sentimental over memories. She’s spent a lifetime habitually rocketing from one moment to another with ungodly abandon, never looking back, just springing forward with whatever passion is currently percolating in her gut.

She might whine, but she hardly ever mopes; there isn’t enough time in the world to do that; she’s got so many things to do, so many invented and reinvented iterations of herself that she wants to be if someone would just up and give her the chance.

(Plus, if she’s fast enough, if she’s just as goddamn clever, then maybe—just maybe—she’ll be the first in the family to do it in the end—to ever successfully outrun the pain and the awful hurt.)

“If I could have Mama here and BJ back and a job singin’ to thousands ‘n thousands of people on Sunday, I’d sure be happy,” she finishes, ticking this impossible to-do list off on her fingers, her smile diminishing with each addition.

She’s zero-for-zero as of now, and even if she does miraculously get Beej to come around and begs and scrapes and claws her way back into Daddy’s good graces again, that still isn’t bringing Mama back.

Which means that happiness isn’t an objectively achievable goal.

For her.

For any of the Gemstones, in fact.

“But, Judes," her brother sighs dramatically, "my point is that because Mama ain’t here, you, me, and baby Jesus”—he hooks his thumb at Kelvin—”have done the shitty things that’ve got us here, without the folks we love—Amber ‘n my kids. That little Keebler Elf of yours. Kelvin’s boy toy. We pushed ‘em all away.”

Judy can’t help it. She laughs incredulously at this simply ridiculous proclamation—perpetually inappropriate because it’s damn easier than being sincere—holding Kelvin’s head so as not to jostle him with the movement.

“You sayin’ that Mama would’ve stopped you from snortin’ blow with the Four Stooges and me from gettin’ arrested at Piggly Wiggly?” She looks at her sleeping brother again. “And Kelv from breakin’ up with his emo ass boyfriend?”

“No,” Jesse pouts, hurt flashing in his eyes. He crosses his arms over his burly chest and less resembles a person than he does a log with golden chains. “I’m just sayin’ that Mama would have made sure we all remembered how to love people right—the way she loved us… but I suppose that’s kinda the same thing as being stopped from doing bad things if you really think about it.”

“I suppose…” Judy echoes, but even to herself, she sounds unsure. She can’t help but think that that’s a lot of weight to place on one woman’s soul, even one as pure and angelic as their mama’s.

She knows precious little about accountability and doesn't want to know one iota more about its burdensome toll either, but she's got some inkling that Jesse's logic is all wrong, that the weight of an entire family’s sin isn't something that one person alone can bear unless they're, like, Jesus Fucking Christ or something.

But if not their saint of a scapegoat of their long dead mother, who else then? For all of the family’s extensive talk about the Lord, not a single one of them have ever made a good and willing martyr.

Jesse's expression softens, his entire demeanor. He's always been a sentimental kind of drunk, and hell, even when he’s sober, he's secretly a big, ‘ole teddy bear behind the douchebag, Elvis wannabe schtick he’s got going on.

Maybe he reads something complicated in her expression.

Maybe he correctly identifies it as hurt.

Whatever it is, he unbends his arms again and reaches over to gently tug one of Judy’s ringlets just like he did when they were kids.

“You look so much like her, y’know,” he says, “with them tight curls. Somethin’ in your eyes too, like the playfulness in ‘em, Judes. Jesus, I can see Mama when you laugh.”

Judy swallows thickly, unprepared for this sudden tenderness, unsure of how to meet it as an equal. She shifts uncomfortably where she sits and calculates that it’s only right that she reciprocates the favor.

“Uh, well, okay… but how about you, dude? I can see Mama when you’re with your boys sometimes, huggin’ on ‘em and stuff.” She clears her throat like something is stuck down there. This saccharine shit is hard work. It doesn’t come easily to her. She has to actually put an effort into it; she strives and endlessly, horribly strives. “You’re a good daddy—even if you did kinda send your eldest son packin’ to Haiti.”

“You think?” Jesse sounds unconvinced, looking to her with pleading eyes. It’s kind of childish in fact, and she doesn’t know what to do with that either except to lean into being the adult he apparently requires her to be in the moment. The eldest siblings, sometimes they’ve had to be parents, both Kelvin’s and one another’s.

“Fuck yeah,” she nods vigorously and tries to sound like she believes it. It’s superlatively easy for all of them to just sound like they’re saying things and never actually going deeper than the tip. Surface-level theatrics. Performative care. This moment is asking for better than lip service.

It necessitates that she’s actually a good sister.

“Like, one of the best,” she stresses, waving her hand around vaguely. “Third place behind God ‘n Daddy.”

“Bronze,” Jesse hums thoughtfully, rubbing his stubbled jaw. “Huh, I guess I can kinda live with that for now. Ain’t no beatin’ the Father or our father.”

“For realsies,” she nods solemnly, simply relieved that she agrees.

“Thanks, Judy. That’s actually pretty nice of you.” He sounds surprised.

Judy can’t say that she blames him—she wasn’t aware that she was capable of such unprovoked kindness either.

“‘Course, bro.” She slugs him awkwardly on the shoulder. It’s like knuckling a boulder if a boulder had Conway Twitty sideburns and an ego bigger than God. “I’ve always got you.”

They both awkwardly smile at each other then and just as quickly look away, mutually uncomfortable about this excess affection and still soaking it up, prolonging it, stewing in it anyway.

Their heart-to-heart or whatever-the-fuck-this-is has even lasted long enough for the credits to entirely roll and the next movie to boot up. A late night showing of Titanic apparently. Judy wrinkles her nose. She hates that it takes hours ‘n hours to get to the good parts (Kate Winslet’s perky tits and the steamy boat sex).

Maybe she’ll complain and get Jesse to change the channel; maybe she’ll tough it out so long as he does, slapping her big brother if he tries to fall asleep on her. She doesn’t feel like sleeping yet, afraid of what horrors might await her in the stillness and the dark in the off chance that she doesn't dream about BJ. She sure as hell won’t be going back to her horribly big and empty mansion tonight, to all those hollow halls and that exceedingly desolate king-sized bed. It ain’t a home without him anymore. It’s just a waste of space—so many thousands of square feet—that all the money in the goddamn world can neither fill nor satisfactorily buy.

“You think a good daddy would go to Haiti?” Jesse suddenly asks. It’s yet another needy question, requiring an equally mature and measured response. Judy would like to think she’s much more mature than either of her brothers, that being the only girl between them has taught her something about how to be measured, but she doesn’t know what to fucking say to that. Doesn’t want to advise him from her own wealth (or, well, astonishing paucity) of experience.

Can’t bear to tell him the wrong damn thing.

“...I mean, I think Mama’d go if it meant keepin’ her family together,” she eventually hedges. It’s always the safest option. Thinking through what Mama might have done and proffering that as the Word of God.

But she’s selfish—perhaps habitually so. She wants to favor reciprocated, needs it to be.

“You think BJ might come around?” She impulsively adds—not giving Jesse time to react to her advice—every word a jumble and an embarrassing rush. Her cheeks redden; the blush plummets through her entire body. Judy forces herself not to look away from her older brother all the same, disciplining herself even when his expression openly shifts, self-pity becoming—to her horror and unspeakable chagrin—tender, unmistakable, and lovingly involved concern.

“Damn, baby sis,” he whistles softly. “You really like that dorky lil Ken doll, don’t ya? You wanna marry his lily white ass.”

“Fuck you, Jesse,” she hisses, defensive about the subject, the gaping wound of BJ, even though she’s lost every goddamn right to be. She hurt him too. Maybe if that Denim asshole was right, she’s been hurting him for the entire time they’ve been boyfriends and girlfriends. “He’s really good to me, and h-he’s, like, a gentleman, dude. He always lets me go down on him first.”

“Jesus, Judy,” Jesse groans, dragging his hand across his face.

“It’s romantic,” she snaps and suddenly realizes what she’s doing, the tense she’s employing, the long-ingrained habit. The epiphany lashes through her like a bullet; she could double-over where she sits; she might actually bleed and perpetually bleed.

“Was,” she corrects in a small voice, the indignation leaving her, any fight. It slumps to the floor like a broken body. “Shit.”

Tears rise again—unbidden, unwelcome, uncontrolled and uncontrollable—to her eyes. She curls her long fingers over the balled-up tissue still in her hand as her vision blurs over.

“Fuck,” she adds inelegantly. She doesn’t know what else to say; there's nothing else to say. She and BJ are over. That's all there is to it; that's the truth she's gotta live with, the horror that's gonna take up permanent residence in her ribcage, squeezing all the precious air out of her lungs. She's a shitty person, a shithead. She did such a terrible thing, and he took it like Jesus Christ, dragging that heavy cross up a steep and lonely hill.

When Jesse’s warm hand suddenly lands on her shoulder, squeezing it, the kindness of the action almost does her in on the spot.

She can’t handle it—her brother’s love—wants to run five thousand miles and some spare change away and never speak of its profound effect upon her again.

She sits and accepts it anyway, habitually a dog who doesn’t know how to discriminate between scraps.

“Well, maybe he’ll come back,” Jesse offers gently. “And if he doesn’t, Judes, you got me and you got Kelv. We’re in the same sinkin’ boat as you, y’know.”

He briefly smirks at the television, clearly under the impression that he’s made a clever pun.

(It's good, she has to admit; she'll never fucking admit that to him, though.)

“I can’t fuck my brothers raw,” she grunts, her voice constricted. It’s petulant—she knows. She just doesn’t exactly care.

“Nah,” he grins. “But you can rely on us, Sis. And that’s, well, it's gotta count for somethin’, right?”

It’s not a rhetorical question, she can somehow easily tell. He’s actually fucking asking, unsure still that she values them, needing to know, to be coddled, handheld, and patronizingly reassured. Judy almost wants to laugh because everyone and their backwards cousins tells her that she’s the needy one, the endless chasm seeking emotional validation as her tribute, and yet, here her older brother is, pretty much asking if she trusts him, if she buys into the image he has for all of ‘em—three siblings who fucking love each other to pieces.

Simpler times.

Does she miss 'em too?

“Yeah,” she finally croaks, sighing and reaching up to place her free hand on top of Jesse’s where it’s still resting on her shoulder, the other finding its way back to Kelvin’s hair.

“‘Course it does, you dipshit.”

“Bitch,” he laughs, shaking his head in a long suffering manner, but there's earnest relief in the entirety of his face, a gratefulness that he'll never properly express. “Now why couldn’t you just let us have a nice family moment there?”

Judy just rolls her eyes.

“Eat my ass, Jesse.”

“Stop bein’ so gross, girl!”

“I ain’t gross—you’re gross!”

“Nuh-uh.”

"Uh-huh!"

And on and on they go, trading insults like they’re I love yous. They insult each other throughout the entire three hour runtime of Titanic. They say I love you again and again and again. Their little brother sleeps between them, safe, and just for a little while, for however long this night lasts, Judy tells herself that it doesn't matter that not a single one of them are entirely sound.

They're together—that's all that matters.

That's almost the same thing as being whole.

#judy gemstone #jesse gemstone #the righteous gemstones #s: the righteous gemstones #reginianwrites #listen I'm so fucking obsessed with Judy Gemstone #she's everything 2 me personally

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nolanhollogay · 2 years

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"What are we married?" + cam❤️❤️❤️

my angel my baby my bestest boy and his bestest boy

Cam still wasn't used to having a boyfriend who was good to him, as depressing as that sounded. He wasn't used to having someone who actually wanted him around, someone who liked him for him and not just because he was young and easy to manipulate.

He was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for Derek John to realize he was a fraud and kick him to the curb like he deserved.

It seemed like that day was finally coming. Derek John had been distracted all day, barely paying attention to the conversations Cam kept starting, and he kept fidgeting like he was ready to bolt for the door.

Cam just wished he'd rip the band-aid off already.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked, suddenly, startling the both of them. He hadn't meant to phrase the question like that, but whatever.

They were in his bedroom, lying on the floor because his bed was covered in stuff he was packing for his upcoming tour. Derek John was bouncing his leg, making the floor vibrate.

"You're so rude. Anyone ever tell you that?" Derek John teased, smiling as he turned to look at him. "Rudest person I ever met."

Cam poked him in the side, bumping his head into his shoulder like an affectionate cat. "It's why you like me."

Derek John laughed in that affectionate way that only he got to hear. It was soft and gentle, just a short gust of sound flying from his lips. "Oh, of course. It's the only reason."

Before they could fall into silence again, Cam kicked him in the shin. "You didn't answer me."

Derek John rolled his eyes. "Forgive me for not wanting to respond to What's wrong with you? Like that's such an easy question to answer."

Cam kicked him again, hard enough to make him move his leg away. "You know what I meant, jerk. You've been lost in the clouds since you came over. What's on your mind?"

Derek John paused, and his heart dropped. This was the moment. He was going to get dumped.

As he braced himself for the emotional impact, Derek John tangled their fingers together. Which was kind of a dick move if you were about to break someone's heart, honestly.

"You're not allowed to make fun of me," he warned.

Cam scoffed. "I wouldn't make fun of you," Derek John sent him a look of disbelief, "I wouldn't! Not if it was serious anyway."

Derek John nodded and sat up, yanking Cam up immediately after. It must've been serious if it was a conversation they couldn't have lying on the ground.

Oh gosh, he really was dumping him.

Cam's heart started to pound, and his eyes filled with tears without his permission because his stupid tear ducts had a vendetta against him.

Derek John noticed immediately, which was the most in character behavior he'd displayed all afternoon. Pulling Cam into his arms, he asked, "Woah, baby, what's wrong? I haven't even said anything yet."

Cam sighed at his own melodramatics. Now on top of being dumped, he was embarrassing himself.

Sniffling into Derek John's shoulder he began to ramble at him, which was even more humiliating. "Please don't break up with me. I'm sorry for being shitty and making fun of you all the time and being a cry baby and being a dumb cokehead so we can't go out to parties and do fun things like normal couples. I'll do whatever you want. I'll listen to stupid EDM and watch all the lame action movies you want. Please don't break up with me. I like you so much."

Derek John moved him away from their hug and wiped the tears off his cheeks. "Oh my God, Teo, why would you think I'd ever break up with you?"

Cam sniffled again, pushing his face into Derek John's stupidly big palm. "Because I'm annoying and you've been so weird since you came over and I'm leaving in like two days to go across the country and why would you stay with me when you can find someone else way cooler when I'm gone?"

Cam hadn't realized that last part was something he was worried about until the words were spilling out of his lips. Funny how that worked.

"Well, first of all, you are really annoying," Derek John started. Cam punched him in the arm and he laughed, grabbing his hand to kiss his knuckles. "But I like that about you. And the fact that you're a crybaby. And you making fun of me, because I like making fun of you. And you know I hate parties anyway. At least dumb LA parties. Like, why would I go to a club where everyone is a terrible person when I can get drunk in my living room and have way more fun that way?"

