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sneezefiction · 3 years

Text

answers

oikawa x reader

desc: oikawa changes some lyrics in taylor swift’s song “love story”

a/n: please keep in mind that most of this is just humorous & there’s no serious characterization in this particular story. i laughed a lot while writing it :,,) for @cutiekawa because you gave me the idea; thank you for that! and also for @seroto-rin because this is very similar to your husband’s lyric changing habits lol – i still laugh whenever i think about it <3 warnings: language, mentions drinking/being drunk

wc: 3k

— It’s 2 am when you hear Oikawa pattering down the hallway and past your room. From the gentle footsteps and the occasional whisper of “shit” when the floor creaks, it's obvious that he’s trying to stay quiet.

But his attempts are in vain because, one, you’re wide awake and, two, he’s just knocked over an empty beer can from earlier. It was probably the one he’d left on the hall table – you’d told him to throw it away but he’d refused saying that he’d “throw it away in the morning when his arms weren’t so tired.”

This is just karma.

The clatter of the aluminum on wooden floors echoes throughout the dorm. A much louder, especially frustrated, “fuck” follows right after it.

The word, though crass, sounds deceptively attractive on his tongue. But most things Oikawa-related just happen to be attractive.

You muffle your laughter with a blanket. He’s probably disoriented from the alcohol – it’s only been an hour and 5 drinks each since you both called it a night. You’d headed straight to bed but he’d fallen asleep on the couch where you left him, hair a-mess and lips parted.

But, for someone who used to stay out till daybreak on weekends, he’s spent most Fridays hanging out with you instead.

This weekend was no different.

Oikawa ordered Thai takeout, you found a mindless Netflix series to binge, both of you had a little too much to drink, laughter ensued, the doe-eyed boy found his head in your lap, and…

You pull a face – one that goes unseen because of the dark, but you make it anyway.

Okay, that last part was a little different.

He’d had his head in your lap.

His head… in your… lap.

And, if you’re not mistaken (or delirious), you’d had your hands in his hair, twirling strands and tracing circles at the base of his neck. A foggy image of him gazing up at you with softened eyes, deep chocolate in color, begins to solidify.

That lazy smile, a hand on your thigh, tresses tickling your skin...

You turn over in your bed, bunching up your sheets and holding them close to you like a shield of fabric — a flimsy, make-shift defense against tipsy mind-wandering. It isn’t very effective.

Your brain is not wandering but racing around this hand-in-hair realization.

Like an iron rod poking at hot embers, these prodding memories make your cheeks grow hotter by the millisecond. You bury your face in your pillow, embarrassment tight in your throat.

Somehow you’d forgotten that he’d practically climbed into your lap. You’re not in the clear quite yet, but your brain is functioning well enough that it wishes you’d had a little more to drink – just enough to forget about it entirely. You starfish out on your bed, arms and legs dramatically splayed across the mattress.

Do (hot, charming, charismatic, windswept) flatmates usually get this... cuddly? Is that normal?

Does Iwaizumi wrap his arms around his roomies after a long day and a few bottles? How about Mattsun? Makki…?

Okay, no, none of them really seem like the type to get up close and personal with their roommates without good reason. Well, maybe Makki, but he’d do it to be a pain in the ass – not to charm the living-hell out of someone.

You try to take in a deep breath and wrap your head around what this means for you… but end up inhaling a feather from your pillow instead. As you hack and cough, you try to smother the noise in more cloth material – you really didn’t need him coming into your room, much less leaning over your bed to check on you.

Oikawa is messing with your head.

If you knew any better, you’d have run away screaming the moment he’d asked you to room with him. No one that pretty and charismatic is good news. At least, not when it comes to shared housing.

But, here you are, writhing under the covers and hot like a fever all because he couldn’t keep to himself. Screw him and his charming smile for putting you in this position.

He either knows you’re crushing like he’s the last man on earth or he’s blissfully unaware and way too physically affectionate for his own good.

You don’t dare consider that he likes you back though. Only deer and Olympic athletes made leaps like that. Oikawa had too many admirers… an irritating amount.

The blankets scrunch even tighter between your fists, likely thanking their maker that they don’t have nerve endings.

Every fiber of your being is begging to know if these feelings are reciprocated. You’d hate to live out the rest of this semester knowing the boy down the hall may not like you back. Worse, that he finds out you think he’s hot shit and doesn’t like you back – that would be unrequited love at its finest.

But, with a degree and your mental health on the line, why should you care about such minor, itty bitty, pointless details.

This isn’t that big a deal.

And even if he did like you back? Well, Oikawa isn’t someone you can simply “pin down.” He comes with a distinctive, dramatic personality and a meddling side. Not to mention, he’s already the embodiment of chaos – he’s proven this to be true over the past 4 months he’s lived with you.

There’s a familiar squeak of the shower faucet handle and the hiss of hot water. You jump at the sound.

Maybe he’d forgotten, but your bedroom shares a very thin wall with the bathroom. Though you recall him saying he wanted to take a shower earlier, so you guess that he’s only just remembered.

You pick up your phone, blue light casting a less-than angelic glow on your sleepy face. You pray that TikTok will have some sort of life-changing “I’m in love with my hot, crazy flatmate” advice. Or that it will distract you from your inner turmoil. Either would be appreciated but the latter seems more likely.

Scrolling slowly, you get through about 3 videos before something else catches your attention.

There’s a deep reverberation buzzing through your wall. A gentle hum, much like a shower-concert lullaby.

But the noise is getting louder. And the humming? A lot more lyrical.

You shift into a sitting position, propping yourself up with your hands. With your side sunken into a pillow, you press your ear against the cool drywall. Your ears tune into the sound.

Oikawa, voice confident and free, is… singing.

“...But you were everything to me, I was begging you ‘please don’t go’…”

But he’s not just singing.

“And I said…”

He’s belting Taylor Swift with the enthusiasm of an 11-year-old Swiftie super-fan. Like the world would end if he didn’t put enough passion into this performance. Like the showerhead is his microphone and the surrounding tiles are his adoring audience.

“Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone. I'll be waiting; all that's left to do is run...”

Most people would be pissed if their friend were singing in the shower at 2 am… but you can’t find it in yourself to be anything but enamored.

God, you hate him for doing this right now. Hate that he’s inadvertently endearing you to him. Hate that, no matter what you do, he’s somehow always there.

Pressed up against you on the couch, meeting you for dinner at his favorite restaurant, fussing at each other over a shitty cup of coffee in your even shittier kitchen, calling you when he needs somebody to keep him company at the library…

“You'll be the prince & I'll be the princess…”

And now he’s accidentally serenading you with Taylor’s “Fearless” album. In the shower.

You facepalm, sinking into your hands, exasperated and just so… done.

You sink back down into the bedsheets, wishing your earbuds were nearby to drown out the regrettably adorable performance.

“It's a love story y/n, just say ‘Yes.’”

And your heart drops, panic setting in like the touch down of a whirling tornado. A fire tornado. A fire tornado with frogs and lizards and sharp objects spinning around inside of it.

What… did he just say?

The lyrics… they were muffled. You definitely heard them incorrectly. You… you just need to get your ears checked. Yes, that’s it. That’s all there is to it. You’ll schedule an appointment first thing tomorrow morning.

Because who the fuck sings like that at 2 am in a shared dorm? And who the fuck puts someone else’s name into a song like that? No one? Yes, no one.

Especially not the Oikawa Tooru.

And especially not with your name.

Because that’s just... weird.

The grip on your phone is mighty – thank God for durable glass because any other material would’ve splintered or shattered in your hold.

But what the hell.

“Y/n, save me, I've been feeling so alone,” he sings as though he were Beyoncé’s son.

This time it’s clear as day. Oikawa is definitely still out of it and he’s undoubtedly singing your name.

No, no, no.

“I keep waiting for you but you never come…”

You bolt out of bed, feet hitting the floor at lightning-strike speed.

“Is this in my head? I don't know what to think,”

In one swift movement, you fling the bedroom door open and rush down the hall. You shouldn’t be listening to this.

“He knelt to the ground & pulled out a ring, and said...”

And before you can stop your hand, it’s knocking rapidly on the bathroom door.

There’s a gasp, what you assume to a bar of soap hitting the shower floor, and an abrupt silence that follows.

You’d only wanted to stop him from singing.

However, you hadn’t thought through what you were going to say to him about this whole... lyrical mess. Your face feels like the surface of the sun, burning and flaring and flushing. What are you supposed to do now?

Oikawa speaks up, voice quiet, “Hello?”

Shit.

Maybe if you’re careful you can get yourself out of this. Just act like you didn’t hear anything and bring it up tomorrow when you’re both thinking straight. A thorough and sober discussion would be needed.

You had questions. Questions that needed answers.

Why did he have his head in your lap? Had you said anything to him that you’d regret later? Does he like you? Where should you two place your boundaries if he doesn’t like you back? And why Taylor Swift?

“Y/n, is that you?” He asks, nonchalantly.

Who else would it be?

The handle squeaks and, with that, the water stops. Only the gentle swirl of the drain and the occasional drips and drops from the showerhead are audible.

It’s too late. You’re already there. You’ve knocked and, in doing so, you’ve sealed your fate.

“...Yes,” is your whisper of a reply.

“What’s up? Was I too loud for you?”

You’ve got the entire building on high-alert singing that loudly.

...is what you would say if you weren’t currently imploding. This is like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. And nothing you ever want to experience again.

“Um, yeah, sorry.” You look down at your shuffling feet.

The hallway is pitch black, hardly allowing for even a mere shadow. Rushing out of your room, you’d forgotten to turn on even a single light.

You hear him step onto the tile floor and the rustle of a tower from the bathroom closet.

“Wait, can we talk?” He asks as though it weren’t the question of the fucking year. “I mean, preferably after I get out of the bathroom.” There’s a lack of tact to his words.

This isn’t the charming Oikawa you’re used to. This is a blunt… confusingly straightforward Oikawa.

His tone wavers like maybe he’d had a little more to drink than you’d last remembered. Your memory was proving to be disappointingly unreliable tonight.

You swallow thickly, “Sure.”

Because what else can you say?

“Can I stop by your room in a minute?”

You take a deep breath, “Yeah.”

And you patter back to your no-longer very safe haven. Oikawa is about to infiltrate your space… with your permission. And the weapons he’ll bring will either harpoon you or leave you emotionally paralyzed – whether that emotional paralysis is a good or bad thing will be decided in the near future.

Your bed, though soft and blanket-covered, looks far less appealing now. It may as well be a bed of nails because you would rather hide beneath it than sit atop it.

But you sit anyway, letting the mattress dip and the springs twang.

The bathroom door cries as it opens, putting you on edge. Your heart is pounding like a drum at a summer festival – hotter and louder with every beat.

The trod of footsteps tells you he’s approaching and, sure enough, the open door reveals Oikawa.

With only a lamp to brighten the space, he’s more contoured than usual. His hair is wet and heavy against his head, taking on an even darker brown than before. You’ve seen him fresh out of the shower before, but this… is different. Oikawa’s shirt sticks to his chest slightly – he must’ve thrown it on without drying off fully to get to you faster.

He takes a few steps into your room, choosing to lean his back against a wall next to your work desk. Oikawa brings his hands behind his back, pressing his weight into them. Brown eyes flicker from you to the wall behind you and back again.

Naturally, tension lays thick as a fog in the air space.

“Hey, I’m…”

You cut him off, “You don’t have to say sorry! It’s… it’s okay.”

Oops, you’d said that a little too loud. Not that it mattered much after Oikawa’s passionate performance.

An eyebrow raises and confusion sparks across his face. Your body freezes.

He brings a hand behind his neck. “Oh, I was just gonna say that I’m still kinda drunk.”

You knew that much. Though you really thought he’d say something other than that. Preferably something about the, uh, devoted love-song?

Why is he acting so casual right now? Is this even Tooru? Had he read too many alien conspiracies and been abducted for learning too much about extraterrestrials?

Maybe he doesn’t realize you’d even heard him say your name in the shower.

“Oh... right.” You say slowly, lips staying parted at the end of your sentence.

“Which… probably isn’t good for either of us,” Different words drawl out and there’s a soft slur to some syllables, but at least he’s easy to understand, “me drinking too much, I mean.”

“Yeah,” you mutter.

“I think we should both just go to bed then.”

Your chest tightens. Of course, you want answers.

They’re likely embarrassing, face-reddening, Taylor Swift-centric answers. But you want them, nonetheless.

Although, it’s probably for the best that you don’t bring this up tonight. It was all probably a joke or a harmless accident – and, anyway, he admitted to being drunk.

“Right.”

“But I think you should know that I like you. A lot.”

“Yeah,” you respond again, automatically.

There’s another heavy silence. The pretty boy just stares at you, cherry colors tinting his cheeks but showing no expression of fear or embarrassment. You stare back, processing his words at turtle-like speeds.

The words tumble out, “Wait, say that again?” You double back, your own face reheating to its earlier temperature.

“I’m gonna be mad at myself in the morning if I don’t leave right now. And I really need to stop listening to that stupid song,” Oikawa says to himself.

“But I wanted to see how you would respond if I changed the lyrics,” the words are pointed back at you again.

He stands up, feet moving slowly toward the doorway. Did he just… completely ignore your question?

Your jaw drops, “Did…” you can hardly speak.

Clearing your throat, you try again, focusing intently on your words, “...did you mean for me to hear you?”

“...Maybe.” He draws out the “e,” looking back at you.

That’s it. He’s lost his fucking mind. You’re going to strangle him.

No TikTok advice could have prepared you for the monstrosity that is Oikawa Tooru. How Iwaizumi put up with that... that child for all these years, you have no idea.

You have to make a note of sending him a “get well” card, because nobody could be mentally okay after dealing with him for that long.

“B- but… why? What?” You stammer out, back stiff as a board.

“You like me don’t you?” He tilts his head, hair flopping cutely with it.

You gape like a fish, mouth opening and closing.

And it’s not that you don’t want to respond.

It’s that you can’t. You have no words. You vocal chords are on a panic-induced lockdown.

Because he knew.

He knew this entire time. Which you thought he might, but that doesn’t make the situation any less infuriating.

“And I like you back.”

You’re dumbfounded. You can’t think. This is ridiculous.

You open your mouth once more but he has no intention of continuing this conversation.

“Sleep well!” Without further comment, Oikawa flashes you a sleepy smile and begins scampering back to his room after having wreaked havoc on your poor heart.

Your voice comes back just in time for you to wake up the entire building once more,

“No, you get your ass back here and explain yourself!”

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #oikawa tooru #oikawa #oikawa x reader #oikawa scenarios #oikawa imagines #seijoh #what did i just write #this is gonna go under: 'things i gave up my sleep for'#ughsjdljlds'ldsdjd #also #i dont like the term crack fic anymore? so i think just calling it humorous is... a good way to go #goodnight yall #queued up!

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suituuup · 3 years

Photo

pieces - chapter three

Five years ago, Chloe dropped off the face of the Earth. Beca sees her again in the most unexpected place.

rated: E for drug use and sex scenes

AO3 LINK

“Bec?”

Beca hummed absentmindedly, blinking out of her daze and twisting her head in the direction of the voice.

Sarah smiled gently as she leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen. She cocked an eyebrow, giving a pointed look towards the sink. “I think the pan is clean.”

Beca glanced down, stilling her movements. She had been scrubbing that pan for probably ten minutes now, her thoughts completely consumed by Chloe and what she was supposed to do next.

Chloe clearly didn’t want to see her, and Beca wasn’t going to wait by the phone when it was clear that Chloe was far from okay. She was thinner than Beca remembered, and the look in her eye, the lack of light in those once bright blues, chilled Beca to the bone.

She looked… broken. As though her spirit had repeatedly been battered until all that was left were mere pieces of her old self.

If there were any left at all.

Beca couldn’t stand the thought of not doing anything, and she needed to come up with a plan to help Chloe without driving her into a corner and risk losing her forever.

“What’s going on?” Sarah questioned, pushing off the doorframe and padding over. She rested her hand between Beca’s shoulder blades, her eyebrows knitted together in concern. “You’ve seemed off today.”

Beca released a sigh, setting the pan down into the sink and reaching for the dishtowel laying next to her on the counter to dry her hands. “I’m sorry, I’m just… worried about a friend.”

Sarah nodded slowly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Sarah was unexpected, to say the least. Beca was a workaholic, and her career was too time-consuming for her to get into the whole dating thing. But Sarah, who happened to work as a barista in Beca’s favorite independent coffee shop, had somehow managed to convince Beca to go out with her. One dinner surprisingly turned into a second date, then a third, and it just like that, it had been almost a year since they officially got together.

Sarah was gentle, patient, understanding, overflowing with positivity, but most of all, incredibly kind. She reminded Beca of Chloe, sometimes. And maybe it was those similar personality traits that drew Beca to her in the first place.

They didn’t live together. Beca could feel that it was the next expected step on her girlfriend’s end, but she didn’t feel ready to commit, yet. She liked her own space, her solitude. So Sarah spent a few nights a week at Beca’s place, like tonight, and Beca was fine with that.

“Not really,” she replied, casting Sarah an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, it’s just-- complicated right now.”

“You need to stop apologizing,” Sarah murmured, her expression soft and loving. Beca let her shoulders sag, ready to apologize again. “I understand. But if you do change your mind and need to let something off your chest, I’m here.”

Beca nodded. “Thanks.”

“Are you coming to bed?”

“Not yet, I wanna get some work done, first.” She leaned in to peck Sarah’s lips. “You go ahead, I’ll join you soon.”

Walking across the living room and past the huge floor to ceiling windows looking over Central Park, Beca made her way to her home office, her happy place. She had bought the Manhattan condo two years ago, making it a requirement during her house-hunt to have a large room with plenty of light and enough space to store all her records and her music equipment. It was also where she kept her Grammys and other prizes, away from the attention as nobody really stepped into her office.

She usually popped a blues album on the record player, enjoying the soothing instrumentals while she replied to various emails, but not tonight. Tonight, she grabbed a yellow legal notepad and her headphones from her desk and curled up on the leather couch tucked in the far corner, then scrolled to her Spotify playlists until she found the one she was looking for.

she is magic

Beca couldn’t remember the last time she had listened to her Chloe playlist, one she had made back in Barden when she was hopelessly in love with her best friend. They were songs that reminded her of Chloe, or songs that Chloe liked. Or used to like, at least.

As lyrics she knew so well poured into her headphones, blocking out the rest of the world, different ones flowed out of Beca’s heart, materializing on the paper in front of her in black ink as she scribbled across the page. Lyrics about friendship, unrequited love, and regrets for listening to her brain and not her heart all these years ago.

It was pushing on two am by the time Beca called it a night. Her eyes burned, her mind felt mushy, but her soul felt a tiny bit lighter. Music had always been her therapy, and writing songs had always proved more efficient than paying a licensed professional, even though it had been years since Beca had last finished one, for lack of inspiration.

Or rather, because of the absence of her muse.

She woke up five hours later to a stiff neck and sore back, the bright sunlight pouring in from the windows lining one of her office walls drawing her from her sleep. She had meant to go to bed, before deciding to close her eyes for five minutes right on the couch.

Straightening with a groan, she grabbed her phone and turned it over, hoping to see a text from an unknown number on her screen.

Aubrey Posen [6:23am]

Any news?

Aubrey Posen [6:37am]

Should I come to New York?

Aubrey practiced family law up in Boston. She and Beca saw each other a few times a year, whenever Aubrey was in the city. Bella reunions were a bit more scarce now, with the girls being scattered all around the country. Their last one dated back to a year and a half ago, on the Fourth of July.

Beca ran a hand over her face and heaved out a sigh, swiping her thumb across the screen to unlock it.

Beca [7:16am]

No news yet. I think I’m gonna wait a few days before I head back to the club, if she doesn’t call in the meantime that is. The manager gave me serious sleazy vibes and I’m sure he could blacklist me if I’m too insistent. I don’t think there’s any need for you to come down for now. I’ll keep you posted.

Hitting send, Beca pushed to her feet and shuffled out of her office, hanging a left down the hall towards the kitchen. A note next to her coffee thermos sat on the island.

Missed you last night, but I hope you got whatever you needed done. I had to leave for my shift, you’re welcome to swing by for your second coffee of the day and your morning kiss ;) have a good day!

Sarah xx

Guilt swooped in over picking old feelings about an ex-almost over her girlfriend, and Beca let her head hang forward, releasing a grown. She was far from an expert at this relationship thing, but she cared about Sarah a lot and didn’t want to mess that up.

Beca shook off the sleepiness lingering in her bones and the stiffness in her muscles with a long, hot shower, then got ready for her day. She usually got to the office at 8 sharp, but it was already 7:54 by the time she was out the door, and her commute lasted about twenty minutes, so she wouldn’t get the chance to stop by Sarah’s workplace.

To: Sarah

I’m sorry, I got caught up in work last night and ended up falling asleep on the couch around 2. Come over tonight? I’ll cook dinner. Have a good shift.

Her morning was spent in the studio canning vocals for girl in red’s new album, a project Beca was stocked about as she was BMLJ’s most promising artist for this year’s Grammy Awards.

“That was awesome, Marie,” Beca spoke into the microphone, giving her a thumbs-up through the glass. “Let’s take a lunch break and resume in an hour?”

“Sounds good,” the younger woman agreed with a smile as she took off her headphones.

Beca headed back to her office down the hall and checked her phone for any new messages (finding none important), before shrugging on her thick winter coat and screwing her beanie over her head.

“I’ll be back in an hour, Gina!” She told her assistant on route to the elevator.

As Sarah’s workplace was just five blocks south from the label, Beca figured she would eat lunch there as she wasn’t able to stop by that morning. She stopped in the convenience store across the street from the coffee shop to buy Sarah her favorite magazine as she knew her break was coming up soon and she’d have something to read.

Beca was scanning the press stand for that specific magazine, not paying attention to the person walking into the store until they spoke.

“A pack of Marlboro, please.”

Beca would recognize that voice anywhere. Her head snapped up so fast she felt something in her neck pull, and she was rounding the stand before she even registered giving her feet the order to move. “Chloe?”

Chloe glanced over to her right and froze for a second, before fishing for a twenty in her jacket pocket and handing it to the cashier. “Are you following me or something?”

Given their last encounter, Beca wasn’t surprised by Chloe’s snark, so she gave as good as she got. “You came in after I did, so maybe I should ask you that question.”

Chloe stuffed the cigarette pack and the change into her pocket. “What do you want, Beca?”

“To talk,” she replied, softly. “One coffee, that’s it. And if you decide you really don’t want me in your life, then I won’t bother you again. I promise.”

Chloe seemed to ponder on that for a few beats. “One coffee.”

“There’s a shop right across the street.”

Taking her to the place her girlfriend worked at? Probably not the brightest idea, but she was afraid Chloe might go back on her decision if they spent too long finding someplace else.

When Chloe nodded, Beca took the lead and stepped outside, forgetting all about that magazine as she racked her brain about what she should say. Tactfulness wasn’t her greatest suit; Aubrey would be so much better at this.

They stepped inside Devocion and Beca picked a table in the corner, shrugging off her coat and draping it over the back of her chair. Chloe kept her jacket and beanie on, a bit hunched on herself as she sat down in the chair opposite Beca’s.

“Beca?”

Beca glanced towards Sarah as she approached, wearing a waist apron with the café logo on it. Her dark blonde hair was woven back in a French braid, a few strands escaping, and curiosity swirled in her green eyes as they flickered to Chloe.

Okay, in hindsight, bringing Chloe here was a terrible idea.

“Hey, um, Sarah, this is Chloe, a friend from college.” She cleared her throat. “Chloe, this is my girlfriend, Sarah.”

“Nice to meet you,” Sarah replied brightly, her smile fading a little when all Chloe offered was a distant nod. Sarah met Beca’s gaze briefly, clearing her throat. “What can I get you guys?”

“My usual. You want anything to eat, Chlo?”

The nickname rolled off her tongue so naturally, Beca didn’t even catch it.

Chloe shook her head. “Just a black coffee.”

“Coming right up.”

“Thanks,” Beca said as Sarah spun around on her heels, her focus shifting to Chloe. “So um, I wanted to apologize for the other day and putting you on the spot at the club. I just… wasn’t sure how else to talk to you.”

“I can give you some of the money back if you need it.”

Beca furrowed her brow, not having expected that. “No, no. I… it’s fine. I don’t care about money.”

Something flashed in Chloe’s eyes at that, something Beca couldn’t quite pinpoint.

Sarah came back with two coffees before she could analyze it further, setting the mugs down on the table. “Your club sandwich will be here in a few, babe.”

Beca nodded, casting her a small, appreciative smile.

Chloe straightened a bit in her seat, cradling the mug with both hands. “I’m not sure what you expect me to say or do, Beca.”

Beca licked her lips. “I was hoping we could… hang out from time to time. I’ve missed you, Chlo. So has Aubrey.”