Cam nodded along even though he hadn't touched any alcohol in nine months.

Derek John dropped his hand to squish his face. "I'm not breaking up with you. I have no plans to and I don't want to. I like you too much. You're stuck with me, okay?"

Cam nodded again, sniffling one last time. "'Kay. Sorry for stealing your moment. You can say what you were gonna say before."

Derek John bit his lip, suddenly nervous. It was always such an alien expression on his face.

"I want you to wear my cross. While you're on tour," he admitted, avoiding Cam's eyes. "I know you don't believe in God anymore and you don't have to if it'll make you feel uncomfortable, but I just.. I want you to know I'm there for you even if I'm not physically with you. And, like, maybe I want to remind people that I'm yours and you're mine or some sappy shit like that."

Cam crawled into his lap and kissed him so hard that he fell backwards, catching himself on his elbows so he didn't smack his head onto the floor. "I'd love that. So much."

"Yeah?" he asked, grinning, face lit up with joy.

Cam nodded, face splitting with a smile of his own, "Yeah."

Derek John didn't waste any time, sitting up and taking the chain off of his own neck. The necklace glittered under the light, the cross itself seemingly the shiniest it had ever been.

Fingers lingering on the skin of Cam's neck, eyes locked on the cross, Derek John mumbled, "We're a little married."

"What does this mean now? What are we? Married?" Cam teased as Derek John fastened the chain around his throat. He was definitely making fun of him but he knew he'd get away with it because he always did. "Was matching tattoos not enough for you?"

The chain was so light it was barely noticeable, but the cross sat heavily against his chest. But it was a comforting weight, a grounding presence. Like Derek John's arm over his waist when the woke up together in the mornings, or his head on his shoulder.

Cam kissed him again, muttering, "In your dreams," against his mouth.

#solo verse #mcpg #derek john juarez #cam x derek john #my writing #asks #leaf tag 🌿#this is...a novel #sorry for writing so much but also no I'm not #they love each other so bad

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problematicfavesareproblematic · 4 years

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Never Be Sorry, Not For This

It was just supposed to be two friends dancing. You should’ve known better: Eugene Roe + Dirty Jazz in a dark club on a hot Georgia night would be the death of you.

(i listened to Death Letter by Cassandra Wilson while writing this, in case you wanna feel the spice)

You giggle slightly when Gene’s hand presses hot on the middle of your back, the giggle graduating to an apologetic snicker when he shot you an impatient look.

“Really? Are you twelve?” Roe grumbles, holding your right hand up gently and keeping it close to their sides.

“And a half.” You wink, smirking as he rolls his eyes and shakes his head at you.

He looked stupidly handsome in the low light of the club, a light sheen of sweat on his skin catching the light and making him shine like some sort of angel.

Careful, a voice in your head whispers. Don’t read more into this than there is.

He had only brought you here because Bill fucking Guarnere was incapable on minding his own business and keeping his goddamn mouth shut for longer than two minutes and practically strong-armed Gene into inviting you.

During a night of Sobel-assigned kitchens inventory with Gene and Guarnere, Bill had asked you about your recent birthday- what you’d done, who you’d heard from, if you’d gotten anything.

“Paperwork, my dad and my sister and her family, and Sobel gave me an earful about controlling my facial expressions when he’s trying to establish his authority- Thanks for asking.”

Your answer was apparently incorrect, and Guarnere had turned to Gene and pointed at you with his thumb conspiratorial.

“That’s gotta be the saddest shit I’ve ever heard, eh Doc? Can’t let such an important day go to waste like that, can we, pal?”

Guarnere proceeded to bully Gene into inviting you to the jazz club the medic always flocked to on his weekend passes, the place he chose to escape to in lieu of the bar favored by most residents of Toccoa.

But before you’d had a chance to tell Bill to shut up and stop being weird, Gene had nodded and looked down at the inventory sheet in his hand.

“I mean, we could if you wanted to.”

You had a feeling that he was regretting extending the invitation now.

When the two of you had entered the club you’d suddenly realized that this wasn’t the traditional, big band jazz you’d been expecting.

Oh no, you were pretty sure Gene had accidentally taken you to a sex club of some kind- and you became even more sure the moment your eyes had adjusted to the darkness and you’d been able to make out your surroundings.

The singer on the stage was lit with a red light, voice smokey and seductive as she crooned a slow melody, eyes hazy as her hands trailed up and down the microphone’s stand in a clearly suggestive manner. There were two men with instruments behind her, the one with the drum looking at her silk-clad body like he meant to ravage it.

Maybe jazz means something different in the south?

Couples were writhing to the drums rhythm, bodies draped over each other like some kind of Rodinian menagerie.

Now, you were pretty confident in your capabilities as both a soldier and a human woman- you wouldn’t have gotten this far if you hadn’t been able to trust yourself and what you could handle.

And you knew for a fact that you were incapable of pulling this off.

Now, Gene was a patient man, but you could see in the set of his jaw he was starting to get frustrated.

I don’t blame him, I’m acting like I’ve never been alone with a boy before.

Clearing your throat, you bite the inside of your cheek to try and get your shit together.

He’s trying to do something nice for you and you’re ruining it….

”I’ll stop, I promise.” you plead, ducking your head to try and catch his gaze. “I’m just nervous, give me a break…”

“You’ve literally run out in front of a moving plane to get a piece of debris off a runway ” he interrupts you like you hadn’t been talking. “You stole Sobel’s car—”

“At least if those things went wrong I would’ve just been killed.”

Eugene snorts at that, and you hear him mutter something to himself in French.

“And now?” He asks, tilting his head towards the band on the stage and the other dancers around you . “You think this is worse?”

You fix him with a look of shock that you know will make him laugh again. “Death over humiliation, every time! Obviously. What sort of question is that? C’mon Genie—”

“I know you know how to dance. I’ve seen you and Nixon dance at Malarkey’s birthday dinner in last July—”

You cringed internally. You’d forgotten there had been witnesses to that.

“Ok, first off,” you tap one of your fingers against his shoulder for emphasis. “that only happened because I lost a bet with Lewis. And to be clear-I know how to ballroom dance, and that’s different because the whole point is to be rigid and straight and precise. This is….proving to be a challenge.”

You’d always been good at those sorts of things- order and rigidity and accuracy. You were used to knowing what was expected of you and how you measured up to those expectations. But you were going into this completely unprepared. You hated it.

“Just think of this as a basic waltz step, just slower.” Gene supplied, and when you started to fall into the familiar step he immediately made it clear that he was going to be dictating the pace, meeting your quirked brow with one of his own.

“Much slower. Glacial. Frozen molasses sliding down a flat hill—” You chide lightly, trying to disguise the waiver of apprehension in your voice.

“I don’t think that’s a phrase. But yes- that slow.”

You sigh, letting him lead you in an almost unbearably slow box step, letting him take you through five box-steps before huffing and hooking your chin over his shoulder and rest your head there, groaning melodramatically like you were in pain.

“This is impractically slow.” you lament. “It doesn’t look or feel right—”

With a quick move of his arm he presses you closer into his chest, knocking you slightly off balance before moving you so his thigh is wedged between your legs.

You flush at what you assumed was a mistake on his part, and when you go to step back down from his thigh he moves with you and holds you in place.

Eugene Roe, you saucy boy.

“Gotta let me have some of your weight. That’s why it feels like you’re doing it wrong….”

His voice is soft as stone, and you know he can feel your breath catch in your throat. “C’mon, mon cher- I got you.”

You’re suddenly very glad that he's pulled you so close because you don’t have to hide the scarlet blush on your cheeks at the imploring tone in his voice.

It made you want to trust him. It made you want him, period.

Full stop.

It’s dancing. People dance. Friends dance, it doesn’t mean anything unless you want it to.

Unless you let it.

You take a deep breath and let your knees bend slightly, allowing your hips to slot together and your heart thud against his.

Just as he promised, he keeps a hold on you, the arm around your waist like a belt holding the two of you together, and your ribs jump in a quick inhale as his fingers curl around your waist.

If he notices your reaction, he’s kind enough not to mention it.

“Good,” he says under his breath, and you feel him nodding against your hair. “That’s good.”

Good God, had his voice always been so low? Fuck he was good at this….

You hmm in reply, your self-consciousness put on the back burner in order to cope with the absolute burning electric currents seeming to run through your body, just beneath your skin.

You’ve never been so overwhelmed by another person, let alone some boy as you felt at this moment in Eugene Roe’s arms- you couldn’t so much as breathe without him knowing, each inhale bringing with it the sweet, clean smell of the aftershave you couldn’t quite identify and the salt of his skin.

The steps of the waltz have melted into a rhythmic sway of your bodies, shifting weight from the ball of one foot to the other in time with Gene’s lead.

It’s everything you can do not to shake as his thigh flexes between your legs, your sex rubbing agianst it deliciously every so often and making you feel stupid with longing.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, and you realize that you’ve been holding your breath the whole time, a distracted chuckle escaping your lips before your nod softly.

“Yeah, course.” You wrap an arm around his shoulder and sway with him, giving the hand holding yours a quick squeeze of reassurance. “You?”

You feel him nod. “Yeah, me too.”

You hum, letting your eyes drift closed as you try to think about keeping your breathing even and touch light.

Which was proving harder than you’d anticipated— the slow curling beat of the new song beginning and it’s rumbling melody settling over your heads like the foreboding clouds of a storm that neither of you seemed too interested in seeking shelter from.

This whole place could burn down and all I’d see is him

After a few more moments you feel the hand at your back begin to knead at the knots along your spine, strong fingers rolling like revered thunder against your tense muscles.

“Give me some more,” he quietly demands. “You need to lean on me more….you’re still too tense—” and you bend your knees a bit so you can feel the pressure of his thigh where you’re throbbing for him the most.

“Shhhhhhiiiiiit…” he hisses quietly, almost to himself.

“Eugene,” you breathe before you can stop yourself, titling your head so your temples press together. “ We, uh…..We said we wanted to go by eleven...”

Your reminder is purely for show, arousal hot in your chest and stomach.

When he hums in acknowledgement, you can hear the lack of intention behind it. The idea of separating from this man made you feel cold—a prospect you found unbearable despite the heat making your hair stick to the back of your neck.

Staying, we’re going to stay.

Part of this feels inevitable, like the two of you had always been destined to end in this sinfully filthy embrace with nearly every single part of your bodies touching, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to curse the humidity you so loathed.

A whimper escapes your throat when you catch your clothed clit on some bunched fabric from the leg of his pants, and his arms abandon their dancing position to wrap around your torso and smooth his hands up and down your back

“Like this, Doc?” you can’t help but whisper, sighing prettily when his grip digs into the meat of your shoulder blades.

You know you aren’t dancing anymore, haven’t been dancing for a while. You feel your hips jump against his, a low groan rumbling in his chest as one of his hands flashes down to squeeze at your ass.

“Fuck darlin’....”

You turn your head so your lips are at his ear, eyes nearly rolling back in your head at the sinful roll of his hips as he drops a bit lower, a growl in his chest at the breathy way you gasp his name.

“I’m sorry” he’s whispering. “I’m sorry—”

You know what he’s apologizing for.

He thinks he’s confirming Sobel’s horrible accusations— that you’re nothing more than a warm body in the eyes of the men of Easy Company.

Their CO had a special place in his heart for taking the time to remind you that you were a woman and insinuate that you were nothing more than a barrack whore who was a pretty good shot on a rifle.

“Even pious Winters seems to find you distracting, Miss Y/N. Maybe we should send you ahead of the pack to give the Krauts something to enjoy before we show up.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you shake your head and bring one hand up to lightly touch his cheek, voice thick in your throat. “Never be sorry. Not for this— Shit, Gene....”

One of Gene’s hands slid up your neck and into your hair, holding your head as he turned to look at you, pupils blown wide beneath heavily lidded eyes.

You look at his lips, bringing your thumb over to smooth the furrow in his brow.

“Never?” he asks, and with one final look into his eyes you shake your head.

“Never.” you hear yourself say,

You kiss the corner of his mouth first, not wanting to rush him, still worried that (somehow) you were misreading his intentions.

As if he wasn't gyrating his hips with you in a way so dirty that you were surprised you hadn’t been asked to leave. As if you couldn’t feel the ghost of his hard cock against your hip….

Apparently Gene thought you were now the one moving too slowly, because he uses his hand in your hair to turn your mouth to his and kiss the breath from your lungs.

His lips taste like whiskey and a tiny bit like the candied pecans you’d brought him as a thank you for taking you out.

You sighed against his mouth as you slid one of your hands down his chest, fisting his shirt as his tongue parts the seam of your lips and deepens the kiss.

“Embrasse-moi (kiss me),” he mumbles between the kisses he plucked from your lips. “Je pense toujours à toi, Je ne peux pas vivre sans toi….tu as besoin de savoir que (I always think about you, I can’t live without you. You need to know that.).”

You’re french is lackluster at best, but something in the way he’s saying the words that makes you feel as if he’s being unbearably sincere in whatever it is he’s telling you.

“I dont…” you begin, but then something wicked and heavy settles in your lower belly that has you pulling back enough that you can look him in the eye.

HIs lips are pink and swollen, and you nearly forget what you wanted to tell him.

Debauched, absolutely lewd and lustful.

Your hands find his and with a reassuring nodyou put his hands on your hip and thigh, another curse slipping past his lips as his fingers bunched the soft fabric of your skirt in his hands.

“Show me what you said.” You know you’ve said it like a command but you’ve never felt more less in control in your entire life. “Please, Eugene—”

He nods solemnly, and when he replies you get the feeling he’s making you a deeper promise than you are aware of.

“I will. I promise.”

and he does.

(*throws fic at you and runs away* than you for reading bYE (p2?))

#band of brothers x reader #band of brothers imagine #eugene roe x reader #it's vv bad but I'll just add it to the pile of already burning garbage pile that is my bibliography #idk if anyone wants to be tagged but if you so for some reason let a sister know

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alolowrites · 4 years

Text

Comforting Words

Summary: You return to the U.A. dorms following a disastrous date. Surprisingly Bakugou offers some “comforting words” to you.

Author’s note: As promised, here is the story to celebrate reaching 100 followers!!! Thank you all so much for this! Story is kinda a sequel to “Laundry Night” (idk) ??? Either way, it just seemed fitting to share another Bakugou story to mark such an occasion.