The mention of Aubrey made Chloe lookup. “Does she live in New York, too?”

“Um no, in Boston. She’s a lawyer. But she’d come down to have coffee, or lunch, or whatever you feel like doing. In a heartbeat.”

Chloe shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

What little hope flared in the pit of Beca’s belly upon Chloe showing interest in Aubrey’s life vanished. “Why not?”

“I told you. I’m not the same person anymore. I’m-- I’m not…”

Beca tilted her head to the side. “You’re not what?” She pressed gently.

Chloe’s gaze fleeted out the window as her rather calm demeanor now radiated agitation. Her knee started bouncing and her fingers tightened around the mug, and it was as though Chloe was battling against her own thoughts.

She was itching to reach across the table to rest her hand over her wrist in a sort of grounding gesture, but something told her that would have the opposite effect.

“Chloe?” Beca attempted once more, her voice as soft as she could muster, as it seemed like Chloe was on the brink of bolting.

The tear slipping out of Chloe’s eye tore her heart into two. “I-I have to go.”

Her chair screeched as she pushed it back roughly, and she was nearly out the door by the time Beca scrambled to her feet.

It was lunch-hour rush in one of the busiest avenues in Manhattan, and Chloe had already disappeared in the crowd when she reached the exit, leaving Beca to helplessly wonder how someone like Chloe, once the epitome of sunshine, got herself trapped in so much darkness.

#bechloe #bechloe fanfic #bechloe fic #beca mitchell #chloe beale #pieces

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bffsoobin · 4 years

Text

Windflower

01|02|03|04|05|06

↳ after a heartbreak you find yourself in a small town looking for purpose. you find employment with Choi Soobin and his impressive ancestral home. when you start to fall in love again, there’s no way for you to predict what you find in the depths of the home and Soobin’s mind.

➤ hanahaki au, fluff, angst

Word Count:1,568

Warnings: mentions of food, some swearing, mentions of past relationships/unrequited love, mentions of surgery (not in detail). General warning that its 11 pm here and for me that’s late (old lady alert) and I didn’t proofread as usual.

A/N: Another character building chapter! There is very important info about both Soobin and reader in here, so make sure you pay attention and read well!

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Dinner was surprisingly good, given the two of you had just thrown a frozen pizza in the oven. He had fussed adorably over adding extra cheese to the meal before popping it into the shiny appliance. It was easy to tell Soobin still felt awkward due to almost seeing you naked because he kept at least 5 feet of distance between your bodies for a long while. His skittish nature made it difficult for you to help set the table, but you let it slide. You don't know much about him; so it felt wrong to pass judgement on the way he couldn’t even keep eye contact for a while. It was okay, though, because his behavior still managed to rustle up glee in your stomach. The pizza was one of the best meals you had eaten in days, and you thanked Soobin profusely for it. He smiled awkwardly, waving you off with a joke about owing him breakfast in the morning. His personality had brightened ten shades with the help of food and his favorite tv show on the big screen television mounted on the wall of the living room. He had a whole pint of Half Baked ice cream open on the coffee table that was just for him. He had offered to share, but you turned him down upon seeing the absolutely ravenous look on his face; worried that he would combust on the spot if you didn’t let him have the pint to himself. So you settled for watching the show absentmindedly until your mind began to wander. Intrigued by the contrast between the home’s age and the modern interior, you finally decided to ask Soobin.

“Did someone do renovations here?” You mentally slapped yourself. Well duh, Y/N. Soobin’s ancestors who posed for oil portraits that now hung in ornate golden frames certainly didn’t install the stainless steel refrigerator and pick out the large leather sectional you were currently lounging on. He didn’t seem to catch the poor wording of your question as he nodded from his spot on the couch next to you with his legs tucked underneath him. You couldn’t help but notice how adorable he looked sitting that way.

“Yeah, my cousin did most of that kind of stuff. He’s a few years older than me so he was able to update the house for us when he was still living here. That’s his whole thing,” Soobin wiggled his fingers in the air, “interior design. Consulted at the shop a few towns over and everything.”

“I heard that he moved, why?” The back of your neck grew hot when you realized how insensitive that question really sounded once it was said out loud. “You don’t have to answer me, by the way,” you hoped that the attempt to backtrack would be enough to curb potential awkwardness. God knows the two of you couldn’t afford any more of that.

“He met a girl online who lives a few states away and fell in love with her. He was wasting all of his money traveling back and forth to see her, so he finally decided to just move. The only things keeping him here were me and taking care of the house. I miss him sometimes, but I can’t blame him. He was starting to grow flowers for her, and she made it very clear that unless he could move to live with her, he would have to get the surgery.” Soobin’s voice had taken on a very odd tone that felt too complicated to unpack at the moment. Besides, your own chest began to burn at the mention of growing flowers.

The boy must have noticed the way you gently grasped the soft fabric of your t-shirt between your fingers as his eyes widened like a deer in headlights. He made a miniscule scooch over the leather cushions to get a bit closer to you and place a hesitant hand on your shoulder. His voice was extremely soft and quiet even for as close as he was to you.

“I’m sorry Y/N, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable, I didn’t know that you…” he licked his plump lips as he hesitated, “Did you have surgery? You don’t have to answer me either, by the way.” Of course you had seen the question coming, but hearing it in the softest tone of voice you had ever heard from a human being struck a different chord in your heart. You couldn’t find it in yourself to confess your woes to his face, so you turned to your left to admire the garden from the window view. Earlier, he had happily told you the names of some of them and their meanings. Buttercups signifying innocence, Forget-me-nots representing true love, Marigolds standing for bliss. Flowers; dictating so much of your life.

“Yeah, I had surgery.” You cursed the shaky edge in your voice. “I was in love with my best friend from college, we were roommates and he was everything I ever wanted from a boyfriend. And I thought he liked me back so,” you swallowed thickly and finally turned your head to see a confused furrow in Soobin’s brow. You knew why he looked so confused, but he would understand your emotions soon enough. “So I thought I had just caught some kind of bug when I started to grow flowers, and he was taking care of me. One day I went to the bathroom to puke and out came little purple petals. It was so confusing. He thought they were for someone else, so he comforted me and I didn’t understand why that only made me cough up more.” A hot tear escaped down your cheek and you cursed at it. Soobin’s whole body was rigid, as if your story was enough to stop all of his bodily functions in their tracks. You supposed your societally unusual show of emotions for a past love would be more than enough to elicit that response.

“Obviously, I found out that he didn’t love me back so I went for surgery. They deemed it successful and I moved back in with him so we could just live as best friends. No flowers, no icky feelings, right?” The question was obviously rhetorical yet Soobin nodded as if cheering you on. “And everything was great, for close to a year. Until one night I woke up in a coughing fit when he wasn’t home and ended up with another god damn purple petal in my hand.” Your fist clenched at the memory of the disgustingly wet petal that had landed in your palm just to mock you. “So I went back to the hospital and they did all their tests. There’s nothing left for them to remove. No new growths, just. There’s something wrong with me. The doctor said he had read about it before, people who can’t fully move on even after removal. That was just two weeks ago. I couldn’t stay there and pretend the first surgery actually ended my feelings for him. That’s how I ended up here, with you.”

Soobin’s face was unreadable. A horribly timed laugh track blasted from the tv speakers and made you cringe. How awkward could this first day as an employee and roommate be? He had nearly seen you naked and now he knows all about your past heartbreak and medical anomaly. You inhaled a shuddering breath through your nose and busied yourself with watching the sun slowly disappear behind the trees of the property.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t even know what to say. I can’t even relate with,” he gestured awkwardly toward his own chest, “growing flowers. I never have. That’s why I grow so many in the garden. Well, that and the family traditions. But mostly because I have always wondered what I would grow if I were in your position. And I memorize what they mean because one time I read a story that said your flowers can signify the kind of relationship you have with that person; especially since they change with every relationship. But I guess it’s kind of a blessing I’ve never loved anyone yet, huh?” You scoffed at his confession.

“You have no idea, Soobin. I’d give everything to fall in love with someone who loves me back and push those stupid purple petals out of my system. Or to just have normal anatomy. But we live in a cruel world sometimes.” The atmosphere of the living room existed in direct opposition to your statement, as warm hues of sunset casted over every surface in a blissful haze.You could see particles of dust falling through the air as if in slow motion. Soobin hummed thoughtfully and got up to stand in front of a window. The light framed the outline of his body like a halo.

“Lets hope,” his voice sounded just as light and airy as the room looked, “that the only flowers you encounter from now on are just the ones from the garden. No pain included.” You weren’t sure how much stock you should take in his insinuation that being here, with him, wouldn’t end in you growing flowers again. Was that an underhanded confession of attraction? You certainly didn’t have the guts to ask, but the idea made you feel weightless.

“That would be very nice, Soobin. No pain included at all.”

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poetzproblem · 5 years

Text

Have You Ever Really? Part III

A/N: Part III by request. There may also now be a part IV. Under the cut, or read at FF.Net or AO3.

They don't win Nationals.

They don't even place after Finn Hudson's monumentally stupid attempt to kiss Rachel on stage at the end of their ill-advised duet. Rachel hadn't reacted quite quickly enough to dodge it completely, which had only made her effort to duck away from his unwanted attention even more obvious to the judges.

Santana had nearly ripped Finn apart as soon as they'd gotten off stage, and Quinn suspects her anger and disgust wasn't entirely on her own behalf. She's seemed oddly less antagonistic to Rachel ever since Rachel had come out to them—or maybe it's not odd at all. Maybe Santana actually feels an unexpected kinship with Rachel now over their mutual attraction to the ladies (even if Santana still isn't outright admitting what everyone already knows). Or maybe she just feels sorry for Rachel for nursing a hopelessly unrequited crush on Quinn.

Quinn wonders what Santana would think if she knew that Rachel's crush wasn't as hopeless as everyone believes.

All that Quinn knows for certain is that she hasn't been able to stop thinking about Rachel since she'd serenaded her in glee, and she'd grown more and more impatient and irritated every time that Rachel had scurried away from her in the hallways or sat across the room from her in their shared classes or suddenly decided that she absolutely had to hang all over Jesse St. James everytime that Quinn tried to approach her in glee. So, of course, Quinn had needed to make it clear to Rachel that she expects her to stop acting like a frightened little mouse and start acting like—well, like Rachel fucking Berry. Really? If Rachel has a thing for Quinn, then Quinn should get the same treatment as the boys in the form of thoughtful gifts left in her locker and weird couple's calendars and loud, dramatic (and often musical) declarations of Rachel's undying affection and loyalty.

What Quinn does get immediately following the kiss that missed, surreptitiously tucked into her duffle bag in their shared hotel room, is a foil-wrapped Hershey's kiss (undoubtedly from the craft services table that had been set up for the competing show choirs) taped to a handwritten note that says, 'I'm sorry. Your lips are the only ones I want to kiss.'

Quinn feels a rush of warmth spread from her chest all the way up to the tips of her ears, and her eyes dart around the room in search of Rachel, only to be disappointed that she hasn't made her way back yet. Well, Quinn supposes that she'd actually beaten them all here before slipping away again to sulk in private over their loss. She doesn't see Kurt anywhere either, and he's been crashing in the girl's room with them.

Quinn gazes down at the note again, palming the candy kiss and catching her lip between her teeth to contain her grin—a grin that instantly disappears when Santana drops onto the mattress in front of her with a frown.

"That better not be some pathetic love note from Finnvasive." Quinn tucks it protectively against her chest. Santana's eyes narrow on the motion, but she doesn't make a grab for it. "It'd be just his style to come crawling back to you now that Berry dodged his slobbery advances in front of a thousand witnesses."

"I don't think there were that many people there today," Mercedes muses, rummaging around in her own suitcase for something or other.

"Enough for a well deserved public humiliation," Santana scoffs, crossing her arms. "If I was Berry, I'd've slapped him for trying that shit."

"Rachel is a professional," Tina chimes in with a dreamy, little smile. "I think she handled it the best way she could under the circumstances."

"You would," Quinn mutters under her breath, sending a glare her way.

"What was that, Quinnie?" Santana needles. "Why don't you share with the class?"

Quinn turns her glare on Santana. "Finn is an ass," is all she bothers to say.

Santana snickers. "True 'dat."

"He totally didn't pay attention to his cues," Brittany adds, throwing herself across the bed beside Santana. "Rachel's all about the sweet lady kisses now." She smiles at Santana, who blushes tellingly before glancing away.

"Which is still all kinds of weird, if you ask me," Mercedes says, shaking her head.

"No one did," Santana snaps.

Mercedes holds up her hands defensively. "Hey, I just mean that she's been moonin' over Finn for two years and all of a sudden she's singin' a love song to," she trails off with an embarrassed look towards Quinn. They all know who Rachel was singing to, but it's a truth that no one but Santana has been brave enough to say out loud in Quinn's presence.

"I'm surprised you're handling that so well," Santana muses with a smirk.

Quinn shrugs, mentally putting on her cool indifference like the mask it is. "It's hardly her fault that I'm irresistible."

Santana barks out a laugh. "You wish, Blondie."

"I'm sure Rachel will find someone else to focus her attention on soon enough," Tina offers with what Quinn supposes is meant to be a reassuring smile—it looks fake to Quinn.

"I guess you'd better make sure it isn't Mike," she warns Tina cattily.

Tina's brows furrow in confusion, but whatever she might have said is lost to the awkward silence that descends on the room when Rachel and Kurt step inside.

"What did we miss?" Kurt asks suspiciously after no one says anything for a solid thirty seconds.

Santana rolls her eyes. "Just our pity party for coming in twelfth."

Rachel whimpers, shrinking into herself. "I'm sorry," she whispers, her eyes cast down to the floor as Kurt wraps an arm around her and gives her a comforting squeeze.

Tina reaches out to touch Rachel's arm with a sympathetic smile. "It wasn't your fault."

"It was Finn's," Quinn grits out, scowling at Tina.

"Don't sweat it, midget," Santana dismisses with a bored wave of her hand. Rachel glances at her in surprise before gazing around the room, as if to make sure no one else is actually blaming her for this. When her eyes finally settle on Quinn, Quinn offers her a meaningful smile, subtly motioning to the note still cradled against her torso. Rachel's eyes dart down and then back up, and Quinn knows she's gotten the message by the shy smile on her face.

They don't talk about it. They can't. They don't really have a moment where they can be alone for the rest of the night or the next morning when they're all rushing for the airport and then stuck together on a long bus ride of listening to Santana take shots at Finn while Finn constantly whines about it and Mr. Schuester yells at them all to remember they're a team.

And then Quinn is being whisked home by her mother, and even if she is entertaining the notion of letting Rachel Berry woo her, she's so not letting her mother clue into anything that's going on in her head right now.

But it becomes very clear on Monday morning that Rachel has taken Quinn's encouragement and run with it. There's a gardenia with a green ribbon tied into a bow waiting for Quinn inside her locker, which is just more proof that Rachel had been the one responsible for Quinn's prom corsage.

A fact that's confirmed when Quinn tracks down Rachel in the bathroom to ask her about the flower.

"I wanted you to have a perfect night," she admits, picking nervously at the strap of her bag.

Quinn smiles, charmed by the admission. "Because you...like me?"

Rachel swallows nervously, nods once. "And because Finn didn't seem to be very enthusiastic about something that was obviously important to you."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "I don't want to talk about him. I want to know how long you've liked me." Because this whole thing has seemed a little sudden and out of the blue. Mercedes hadn't been wrong about that.

Rachel catches her lower lip between her teeth and shrugs, looking mildly perplexed. "I'm not entirely sure. I think it's been happening for a while, but I failed to take note of it until…" Her cheeks turn a little pink. "Well, until I just did."

Quinn shakes her head, a bit perplexed herself. "I don't understand how you could. I've generally been awful to you." She'd slapped her at prom, for God's sake. "Unless...I mean, I get it if it's just a physical thing." It wouldn't be the first time Quinn had been the object of someone's dirty fantasies and it won't be the last. She's hot and she knows it. It's only natural for people who like girls to desire her. And yet the thought of that being all this is for Rachel bothers her more than she can put into words.

"That's not it," Rachel quickly denies, frowning adorably—as if she's angry at Quinn for even suggesting it. "I mean, it's obviously a factor. You're impossibly beautiful." And she blushes again, turning positively red. "But…" She runs her tongue across her lips (and why is Quinn only just noticing how often she does that and how sexy it is?) and takes a breath while she composes her thoughts. "When I told you that you're a lot more than that, I meant it, Quinn. You're smart and resilient and so much kinder than you give yourself credit for. Every time you've let me catch a small glimpse of the person you really are, I've only wanted to know more." She glances down to the floor, looking suddenly shy again. "I want to know you. To know who you are and what you're thinking. And I'm honestly not sure if I've ever cared enough to really know that about anyone else."

Quinn nearly loses her breath at that. "Not even Finn?"

Rachel huffs out a silent laugh. "I thought I did at one point, obviously, but the discovery of who Finn Hudson really is left something to be desired." She shrugs a little sadly. "I'm afraid there was only so much interest I could muster for video games and football."

Quinn bites back her smile. "How do you know the same thing won't happen with me?"

"I don't," Rachel concedes. "But I've seen the books you read for pleasure, so I suspect that you're going to keep me interested in knowing more about you for quite some time."

"More than just what it's like to kiss me?" Quinn husks, stepping closer.

Rachel's eyes widen, and she inhales sharply through her nose. "Did Finn tell you?"

Quinn frowns in confusion. "Tell me what?"

"That I asked him…" She cuts herself off, realization sparking in her eyes. "You were referring to the note, weren't you?"

Quinn's confusion disappears, and she grins ferally. Because she is smart, and she knows exactly what Rachel was about to say. "Did you ask Finn what it was like to kiss me?"

Rachel doesn't answer, but her blush does. "Why are you being so open to this? You should be telling me to stay away from you."

She probably should be, but she isn't going to. "I guess that's just one of those things you're going to have to discover about me." Quinn steps away from Rachel, shouldering her own bag before sending Rachel a wink. "Maybe you'll even get a first hand answer to that other question of yours. If you're up for it."

She leaves Rachel sputtering as she saunters out of the bathroom with an extra sway in her hips and a grin on her lips. It's the best she's felt about herself in a very long time, and if she's being honest, she thinks she's probably been mostly wooed by Rachel already. It hadn't taken much more than that little speech of hers. But Quinn isn't about to pass up the chance to be treated to more of the same.

It's really no surprise to anyone that Rachel once again has a song prepared for glee.

"Just a little something to lift our spirits after our disappointment," she explains, but there's a twinkle in her eyes when they seek out Quinn that Quinn fully understands the moment she begins to sing.

"Well you done done me and you bet I felt it I tried to be chill but you're so hot that I melted. I fell right through the cracks And now I'm trying to get back."

Quinn barely stifles her giggle at Rachel's song choice. It's not exactly a standard love song, but the message is still pretty clear, especially when she's so obviously singing to Quinn.

"Before the cool done run out I'll be giving it my best-est, And nothing's going to stop me but divine intervention. I reckon it's again my turn To win some or learn some. But I won't hesitate no more, no more. It cannot wait. I'm yours."

Rachel's dark eyes are on Quinn while she makes her musical declaration, but then Rachel is grinning and dancing around the rest of the room for the second verse, doing a fair job of pretending this is for the entire glee club. Quinn knows better, and when she glances around the room, she sees all their friends smiling and enjoying the performance.

But at the end, Rachel's eyes come right back to Quinn for her very last—

"This, oh this, this is our fate. I'm yours."

Quinn thinks she's pretty okay with that.

And Tina can suck it.

#have you ever really?#part iii #faberry #ficlet

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breath-of-the-zora-prince · 7 years

Text

Knight’s Vow

Request: Hey! Could I request a fic? Maybe reader saves Zelda from the Yiga Clan and confesses their feelings? Whether is unrequited or not it up to you~~

Word count: 1822

For: Anon

I hope you like it!

Zelda’s arms were outstretched as her eyes examined the shiekah slate, a technology that goes far beyond your reach. Because Link was out of town, you were named her temporary guard. It was fine with you, since every time you saw her, the whole world seemed brighter. It may have been the power of the goddess, you told yourself, but the more you saw her, the more you thought about her. She was beautiful, kind, curious. The issue was she was the princess, and the princess wouldn’t love a knight(unless it’s Link, have you even seen him?).

You met the princess about a year ago, when you joined the royal guard and trained under the Sheikah. Impa, no less. The princess had made a speech before the group of young soldiers. While she may have appeared as stoic to the others, you realized she was solemn. As if She had found herself trapped in the lost woods with no means of escape. Later, on patrol, you saw her sitting in the library, her body hunched over ten different books with strange markings along the spine. She seemed frustrated, and you felt your heart ache with pity. Slowly, you stepped into the room. She sat up straight the second you placed a gentle knock on the door, looking behind her.

“Your highness?” You inquired, before making an awkward attempt to bow.

“No, please.” she let out a sigh and stood up from her desk, offering a smile. “Is there anything I can help you with?” Slowly you lifted your head, and your body followed.

“W-well, I suppose I could ask you the same thing.” You felt a lump in your throat. She was much more beautiful up close than afar. Her smile faltered a bit, before fading altogether.

“I suppose it’s well enough that I’m not a performer,” she chuckled, despite the lack of comedy in the air. She slowly lowered into her seat, looking down at the books. Her eyes glanced towards you.

“Do you….when do you realize you wanted to be a knight? Was it family?” She asked, furrowing her brows. You thought the question over a bit. Formulating a proper response. Sure, you had multiple reasons, but one stood out above any other.

“I believe that if something is happening, something is wrong, then you can either do nothing or do something. I decided to do something,” You said, your voice strong and confident in your choice. Her shoulders just slumped a bit and she sighed.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” You gulped softly at her response, breaking your position to walk towards her.

“Your highness, if I may… I’m aware you hold a great responsibility on your shoulders, and I understand the idea of this monster returning to Hyrule is terrifying. But I wouldn’t trust anyone else with my life, the way I trust you. Whatever it is you’re going through, you’ll find it.” You offered a warm smile, linking your hands in front of you. She looked up at you, her eyes searching for something, but you weren’t sure what. At last, she smiled, nodding a bit. “Thank you, um…” she paused, realizing she didn’t know your name.

“Y/N, your highness,” you responded, and her smile widened.

“Then, Y/N, you can call me Zelda.”

You let out a gentle sigh at the memory as the setting sun cast over her figure, a beautiful glow framing her face, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

“It should be just around here…” she muttered, mostly to herself as her eyes parted from the screen. Her voice sounds sweet like honey, and her emerald eyes pierced the valley. She let out a small sound of discontent, beginning to pace down the hill. You followed close behind, smiling at the hard working princess. Suddenly, she burst into a run towards a cliff facing down into a crevice in the wasteland of Hyrule. She seemed to laugh. “Y/N! Come look!” You jogged over, curious as to what has her excited. She didn’t tell you the purpose of this journey. It soon became apparent why.

Your eyes widened, studying the red flags that dangled from the side of the tall walls. Small statues gazed further down into the canyon, and on the back was was an entrance.

An entrance to the Yiga clan’s lair.

Your eyes switched between the cave and the princess, who’s eyes were bright with knowledge as she wrote something down on her Sheikah slate. You couldn’t see what she was writing.

“This is perfect, this way Link and I can come back here and attempt to negotiate a peace!” Her eyes lit up at the sound of his name, making your heart seize in your chest. It was a reminder that you’d never be anything more than a knight to her. Before you could let out a dejected sigh, you heard a mocking laugh emanate behind you, causing both yours and the princess’ heads to turn.

“The only thing being negotiated, princess, is what we’re going to do with your corpse after we kill you,” your eyes widened as you looked at the group of yigas. There were at least four of them, including two of the large blademasters that often proved difficult to defeat. Instantly, your weapon was drawn. “And this time, you won’t get away.”

As one began to charge, you stood in front of the princess, your brows furrowed and your snarl aggressive. Your weapons collided in an instant, while a couple others shot their arrows in your direction. They landed just in front of your feet, but that didn’t pose them as any less of a threat. You drew in a breath and shoved the blademaster off and lunging into his chest, piercing his heart and making him fall. You had a burst of adrenaline soaring through your muscles as you rushed forward and sliced down the two foot soldiers. The first one was in a state of shock from you being able to kill the large man. The second tried to flee, but you caught it with his own ally’s weapon. before hearing a yelp from Zelda. Your body whipped around as the last man stood, lifting her up and holding her over the cliff to at least a thirty foot drop. Your eyes widened in shock, before his hands let go.

Time slowed down as her foot missed the edge, her face fearful of death as she looked at you, pleading for help. Instantly, you sprinted past the heathen and dived after her. She reached up to you, everything still moving so slowly. In what felt like five seconds, you pulled her close to you, falling so her body would land on yours, and you would face the abrasive ground.