Enjoy!

~~~

I’m so stupid, stupid, stupid!

You figuratively and literally slapped yourself as you marched to your dorm building at like 10:35pm on a Saturday night. Marching to the shared kitchen, you carelessly threw your ice cream pint onto the counter. As you rummaged through the drawers, a growl escaped your mouth when you couldn’t find one spoon. Any other day you would see spoons left and right, yet they magically disappeared when you needed them the most.

Searching through the billions of utensils in the drawer, you finally found the main prize. Your attention went to the ice cream pint and your fingers furiously tugged on the lid to no avail. Now you were on the verge to punch someone. Why was the universe being so cruel? Did you accidentally piss them off? Are they having some mood swing, because honey this ain’t it.

Why won’t you open?!

“Are you really so pathetic that you can’t open the flimsy ice cream cover?”

You stopped struggling and slammed both your hands against the counter. Closing your eyes, you breathed through your nostrils to calm yourself. Bakugou saw your back and the harsh glare peering over it.

“I’m not in the mood, Bakugou,” you snarled at him. “If you want to insult me, give me two to three business days.”

“Should I send a Google calendar invite to remind you?” He mocked.

Of course he threw that at you.

A piece of hair fell over your eyes and you blew it away. Grabbing the cold pint, you spun around to face your tormentor. Bakugou leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest and wore his favorite black shirt.

It was also your favorite shirt. The fabric shamelessly emphasized his Spartan-like muscles as a result of his vigorous training. Feeling your eyes rake at his tone arms, you mentally forced some self-control. You never wanted to give this buffoon the satisfaction that you admired his top-notch physique.

No…you would never hear the end of it from him. So to save face, you diverted your eyes back to the ice cream pint freezing your hand and frowned.

Stupid hormones.

Without looking up, you asked: “Why are you here?”

“You were being too loud,” Bakugou complained. You barked out a dry laugh while snapping your head up.

“I’m being to loud!?” You pointed to yourself with eyebrows raised. “That’s rich coming from you, Mr. DIE-DIE-DIE! I’m surprised you’re not croaking like a dying frog.”

He ignored your comment. “You’re upset, what the hell happened?”

“Why do you care?” You shot back at him.

“Answer the fucking question, idiot, I’m not asking again.”

So now he wants to be a damn therapist?

“Hmph, fine.” You lifted the cover and reclined against the counter to make yourself comfortable. “My date was an asshole. Everything was fine at first, you know? He took me to this nice restaurant and we were hitting it off. Everything was perfect—the mood, the scenery, the food. Then one thing lead to another,” you lowered your chin, “and he kissed me…”

Distracted, you didn’t catch Bakugou’s fists clenching and his scowl growing deeper. “I didn’t ask for a recap of your crappy romantic date!”

“It’s important to the damn story!” You yelled at him, thrusting your spoon his way. “And you’re the one who asked! If I have to suffer through this date again, you’re suffering with me so buckle up, firecracker.”

Said firecracker seethed, but stayed quiet. You took it as sign to continue. “So anyway, he kissed me and next thing you know, some lady’s claws ripped me apart from him. They were actual claws by the way, like her nails were soooo long, I was surprised she didn’t scratch my face.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes.

“Apparently the guy used me to get his ex-girlfriend jealous so they can get back together,” you venomously spat out. “I gave that guy a Texas-smash slap and threw cold water at him. With ice cubes, for good measure too.”

A second later, you angrily stabbed the ice cream which took Bakugou by surprised. However, he quickly recovered and watched as you blindly attacked the delicious delicacy that was a Ben and Jerry’s ice cream pint.

“I felt so humiliated—”

Stab.

“—and used—“

Stab, stab.

“—and ugh!”

The spoon dropped. It clanked against the floor and you didn’t move for a moment. With flushed cheeks, you discarded the ice cream that was now a swirling mess. Slumping backwards, your back hit the kitchen drawers while you pinched the bridge of your nose. Tears dangerously emerged in your eyes, but you forced them to stay put. There was no way you were going to cry in front of him.

One hand weakly gestured towards Bakugou. You felt like a deflated balloon. “Go ahead, tell me that I’m just a dumbass with peasant problems.”

“Well you are a dumbass,” he started and you figured much. “But you’re a dumbass for moping over some garbage idiot like him.”

…what?

You didn’t expect that kind of response. Scrunching your eyebrows together, you gave him a ridiculous stare. Bakugou sighed loudly and slid his hand over his face as if he needed to spell out something so obvious.

“Look, you’re sulking over an asshole who never respected you,” he explained. Your ears carefully listened to every word. “Even though you stood up for yourself, you’re still letting that bastard win by acting all sad and shit.”

You stupidly blinked.

“Quit whining and realize he was never in your league in the first place,” he grunted as his crimson irises narrowed at you. “He’s not worth shedding tears over for, so don’t you dare start fucking crying.”

He left you speechless and you gawked at him.

Never in your life did you expect Bakugou to comfort someone…well, comfort anyone in general really. Did he give you a soft cuddle, patting your head saying everything was going to be okay? Hell no. Instead you got the Bakugou-version of it where he slapped some sense into your sorry-ass for moaning after some douche.

“I hate how right you areee,” you groaned dramatically into the air. Bakugou snorted at your reaction, but didn’t say anything else. Bringing your head down, you let out a soft chuckle and grinned at him. “I shouldn’t let that bastard make me feel so shitty. How dare he make me almost act out a cliche movie scene where I cry myself into an ice cream pint. The nerve of him…”

“Damn right.”

“I can’t believe I’m gonna say this, but—” you inhaled for the melodramatic effect “—thank you, Bakugou, for your comforting, albeit unconventional, words.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he muttered while looking away, hoping you didn’t catch the blush flaring up his cheeks. “Just as long as you stop stomping in here like a damn rhino.”

Your face briefly fell. “Ok, rude.”

He shot you a tiny smirk and the butterflies fluttered in your stomach.

Suddenly the floor became more interested and you remembered the mess you made. A curse flew out of your mouth as you snatched a paper towel to clean up the spot. After finding another spoon, you looked at your ice cream on the counter. It was slightly melted, but there was no way you were going to throw it away. In front of you was a Ben and Jerry’s ice cream and you spent good money on this baby.

“So,” you tapped your finger on the pint and took one bite of your dessert. “I guess we’re done here.”

“Guess so,” he nonchalantly shrugged.

Very well then, you thought as you slowly walked towards the doorframe where Bakugou stood and paused. It took all your willpower not to shrink away considering how close you two were. Your eyes boldly stared into his and neither of you said a word. The room was so silent you prayed Bakugou couldn’t hear your heart throbbing loudly against your chest.

No. Not yet.

“Well,” you broke the silence and flashed him a playful smile. “At least I now know there is a nice troll under the bridge.”

Not missing a beat, you rushed out of the kitchen with a hearty laugh before Bakugou had a chance to blast your annoying face out of existence.

~~~

Fun fact: originally this story was not going to be published. It was sitting in my “Unreleased Cuts” folder for some time because I wasn’t feeling the plot’s direction. Left it alone, came back to it and fixed it up.

And here we are!

Thank you again for reading :)

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jasmine-iroh · 4 years

Note

i have so many ideas in my head for fics LMAO and as u know i am obsessed w ur writing hehehe umm lets think can you do a sokka imagine where reader is Piandao’s apprentice as well so she spars with Sokka in his training and always wins, until he beats her one day from like being flirty and distracting her or something?? idk u can ignore this and just do any imagines u like LOL

Ahhhhh I love this idea so much!! Idk why but I have a headcanon that Piandao is lowkey like Batman and just trains abandoned kids and now he has like a tiny army of little white lotus warriors he’s informally adopted over the years.

This kid is weird.

That was the immediate impression (Y/N) got of Sokka when Master Piandao had introduced him as a new apprentice.

What the hell kind of name is Sokka, anyways?

That was her second thought. It was the kind of name that rolled off her tongue nicely when she was snapping at him to focus during their drills. The shape of it in her mouth made it easy to add a snarl to the front and a growl at the end when he was screwing around in front of Piandao, making them both look bad.

By the end of his first day training with (Y/N) under Piandao’s reserved tutliage, Sokka had been introduced to several intermediate forms. His heavy wooden practice sword had turned his arms to jelly long ago and there were various bruises and scrapes from (Y/N) sneaking past his defenses, but Sokka didn’t mind the aches.

She’s amazing.

That was Sokka’s first impression of (Y/N) as he watched her demonstrate the basic forms he was supposed to learn. He wasn’t focusing on the forms, but rather the warrior waltzing her way through them.

(Y/N) seemed to merge with her abilities. She moved with the ease of someone who spent her time befriending her skills, pouring her soul into singing metal and brutal dance numbers. Her blade was her master as much as Piandao was. She wielded her sentences as tactfully as her steel, every word intentional and aimed to cut to the heart of a matter.

Sokka would wager his last copper piece that her and Suki would get along quite well if they ever met.

He’s good.

That was (Y/N)’s third thought as she watched Sokka breeze through his basic drills.

A tiny part of her sung with pride when Master informed her that she was excelling in her duty of shaping Sokka into a proper swordsman. Sokka was her first real trainee during her time with Piandao. She’d studied under him from the age of six, when she’d turned up on his doorstep after being left behind in the middle of the night by her nomadic family.

She’d seen many hopeful young men turn up on that same doorstep, opening her sanctuary to their arrogant swaggers and second rate weaponry. They had all given her the same look when she guided them through Piandao’s home; a look that held the intrigue of having a girl around to preen for, not knowing that she was the judge, jury, and executioner of their fate.

Piandao might’ve been the one to teach the boys to fight, but (Y/N) was the one to make them honor the battle. They all came boasting to the Master about their accomplishments in their backwater town, lauding their own praises and embellishing their military bloodlines. Most left cursing the girl with forged steel for a personality and the word no sharpened like a blade.

Not Sokka, though.

(Y/N) supposed that maybe that’s what first warmed her up to him, the fact that he’d seen the sword on her belt first and her gender second. His quick wit and ability to bounce back after a defeat didn’t hurt, either.

Sokka’s knuckles were still red and actively bruising from their previous match when Piandao informed the pair that the next would be their last for the day. The compound was bathed in the golden promise of a sunset to come and (Y/N) found herself getting distracted by the way the light pressed gentle kisses to Sokka’s cheeks. The breeze played with his unraveling topknot like a teasing lover, taunting (Y/N) with the idea of what he’d look like with his hair down.

Before her thoughts could settle on the fight in front of her and not the boy, Sokka was making the first move. He went for the obvious strike, even though he should’ve learned by that point that (Y/N) would parry the blow.

Swinging her sword up to block him with ease, (Y/N) found herself shocked by their close proximity, puzzled that Sokka had thrown his first move to get close to her. A coy smirk was crawling along Sokka’s face as he gifted the young warrior with a flirtatious wink, causing her to narrow her own eyes back at him. It seemed that Sokka had seen her distraction and chose to wield his looks as his weapon of choice for this round.

“You can’t fluster me into losing, Sokka,” (Y/N) huffed, a mild bout of surprise bubbling as she realized that she was actually having to try to keep Sokka from getting the upper hand in their fight.

“That doesn’t seem fair, you’ve been flustering me all day.” He replied with a disarming grin, putting her on the defense with a quick, if somewhat unpracticed, set of attacks.

“Cut it out.” She growled, hoping the dark flush on her cheeks could be written off as exertion and not a real blush. Those oceanic eyes stared a hole into (Y/N), the flickering of his pupils to the side being the only consistent indication of his next move.

He was still too close for (Y/N) to ready a true offense, so she blocked and parried his attacks, his ever increasing proximity forcing her a step back with each move. She was trying to distance herself for an attack when the stone wall of the practice arena hit her back, shocking the wind out of her and allowing Sokka to land what would have been a fatal strike in a real fight. Their eyes were still locked as their chests heaved from the effort of the fight, bewildered (Y/E/C) eyes meeting a cunning blue gaze.

“Resourceful use of terrain, Sokka. (Y/N), don’t allow yourself to be crowded by a larger opponent. Use your agility, not your size.” Piandao advised, snapping the pair out of their staring contest. Sokka was still looming over (Y/N), but she wasn’t looking at him, instead forcing herself away from the wall to disappear into the bamboo thicket. She was being melodramatic, she knew, but she was ashamed that she’d let a stupidly charming boy make her look like a fool in front of her Master. The blow to her pride was blistering, raising all of her long buried insecurities to the surface.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Sokka’s voice called from the bamboo to (Y/N)’s right. To hear that much concern in the voice of a boy who barely knew her showed his true character, but (Y/N) wished he would reveal an arrogant side. Something, anything, to throw her heart off the scent of a crush.

“Why would you do that?” She snarled, trying to cover the turmoil in her mind with misplaced anger.

“Do what?” His disembodied voice was confused, the rustling of bamboo revealing his position to (Y/N).

“Embarrass me like that in front of everyone! Do you know how hard it is to be taken seriously as a girl doing this?” (Y/N) ranted, her glare already fixed to the spot where Sokka popped out of the foliage into her line of view.

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, I just... I thought we had something going on there for a minute, y’know? You’re the best fighter I’ve ever met, being a girl doesn’t change that.” He told her honestly. He took a tentative step closer, approaching her like he would a scared cat.

“That trick won’t work a second time.” (Y/N) snapped, her eyes spitting fire at him. Once again, she found herself on the defensive with this boy, every careful step he took towards her sending her a step back until her back pressed against a clutter of bamboo.

“Trick? (Y/N), there is no trick. It’s called liking someone, and hoping they like you back.” Sokka exclaimed, frustration trickling into his tone. He wanted to be patient and give her room to puzzle out his intentions, but she was too busy protecting her emotions to see his truth.

A long pause, before, “he’ll replace me if he thinks I’m easily distracted.” It was said so quietly, in such a hopeless voice, that Sokka wouldn’t recognize it as (Y/N) speaking if he wasn’t watching her lips form the words.

“He’s a fool, then. He won’t find another (Y/N).” Sokka told her boldly, feeling wild and fierce in their bamboo haven with her baring her deepest emotions to him.

“Please stop saying nice things. It makes it really hard to be mad.” (Y/N) whispered in that same careful voice, her tone cooling as she folded in on herself. She couldn’t believe she’d shown her soul to a boy she’d known for two days.

“Then don’t be mad, be honest. Do you find me as distracting as I find you?” Sokka matched her tone, speaking quietly as he tried to coax her back out of her shell.

“No. Yes? I don’t know. I’ve never even liked any of the apprentices before you.” She huffed, tilting her head back to groan at the sky in confusion.

“Stop over thinking it. Do I distract you? Yes or no?” Sokka pressed, taking (Y/N)’s battle calloused hands in his own and tugging her attention back to those oceanic eyes.

“Yes.” Her tone was confident, her rough thumbs tracing delicate shapes over Sokka’s bruised knuckles as she accepted his rough palms in her own.

“I’m glad I’m not the only one, then, or this would’ve been awkward.” He admitted, a warm blush crawling up his neck.

“It already was,” (Y/N) giggled quietly, releasing the tension between them. They stood grinning at each other like fools, both trying to stretch this soft, peaceful moment into a lifetime. Sokka leaned down closer to (Y/N) slowly, his eyes flickering between her own and her lips as he gave her the chance to stop him.