Time resumed, and with a hard thump, everything numbed. You could hardly open your eyes, you didn’t want to. Water stung the corners as you begrudgingly looked out into the world, finding a princess grieving over you and attempting to revive you.

She was just as beautiful as the day you first met. A smile touched your lips and by some miracle, you could lift your hand to her cheek to brush away a salty tear. She seemed shocked, happy to see you were conscious. You knew it wouldn’t last long, so you decided it was now or never to say what you’ve always wanted to.

“You’re so beautiful…” You muttered, barely a voice coming out as a tear struck down your cheek, your body throbbing and aching, but you still didn’t feel much. “I love you.” You couldn’t tell if she could hear you, you couldn’t tell if you even said anything at all, but you could tell that you were the happiest person alive, knowing that she was the last thing you saw. You let the darkness swallow you into a peaceful sleep.

You didn’t expect to awaken. And yet, you laid in a warm bed, comforting and smelling like the delicate flower you loved so much, silent princess. Your eyes opened slowly, remaining lidded as you looked around without moving her head. You opened your mouth to speak, but no noise came out. Still, you heard two voices in the room, mumbling too quietly for you to hear. You couldn’t sit up to see what was happening, your body wouldn’t let you. Instead you let out a huff to draw their attention. Your throat was so dry.

“Oh, oh Y/N, you’re awake!” The first thing you saw was Zelda, and everything felt calm as she smiled down at you. “How are you feeling?” You swallowed in an attempt to moisten your throat.

“I could really go for a glass of water…” you said groggily, before your chest pulsed with subtle laughter. It hurt to do that.

“I’ll go get it.” Briefly you saw a shape of red leave the room, and you assumed the rito champion, a healer, was here for you. You returned your gaze to Zelda who was simply smiling and looking down at you.

“So how long until I can get back on my feet again and continue to save the day?” You chuckled, but Zelda’s expression slowly fell.

“Well… um… the problem is…” she seemed to have a hard time collecting your thoughts, and you felt your heart drop and your smile fade. “When you saved me, you broke your legs as well as your spine in two locations. Mipha did all she could but…” You gulped and nodded in understanding.

“Will I at least be able to walk?” You asked, closing your eyes. Zelda thought it over, but her silence worried you.

“Perhaps, with more healing sessions, but you won’t be able to fight. It’s too much for your body.” She seemed just as defeated as you were. And you let out a huff of depression. “But that’s not the point…”

“What then?” You asked, hoping for the slightest bit of confidence to return to you.

“You saved my life, at the risk of yours. You are one of the bravest people I know.” Her voice was steady and beautiful, and you opened your eyes to glance at her. She leaned down, pressing her lips against your cheek and smiling widely. You felt your face heat up as you looked away. In response, she let out a small giggle.

“Princess, er, Zelda... Did you…” you started, your voice fading away as you looked towards her. She simply nodded. Her smile changed from pure joy to gentle. You knew her answer, and while you felt your heart drop, you felt content.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” You nodded, returning her smile with one of your own.

“I vowed to do whatever I could to protect you.” You searched her eyes for something, anything, but you weren’t sure what. “I’m just grateful I was finally able to do something, for someone as incredible as you.”

#legend of zelda #legend of zelda imagine #zelda x reader #zelda breath of the wild #botw imagines

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brawltogethernow · 6 years

Text

I finally saw live action Beauty and the Beast, and for the record here are some of the impressions I took away from it:

- The Enchantress responsible for the premise is present as an actual character outside of flashbacks in this version, and her role makes no sense. She apparently moved into the town next to the castle after she cursed everybody to keep an eye on things, in the form of a Hollywood-homely woman of no status. Like I get that at the beginning she takes the form of somebody jerks might deride as a test of morals, but this was for ten years she spent just letting Gaston insult her to her face, so I can only assume it’s a kink of some kind. She’s also actively lifts the curse after personally observing that the conditions have been met, which raises so many questions.

- She waits until the last goddamn second too, after all the staff have been tragically rendered inanimate, even though the conditions to break the curse were met before that while she was already there. Wow.

- She still transformed and endangered the lives of the castle’s entire staff WHO DID NOTHING WRONG, which they rationalize to themselves by saying they should have done more to make their prince be less of a dick. But hey everybody knows that when somebody else is a jerk that’s your responsibility, so it’s fine. The Enchantress just walks away looking ethereal and smug at the end and I get the impression we’re not supposed to hate her? Too late. She’s definitely a chaotic neutral fairy with blue/orange morality AT BEST.

- Not only is the queer stuff in the film not acknowledging that the clock and the candle are an old gay couple, a wife is invented for the candle specifically to dispel this impression. She’s literally a bird though, so now you’ve just made one of your talking furniture characters a furry. As if this story didn’t have that overtone enough.

- Casting actually didn’t populate the fantasy-France setting exclusively with white people! It’s cool!

- Gaston has some kind of amazing inverted PTSD where thinking about his time in “the war” makes him feel better.

- Speaking of The War, this movie, instead of being set generically in no time period like the cartoon, deliberately anchors itself to a time period, but that time period is actually like ten time periods at once? Everyone wears tricorne hats, there was a plague a decade ago, and The War. There’s the famous waltz scene but in other scenes people dance the minuet. It’s confusing.

- I’ve seen people criticize this movie describing LeFou as pining for Gaston, introducing pointless unrequited gay angst, but I don’t get that impression at all? He’s definitely camp, but there’s nothing overt to suggest he’s got a doomed thing for his...friend? Boss? Bossfriend.

- Conversely, it’s film canon that Gaston bit LeFou on the stomach “wrestling”.

- HWHAT THE FUCK.

- Josh Gad says “bites” in “in a wrestling match nobody bite like Gaston” as fruitily as humanly possible, was this implication on purpose??

- I don’t.

- Anyway.

- LeFou and Mrs. Potts team up to spew boiling water on angry villagers at one point. It’s the best thing ever. BROTP.

- Gaston Disney-dies by falling off a high parapet but then he’s fine, boo. Embrace your brand, Disney.

- Shortly before this Gaston just fucking rips a piece of stonework off the roof of the castle with his bare hands? What the hell? Was the castle also made of candy the whole time and it was just never brought up because it wasn’t plot relevant?

- Gaston has the magical ability to reload his old-fashioned pistol immediately instead of taking two minutes per bullet.

- Belle doesn’t get any sheep to explain the plot of her favorite book to. She just does that whole line including “you’ll see” to thin air while walking through the village.

- The line about her always having her nose in a book and a far-off look is sung directly when she’s talking to someone on the street, I think she’s giving the Enchantress-in-disguise alms or something. This could have been contradictory on purpose to show the prejudice of the villagers but if so it’s pretty weak, like the implication is that this Belle isn’t daydreaming and bookish.

- Positive Belle things: She invents the washing machine? This is the good shit. Maurice is a ditzy toymaker instead of a mad inventor in this version, but Belle is apparently an inventor instead, and that’s the best. Smart little girls everywhere are going to take the scene where she rigs up a way to deal with her chores to heart.

- Other wholesome Belle things: The scene where she sees the castle library for the first time is so real, she does a little happy dance and is plainly completely enamored with this room.

- Instead of being toxic masculinity brought to life and given free will, Gaston just seems kind of crazy and falls apart slowly like a half-off Shakespeare character.

- Belle’s taste in books is specifically narrowed down to being Shakespeare, which is a shame because in the cartoon she’s clearly reading romance novels.

- The songs from the original don’t mesh up perfectly with changed events, especially like, in terms of emotional coherence.

- There’s also a clear quality difference between songs from the animated film and the other songs.

- The movie overall seems incredibly slow, yet the romance feels rushed. It never at any point convinced me it was happening for any reason beside that it had to for the plot. I finished the film and still barely feel like Belle and the Beast are more than book-bonded friends.

- At one point the beast is like ‘If you want an escape without leaving the castle, let me show you something in the library,’ and I was like ‘HURR DURR DURR, THEY’RE GOING TO ESCAPE INTO THE WORLD OF READING #LibraryPSA’, but then they ACTUALLY DID. There’s a magic book that can teleport you literally anywhere for basically no reason that is used pretty well to help Belle let go of being too hung up on her idealized impression of her childhood to move on with her life, and is then never brought up again.

- I thought at first it was some sort of illusion but no, it literally just has teleportation abilities. This also means that Belle’s old house has been untouched for ten years for some reason. I know there was “plague”, but...ten years.

- TIL that if you slow down “Be Our Guest” because I guess you really want to milk it because it’s everybody’s favorite song it’s basically “Cabaret”.

- Seriously! Every scene! In this movie! Was so slow! Find some energy!!

- After the curse is broken do they get to keep the teleportation book Y/N?

- Did the rest of the people in the castle ever use it? Did Adam even tell them about it? If I was cursed into animate silverware it would pick me up EXTREMELY if I could get a change of scenery by popping over to Cairo or the rainforest or just the theater for an afternoon. There are multiple people in this version with canonical spouses who have forgotten them outside the castle who they could have been checking on.

- I’d rate the cinematography a solid meh but the castle set was good.

- There’s a joke where LeFou says 'je ne sais quoi’ and his friendboss doesn’t know what that means, and I honestly have no idea whether it was intentional or not.

- I found all of the furniture people terrifying-looking, but that could just be me.

- Having Sir Ian McKellan in your movie and not having him be instantly charming is a FEAT, but this film did it somehow.

#beauty and the beast #disney

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everysuperherofighting · 5 years

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The Best Music of 2018

2018 was a strange year for me. It should go without saying that the politics were grim, as the United States continued to embrace gestapo-esque tactics and concentration camps as a way of dealing with the “immigration crisis” (a lot of this happened under Obama too of course). The planet continued to slide into a dystopia of global warming as more and more animals became endangered or went extinct all-together. The mid-terms happened, with typically mixed results. Elon Musk called someone a pedophile on twitter for some reason.

On a personal level, in 2018 I moved to Ohio from Oregon (again). My band put out an EP. And I lost my father, something that I still grapple with on a daily basis, though it gets less present over time.

I’ve become interested in how I discover new music, as I’ve gotten older and can’t really consider myself to be fully plugged into any sort of youth culture, sub or otherwise. Finding new music has become a very intentional process; if I didn’t seek it out deliberately, I probably wouldn’t end up hearing much of anything. But that’s always kind of true for arty-weirdos like me.

For better or worse I discovered a lot of music the last two years through Youtube. As you probably know, if you play a song or an album on Youtube, there’s an autoplay feature that will automatically play something else when it’s done. I’ve found a lot of my favorite music lately this way, and in some ways it’s kind of filled the role that “cool record store clerk” or “late-night college dj” might have filled in the times past. This is not necessarily a good change. I’ve heard you can find a lot of white supremacists that way too.

Youtube has also become invaluable if you’re someone who wants to make a list like this one, and can’t afford to spend hundreds of dollars on albums. I think sometimes the artists even get paid a minuscule amount for the clicks! Hooray free information! I hope we can all find decent jobs someday.

1) CAMP COPE - HOW TO SOCIALISE & MAKE FRIENDS

I debated with myself about whether to put Camp Cope at number one, as they’re not the most musically complex or adventurous of my favorite albums this year. However I can’t think of another band that felt like it lyrically captured the zeitgeist of the times in such a powerful way. The whole album is great, catchy and upbeat jangly indie/punk with tinges of early 90s midwestern emo, made by three woman from Melbourne, Australia. Singer Georgia McDonald has a great voice, imbued with urgency, and her accent is a lot of fun to listen to too. Her lyrics have that same emotional rawness and honest specificity that early emo has as well - on “The Omen” she sings about loving someone since they were 17 and wishes for rescue dogs and a house by the sea, while on “I’ve Got You,” she bounces from the death of her father to police shootings, the loss of her childhood home, and the grappling with mental illness, and it all feels thematically relevant as this great moment of exhaled catharsis.

The stand-outs for me, however, are “The Opener” and “The Face of God.” “The Opener” is a scorching indictment of the indie music scene, as McDonald calls-out all the garbage women in bands have to deal with, from accusations that they only succeed based on their gender, to men continually explaining things, to men showing up to lay down a big steamy pile of unrequited love BS. These aren’t new observations, but hearing them all laid out in a row like this highlights their invulnerability and their ubiquitousness, the daily microaggressions that lead up to a larger picture of persistent inequality. On “The Face of God,” McDonald narrativizes the Me Too movement from the perspective of an abused fan, musing “could it be true? You couldn’t do that to someone. Not you, nah your music is too good,” her tortured delivery capturing the rage, shame, disbelief, and sadness of all the Me Too revelations about artists that we liked, and who abused that power again and again and again and again and again and again and again an

2) IDLES - JOY AS AN ACT OF RESISTANCE

Image by Paul Hudson via Flickr

Idles was one of my favorite discoveries of last year. I was actually a little concerned with this album since I’d heard the band was “embracing positivity” , and what I loved about Brutalism was their raw, unhinged sound and clever but cynical and pissed-off lyrics. There’s also a recurring thing for me of finding a really cool raw sounding band, punk adjacent but not necessarily fully in the scene, who then get less “punk” (and to me, less interesting) with each subsequent release as they sort of turn into just another indie dude band who like Big Star or the Replacements. This band sounds raw as fuck, I’ll say, and then later they’ll put out their fucking mandolin album.

Joy as an Act of Resistance is dope though, as their music continues to embrace a raw, chaotic sound of guitars that both swirl and jab like shards of glass, pounding “Lust For Life” toms, and stripped down basslines, while frontman Joe Talbot howls sarcastic indictments of masculinity, homophobia, and racism. In a similar way to last year’s Pissed Jeans album, they tackle ugly toxic masculinity with ugly, tough sounding music, hearkening back to a punk rock that was less rigid in sound. There’s this infectious positivity that runs through the whole thing however, a joy that comes from casting off the fixed roles that the patriarchal society tries to put upon us and embracing our (ironically) gentler natures. “I wanna be your best ever friend forever” Talbot says, sincerely on “Love Song.” “Let’s hug it out,” he repeats on “Never Fight a Man With A Perm,” and though the song is making fun of a coked out bruiser, I have a feeling it’s a sentiment he would share.

3) THE ARMED - ONLY LOVE

The synthesis of hardcore punk with electronic music is something I’ve been anticipating. There’s definitely been forebearers (Horse the Band comes to mind, though there’s probably other stuff in the underground), but this is the first time I’ve heard it done so well. The Armed sound like if you took one of the better mid-2000s screamy hardcore bands and mixed it with the noisiest and most frenetic parts of a chip-tune song. That may sound like a nightmare to a lot of you, but again, it’s done so well here that it just sounds like a noisy chaotic mess in the best and most elegant possible way. This is not to underplay the tightness of the song-craft at work here - the chaotic sound seems to me to be carefully orchestrated. Glitchy, brutal, climatic, and beautiful. (And the parts where the lady sings remind me of Blatz. The world could use more Blatz.)

4) SCREAMING FEMALES - ALL AT ONCE

Image by Jason Persse via Flickr

This band is kind of a mainstay on my year end list at this point, but I feel like they continually top their previous efforts, a rare quality for most bands. Incredible vocals, incredible song-writing, incredible guitar playing, as they reach ever greater levels of accessibility and hookiness, while still maintaining that slight edge that would put them forever as at home in a basement as a venue.

5) KALI UCHIS - ISOLATION

Kali Uchis lands at that sweet spot where pop, hip-hop, jazz, soul, and psychedelia intersect that’s occupied by similar weirdos like Janelle Monae, Miguel, and the Internet. It’s no wonder that one of the all-time prophets of future-looking pop, Boots Riley, shows up on one of the singles. There’s a real bossa-nova, latin jazz vibe on a lot of these tracks, and a kind of retro-sheen even as it pushes into the future. “It’s no fun to feel like a fool,” Kali Uchis croons while straight up wall of sound style saxophones blurp in the background. “Pussy is a hell of an addiction.”

6) THE INTERNET - HIVE MIND

Another year-end list staple for me, the Internet have been consistently putting out some of the best, solid-ass R+B since 2011. The whole thing is smooth as hell, but weird or tasteful in all the right places; the “hoo hoo” on “Humble Pie” or the building horns on “Mood.” And retaining just a hint of that old Odd Future off-kilterness around the edges. OG Dungeon Family poet “Big Rube” shows up on “It Gets Better (With Time).”

7) JEAN GRAE AND QUELLE CHRIS - EVERYTHING’S FINE

Quelle Chris is a new one for me, but I rocked Jean Grae when I first started getting into indie rap back in high school. I always wondered what happened to her since then, but apparently she’s been putting out a steady stream of mixtapes and underground releases pretty much the whole time, self releasing a lot of them through bandcamp. She’s a wicked lyricist, and her and Quelle Chris trade off bars of dense wordplay and biting commentary on the current age of “self-care” and neoliberal hellscapes over beats that are just weird enough. Much of their verses are delivered through a lens of ironic detachment, but it’s especially affecting when the irony cracks into real urgency or emotion, as in “Breakfast of Champions,” a reflection on the grueling, consistent presence of racism in America. “It’s bound to wreck your body or straight burn your body out” they muse, and then later, as if realizing the gravity of it all, “it’s like damn, shit, fuck, wow…”

Also Quelle Chris apparently taught himself to program 8-bit video games for one of the videos.

8) SELF DEFENSE FAMILY - HAVE YOU CONSIDERED PUNK MUSIC

Yeah dude, you know I like punk rock that don’t follow no rules. This is definitely more in the vein of Fugazi, or maybe even a slightly more jagged Wilco, than a NOFX or 7 Seconds, with nods to Americana and a vocal delivery that reminds me of a raspier Craig Finn. A central preoccupation of the album seems to be the delicate balance between art and maturity, made all the more so when you’re tied to a subculture that’s only “supposed” to last you through your early 20s. There’s some great lines throughout: “ “Explaining motherhood to a man, cold observation but he’s not capable of understanding; detailing math to a dog, won’t retain a word but if you’re lucky he may be a good boy and nod” and “The world’s not turning for you and the road never rises, you’re eking out a living like every other asshole” are highlights for me, but I think my favorite bit of cleverness is actually just the juxtaposition between the titles of tracks 6 and 7. “Have You Considered Punk Music?” asks one. The other: “Have You Considered Anything Else?”

9) SINGLE MOTHERS - THROUGH A WALL

Image by CRUSTINA! via Flickr

And here we have a release that’s a little more meat and potatoes, with steam-rolling drum beats, distortion, and yelled vocals about the desperation to be found in modern life’s mudanities, “dog parks and IPA.” This album’s just some fucking ferocious non-screamy hardcore, with that same relentless quality that the best hardcore albums have. “Catch and Release” even has some double kick on it. Interestingly, I find some of the core anxieties the same as in the album above however: “Better people than you or I have lost that spark for life,” Andrew Thomson bellows on 24/7, a Cassandra portending the potential pitfalls of age.

10) HOP ALONG - BARK YOUR HEAD OFF, DOG

Singer Francis Quinlan has an incredible voice, powerful and worldly, and she paints quick snapshots of narrative with her lyrics like a Lydia Davis story. The music has shades of mid-western emo, with some kind of funky, almost Jackson 5 style guitar lines. This one is definitely a step up in terms of instrumentation from their earlier records, with strings, acoustic guitars, and other orchestral touches. The title refers specifically to a dying dog from one of the tracks, though it also seems to apply to all the characters briefly given voice throughout the album.

11) CINDER WELL - THE UNCONSCIOUS ECHO

Beautiful, haunting folk from Amelia Baker of Blackbird Raum (and a few other fellows mostly from the folk punk/bluegrass scene). A little more straight folk than Blackbird Raum’s high energy mix of folk, metal, and hardcore. Stripped down and evocative, with one foot firmly in an irish folk tradition. Like Blackbird Raum, there is a foreboding quality to much of the music, like a warning of dark things to come.

12) NONAME - ROOM 25

A micro-trend I noticed in hip-hop this year was short albums, notable from a tradition that often includes massive releases and mixtapes stuffed with skits and interludes. This is the first of example of this on my list, clocking in at a respectable 34:48. Noname is a great rapper with an intricate flow, technical without being too dense for a more casual listener, keeping her ideas and narratives clear and present over funky neo soul beats. At times she can be extremely candid, rapping about her sexual escapades, emotions, and insecurities. In one of my favorite moments, the track titled “No Name,” she discusses the spirituality behind her stage name: “When we walk into heaven, nobody’s name gon’ exist; just boundless movement for joy, nakedness radiance.” She’s funny too though. “I’m just writing my darkest secrets like wait and just hear me out; saying vegan food is delicious like wait and just hear me out.”

13) JEFF ROSENSTOCK - POST

More noisy power pop from former Bomb the Music Industry frontman Jeff Rosenstock (though I suppose by this point his solo career is at least as significant; Bomb albums never made it to Pitchfork). I think this one’s a little less varied than “Worry” before it, and a little rawer around the edges. The title is seemingly referring to the time post-2016 election, though it seems to often be more interested in profiling the anxious mood than making specific political points (which you probably all know anyway). I can’t think of another song writer off the top of my head that more consistently exemplifies the anxieties of the millennial generation, whether it’s the mid-20s woes of joblessness and friend loss often detailed in Bomb the Music Industry, or this current outing. On “Yr Throat,” he talks about the ease he has talking about relatively frivolous matter like video games and vinyl records, verses more important matters. One of my favorite lines in the song is a little more direct however, commenting on you-know-who: “It’s not like any other job I know; if you’re a piece of shit they don’t let you go.”

14) DEATH GRIPS - YEAR OF THE SNITCH

Image by Montecruz Foto via Flickr

Supposedly the album title has something to do with Charles Manson, at least according to their very vocal and sometimes uncomfortably affiliated online fanbase. It’s pretty rare that I can fully decipher what a song is about, other than generally surreal lyrics that hint toward a dirty and unsettling underground, whether urban, suburban, or solely online. Death Grips, if you don’t know, make experimental and abstract hip-hop, featuring dark and somewhat unconventional beats, with a live drummer, seeming to draw as much from the tradition of noise music than from rap. For as weird as all this is, however, there’s usually a pretty solid song structure underlying each track, and they create some sticky hooks out of all the electronic chaos and bellowed raps. This time around there seems to be a bit of a shoegaze influence as well, which…. doesn’t quite fit their aesthetic? But is pretty interesting all the same.

15) RAVYN LENAE - CRUSH

Steve Lacy from the Internet (the band) produced this 5 track long EP of retro/future funk and R+B. “Sticky” is as catch a song as ever there was, and Ravyn Lenae does a great job kind of floating over the beat, mixing up her delivery. These artists nod a lot to 70s R+B and funk, and I love that they preserve the strangeness of a lot of that stuff, that otherwordly vibe, whether it’s the “oooo-HOO-hoo-hoo” on “Sticky” or the blunted synth stabs on “4 Leaf Clover.”

16) HINDS - I DON’T RUN

Image by Paul Hudson via Flickr

Indie rock from Madrid with several lady vocalists that’s just a tad sloppy, in a good way. Catchy and relationship oriented, but scratching at something deeper beyond the surface. I love the way the vocal mics all seem to distort slightly. Maybe I’m just an old now, but it makes me nostalgic for college in some way, smoking cigarettes and being heartbroken. Which was probably not actually as fun as I remember it.

17) JPEGMAFIA - VETERAN

Hard as hell raps over jittery noise beats that sometimes merge into moments of dreamlike beauty from a hip-hop auteur who handles all the production himself. This kind of reminds me of when Pitchfork called Odd Future “/b/ boys” (referring to 4chan). This is the new Extremely Online hip-hop, endlessly irony poisoned, vaguely left-wing but mostly cynical, inside jokes upon inside jokes. It seems like there’s some real anger in here too, and his raps often involve promises of violence, usually upon various members of the alt right: “Look, it’s the young alt-right menace; What’s the pistol to a pennant?”

18) MILO - BUDDING ORNITHOLOGISTS ARE WEARY OF TIRED ANALOGIES

Milo reminds me of the best of the older backpacker rappers, dropping classic lines so fast that you miss about 2/3rds of them the first couple times through. Equally at home dropping a reference to a video game, a philosopher, the harshness of race in America, and the Guggenheim fellowship, like one of those memes that eradicates the distinction between high and low culture by putting references to existentialist philosophers over a picture of Spongebob. Of course, hip-hop has always been doing that, hasn’t it?

19) EARL SWEATSHIRT - SOME RAP SONGS

Image by Anna Hanks via Flickr

Another notably short album, at a brisk 24:39. The songs are short too, often coming across as sketches, though really this is the kind of project made to listen to in one sitting. Like a lot of the rap albums on here, this is a project that takes the beats as well as the rhymes seriously, pushing forward into avant garde territory, but in a mellower way than JPEGMAFIA or Death Grips. They have an almost hypnotic quality to them, as Earl raps in his slightly aloof manner, though here the aloofness feels more like a mask only thinly hiding a deep sense of melancholy. The samples on here are thick with that old record hiss - even the vocals are hissy, like a transmission from someplace far away.