Instead of bolting like he half expected her to, she leaned up and pressed a firm kiss to his lips, pulling him closer. The action threw him off balance and sent the pair tumbling through the bamboo, Sokka landing on top of (Y/N) with a squawk of indignation.

The serene atmosphere broken, they stared into each other’s eyes for a shocked moment before bursting into laughter and settling for holding each other close like a cherished possession.

#this got a little long and put of hand IM SORRY #I JUST LOVE MY SWEET BOOMERANG BOY #also this took me forever work has been HORRIBLE lately but i loved this idea and it was so fun to write #sokka x reader #sokka x you #sokka imagine #atla imagine #sokka fanfic #atla fanfic #atla #avatar the last airbender #avatar #sokka

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jaskierek · 4 years

Text

Part 2 of Destiny or Bad Luck? aka my geraskier post-breakup meeting fic

part 1

this one’s a bit long lmao

some people asked to be tagged so @juhavs @random-nerd-3 - some others asked for a part two but didnt ask to be tagged so idk

there will be a part 3...i think

---

Geralt hated this. If the silence left in Jaskier’s absence before was stifling, this was suffocating. The bard had barely said a word since they’d left the tavern the next morning, simply sitting on his horse tensely and riding beside Geralt and Roach. It was unsettling. It was setting the Witcher’s instincts on edge.

Geralt hadn’t said a word either, though that was not as unusual. He simply didn’t know what to say. How does one begin a conversation? Did he even want one? He wanted…he wanted…he didn’t know what he wanted, but he knew it wasn’t this, wasn’t this uncomfortable silence between them. It was as if someone had thrust a veil between them, keeping them apart. Geralt itched to tear it down, itched to find a relief from the quiet.

That’s what he wanted, he’d decided, he wanted to hear Jaskier’s voice. He wanted to hear the bard’s rich timbre in song, wanted to hear the lilt of his words as he rambled about nothing, he wanted…he wanted. It was an emotion he wasn’t entirely sure how to address.

He also didn’t know what the bard wanted. Geralt knew he was still angry with him so why did he come? Why did he agree to join him? What did he want?

And so, Geralt resigned himself to glancing at the bard every so often. Jaskier seemed to be making an effort not to look at the Witcher, allowing Geralt’s yellow eyes to trace over the curve of his jaw, his nose, to observe how the sunlight lit up the planes of his face. He didn’t know when he’d come to the realisation that he could sit and watch the bard for hours. He just knew that Jaskier was here and he was warm and he was safe, and that almost made the fact that his body had been drawn tight ever since he’d seen Geralt bearable.

The Witcher finally broke the silence once the sun had begun to descend in the sky, casting the world in a warm glow. He suggested they make camp for the night, earning a curt nod from the bard.

—

Geralt was setting up the fire, nursing the flames, while Jaskier sat opposite him, strumming absently on his lute.

He still hadn’t forgiven the Witcher, not entirely. He had built a wall around his heart to keep it safe but Geralt’s small, broken “please” had pulled out one of the bricks. He missed him, he’d said that, the same man who had refused to even acknowledge their friendship had said he’d missed him, had said he needed him. It filled him with a certain warm glow.

But he couldn’t go back to how they were before - wouldn’t. If he were to have any kind of relationship with the Witcher he would need some sort of affirmation of their companionship from the ever-stoic man.

He watched Geralt’s deft hands work the fire into something living. The flames lit up his stupidly handsome face. Gods, he hated that perfectly square jaw and he definitely hated his longing to run his lips along it and down his neck, onto the dip of his collarbone and the hard muscle of his chest.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”

The memory snapped him back into reality, his fingers landing hard on the strings with a jarring clang. Golden eyes snapped to his face. Jaskier didn’t know the extent to which Witchers could smell emotion but he knew Geralt sensed this.

“I’m fine.” He croaked, his voice not used to going so long without speaking. Geralt frowned, clearly not believing him. Thankfully he didn’t push. They sat in silence once more, Jaskier gazing at the fire, avoiding Geralt’s molten gaze.

“Play something.” The bard’s eyes found the Witcher’s once more, finding nothing but sincerity.

“What?”

“Play something.” He insisted, gesturing towards his lute. It was very Geralt of him, to ask Jaskier to do something without actually asking. The bard didn’t mind it.

“Play what?”

“Anything.”

Jaskier blinked. Right then.

How apt it would be to play a song of heartbreak and love, the gods knew how many he had written and learnt over the past year. But gazing into Geralt’s flame-lit amber eyes, he found he didn’t want to. Instead, he decided to play something else, something his caretaker used to sing to him.

“May you never lay your head down,

Without a hand to hold,

May you never make your bed out in the cold”

The slow but pleasant tune drifted out from under his fingertips, from out of his lips, filling the space between them. The melody was warm, comforting. It was a reprieve from the tension that had lain between them since they left.

“I know this one.” Geralt uttered after a while.

He remembered.

He remembered a song Jaskier had sung.

How many did he remember?

What else did he remember about the bard?

“You were sung this as a child.” He continued, almost to himself. Jaskier couldn’t help but smile, watching the Witcher’s own face brighten at the sight.

“Oh please won't you, please,

Won't you bear it in mind,

Love is a lesson to learn in our time,

And please won't you, please,

Won't you bear it in mind for me.”

Jaskier’s voice was shaky but his voice and his fingers continued on and he was smiling and even Geralt was smiling and he was looking at him and he was looking at him like he was the only goddamn thing in this world that he wanted to look at, the only person he wanted to listen to.

Jaskier felt something in his chest unravel as he watched the Witcher’s silver hair-framed face glow.

Glow at him.

Glow because of him.

He felt something in his chest - he felt the wall, the wall built around his heart crumble a little more.

“I like it.” Geralt said once Jaskier had finished. It was a simple sentence but the bard knew the Witcher, he knew he didn’t often speak his mind, or often speak at all.

“So you admit, I am a talented singer.”

“I didn’t say that, bard.”

Jaskier grinned. He felt it coming back, he remembered what it was like being in Geralt’s company, talking to him, bickering with him.

“Geralt, you hulking pillock, acknowledge my musical talent right now or I’ll kick you.” He had once said, the Witcher had simply snorted and asked,

“What talent?”

As promised, the bard had kicked him in the shins. Honestly, it had probably hurt Jaskier more than it did Geralt, but it had been worth it to see the small smile on Geralt’s face as Jaskier hopped around melodramatically, cradling his foot.

Geralt was smiling now. It was something soft and warm, something Jaskier could bask in.

But with a frown, it slipped, falling off the Witcher’s face.

Jaskier let his own drop too at the sight.

The silence returned.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier.” Came a quiet confession.

“I know, Geralt.” He did know, he did. As much as his reason warned him against it, he had trusted Geralt’s apology.

“But you do not forgive me.”

“I do not know. I do not know if I forgive you.”

He wanted to. He wanted to forgive him and simply enjoy his company without the tightness in his chest. Confusion reigned in him at the moment, not knowing whether he wanted to smile or cry in Geralt’s presence.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”

“What do I say, Jaskier?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

The fire rose between them.

“What do you want to say?” Jaskier asked.

“I…” began the Witcher, glancing down in frustration, “I want to…to confess to you without having the be the one to say it, I want you to simply know.” He looked at the bard imploringly.

“That’s not how it works, Geralt.”

The flames stuttered.

“I’ll go collect more firewood.”

Geralt turned.

Jaskier closed his eyes.

—

The next night they stayed at an inn, paying for two rooms despite not having much coin. Everything in Geralt screamed not to let the bard stray too far from him but he needed space, Geralt knew that.

Despite their conversation the night before, the air between them seemed lighter as they travelled, Jaskier occasionally humming a tune that Geralt found vaguely familiar. Now the bard sat waiting for him in a booth, grinning eagerly at the meal the Witcher was bringing over.

“Oh thank Metlitele.” He groaned as Geralt slid the plate over to him. He watched the bard shovel food unceremoniously into his mouth. He shook his head in amusement. Jaskier glanced up at him, spoon lifted halfway to his mouth. “What?” He asked. The corner of Geralt’s lips tipped upwards.

He gave a simple “hm” in response.

“Excuse you, all I’ve eaten for two days is stale bread and a particularly thin rabbit. I intend to savour this, thank you.” Jaskier stated dryly. Geralt grunted again, turning his attention to his own meal. His smile refused to go away so he sat there, grinning like an idiot simply because the bard no longer looked as tense, as uncomfortable around him. He was hopeless.

“Do you play?” Came a gruff question from one of the men at another table once they had finished their meal.

“Indeed I do, good sir.” Jaskier replied, flashing him a smile and catching the coin tossed to him as the man told him to play something fun. “Well, duty calls.” He said to the Witcher, grabbing his lute and beginning to play a jaunty tune.

His playing was nothing like the night before. Where yesterday his voice had been all gentle and honeyed, it was now rowdy and sonorous. Geralt enjoyed watching Jaskier sing his indecent songs to a crowd of laughing people, laughter in the bard’s own voice too. He enjoyed watching it, yet a warm feeling settled in his stomach at the thought of the soft song the night before, as if it were a performance meant solely for the Witcher.

Geralt stayed and watched Jaskier perform all of his songs, telling himself it was simply to ensure that he wouldn’t get himself into trouble. He didn’t dwell too much on the true reason, not until Jaskier fell back into his seat, grinning at Geralt unabashedly. His hair was plastered to his brow with sweat and he was panting slightly, but he was beaming like he always was after a good show. Geralt found himself wanting to brush the hair out of his face, to gaze unapologetically into those cornflower eyes.

“That was a show and a half, wasn’t it?” Jaskier breathed, it seemed as if he was waiting for Geralt to respond but all the Witcher could do was grunt in confirmation. Thankfully, Jaskier knew the meanings behind Geralt’s grunts and he grinned at the acknowledgement. Geralt had to pause for a moment, the realisation of just how well Jaskier knew him settling in. Geralt had known the bard for much longer than most, he knew all of his mannerisms, what clues to spot to know just how tired the bard was and how much longer he could continue on for. He knew what Jaskier looked like naked and while he appreciated the sparse glances, he had always looked away, too afraid of what he’d feel if he looked too long.

And Jaskier knew him just as well, which terrified the Witcher. He knew his body, his scars, he knew his fears, despite Geralt never having told him and despite his constant chatter, he knew when Geralt absolutely needed silence. His blue eyes had managed to pierce through the Witcher time and time again.

“Jaskier, I…“

Those eyes were looking at him now, expectantly.

“You what, Geralt?”

“I…” A beat. “I-“ A pause. And then,

“I’m going to bed.”

Fuck. Shit.

Jaskier’s joyful demeanour dimmed.

“Right, yeah, ok. I’ll go too, then.”

Fuck. Shit.

—

Despite his foul mood, Geralt had managed to fall into a light sleep. He had hated watching Jaskier walk away from him to his own room. It was only one door down but the Witcher couldn’t help but feel like the bard had taken a piece of him. Now he’ll have to lay there until morning, incomplete, until the bard brought back the piece of him that he had taken…or more accurately, the piece that Geralt had willingly given him.

So, yes, despite his foul mood, Geralt was asleep - barely - but asleep.

That is, until he flung himself bolt upright in bed, nostrils filled with a stench he absolutely loathed.

Fear.

Not just anyone’s fear.

Jaskier’s fear.

Before his sleep-hazy mind could catch up, he was bursting through Jaskier’s door, Witcher eyes scanning the room and all its dark corners for danger. His adrenaline had taken over, his body itching to move, to fight, to protect.

“Geralt.” Came a small voice. Geralt’s eyes snapped to the bard sitting in his bed, an involuntary growl escaping the Witcher. It was in these moments that Geralt came to fear himself, to fear the animal that had taken over the man, but in the current moment he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when the room was absolutely soaked in Jaskier’s own fear. “Geralt.” He said again, almost pleading. Geralt couldn’t stop himself from moving at the sound.

“Are you hurt?” Geralt asked, his voice coming out more gravelly than he expected. Jaskier shook his head, silver-lined eyes wide as Geralt swiped his thumb across his cheek, wiping away the tear tracks. He felt the worry slip away slightly. “Nightmare?” Jaskier nodded, hand coming up to grasp the Witcher’s wrist tightly. The bard shut his eyes tightly and leaned further into Geralt’s hand, taking a shaky breath.

“Don’t leave.” He whispered. Even if he had wanted to, Geralt couldn’t say no. He slipped under the covers of Jaskier’s bed, pulling him close to his chest. He felt Jaskier grasp onto his shirt and bury his face into the Witcher’s neck. Geralt held him tightly, trying to warm the shaking bard. He swallowed down the lingering worry and adrenaline as Jaskier slowly relaxed, the tension leaving his tightly wound body as he exhaled into Geralt’s skin.

The Witcher’s chest ached. It ached in that entirely good and satisfying way. His nose was in Jaskier’s hair and he could smell the walnut and cedar of his soap that he saved especially for his hair, the smell of pine after spending a day trekking through the forest. He no longer smelt the fear that had clogged his nose and misted his mind. Jaskier was warm and he was safe and he was close.

The ache in his chest throbbed.

His arms tightened around the bard.

The bard that he…that he…

“I love you.”

“What?”

#this hasnt been proofread or edited sorry #im so tired #fic written #geraskier #my rambles #geralt of rivia #geralt #jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geralt x jaskier #geraskier fic #geraskier angst #the witcher fic

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kewltie · 4 years

Text

"Go away," Kasumi hisses over another stifled dinner. "You've been here nearly everyday for the past two weeks. Don't you have a home to go back to? You're rich; you can buy, like, five houses!"

Bakugou stares at her across the table. "I think you severely overestimating my income, brat," he says dryly.

"Don't lie." She huffs. "I read your in-depth profile on Hero Weekly. You're the no. 1 hero in the country and you make plenty of banks last year with just sponsorships alone."

“This stalkerish tendency of yours.” Bakugou gives her a look. "It's disturbing how much you and Deku are alike."

"I did my homework because I'm thorough like that." Kasumi scowls, arm folded over her chest. "You have to know your enemy to win. And don't even think of dodging the subject!"

Bakugou shrugs, neither denying nor agreeing to the earlier statement. "What if I just like the food here?" he muses.

She gives him a doubtful glare. "Then why do you look like you're eating glass everytime you take a bite of something?"

"You don't like my cooking?" Papa asks, poking his head out of the kitchen where he was washing the aftermath of their dinner. Hurt wrung all over his face.

Bakugou grimaces. "That wasn't what I said—" but the rest of his sentence is swallow by Kasumi's interruption. "I love your cooking, Papa," she chimes in loyally. At Papa's shyly relief smile she swivels her attention back to Bakugou, pinning him in his place with a severe glare.

Papa always been sensitive about his cooking. When they were living with Grandma Inko she did all the cooking because Papa was too busy juggling multiple jobs to keep them afloat. Between school, work, and a raising a kid, he didn't have a lot of practice in the kitchen, but does he tried anyway. And she loves him for it.