20) SUDAN ARCHIVES - SINK

Sudan Archives is a violinist from Cincinnati who makes pop music that sounds like nothing else out there, though it takes cues from hip-hop, R+B, electronica, and world music. The beats are stripped down but still lush sounding, the violin often leading in a way that sounds strange and otherwordly, utilized for it’s ability to create rhythmic hooks, while her lyrics meld the personal with the empowering with the political.

21) TEYANA TAYLOR - K.T.S.E.

Kanye West produced 5 different 7 to 8 track albums this year, with mixed results. A lot of people stan Pusha T’s Daytona, but this one was my favorite, a short and sweet album that’s mellow, romantic, and a little dirty. Teyana Taylor puts in a very versatile performance, and her voice is perfectly suited to ride over the old soul samples that make up the bulk of the production. Kanye’s musical output was of course overshadowed by his various bizarre political statements and right wing flirtations, but it would be a shame for this gem to get lost in the fray.

22) CHURCH OF THE COSMIC SKULL - SCIENCE FICTION

I don’t always love heavily conceptualized “revival” type bands, but this one is so much fun, not just doing pitch perfect 70s hard rock, but also spoofing (at least, I think it’s a spoof) the phenomenon of 70s cults. The members seem to dress in all white, and look like they just stepped off some Jesus-dude’s farm/compound. Of course it wouldn’t work if the music wasn’t so damn hooky. Harmonies, heavy organs, and hella riffs.

23) VINCE STAPLES - FM!

And another super short hip-hop album from one of contemporary rap’s best. Vince’s projects usually feature stripped down beats that would sound good in a car or a club, but the lyrical matter is dark as hell, another example of what a strange genre gangsta rap is when viewed from the outside. It’s hyper-masculine and braggadocios, but also equally often an expression of black pain that is then commodified into bangers for clubs, cars, and house parties full of white frat boys to dance and drink to. The contrast is all the more apparent every time Vince mentions one of his dead friends. I dunno dude, maybe I’m just getting old.

24) JANELLE MONAE - DIRTY COMPUTER

This didn’t grab me as immediately as her previous two full lengths, trending a little too close to mainstream pop for my tastes. But underneath the added sheen, it’s still a Janelle Monae album, bouncing gleefully from Prince-style funk jams to buoyant electro tunes. Monae drops the cyber-punk robo future concept to make an on-the-nose, album length celebration of queerness (though I think there may be some sci-fi on the Dirty Computer short film, which I haven’t watched yet.) The celebratory nature fits the larger, more conventional pop moves here, a sort of “queering” of mainstream pop. There’s also more rapping here than ever, and it’s always fun to hear Monae drop some bars.

25) FUCKED UP - DOSE YOUR DREAMS

Image by CRUSTINA! via Flickr

Similar to the above, this is an album from a long time favorite of mine that didn’t grab me as much as their earlier efforts, and that also seems to be making some moves toward a more mainstream pop sound, though here of course it’s pop music featuring a bellowing, gravel voiced hardcore singer and a bunch of loud Cock Sparrer style guitar lines. This is a concept album, apparently about a character who quits his job and goes on a drug fueled odyssey through the nature of reality, learning to reject an oppressive capitalist society, which sounds like the plot of an 80s British comic book, and hey, the cover is basically ripped straight from the pages of Watchmen, so there you go. They try out a lot of different styles here, which can be a bit hit or miss, but the core of Fucked Up, the interplay between Abraham’s bombastic bellows and huge sounding guitars, is as raucous and triumphant as ever, if a little more familiar.

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gldngrl7 · 7 years

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Karamel Fic: Damage Control (2/5)

Author’s Notes:

Spot the Earth-38 aberration. See Author’s note at the end.

Title: Damage Control

Author: gldngr7

Rating: Explicit

Chapters: 5

Feedback: Encouragement and constructive criticisms are always welcome. Flames are destroyed with my freeze

Chapter 2/5

Say, go through the darkest of days

Heaven's a heartbreak away

Never let you go, never let me down

Oh, it's been a hell of a ride

Driving the edge of a knife

Never let you go, never let me down

-DJ Snake/Justin Bieber – ‘Let Me Love You’

The raised eyebrow of the front desk guard that swipes his badge, could be interpreted in a number of different ways. Mon-El prefers to think of it not so much as a next-time-you’re-late-I’m-releasing-the-hounds, as much as it is a sly so-I-see-you’ve-been-in-the-arms-of-a-beautiful-woman-my-good-man. With his best charming wink, he nods discretely and moves on, tucking his badge back into his wallet, which he slips into his back pocket.

He left Kara 26 seconds ago, and he can still feel the tingle of her lips on his.

Mon-El decides to check in with J’onn, who apparently has no life, or basic sleep requirements. As a resident alien and acting head of the DEO, he too has quarters on base, and is thus, usually available. He finds J’onn, Alex and Winn huddled around a bank of computers at the Command Information Center. Alex’s head pops up from the huddle and she winks at him. Why does she keep doing that?

“What’s going on?” he wonders, choosing to focus his confusion elsewhere. He hates to think of something happening that would require Supergirl’s intervention as it would disturb Kara’s sleep. “Is there something I can do?” he offers in her stead.

“We’re just tracking a badly planned bank heist downtown,” Winn announces without taking his eyes off the monitors. And then, as if the perpetrators can hear him through the device, he waves his arms at the screen, “Motion sensors, you idiots! Have you even seen Ocean’s Eleven?”

“Which the police have handled.” J’onn extracts himself from the huddle, eye roll clearly implied, but in a stunning show of discipline-in-action, not executed.

As Alex walks past her, she leans in and whispers, “I hope you left my sister in better condition than you found her.”

Aha! Winks explained. Mon-El smiles and retorts, “When you want to know what your sister and I really get up to, you just let me know.”

“Eww.”

“That’s what I thought. You really don’t need her for anything? Because she could really use some sleep.” The moment the words exited his mouth, he knew they came out all wrong.

“No, the police have it covered and again…eww,” Alex replies, this time with a much more pronounced grimace.

“That’s not what I—never mind.”

“It’s okay,” Alex snickers. “It was worth it for the look on your face. So…you start your new job in a few days, right?” Mon-El startles, checking the immediate area for potential eavesdroppers.

“How did you know about that?” he ask, lowering his voice to a softer register.

“As J’onn’s second, he informs me of everything he feels is pertinent.” The answer should be obvious, since what J’onn knows always trickles down to Alex.

“You haven’t told Kara, have you?”

“No. J’onn explained your reasons for wanting to keep it secret.”

“It’s just that…if I can make this work, I can get off the stipend, earn myself some freedom and maybe get my own place. I just don’t want to get her hopes up too soon. I’m still figuring this place out and sometimes it feels like it gets harder every day. Except with her. The parts with her get easier.”

“I get it, Mon-El, I really do. You had a bumpy start and I’m not even talking about the crash landing. And you want her to think well of you.”

Mon-El sighs. “I want her to look at me and see a man, and not just because—“

“If you know what’s good for you, you will not finish that sentence,” she cuts him off.

“Because I’m a few decades older than she is,” he redirects, adding a bit of a smirk.

“I’m sure the job will be fine, Mon-El. And any information you may garner while working there could prove useful.”

“That was my thinking as well,” he agrees. Alex and Mon-El share a charged look, an agreement passing between them, spoken only with their eyes. She nods, almost imperceptibly, and he feels as though, perhaps, her estimation of him has risen a notch.

“Have a good night, Mon-El,” she says sincerely, a soft half-smile on her face.

“You too, Alex,” he replies. Mon-El watches briefly as she departs before turning back to one person left in the CIC.

“Aw c’mon! Seriously?!” Winn shouts at his monitor.

“Are the methods used by the criminals not to your liking?” Mon-El queries, a friendly smile lighting his face. He likes Winn, the brilliant computer specialist that seems able to pull answers out of thin air. They had bonded upon Mon-El’s arrival to Earth, though Mon-El has used him poorly in the beginning, shamelessly manipulating him in an effort to get out of the DEO for a night. But after a night of partying with human college students, Mon-El had severely injured one of the revelers, and had begun to understand why the DEO thought it necessary to sequester him.

Winn tears his eyes away from the monitor and gives Mon-El a cursory glance. “Nah,” he replies, “I just can’t stand stupid. So what’s going on?” he asks, always seeking the quickest way into ‘the loop’. Winn is the friend that works hard to make sure he isn’t left out – even when being left out is the safest thing for him. “You’re back late.”

“You’re here late,” Mon-El smoothly redirects. Winn looks at Kara with the kind of softness and yearning in his eyes that puts Mon-El in an unenviable position. The man is his friend, his first on this planet, but he’s in love with Kara and that makes the situation tricky. He doesn’t want to lose his friend, but one day he’ll have to explain to Winn why Kara is not the girl for him. He suspects that day is coming sooner, rather than later.

“I’ve got no life, man. It’s more fun being here than sitting at home…alone.” Winn gripes, as though those are the only options available to him and neither one of them is quite what he wants.

“Well, I know for a fact that there are several fine establishments in National City that provide fun and entertainment for single men and women to…what’s the phrase…’hook up’? Perhaps you should try that.”

Winn takes a better, more penetrating look at Mon-El and squints his eyes suspiciously. He’s noticed that something’s been going on with the Daxamite lately, but hasn’t quite been able to put his finger on it. Mon-El squirms a bit under his scrutiny. “Is that where you’ve been? At one of these ‘fine establishments’? No offense, buddy, but you kinda smell like it.”

Mon-El fights the instincts screaming at him to step away from Winn. Of course, he smells like sweat and sex and Kara, but Winn can’t know that – not the Kara part, at least. “None taken.”

“Got a little money and now it’s burning a hole in your pocket?” Winn teases, blissfully ignorant of the subject upon which he speaks. In a way, Mon-El feels sorry for him. “Between you and me…It’s okay, man. It’s totally healthy, as long as you’re safe.” He leans toward Mon-El and whispers in a conspiratorial tone, “But be careful. It violates the terms of your agreement for you to…how shall I put this? Avail yourself of the ladies of the night…?”

“Ladies of the night?” he inquires, tilting his head slightly. He’s unfamiliar with the designation and his confusion is written clearly across his face.

Winn purses his lips and speaks out of the side of his mouth, holding his hand up to block potential lip readers. “You know...hookers…prostitutes…? You pay them to have sex with you…? We talked about this, remember? It’s illegal.”

Prostitution is a foreign concept on Daxam; the notion that anyone having to pay for sex being utterly ludicrous. “I’m not paying someone for sex,” he blurts out. Perhaps he reveals a little too much in his exclamation, but he’s unable to let the insult pass, intentional or otherwise.

Winn sighs and rolls his eyes. “Of course you wouldn’t have to, would you? Though clearly you’re getting it from somewhere.” Winn chuckles, but Mon-El detects a slight undertone of bitterness in his deduction. “And I am enough of a man to admit that I’m a little jealous. Okay, I’m a lot jealous! I mean…I’ve lived here my whole life and can’t get any action. None! You arrive barely two months ago and already you’re spreading yourself thin.”

“Perhaps you’d have better luck with women if you cast a wider net,” Mon-El suggests, hinting that he’s aware of Winn’s unrequited passion.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you seem to have your eyes on only one woman, Winn, when you should be looking all around you. You’re a good man, with a lot to offer a woman. You’re smart—brilliant—and you have a good job. But you have something even more important than all of that.”

“Good looks and a Broadway quality singing voice?” Winn guesses, only half joking. Though Mon-El isn’t sure which part he’s joking about.

“Purpose,” Mon-El provides. “You’ve found your purpose. An old friend of mine used to say that a man who knows his purpose is more attractive to a mate than any with merely a charming smile.”

“Let me guess…he was talking about you.”

Mon-El glances over Winn’s shoulder and sees Ral there, leaning one shoulder against the wall, his arms crossed, a smug smirk on his angelic face. “Yes he was, and I did everything I could think of to prove him wrong.”

To Winn, it appears that the alien is simply remembering old times gone by. “And did you? Prove him wrong?”

Mon-El’s fingers touch his lips, the barest tingle from Kara’s kiss still remaining. “I never could…so he must have been right.”

“That must sting a little,” Winn commiserates.

“You have no idea.” Mon-El’s heart thuds with a pang, thinking of Ral and how he never got meet Kara or get to know her, except in the illusion of his own fragmented mind. “Hey…there was something I wanted to ask you about,” Mon-El redirects.

“What’s that?”