Kasumi leans over the table and drops her voice to a low ominous hiss. "I will cut you where you sit if you hurt his feelings again."

Completely unfazed by her threat, Bakugou sits back and grins sharply. "I know you never finish all of the foods on your plate," he says coolly in turn.

Kasumi doesn't jump over the table and tackle him to the ground, only because Papa raised her right. And also, because she can feel Papa hovering close behind her back. "Is that true, Kasumi-chan?" Papa asks, the words catch in the air in an anxious hitch. "You really don't like my cooking either?"

She hops down from her chair and turns to toward him, finding she standing in directly in front of him. Papa's fully out of the kitchen now, wearing a concerned frown on his face, which always make her antsy. There are few things worth protecting in this world and Papa's smile is one of them.

"It's not that! I just have a small stomach!" she insists loudly, excuses tumbling out of her mouth like broken dam. Papa isn't necessarily bad in the kitchen. He just got a rotating stable of recipes that he uses again and again. There's only so much chicken kaarage she can take per week before she become sick of chicken.

A throat clears behind her and she sighs heavily before snapping, "What?!"

"Two days ago, I saw you devoured two packs of daifuku that I'd brought with me like a living garbage compactor and that was all after dinner," Bakugou unnecessarily contributes to their conversation.

Kasumi's hands flexes at her side. Here's the thing she isn't necessary a violent person despite her barbed tongue and the bruised fists because it's not in her, but Bakugou Katsuki is seriously pushing all her buttons tonight. He'd cut through all her pretenses and lies and waved it right in her face to mock her.

She'd never felt more exposed.

"I'm sorry Papa and you can ground me after this," she says, rolling up her sleeves, "but I'm going to punch him. In the face, preferably.”

Papa's eyes widen and he abruptly catches her by the shoulders, his hands clenching down to keep her in place. "I would really, really like it if you don't."

"But I—" she protests loudly and earnestly, bouncing on the heels of her feet, "what if I only punch him a little? He’s a pro-hero, he can take it! It wouldn't even hurt him!”

Papa shakes his head. "No, Kasumi-chan," he says. Staunch in his resolution. And as firm as the floor they stand on.

And that's all it takes.

Here is the truth she holds above all else: Papa loves her absolutely, there is no one in this world who loves her more than him, and he would do anything for her, but when he make a decision he's a mountain and he won't be move. Even in spite of her. And specifically for her.

For all the good of the world, it hasn't been kind to her and Papa. So on her worst days, she's a raging inferno as hate and contempt burns within her, but Papa is the rain that comes and washes away the firestorm in her heart. Only in his arms does she ever find her piece of peace.

She thinks if Papa hasn't raised her with such loving and gentle hands, she would have grown to be a spiteful and angry child, who rages against the word blindly. "Okay, Papa," she says solemnly, shoulders slumping, but firm. "Anything you say. I won't do it, but only because you told me."

Papa's eyes are bright as he smiles at her. And that's all she'd ever wanted.

"If you two are quite done with your melodramatic theater," Bakugou humorlessly drawls. And just like that her good mood is easily broken by that annoying voice behind her.

She rolls her eyes as she turns and scoffs. "What you mean?!" she demands hotly, dropping all pretense of her usual manners in front of him, but then again she never have any for him in the first place. She never use such an offensive and coarse language in her life, but her wild temperament is all his. Kasumi may treat most adults with severe politeness, but rarely do they get her respect right off the bat. Her respect has to be earned the hard way; they have to actually put the leg work for it.

"Aren't you tired of being leashed by Deku because of your temper?" Bakugou deliberates, cocking a brow up. "You act like a mad dog half of the time, yapping away at me and then Deku has to run over to calm you down. You sulk and he has to console you. You both get emotional over it. Rinse and repeat. This is honestly getting boring to watch." The glare of his red eyes is unforgiving as they pinned her down.

Papa coughs awkwardly as he tries to stifle a laugh, because of course he would think this is all amusing. He's completely biased. "Papa," she scolds, tapping her feet impatiently because he's her Papa. He's supposed to be on her side.

Papa winces and softly says, "Sorry."

Consoled, she snaps to Bakugou with an accusatory finger. "And you, stop interfering in our family matter, Unnecessary!" she hisses spitefully, venom dropping from every word that pass her lips. "I know what you're trying to do." She glares. "You want to break us apart by exposing me so you get your nefarious hands all over my Papa. Think again! That will never happen!"

Bakugou has the absolute gall to rolls his eyes at her. "Yea, because I have so much free time to fuck around and love putting myself through utter hell just to get in Deku's pants," he says, sarcasm so thick in his voice that he's drowning in it.

Kasumi scowls, arms folded.

"Just stop coddling Deku, he's a grown man and your dad so fucking treats him like one. He doesn't need you to baby his ass," he plows on, relentlessly and unforgivingly. "If you don't like something, tell it to him straight. He won't hold it against you for the rest of his life. He’s not that stupidly petty."

Kasumi bristles. "You don't know—" the rest of her sentence is cut of when a hand lands on her shoulder. "Papa?" she says, Bakugou's earlier words making her wary.

"It's okay, Kasumi-chan, you can tell me," says Papa. His voice soft and terrifyingly assuring. "I can handle it."

Chewing on her bottom lip in thought, she tilts her head back to get a good look at him. It's ironic that she could slay giants and face the world with nothing but sheer grits and the wits on her, fearless against everything but her Papa who made her feel like a hapless babe every time he look at her with consideration.

But when all she see is the warmth in his familiar green eyes and the encouraging smile meeting her, she says, "I do you love your cooking," and it's as true as she can be. Then, with consideration, she adds, "But not all the time. Maybe you can try a new dish every now and then?"

She may be young, but she knows that sometime love isn't some grand gesture, it's the small things that matter the most. Even if it mean eating chicken karaage four times a week and every week till she's sick to her stomach and couldn't even stand the sight of chicken anymore.

Inhaling, she watches as a gauntlet of confusion runs a course through his face. "Oh." He blinks. "Oh," he says as realization finally dawns on him at last. "I see." He smiles apologetically, touching the back of his neck. "Well, I can do that. We'll try something new tomorrow!" he says cheerfully. There’s plenty of sincere enthusiasm put into it that she doesn’t think it sound like he’s faking it. Papa always been a terrible liar, but that why he has her in the first place.

She lets out her breath, long and heavy as though she didn't even realize she was holding it in the entire time she was waiting for his answer. But. No more chicken karaage. No more chicken. Oh my god. All her earlier anxiety is washed away just like that.

Papa hums thoughtfully. "Now, what would you like to eat tomorrow?"

Excited, Kasumi opens her mouth, but Bakugou lets out a loud grunt. "Yea, okay, you make it as though picking up new dishes is as easy at that. Certainly not with your rudimentary cooking skill," he says needlessly.

"Hey, back off," she snarls, ticked. "You don't even know what you're talking about so don't start with me."

"I cook," he says as casual as one would be.

"You cook?" she says, doubtful.

"I cook," he repeats, folding his arms across his chest languidly. "Not a professional chef by any mean, but better than Deku."

"Liar," she defends, loyal to the end.

"I live alone so who the hell will put food on the table if not myself?" he retorts. "And eating out everyday is stupid and a waste of my time and money, so yea I fucking cook, brat."

Chagrin, she mumbles, "It probably taste horrible."

He narrows his eyes. "It actually taste fucking awesome, you ungrateful little shit."

"Kacchan is actually good in the kitchen," Papa chirps up, because he's weak like that. Always the first to come to Bakugou’s defense. "He'd learned it all from his father, your Grandpa Masaru, who is an amazing cook!"

Kasumi clicks her tongue in annoyance as she remains unmoved.

Bakugou scoffs. "Fine," he says, sitting up. "I'll bring ingredients over tomorrow and give you hell."

"And what if I don't like it, huh?" she fires back.

He shrugs, unbothered. "Then I'll try again and again till you do."

She snorts in disbelief. "I highly doubt that," she says. "I'm picky and hard to please but okay, you can try to wow me."

"Yea, I don't think it'll be that hard when you can vaccum Deku's shitty chicken karaage everyday, your tastebud is probably already dead," he says wryly. Her barbed tongue definitely came from him.

"Hey," Papa says, and there's a visible sulk in his voice, "it's not that bad! You ate it too!"

Bakugou's gaze flickers to the side as twins’ blotch of red rises to his cheeks. "Because I'm a fucking dumbass who really like you a shit ton so I put up with it for you," he admits.

There's nothing smooth about it, it's clumsy and cringe worthy to hear; there’s absolutely nothing romantic about it, but Papa, who is a soft soul, just melts under them. "Kacchan," he breathes, and it's entire world in tied up in the word

Kasumi grimaces, because ewe. Gross. And resolves to not get her stomach sick again with by their disgusting display of affection by pushing Papa back in the kitchen to hide.

Later when she's tucked up in bed with Papa and Bakugou had when home to his own apartment, she mulls over the entire sequence of events leading up to Bakugou's promise to come back everyday to cook for them until she's pleased, and buries her face in a pillow to let out a silent scream of outrage because she'd been outplayed. Hard. And nobody to blame but herself.

#bakudeku #fic snippet #kasumi in canonland

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songs-dan-likes-blog · 4 years

Text

She’s My Queen (2020)

youtube

I’m of two minds about Stone Temple Pilots, or more specifically their reputation. They’re regarded as a joke, and I’m in on it. STP are/were soft, pretentious, cheesy, and better than most bands of their era but not as good as bands that never achieved STP’s success. They were the band for the guy who thought he was a music guy but never actually was a music guy. And that guy was me right up until my late 20s.

I loved STP, and I still do more or less unironically. Purple was a favorite album growing up, and I listened to it endlessly. (Some, but not all, of it holds up.) I had an STP poster in my high school bedroom, though I have no recollection of where or when I got it. I tacked it on top of an X-Files poster—my first online purchase, back in probably 1996—because I thought that the girls I brought up to my room wouldn’t want to kiss me if they saw the X-Files poster but would want to kiss me if they saw this STP poster. Irony of ironies, the only girl I actually convinced to climb into bed with me was a lifelong X-Files fan.

STP was exciting to me as a kid, and I still believe they are/were a good band. Exciting is an important word when you’re young, and, actually, fuck that, I still believe exciting is maybe the most important quality that a song can have. I don’t find STP exciting now that I’ve grown up, but I still hold that in their prime they wrote gloriously sleazy, androgynous, and varied songs, and that Scott Weiland was a real rock star, meaning that he slithered his way between the boxed up definitions we use to describe ourselves and out culture. The band wrote a lot of mediocre (and plain bad) music, too, but who cares? If Jim Morrison hadn’t died so young, we’d all feel the same way about The Doors as we do about STP.

The way I feel about them now is: I’m not making any STP jokes myself, but I will laugh at them when someone else makes them. Were they not a popular rock and roll band, that might be a situation worth interrogating.

I didn’t know that STP was making new music. I have a severe distaste for when a band replaces a dead front-person. I’m open to getting over that, I guess. It’s a dumb take, for sure. The other thing is, a 90s band making new music in 2020 is probably not something I’m interested in, original lineup or otherwise.

I don’t know anything nor do I want to know anything about new STP singer Jeff Gutt—or any other over-40 musician discovered via reality television for that matter—but he’s the guy who sings the new song I will now talk about. He sounds enough like Weiland for me to buy into the idea that this is the same band as the one I loved, and that’s important? It’s something, at least.

The STP catalog ranges from power chord idiocy (“Bang, Bang, Baby”) to spare, melancholy ballads (“Pretty Penny”), with their hits (”Plush,” “Interstate Long Song”) landing squarely in between. “She’s My Queen,” which Spotify force fed me before I knew what it was, falls to the ballad end of the spectrum, and like those songs it’s led by a quiet, thoughtful guitar riff and almost stupidly simple, saccharine lyrics. You can look them up for yourself; the song is all about his queen being a queen to him (oh yeah oh yeah). I miss Weiland for many reasons, not the least of which being that even when he was writing a sappy love song he would find ways to complicate it, such as when his lover understands that he needs her to be both his woman and also his man on “Lounge Fly,” or in my favorite, “Still Remains,” when he implies that a relationship is only perfect (e.g., eternal lovers becoming each other, bath-water drinking, etc.) if it includes stabbing thorns alongside the picked flowers and nectarines. In fact a lot of STP songs are about the opposite of what “She’s My Queen” is—heartbreak and loneliness, healing from both—but the news song’s tonal mood is familiar enough to be comforting.

“She’s My Queen” starts in an Indian mode, with a tanpura drone followed by a sitar run, and when the “Discover” playlist arrived on it I actually thought Spotify was serving me up a raga, which wouldn’t have been unusual, especially when the song kicked into what sounded like a tabla drums beat but on re-listen is probably from something tauter and more mundane. I can’t quite decide if it’s a bongo or a bodhrán, but I’m guessing it’s a mix of percussion. The predominant instrument on this track is an acoustic guitar (this is apparently an acoustic album, who knew?) on top of which we hear the metallic strums of a marxophone—an obscure cousin of the autoharp with lead hammers. This already would be an adventurous arrangement for STP, but they further commit to the eclecticism with winds, a breathy chorus, and a flute solo that I thought, momentarily, as I was steeped in the multiculturalism of the instrumentation, was from a pan pipe. The song really makes you feel like you’re gliding through the air on an overcast day, coming down much like the titular queen from a “northern sky.” It’s beautiful.

Ragas are devotional songs, and thinking about “She’s My Queen” this way make the less-than-exciting lyrics into something a little more interesting. The song becomes a hymn to a lover, possibly even a divine mother (I don’t fully know how it works, but certain notes in a raga/raag are linked to Hindu goddesses), who the narrator wants to pull from a dream and spend his days beside. Actually, why not both lover and goddess? This song is saying by being my perfect lover you deserved to be worship like a goddess, and fuck off if that isn’t right. The “she” in the song is, as he says, the narrator’s soul and queen, and though he cannot count the ways (oh yeah oh yeah) of her, he doesn’t lament this fact. The attempt is enough. The attempt is holy. Aside from a pronoun, there’s not much of a difference here, lyric-wise, from George Harrison’s Krisha prayer, My Sweet Lord, and both sound to me like their speaking not to me but above me. The effect is of making me want to devote myself to someone, too.

Ragas are also about the exploration of a mood, and I think that this song does that, and again in interesting ways. For one, there’s the accumulation of instruments, a classic trick for building drama which has an additional effect on “She’s My Queen” of making like his prayer is pulling the universe closer and closer to him. Religious music ought to be ecstatic. The wide range of instruments makes the song other-worldly in a very analog way, and the song never has to verge into the psychedelic or melodramatic or extraterrestrial to achieve its effect.

I’m not saying it’s a great song, and one wonders what Weiland would have done it with, but it made me think about it in real-time, and that’s probably what this whole blog is going to be about.

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rouge-heichou · 5 years

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I know no one cares but like, I need to get this out of my system. Just the usual “”””analysis””” of whatever I play and watch lol.

So like, I went to watch Yu Gi Oh because of some Youtube videos about the Egyptian Gods that suddenly showed up in my recommended and I’m like “Hell yes, I’m down for Battle City!” Nothing wrong with that Battle City Arc except for some changed rules and Joey beating the odd way too many times. Or Atem just like... you know, believing in the heart of cards like usual. A bit bullshittery but nothing unusual. So I decide to keep on watching because I don’t think I’ve ever seen Atem’s past or anything like that and get to season 4. - I’m just gonna ignore the Virutal World bullshit because I skipped it because I got bored.

I’m like “Oh hey, I remember the seal of orichalcos! and I remember Dartz was cool as fuck!” ............. yeah no. Look the whole build up to the finale is absolutely fine with me. A bit very feels heavy but okay. - I fucking stan Raphael. He’s a good egg. This thing’s weirdly melodramatic but.... ok. I mean the deepest shit we had before was a soft boy who was forced to live underground due to his heritage and got salty about that. Now we have.... Alister? With some fucking war backstory losing his family in war. One kid that grew up on an isolated island after some Titanic story and one trouble maker outsider kid that wants to be cool. Mai who’s being overly edgy and the Pharaoh living in a crisis after fucking up. See, this is a bit over the top if you ask me but it was enjoyable right? BUT then we get that absolutely over the top bullshittery finale.

Okay, Dartz is stupidly overpowered but so was Marik and yeah it’s obvious Atem’s gonna save the day, that’s just shounen for you. Though fuck. From the moment Dartz sacrifices his Life Points to summon his weird ass infinite Attack Points Mini Leviathan things just go ????? First off, why do Dartz AND Atem just keep on going like everything’s fine while being down to 0 LP? Then, how the fuck does Atem just play Tennis between his Knights’ attacks going up to like infinite and then suddenly beyond infinite by fusing his dragon knights???? Atem that’s not a thing what the fuck are you doing you filthy cheater??? Cheating as much as Seto did a few mins before that. Why the fuck does Seto activate a spell card when he’s down to 0 LP and actually loses???? Okay Okay. Then, when Dartz is “beaten” We get Seto and Joey back.... and... Dartz just offers his own soul to the Leviathan despite claiming he’d need the Dragon Wielder’s souls to revive that thing. But suddenly he can fuse himself with that thing??? If you could do that before why wait freaking 5000 years until the Pharaoh returns? Why wait for three insanely skilled duelists to obtain the dragons that could fuck up your whole plan? Can’t tell me he didn’t want to sacrifice himself because he’d fuck himself over because he’s just fine and well after this shit? And what even is that Leviathan shit to begin with??? Remember when everyone was in awe because Ra and Marik’s ability to control Ra like he’s never done anything else? Yeah Leviathan could just use Ra as a fucking toothpick. I know Ra was nerved irl but I don’t remember Ra to be nerved in universe????

But then again, this whole season was basically some.... filler season? I don’t even know. The whole show just goes back to the good shit and pretends Dartz was never a thing lmao.

Tho, Dartz looks cool. I’ll give him that. But that’s really the only cool thing about him.

#What is season 4 even #this show isn't meant to be watched by adults lmao #yu gi oh #yugioh

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killscreencinema · 5 years

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Xenoblade Chronicles X (Wii U)

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Xenoblade Chronicles X, released by Monolith Soft “X”-clusively for the Wii U in 2015, takes place on an alien planet named Mira, where the last remnants of humanity have crash landed after Earth was decimated by a mysterious alien force known as the Ganglion. The human survivors live on in the form of “mimeosomes”, which are enhanced cyberorganic duplicates, which are being controlled remotely by their real bodies while in stasis in a massive vault known as the Lifehold.

You play as a freshly revived from stasis new recruit in an organization known as BLADE, whose mission statement, besides gathering resources and fending off hostile creatures for the residents of the fledgling city of New Los Angeles, is to find the Lifehold, which was lost during the crash landing, before it runs out of power, killing the rest of humankind in the process. The only problems is that BLADE is in a race to find the Lifehold against their old pals, the Ganglion, who are committed to finishing the extermination they started.

I normally don’t go into so much detail about a video game story, but goddamn if this one didn’t capture my imagination like no other video game in awhile, especially a J-RPG, with all of their tired tropes. In fact, while I greatly enjoyed the first game, Xenoblade Chronicles, I found the story to be disappointingly banal, especially from a studio like Monolith, who are known for complex plots since the days of ye olde PlayStation with Xenogears (when the creative team was working under Squaresoft). I love the idea of humans rebuilding civilization, with their main hub of New Los Angeles having the familiar California architecture juxtaposed against a strange, alien landscape. I love the idea of these people being trapped in cyber-organic bodies, which if killed, would merely trap their consciousness back in their real bodies in stasis. What a mind trip it would be for someone close to you to die, but if you’re able to find where their real body is tucked away, you might have a chance to bring them back for realsies! To the game’s credit, it deeply explores both the negative and positive psychological implications of such an existence, albeit in a melodramatic fashion one comes to expect from most anime (which J-RPGs are basically offshoots of). The characters are all well-rounded, with Elma, your commanding officer and all around badass bitch, being my favorite. I even love what Elma says whenever she levels up:

“Strength comes from experience. That’s true on any planet.”

Meanwhile, whenever my character leveled up she’d exclaim “MY GROWTH SPURT!!!” Which is... weird. I guess it’s better than your 13-year-old teammate, Lin, yelling that.

You’re well-advised to spend most of your time with Elma and Lin, getting them nice and strong. You can also choose fourth party member from a variety of characters you meet along the way. The longer you spend time with your team completing missions, the more your affinity grows with them. One you reach a certain affinity level, it opens a personal side-quest with each respective character, which are worth doing not only to further dive into the story, but for the “fortune and glory, kid, fortune and glory”, as Indiana Jones would say.

While I can’t say enough things about the story, the gameplay is just as solid and immersive. It plays basically just like its spiritual predecessor, for it should be noted at this point that gameplay is the only thing is has in common with the first game as it does not continue the story. It’s almost like how Mega Man X *kinda* continues the story of the original Mega Man series, but with a darker, more sci-fi tone. Xenoblade Chronicles 1 and 2 are pure fantasy (with a lil bit of sci-fi), while Xenoblade Chronicles X is sci-fi fantasy all the way. It’s pretty much the J-RPG version of Mass Effect, but without all the sex.

The battle system is in real-time, with your various special moves set up in slots. You can unleash them at will, or wait for your comrades to request a specific move, which is optimal as it is one of very few ways to heal your party. Plus, those special attacks have to recharge, so you don’t want to be stuck with no specials while your party’s HP is in the red, and one of them is begging for a heal. Aw~kward! I do like how streamlined it feels as opposed to the kind of turn-based fighting I’m used to in J-RPGs, although it’s always stressful not being able to control the three other party members beyond issuing generic squad orders like “Concentrate your fire” or “assemble with me” or “GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE” before running from danger like King Arthur and his knights running from that bunny in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

You’ll be using that order a lot by the way as, similarly to the first game, low level enemies cohabit alongside extremely high level enemies all over the world maps. While most of the time the super strong monsters will ignore your existence, unless you pick a fight or bump into them, others might not have such a chill disposition and will prefer to trample you instead. Running into an area populated by high-level enemies can feel a lot like when you accidentally wander into a dangerous neighborhood. There’s nothing like looking for a rare item in a cave only to realize it’s full of enemies twice your level, so you carefully back away like the Homer Simpson meme:

You might think I’m complaining, but I actually really enjoyed this in both games, as it really makes it feel like a truly open world and having to tread softly or risk sudden annihilation from a level 80 tyrant you didn’t know was there makes it feel more like an adventure. That being said... it can also be incredibly infuriating when you’re flying around in your mech suit, which are called “Skells” in this game, and you innocently bump into a powerful bad guy only for him to promptly blow up your Skells, leaving you with a salvage cost in the MILLIONS. Yep, that’s when you normally “save scum” by loading up a previous save, but damned if they didn’t make it a pain in the ass what with the obscene loading times and all the fucking menu screens you have to press A through. While it’s true that players who are savvy about planting mining beacons in the most optimal way to earn money will have more credits than they know how to spend, you will trash your Skells a lot, and that shit adds up, especially when you’re trying to save for more powerful Skells or expensive equipment.

By the way, I don’t want to understate how fucking cool it is that you get a giant mech robot to ride in halfway through the game. I was already onboard with Xenoblade Chronicle X before that happened, so adding a giant mech robot to the mix is like discovering for the first time how freaking delicious Fritos are in chili. Like... I love chili, but I had not idea it could be improved THIS much with Fritos! And just as the initial buzz of getting a Skell starts to wear off, YOU GET A FLIGHT MODULE THAT ALLOWS YOU TO FLY ALL OVER THE MAP WITH IMPUNITY! Hey, you like chili and Fritos? Howz about a blow job too? I mean, you’ll have to listen to an irritatingly catchy J-pop song while you’re getting the blow job, but still awesome!

Which finally brings us to the music. Holy shit. The music is composed by Hiroyuki Sawano, who did the music for the anime series Attack on Titan. There are lots of great tracks for the game... well except for both the day and night themes for NLA, which will get stuck in your head so much you’ll scream into your pillow while trying to sleep at night (meanwhile in your brain you keep hearing, “Uh, yeah, uh, yeah, oh oh oh”). Even the worst track is forgivable if only because the main theme to game, innocously titled “Theme X”, is one of the most goddamn beautiful pieces of music I’ve heard in a game in years. Listen and let the goosebumps wash over you:

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It’s obvious I love the game, but there are negatives too. For one, I didn’t finish the game, because HOLY HELL are the final bosses difficult. Firstly, any hope that you have of beating them is with your Skells, so should they get wrecked somewhere along the way, there’s no way to bring them back, so you’re SOLAMWF (or “Shit out luck and mighty well fucked” as George Carlin coined). If you saved before the fight, your heard was in the right place, but guess what? You’re fucking trapped. You can’t leave to buy a stronger Skell or level grind. It’s a goddamn dead end, emphasis on the word “dead”. Fortunately, being a seasoned RPG player, when Elma asked me not only once, but TWICE, if I was ABSOLUTELY sure I’m ready to enter the Lifehold, I got the subtext and didn’t save once inside. However, stupidly, I did save after accepting the final mission, which effectively locks out the affinity missions, which can be much less redundant way to level grind than doing the “Basic Missions” (which consists of tasks like fetch quests and monster bounties). I tried like hell to grind to level 50 and save up enough credits to buy a level 50 Skell (which were the minimum recommendations for evening the odds against the boss), but I still couldn’t beat him.

So out of frustration and boredom, I rage quit the game and moved on to something that will hopefully be a lot less strenuous... Bloodborne (wah-waaaaaah). I like Xenoblade enough that I’ll return to it and continue grinding away until I eventually beat it.

So yeah... Xenoblade Chronicles X is pretty fucking great. I would cautiously nominate it as the best RPG you’ll play on the Wii U (below Breath of the Wild of course).

#xenoblade chronicles x #Monolith Soft #jrpg #wiiu #nintendo #rpg #role playing games #scifi #skells #video games #xeno #anime

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geminimoonbeamx · 7 years

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Naive: Part 6

A/N: In which Y/N helps Pepper loosen up and Bucky is ever the good guy.

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: More cursing in this chapter because I have the mouth of a sailor. You’ll also probably gag at end, just sayin’

Summary: As the goddaughter of Tony Stark you were no stranger to the Avengers, but when you meet the newest member- you’re a little more then intrigued. Unfortunately for him, Bucky Barnes has caught your eye.

💘💘💘💘💘

You love Pepper.

You really do.

And you have repeated that notion to yourself, over and fucking over again as of late.

How many times had she gotten you out of trouble? Covered for you? Been there for you. The count was numberless. You literally couldn’t remember a time when she’d bailed on you or let you down.

Who were you to tell her to lower it down a notch with the wedding planning?

So, you had allowed her to drag you all over the city, from Queens to Brooklyn and thought the entirety of Manhattan. Running errands, non stop. Your brain was a little fried from the sensatory overload, from all of the white and lace. From the glaring lights of the many stores you frequent with her.

‘SOS, we’re at another bridal shop(gun emoji) (upside down face emoji)’

You send the text to Bucky. You’d definitely encouraged the senior citizen to start using his phone more, and the pages of text threads you had under his name on your phone made you smile. You were almost always talking to him, it was actually pretty lame the way you were constantly waiting for his next message. You couldn’t help it. He was really a funny fucker, when you got past that initial “I was tortured for decades, of course I have resting bitch face” surface.

'I’m sure you’ll survive, doll. If you need rescuing though, just holler. I’ll be there’ as usual you smile like a total loser at his message,

You follow a huffing Pepper out of the store. And into another.

You handle the near constant babble about table settings, what kind of china should she choose? Or maybe crystal? What about seating? Who should sit next to who? “We cant sit the Chinese ambassador next to Fury. They always go on about that damn gambling bet” And “The team shouldn’t be anywhere near Ross”

“Why are we inviting him again?” You’re in the fourth flower shop that you’d been to that day. On the hunt for the perfect shade of Larkspurs. Honestly, the hanging violet flowers all look the same to you but according to Pepper they’re “Too violet! I need lavender, you know like that powdery muted color”.

So with a pop of your lips, you keep your mouth closed. Wisely.

“Appearances. We’ve got to keep our rep nice and squeaky clean. Our public image has been under a lot of…stress. So the more keep it looking like everything is friendly between us and the government, the better” Pepper informs you, distracted, not looking up from the array of blossoms that lie between you.

“But things are better I thought” You implore, as a particularly fragrant array of peonies catch your eye. Their gorgeous, delicate and beautiful. You run your fingers along the lines of the petals, tracing them without touching.

“They are, for the most part”

That makes your eyebrow crook a little. What exactly did that mean? The team was back together, following rules(for all intents and purposes)… if Pepper didn’t look so distraught over the fact that you couldn’t find these fucking flowers, you probably would have pressed on about it. But you decide not to stress her out anymore, even from your place across the shop you could tell that she was wound tight.

You grab a couple of pictures of the peonies, posting them to your snapchat and other social media accounts quickly before making your way over to Pepper.

Slowly. Hesitantly. Like she was a bomb that might go off at anytime.

“Put the Irises down slowly and no one gets hurt” You instruct her with your arms held out in front of you melodramatically.

You really cant help being a smart ass. It was probably something you should work on.

She doesn’t even laugh, she just sets the bouquet down and sighs “We’re never going to find them, not in this city”

“Okay” You soothe, a little weirded out at the fact that the roles have dramatically changed and in this moment you are the parent “We’ll call the planner back and tell her that she was wrong. We’ll do some looking of our own and find where they do carry them, and we’ll have them shipped out”

Growing up is weird. Seeing your “elders” frazzled is weirder.

She takes a deep breath through her nose “I already looked, most places don’t ship because of how delicate they are”

“Fuck it, then we’ll go get them ourselves. We’ll take one of the quinjets” You’re completely serious. Even if you have to fly all the way to France, that’s what you’d be willing to do.

Pepper looks down at you, like everyone does because you’re a fucking mouse and everyone seems to dwarf you, and simpers at the promise in your voice. She could see that you were really making an effort, taking your “Maid of honor” duties extremely seriously. She knew she hadn’t been going easy on you, and yet you stayed resilient. Good natured. Keeping a cap on the complaints.

“Okay?” You conclude, giving her a look. Searching her face for acceptance.

“Okay” Pepper agrees. Thank fucking baby Jesus.

“Alright, can we do the rest of our planning at that bar across the street. I’m parched” Your feet hurt from the heeled booties you’d stupidly decided to wear and you knew the both of you could use a drank.

Well, Pepper could use more then one.

And that’s how you killed your soon to be officialized god mother from alcohol poisoning.

Again, you we’re being a dramatic asshole, but she was for all pretty much dead to the world as the two of you sat in the back of the sleek Lexus, en route of the tower. Her head was resting on your shoulder, her body slumped, her breathing coming out in soft wheezes. She smelled like a distillery, and you cant help but grin because somehow you’d managed to walk out of that bar, tipsy as hell, but still standing and Pepper was the one who was passed out drunk.

It had started innocently enough.

You two sitting at one of the booths, the tablet and Peppers wedding binder laid out in front of you as you went over the many checklists. You’d even ordered a platter of some kind of weird truffle nachos(that had actually ended up being super bomb) with your Mojito and Peppers Bloody Mary. But somehow one drink had turned to two, and two to three. After your third, you’d been smart enough to cut yourself off, knowing your tolerance level wasn’t very high. That, plus the daunting prospect of having to go and work at the Museum with a hangover the next morning had you pushing away a forth drink.

Even though Pepper kept insisting that you had another, that it would make her feel less bad if you drank as much as she did.

“I’m a horrible person” She had hiccupped, her face flushed pink from the warmth of the bar and the liquor “I shouldn’t be feeding you alcohol, I used take you shopping for school clothes. -another hiccup- Do you remember that dress you wore for your fifth grade school pictures. The one with the little monkey on it?”

“It was a koala” You defend yourself, trying not to be embarrassed at the memory of that hot mess of an outfit “And oh please, Virginia Potts, you’re the one that got me drunk for the first time”

“One. I gave you one Pina Colada at that party” She slurs before sipping the last of her Bloody Mary loudly, the ice clinging against the cup.

The party she was referring to was a fundraising Gala Stark Industries had thrown, raising money for some weird male pattern baldness charity. You had been twelve, and you had thrown up during Tony’s speech.

Not either of your’s greatest moment.

You just watched as she gets drunker and drunker, watch her inhibitions lift and the laughs that leave her. She looks more carefree then you’d seen her in…a long while. So even if you we’re technically getting her shitfaced in order to make sure she didn’t stroke out from the plethora of wedding planning stress, you felt you were doing a good thing here.

That you were gaining some major karmic points.

Although you weren’t nearly as inebriated as your copartner, you were tipsy. That kind of tipsy where you feel hot and brave and playful. Emboldend and stupid.

Really, there should be some kind of phone app that doesn’t allow you to send messages when your past a certain blood alcohol level.

'I should invent that’ you thought to yourself 'I’d be way richer then fucking Tony. Saving lives, left and right’

Unfortunately, there was no such thing.

And your texts to Bucky, well they just kept getting riskier and riskier. Your stomach clamping in anticipation every time you hit the send button.

-You having fun doll?

he’d asked when you’d told him you’d dragged Pepper to a bar in an attempt to sedate her with liquor.

-Not as much fun as Pepper is…I’d be having a lot more fun if you were here’

-That so? What would we be doing that would be so fun, mam?

-Mmhmm. And we could be doing whatever you wanted, sir.

He takes two minutes, literally to reply. More then the thirty seconds he usually does and you swear your teeth clench. You of course, send another message.

-I always have fun when your around(winky face emoji)

Why are you like this? You berate your self.

-I have always have a fun time with you too. You’re good company.

You roll your eyes. Was he not catching the fucking hint? Ugh, stupid super soldiers and their technologically handicapped brains. Ugh, them with their 40’s hardwired bullshit. Good company? What was that even supposed to mean? Who even talked like that anymore?

Screw it, you decide. If he wasn’t getting the hint, you’d have to be more straight forward.

-It’s only because you’re so cute.

You gnaw your lip as you send it. What more did you need to say to him. When would he get it?

-You just using me for my looks?

You bite a giggle at his reply. What an idiot.

-Maybe. Why, aren’t you using me for mine?

-Maybe

You swore, you could’ve scream at how this conversation was playing out. Why wouldn’t he just cave already?

-You know I think your gorgeous. Obviously.

See? Bold and stupid. And maybe a little bit desperate.

-Not nearly as gorgeous as you

Progress. Most guys would be sexting you up the wall by now, begging to see you. Pleading to “hang out”. But, you’d learned, Bucky wasn’t most guys. You had to try with him, work to figure him out.

-Well then do something about it

You sent that text, and then your attention was caught by the loud THUD of Peppers forehead hitting the table.

And those we’re the events that lead you to the present, where you we’re helping Pepper out of the back of the car, her arm around your shoulders as she tripped onto concrete floor of the garage.

“Do you need help, Ms. Y/N?” George, the driver, asks wearily and you wave him off.

“No, we’re okay, Georgie. Thanks for coming to get us, have a good rest of the night”

The little nap Pepper had during the ride home had sobered her up enough that she could walk again, leaning heavily against you for support, but she could put one foot in front of the other. She’s muttering incoherencies as you make your way to into the elevator.

“I just really want this to be special, you know?” you catch a full sentence.

“And it will be, don’t worry” You reassure her, trying not to laugh. You knew, all to well, what it was like to be the drunkest person in the room.

“You’re such a good human, you know that?”

“I try”

“I think you should start wearing your hair in pig tails again”

When you get to her and Tonys floor, the penthouse at the tip top of the building, your not expecting what greets you.

As the metal doors open, they reveal none other then Anthony Stark . In his robe, his arms folded across his chest. Of course he knew the two of you we’re coming up, he’d been watching the security cameras ever since Pepper had called him, clearly out of her mind. You’d both worried the shit out of him, even though he knew reasonably you were both capable enough to take care of yourselves.

How the hell was he not supposed to worry, at least a little bit, when it came to the two of you?

The look on his face so stern and parent like you really are almost scared again. He used to give you that look when you’d run off, when you’d get caught with boys…

When Pepper begins laughing, flat out cracking up so hard that it echos around the vast, quiet, tense space you cant help but put a hand on your mouth to stop from joining her. You fail, miserably.

Tony watches you, both of you, drunk and cackling and ridiculous. The smile that cracks across his face is involuntary.

“Come on, you lush” He urges Pepper, taking her arm, pulling her away from you. She kisses his cheek sloppily, cooing how much she missed him.

You look away. You weren’t one of those people who were like grossed out by your parental figures being affectionate…okay maybe you were a little grossed out.

“I’m going to- go. Goodnight guys” You excuse yourself, jutting your thumb back in the direction of the elevator.

“Thanks for this” Tony refers to the giggling, drunk mess of a redhead in his arms.

“Your welcome” You singsong, before the doors close again.

Its a little ridiculous, how much time you spend in elevators in this damn building, you utter to yourself. The liquor haze is starting to fade and intensify, all at once and you spin on your heels a little bit, reaching into your handbag or your phone.

The texts on the screen slap you in the face.

-You drive me fucking crazy, do you know that?

-Where are you now?

-When are you going to be back?

-Y/N

Giddy. You feel giddy and girlishly foolish at how electrified those texts leave you. Doesn’t he know that had always been the goal? Doesn’t he know he made you feel just as insane? You needed to see him, you unsober mind decides.

“FRIDAY?” You ask the nothingness around you, and she answers.

“Yes, Ms, Y/N?”

“Where exactly is Bucky’s room?” Because he was always coming to you. Your floor, seeking you out. You’d never actually been to his room before. You knew if you tried to find it on your own you’d get extremely lost.

“Mr. Barnes room is located on the 22nd floor. Along with Mr. Rogers’ and Mr. Wilsons” She answers back and you quickly press the corresponding button on the elevator control panel.

“And which unit is his?” Because you didn’t want to wake Steve or Sam up, all the damn doors looked the same in this place.

“The second on the right hand side”

You take a deep breath.

“Is there anything more I can help you with, Ms. Y/N? Would you like me to alert Mr. Barnes that you’re coming up?”

“No, thank you FRIDAY. That wont be necessary. If you could please keep this conversation between the two of us girls, though, I’d appreciate it” You inform her, knowing that in reality Tony never checked the logs…but still…

“Of course, I’ll ensure complete confidentiality of this exchange. Is there anything else?”

“Nope. Thank you FRIDAY Have a…umm goodnight?” Talking to an AI is hard sometimes. Did you come off as polite or completely idiotic?

It had been the struggle of your life. Growing up with all of these scientists. FRIDAY tells you to do the same and you wonder if she had eyes, would she be rolling them at you.

The elevator ride seems to drone on forever and your nerves have you all kind of twisted.

You rummage around and pull a compact out of your purse, checking yourself over. Reapplying your lipstick, fluffing your hair. Fixing your boobs, adjusting them in your bra to where your cleavage is perky and attention grabbing. Rollerballing the perfume-stick over your wrists, dabbing them on your chest in an attempt to make you reek less of bar smoke and gin.

Fuck, why did you look so…ugh. Your cheeks were too red. You looked too flushed, your eyes too wild. Your head is swimming with conflicting thoughts when your reach his floor.

You swear, you’re having literal heart palpitations. When was the last time a boy had made you this anxious? You compose yourself, or at least pretend to. Your chin rising as you flip your hair over your shoulder in an attempt to silence all of the chaos you were feeling. A true example of fake it til you make it. Of course you trip on your heels as you exit the elevator, barley managing to catch yourself. Yeah, real slick.

Slinking down the hallway, you hope your being as quiet and ninja like as you feel. You stalk, almost cat burglarish past the doors, the ones that Steve and Sam slept behind, and made your way to Bucky’s. Your heart was pounding in your throat and the anxious blanket that seemed to enfold you made the back of your neck perpetrate.

Be cool, this is fine. It’s fine. You’re fine. He is DAMN fine…

Your reciting this inner mantra to yourself as you rap, lightly enough that you hoped it wouldn’t catch anyone else’s attention, on Bucky’s door. Your knuckles tapping out a little rhythm.

You really think you might chew your bottom lip off, in those moments you wait for him to answer.

When the electrically operated door finally glides open, you spit out your lip, attempting to you know, not look like you were totally freaking out, and grin up at him.

“Y/N?” Bucky’s steely eyes are wide, eyebrows shot so high they near disappear into the fringe of loose hair that falls into his face… but, it’s not really his eyes that catch your attention.

Usually, Bucky’s donned in either his tactile gear, of one of his Henley’s. Hoodies maybe? Even a leather jacket or two thrown in there. He was always, for the most part, covered up. But he’s standing in the doorway of his room donning only a snug, gray t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants. His arms we’re on full display, and you force yourself not to stare.

“Hey there, handsome” You hope you sound more confident then you feel.

After your little text messages, and the fact that you hadn’t replied to his own, Bucky had been tied in knots.

He didn’t know what to do. Did he text you again, he was still getting the hand of this whole texting all of the time thing but he didn’t want to seem…desperate. Did he call you? Nah, that would be even worse. So he sat, fidgeting on the end of his bed for the better portion of an hour. He couldn’t really go talk to Steve, not wanting to hear the disapproving tone he knew he’d receive.

He could go find you? Hunt you down, scower the streets of Manhattan until he located you? A bar across the street from a flower shop, there couldn’t be too many of those, right?

It’s pathetic, how long he’d debated that idea, before dismissing it. Too much, that would be too much.

He had just started to calm down, a bit, still reaching over to check his phone every two seconds, when there was a knock on his door. He grumbled as he’d risen, thinking it had to be Steve. Or maybe Sam. He really wasn’t in the best of moods, so he answers it intending on telling whichever man it may be to “kindly fuck off”. He feels gob smacked when he see’s you.

“Y/N?” He could only sputter as you gazed up at him, your arms folded over your chest. A coy, near sinful smile on your plump lips. You we’re the very last person he had expected to find outside of his room.

“Hey there handsome” Your voice is different. He’d gotten used to your affectionate nick-name and you called him it just as often, maybe more, then you called him Bucky. But there was intention behind it now. Your tone smoky. Your eyes near predatory.

“Hey doll” His eyes scan the dark hallway behind you. Had anyone seen you come in? “What are you doing here?”

Your lips pull into a little pout and he instantly regrets his choice of words.

“I mean if you don’t want me here…” You try not to visually deflate as you feel the first waves of rejection. “I could uh- I could just go”

You fail.

You’d messed up, you chide yourself mentally. You’d pushed at one of his boundaries, and you shouldn’t have.

“No! That’s not what I meant. I just- I wasn’t expecting you. You’ve never been up here, you surprised me a little bit, that’s all babydoll” Bucky can see it on your face, the hurt that had began to cloud your features and he tries to correct himself because why did his brain have to go so muddy with you? He couldn’t ever manage to say the right thing.

“Good surprise or bad surprise?” You quip, that deviousness seeping back in and he cant help but grin.

“Definitely good” he doesn’t miss a beat and your flooded with warmth, with a gnawing need to touch him. There’s so much skin, so much that he usually kept covered. You ache to run your fingers along the exposed flesh, for him to allow him to touch him. For him to finally touch you the way you we’re dying for him to.

“Are you going to invite me in, Buck?” it’s a whisper. You want him to understand, that he doesn’t have to. That even though you want him to grab you, he could say no and you wouldn’t be mad(you’d be extremely disappointed, but not mad). You don’t want to push him. But as you gaze pleadingly upwards, through your surreally long eyelashes he doesn’t know how he’d ever be able to tell you no.

“Yeah, come in” He ushers you into the room and you slide past him in the narrow door frame, making sure to brush your self against him as you do, a feather light, barley noticeable touch.

He notices.

Bucky’s room is simple, you acknowledge as you look over it. Clean, the sharp modern décor that Tony had opted for, for the entire tower barley touched. There was a suede jacket thrown over the armchair near the large window like door that lead to the small, connecting. patio. There was a littering of papers and notebooks at his desk, and an open box of Oreo’s on his bedside table. Other then that- it didn’t really look like it was his. Like he’d settled into it, yet. Hadn’t he been here for nearly a year?

“What have you been up to tonight, Buck?” You start, innocently, as you toss your purse onto the armchair and take a seat on the foot of his bed.

He doesn’t know how to approach this. Well he knows, instinctually what he wants to do. What his body is yelling at his head to say. Seeing you there, perched on his bed was doing things to him. The way you were leaning back on your arms made your chest jut out, your heavy breasts on display. The thin material of your shirt not doing much to contain your ample cleavage.

You notice the way his eyes roam, it electrifies you. Thrills you.

“Nothing much, it was pretty routine. I aint got any grand stories for you, doll, sorry”

You chuckle, he’s just standing there. Looking so out of place. You cant have that, him being so obviously uncomfortable. In his own room of all places. You reach forward, your hand seeking his. The cool, prosthetic fingers are the ones you lace your own with. Tugging on them.

“Come 'ere” You urge him, voice pleading. Silvery. He obliges and sits next to you, your thighs touching you he’s so close.

He’s not nearly close enough.

Your fingers are still gripping his, and you pull his prosthetic arm into your lap slowly, gauging his reaction. He doesn’t stop you, not even when your fingertips begin to trail along the metal plates. You…he’d never given you the chance to really appreciate the appendage. It was an impressive piece of technology, the plates detailed and cutting edge. The science behind it-jeeze. Your mom would have been flipping her shit, you think to yourself. Would have been extremely fascinated by the vibranium panels. They way they moved, and reacted.

“Can you feel this?” You wonder, looking up to meet his eyes. He nods, gulping once.

“I can feel the heat, and the pressure of your touch…I cant feel the texture of your skin, though” Bucky had never had anyone handle his arm with such delicate care. With such child like curiosity. His heart was pounding in his ears.

You grab his other hand, then. The flesh one, and giving it a quick squeeze, and then flipping it, top open, so that you can trace his palm. With those same barley there touches. Your nails tickling his skin in a way that nearly had him twitching.

“Y/N” His voice betrays him. It’s something between a warning and a plea.

“Bucky” You tease back, giving him a challenging look. Challenging him to fucking finally take what he wanted.

…you could sense it would take a little more coaxing. Sigh. This man…

“I missed you all day” You confess to him, as you link your hands with both of his, holding them tight “All I could think about when I was at that bar was coming home and finding you”

His mouth goes dry, brain foggy.

You supplement his lack of words with your own. Still mojito fuled enough to continue on “And telling you that you drive me crazy too. That I want you to touch me so fucking badly, I think I might die sometimes. I want you, Bucky. I want you so bad” Your voice is cracking by the end, and you can barley look at him. So you bury your face in his shoulder, pressing a kiss against the sleeve covered vibranium.

“Tell me you want me, too” It’s an order.

It’s you begging.

Begging him to fucking stop this, to let you both out of your misery.

“I want you, Christ, you know I want you” Bucky croaks in admition as he watches you worship the physical part of himself that he hates the most. Kissing the arm he hid from the world, the one that had committed so many atrocities.

“How bad?” Your kisses are trailing upwards, over his collarbone, under his sharp jaw. Every inch of exposed skin that you can get.

“So bad” He breathes, harshly, as you nip on his earlobe. You tug it between your teeth.

“Then do something about it” you repeat your words from earlier. Hearing them, live, coming from your pretty mouth sends him spiraling and he turns his head, his lips capturing your own.

Finally.

Mystically.

Magically.

When you talk about this with him in the future you’ll tell him how kissing him made you feel like your soul was lurching our of your body, made your world spin and your nervous system scream at me; 'Bitch what are you doing to me’ as you sighed and moaned and knotted your fingers in his hair. Also, in the future Bucky will tell you that you nearly killed him. That you made him muster up every ounce of self control he had ever had.

When he’d pulled away, you’d just looked for other places you occupy your mouth. The cleft in his chin, his pretty jaw.

“Y/N” Bucky breathed, ragged, as he tried in what seemed like vein to get a hold of himself “you taste like a distillery”

You giggle at his assumption, railing upwards to his ear “What? You don’t like it?”

“No-it’s not that- We just cant do this tonight” His hands go to your shoulders, stilling you and you sigh, huffily and glare at him. Your face contorted in the most adorable pout he’d ever encountered.

“Why not?” you start “Don’t come at me with any of that chivalrous 1940’s bullshit, okay? I’m a grown woman, I know what I want and I don’t need you to think that I don’t”

He lets you rant, and he really does try to keep the smirk off of his face.

“Stop looking at me like that!”

“Look, you’re drunk and you have to be up bright and early” He tries to reason but heat fills your eyes “And I cant help the chivalrous bullshit. It’s the way my ma’ raised me and I know it aint right for us to do…anything else, not tonight”

His words are like a pick axe to your heard.

“You know, I’ve never really been rejected before” It’s a thought, that you’d intended to keep private- but your inebriated mouth had different plans.

“Hey” Bucky strokes your hair “You know that’s not what I’m doin’”

You cant meet his eyes though, you look anywhere but at him and he sighs and rests his nose against the side of your face. If you only knew how desperately he was trying to be the good guy in this situation.

“I can go” you tell him, even though you want to do anything but. No, you want to stay here forever, as cliché as that sounds. With his scruffy face pressed against your own.

“Or you can stay- I could use one of those cuddle sessions your so good at” His hand comes to your cheek, the one that his face isn’t pressed into and strokes the aple of it with a tenderness you’d never encountered. No one had ever been so soft with you before. It was always touching- grasping and needing. But not with Bucky.

Bucky was different.

You huff and turn to face him finally, running your nose against his for a moment “Fine. But you owe me”

And he did, you make a mental note of what he’d have to do to pay you back.

You fall asleep in Bucky’s bed, wrapped in his arms, the smell of him surrounding you. You sleep shitty-aly, as you always do when you’ve been drinking. But Bucky, he doesn’t remember the last time he’d gotten so much rest. He’s out like a light five minutes in- and once again, he thinks before the foggy haze of sleep envelopes his brain, he knows he’s in some deep shit when it comes to you.

———————–

Okay I know I keep promising smut and trust me guys it’s coming but every time I write these two I just see them holding each other. Like seriously this story gives me all the feels because I feel like Y/N is such a sexual character- except when it comes to Bucky. With him he brings out this whole other side to her. Okay, leave me some feedback! And again- the taglist for this story is open! Love you, babycakes!

@devenrenee @skeletoresinthebasement @kendallefire @mellifluousbabe @toniinhere @agentmstark @purplekitten30 @bellaballanda @yslbucky @arabellaaurorabarnes @prinxessofspace @supernaturally-lucky @sngforme @kyritha @the-strandedgypsy @teenagekixks @arabellaaurorabarnes @saysay125 @papi-chulo-bucky @iamwarrenspeace

#bucky barnes x plus size reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnesxreader #Bucky Barnes x reader #tony stark #tony stark daughter #plus size reader #poc reader #mcu smut #pepper potts #pining

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codename-bewareofthefangirl · 7 years

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Konnichiwa, new follower here! I followed after reading your Akashi's ideal girlfriend reply, so, can I ask the same for Midorima? Interview said that Midorima likes older elegant girls and I have my hc that a girl kinda just kinda resembles Bakao would be great for him. Like you know, Midorima does put up with bakao after all

Hi dear new follower! Obviously I can, ask everything you want! Even because, honestly, MidoTaka is my favorite ship concerning Midorima and so, I agree with your reasoning. I’ve read in the interview that he likes older girls and…well, this eccentric OC popped up! I hope you enjoy her, this is what I picture when I think of his ideal girlfriend.

-she has a curvy, but toned body; straight black hair, she usually wears a ponytail. Narrow, catlike eyes and a smirk always present on his full lips. She moves like a dancer, has a suave and loud voice and enjoys feeling pretty. She wears what gives her a mature, but bold appeal and has a soft spot for lip-glosses.

-She’s an enthusiastic girl, with a bubbling personality; she loves teasing others, especially the emotionless or stiff ones. Energetic, hardworking and stubborn. Always in search of fun, new experiences and things to discover. However, she’s human like everyone else and so she’s her own weaknesses and insecurities: she looks for stability and certainty in other people, since she’s frequent mood swings; she is always afraid of being…excessive or annoying, but never says it directly. The fact that she jokes continuously, makes it difficult to understand when she’s serious, nervous and worried or when she’s simply being melodramatic and ironic. It’s as if she speaks by allusions, waiting for the other person to interpret and then reassure her. Due to her role, she’s also very diligent about her responsibilities and has all the qualities that make her a good leader.

-She’s the third-year leader of the Shuutako Cheerleading Team. Her passion is inspiring and supporting the athletes so they can do their best and achieve winning, feeling someone pushing their backs. She’s very popular at school, especially between the first-years, but has few close friends since she can be hard to deal with.

-She encountered Midorima during his first year. At first, she was feeling…dejected about the new, formidable player who seemed to attract all the spotlight on himself. She didn’t feel like cheering on him: he was a genius, he didn’t need it and just ruined the best part of basketball. However, seeing him playing, she started to change her mind, being attracted by his coolness, his calmness during the perfect shots…there was something magnetizing in his perseverance, in his self-confidence. Everything changed the day she had to stay at school longer than usual, to work on a particular difficult cheer, and ended up passing by the basketball’s gym; there, she found Midorima practicing without break, alone; he had fire burning in his eyes, focusing only on the ball and trying to perfect a movement that for her was already flawless. She remained awe-struck, she thought guy like him didn’t need to work hard, to sweat and fail, but she was wrong. Something inside her awoke and from that day she started to pay even more attention to him, noticing how serious and collected he seemed to be, but also all the different expressions sometimes his teammate could make him show…She wanted to see more, to discover more of what that guy hid inside of himself. So, she started ambushing him after practice. At first, Midorima was damn startled by that boisterous third-year, jumped out of nowhere, chirping about cheerleading and basketball and teasing him continuously, and he hoped for her to disappear and leave him alone. Unfortunately, she made acquaintance with Takao and the two, bonding immediately, formed the “How To Exasperate Shin-chan Club”. Her presence became a constant in his life: during lunch, she would kidnap the two of them, after practice she would stay back with them cheering loudly to put his patience to the test, during matches her voice would became the only one he could recognize. She was like a tornado, swirling into his life without escape. And, at some point, Midorima started to find stupidly cute the way her eyes enlightened when he showed an exaggerated reaction to her teasing, worth of praise the way she guided her cheering team like soldiers on the battlefield, sweet her smile when excitedly commenting his match afterwards. Midorima learnt to distinguish her genuine smile and the insecure, nervous ones; he searched relief from stress and pressure in her carefree enthusiasm. Before he could realize, he longed to hear her calling “Shin-chan!” while throwing her arms around his waist to see him blush.

-It takes them a bit to get together: she can never muster the courage to be direct, he just thinks that’s impossible. Thanks God, Takao is there to be the Cupid they need.

-Even after she graduates, she still comes to all the matches and cheers louder than everyone, much to his embarrassment.

-She loves to be cheesy and flirty just to see him stiffening and blushing. With time, though, Midorima builds up a good resistance to her and learns to tease her in his own way.

-Midorima rarely takes the initiative, since she does it for three people’s worth, but he’s very sensitive to her mood’s changes. When he realizes that she’s unsure or is trying to understand if she had exaggerated, he takes the first step and make sure she doesn’t doubt it anymore. He has enough patience for both.

-She likes to play the role of the older, mature woman that has to be respected and treats Midorima like he was a child. He always scolds, reminding her that first, he’s taller; second, with her personality she’s even more childish than him: she had lost the right to be respected when she burst crying because he didn't want to buy a cat.

-After they start dating, Midorima begins bringing her everyday her lucky item. Even if she had mercilessly mocked him for that from the start, she collects and keeps all of them. If someone touches her precious gifts, she become a beast.

-She’s the big, funny sister of Shuutako who spoils the first-years and mocks the older ones. Everyone love when she comes because Midorima softens and lets them breathe. (I have this head canon that Midorima is going to grow enough to be Captain in his third-year. A terrifyingly strict captain, balanced by his vice Takao)

-She gets along very well with Akashi and Midorima still doesn’t understand how the heck it’s possible

-Midorima had dunked only once in his life and only because she threw a tantrum about it. After he did it, she whistled saying “That was really sexy Shin-chan!” but then jumped in his arms laughing and added “But I prefer your cool three-point shots more!”

-One day, they were at the park for a walk but Midorima found a ball and an empty basketball court. He couldn’t resist and started trying few shots. She, pouting, decided to test his reactions and let some guys, wandering near, approach her. In less than a minute, the ball hit perfectly the head of one of the boys, followed by the too tall green-haired boyfriend. “I’m sorry.” Midorima threatened fixing his glasses and trying to murder them with a glare. She immediately burst into laughter, exclaiming, “You’re so jealous Shin-chan!” and kissing him on the spot. He growled, understanding she had played him again, but grabbed her either way by the wrist and dragged her far away from the bunch of astonished, terrified guys.

-Sometimes, they go to a basketball court and Midorima teaches her how to shot. It’s one of the few moments she blushes deeply and can’t calm down, being caught in his arms from behind and his low, cold voice whispering what to do in her ear.

-She has a soft spot for Midorima without his glasses and with hair combed back, she finds it really hot, so she frequently steals them. Little she knows that Midorima finds her wearing his glasses even sexier.

-Midorima secretly loves the quiet, serious and focused look that she unconsciously shows from time to time; for example, when she’s studying or when she’s reading a book in silence. It’s a rare sight, but he always catches and enjoys it.

-The number of sighs and defeated groans Midorima emits in her smirking presence can only balance with the number of faint, quick smiles he shows.

-She never stops moving, is hyperactive, so Midorima has to literally cage her against his chest to read his book peacefully. And being hold by him, it’s the only thing that calms her down probably.

-For pure luck, they’re going to study at the same university, even if with different majors. Thanks to that, she manages convincing him to live together in a shared apartment, much to his precocious ageing. Or, at least this is what he says, the truth is that the two years’ difference has always been something difficult to deal with for them.

-When they argue, she likes to take Midorima’s lucky item of the day and break it in front of his eyes, with a big, menacing smile plastered on her lips. Or, she stuffs his pillow with Natto. Midorima instead, just chooses the most impenetrable silence and avoids any kind of physical contact. That’s why she’s usually the first to apologize.

-She gets drunk easily and, in those cases, she can become really annoying or very whining; either way, Midorima just picks her up, throwing her on his shoulder, and bring her home scolding her during all the way back.

-Midorima starts to play the piano again only to listen to her singing.

-She cooks, he does the chores. It’s an established rule for survival.

-Midorima’s younger sister loves her. They build a strong bond and, when together, mess so much with Midorima that he usually tries to escape to Takao’s house. Everything fails when his best friends just joins the two devils and collaborate to his destruction.

-They call each other by their given names only in the most intimate moments, otherwise she calls him “Shin-chan” and he still uses her surname.

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