“What can you tell me about some Earth writings called ‘Romeo and Juliet’?” Winn was to go-to person around here to ask about these things. He seems to have an endless knowledge of pop culture and entertainment. Probably because he spends his time absorbing it, rather than out in the world wooing women and availing himself of all they have to offer.

Winn rubs his thumb and his forefinger together, his eyes squinting with the suspicion again. “Interesting,” he purrs. “It’s an old play written hundreds of years ago by a guy named—“

“William Shakespeare,” Mon-El fills in. “That much I know. Where can I get a copy?”

“You want to read it? Are you crazy?”

“Why?”

“Well, first of all it’s written in an antiquated form of English and I had to explain to you what ‘off the top of your head’ meant the other day. Also, it’s written in iambic pentameter, which is a kind verse…a poem.”

“So…it’s difficult to understand,” he surmises. Perhaps he could at least understand some of it.

“That’s the long and short of it,” Winn says. Then he reconsiders his phrasing, as he often does with Mon-El. “Very difficult to understand for the untrained ear.”

“Perhaps I can learn this language,” he suggests. “I’ve learned many languages.”

Winn guffaws. “Yeah, thanks to 35 years in a status pod loaded with language programs.”

Winn employs a logic Mon-El finds difficult refute. He opens his mouth to try, but then slams it shut again.

But then Winn’s eyes light up as an idea occurs to him. He spins in his chair and sidles up to his keyboard. “But you can watch the movie! The performance is easier to understand than reading it from the page – ask any sophomore in high school. “

“Ah!” Mon-El lights up. “A movie. I didn’t know about a movie.” He enjoys a good movie when he can’t sleep. “And it’s the same story?”

“Exactly. Now, there’s the classic Franco Zefferelli version from the 70’s – it’s a little dated, but true the original source material in terms of time period and costuming. But the Baz Luhrman version….” Winn scratches his, as though considering something of intergalactic import. “The Powers-That-Be might not approve of you watching that one. The guns make it seem more violent.”

“Why are they afraid of me watching movies with guns?” Mon-El wonders. “I hate guns; guns are bad. They can hurt me.”

“True,” Winn agrees, as though the thought had never occurred to him.

“That would be like a horror movie for me.”

“You like horror movies.” It was true. Last week when he requested something other than rom-coms and sad movies where lovers are separated by death (he’s still not over A Walk to Remember!) Mon-El requested a change in viewing choices. Winn suggested he try a good horror flick, and it was agreed this would be okay…as long as said horror did not arise from alien invasions of any kind. His first horror film was called ‘The Ring’ and if, before seeing the movie, he had entertained even the simplest thought of sleeping that night, finishing the film at put that thought to rest. “It’s a more modern version,” Winn continues. “And stars Leo DiCaprio and Clare Danes.”

“I’ve heard good things about this DiCaprio person and his many fine performances...that have never won him the attentions of someone named Oscar.”

“You are watching too much TMZ,” Winn comments, shaking his head. “And yes, he’s possibly the greatest actor of his generation; it’s a travesty that he’s never won an Oscar. It’s going to happen though, I can feel it. I’ve heard he’s playing H.H. Holmes next – maybe this will be the one!”

“If he’s that good, I’ll watch his version then.”

“Good call.” With a handful of keystrokes, he brings up a list on his computer and types in some search parameter. “Excellent,” he says. “That one’s available.” Winn decisively types something more onto his computer before spinning back around in his chair to face Mon-El. “There. I’ve added it to your queue.”

“Thanks, Winn.”

“No problem.” Mon-El turns to head back to his room, before Win stops him. “Hey, just in case you’re wondering….”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been working on some suit ideas for you. I know you said that wasn’t your thing, but you did help Supergirl at that hospital the other day. So…so I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up some plans. They’re really basic right now…if you want to take a look.”

“But there’s the small problem of my vulnerability to lead, and the copious amounts of it the criminals of this planet use,” he points out.

“Kevlar!” Winn answers.

“Kevlar?”

“Kord Industries has been developing a new ultra-fine Kevlar that we can license. It can be dyed and woven into a suit, and it’s ten times more shock resistant than standard Kevlar. No bullets shot at you will make it past the suit. I can guarantee it. Oh! It’s also fire rated to 1500 hundred degrees Fahrenheit for up to twenty minutes.” Winn has that look on his face like he’s begging Mon-El to give him a green light, but he’s not sure he’s ready to do that. Can he learn two new jobs at once?

“I’ll think about it,” he tells him. Winn’s face falls a little, his excitement seeping out of him. “I’m not saying ‘no’,” Mon-El qualifies. “It’s just a lot to consider. I mean, I couldn’t save my own world, what makes you think I can help save this one?” He catches sight of Ral again, but this time his friend’s expression is both stern and sad. “And let’s not forget how Kara was when Guardian arrived on the scene….”

“Jealous,” they both say at once, and then laugh together.

“She is not good with competition,” Mon-El laughs, knowing it’s just an excuse.

“I’m sure you’d be different though,” Winn says. “She…knows you. She believes in you.”

“Maybe,” Mon-El says, using a carefully measured tone that committed him to nothing. “I think I’m going to turn in. You should as well before you even forget you have a home. I have to stay here,” Mon-El reminds him. “At least you have somewhere to go.”

“I’ll do that. Why ‘Romeo and Juliet’?” Winn asks, curiosity getting the better of him, before Mon-El can make his escape.

“It’s just something Kara keeps mentioning, but there’s never time for her to explain. So, I thought I’d figure it out myself. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Winn says, with a shrug, watching Mon-El walk across the room and turn down the corridor toward his quarters. He collapses back into his seat, the chair gently rocking with the force of his weight. He asked his question and got his answer, but somehow his curiosity is not assuaged. Why would she keep bringing up and ‘Romeo and Juliet’? And why was there never time to explain it?

Winn Schott is extraordinarily good at puzzles, always has been, and he’s not so bad at making intuitive leaps either. Which is why it takes less than a minute for the pieces to fall into place. He slinks further into his chair and wonders if he can get himself drunk before the nearest bar closes in an hour and a half.

He’s just figured out who Mon-El is having sex with.

****

Two hours after leaving Winn in the CIC, Mon-El is watching the credits roll across the screen of his television, internally debating whether or not to throw the remote control at the device. Is this how she sees their relationship? Doomed?

“It started out so well!” Ral consoles him. “The Capulets, with their smug, ultra-judgmental ways were clearly the Kryptonians in this scenario, and the Montagues with their fondness for rabblerousing...well I think we know who their analog was.”

“I understood the comparison.”

“Two teenagers, children really, falling desperately in love despite the longstanding feud between their families, truly a beautiful notion—but then they get married and it all goes to hell. Yes, this does sound familiar.”

“They end up dead,” Mon-El adds. “Stupidly dead. And why? Because of a failure to communicate. Not even something worthy.”

“That’s teenagers for you,” Ral shrugs, as if he knows something Mon-El doesn’t. “Perhaps she’s trying to say, in her own shy way, that she’s falling desperately in love with you,” Ral suggest, hopefully.

“Or stupidly.”

“To be fair, death does seem to be a worrying trend in the romantic stories of this world. Unless the characters are animated, for some reason. And hold royal titles. Perhaps we shouldn’t be taking it this quite so seriously.”

“They’ve made many versions of this story,” Mon-El argues. “And it’s a story still told centuries after it was written. This must be what they truly think of love; what she thinks of it.”

“That love is worth dying for.”

“Of course you would see it that way…the man who died in the arms of the woman he loved.”

“Exactly where I wanted to be.”

“It’s not a love story, Ral, don’t you get it? It’s a cautionary tale. Meant to steer people away from love.” Mon-El tosses the remote control down and climbs off of his cot.

Ral smiles, a grin spreading across his face the way spilled molasses spreads across a table. “If we’d seen this story on Daxam you would have said, ‘Aha! A reason to not fall in love!’”

“Your point being?”

“The only reason this upsets you is because you care. You love. And the story doesn’t fit into the narrative you want for your own romance.”

“But who says it isn’t right?” Mon-El doubts. “On its deepest level, it’s no different than the story of Gata and Trel-Gand.”

“That is not what happened with Gata and Trel and you know it!” Ral defends the long-ago lovers vehemently, his mouth turning downward in a stark frown, the tips of his ears turning pink. “You’re the one who found the letter.”

Mon-El nods in confirmation. “For all the good it did them. Or me.”

After a moment of silence, Ral sighs and emits a loud gulp like…turning a page. “You’ll find a way to make it work.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because you must. Because you’re all that’s left now.”

“Thanks for the added pressure.”

“Applied pressure,” Ral snorts indelicately. “It’s the only thing that ever worked with you. Your father taught me that.”

“My father,” Mon-El scoffs at the word, sickened by it. His father was always a sore subject between the two of them, each taking a side. “It figures.”

“Find the weak spot and press. He was very good at weak spots.”

“Yes…he was. Why do you think I hated him so much?”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then why do you feel so guilty?” Mon-El opens his mouth to speak and Ral holds up a hand to stall him. “Don’t deny it. I’m inside your head, remember? You didn’t hate him. You were everything that was good about him…for all you tried to behave otherwise.” Ral’s head falls back, his hands falling to his hips. “Gods of Val-Or, we have so much work to do. You were always so stubborn and willful, but now you’re just being difficult. I can make this painful, if you prefer.”

Ral disappears, his form morphing into something new—someone new. A woman stands before him now in a flowing gown of pink and blue, the floor of forget-me-nots, a wide necklace of jewels draped around her neck. She’s holding a bouquet of revelius buds in one hand. She is young and beautiful, but for the river of blood gushing down her face, stemming from the open wound in her scalp.

“Why?” she asks, her voice choked with tears.

“You’re not real,” Mon-El rasps. “You’re not real,” His throat closes with emotion. Mon-El squeezes his eyes shut, shoving the heels of his palms against them until they feel as though they’re going to press into his traitorous brain. “Please go away,” he begs.

“See…?” Ral returns, the woman morphing away. “Painful is always an option.”

“I thought you were here to help me.”

“I am,” Ral assures. “I helped you get your lovely Kara; who, by her own beguiling admission, is now yours. But I only did that because you’re going to need her.”

“When?”

“When you break.”

“I won’t….”he begins, a denial rooted in tenacity and resolve. But then his resolve crumbles as fear creeps in. “I won’t…survive it.”

“You will, brother,” Ral promises. “And when you come through it…you’ll be stronger than ever. But you need to stop pushing it away and let it come. You’ll never be what she truly needs until you do.”

Mon-El’s guard lowered, he yawns deeply, a wave of exhaustion sweeping over him. For a moment, he considers getting some sleep, but remembering the face he wants so desperately to forget, he’s certain his nightmares of loss and destruction will continue unabated. He only sleeps about two nights a week now, and on those nights, his rest is fitful and plagued with his last images of Daxam, of her and of Ral and so many faces he doesn’t wish to name. Images he can’t shut out, no matter how hard he tries.

He rubs his bleary eyes with his fingers and plots his next move. Two buildings over there sits a sweet 250kV transformer from which, if he’s careful, he can siphon enough electricity to keep himself awake and alert for another twelve hours—eighteen if he’s lucky. Mon-El reaches into his footlocker, retrieves a black hoodie and slips it on, zipping it up as far as it will go. Nobody looks twice at a guy wearing black around this place.

“How long do you think you can keep this up?” Ral questions, rolling his eyes in frustration. He’s taken to lounging on Mon-El’s cot now, legs hanging half of the mattress, his fingers laced together. “It’s like a drug, my friend; the high is always followed by a crash. One day you’ll crash and then I’ll have you. It’s only a matter of time, and I’ve got nothing but an endless supply of it.”

“That’s not true.” Mon-El contradicts him, pointing out what they both already know – that Ral only has exactly the same amount of time as Mon-El.

Ral’s confident smile slips. “No…it’s not. But unlike you, I never get tired.”

Mon-El sneers at this friend and sticks his head out of door to see if the coast is clear.

“The things they said about you…I never cared for a single moment.” Ral adds, before Mon-El can slip away. “You know that, right? You were just my friend, and my brother-in-bond; none of that other stuff mattered.”

“You mean what he did to me?”

“What he did to you?!” Ral asks, sitting up sharply. “Gods, brother! What he did to you? You do realize if he hadn’t done what he did, you wouldn’t be here right now. You still can’t see that, can you?”

“Maybe that would be have been for the best.”

“Best for whom?” Ral wonders. “I wonder what Kara would have to say about that. Hey, I know…let’s ask her! What was it you were saying about…what was it again? Failure to communicate?”

With that heavy thought to ponder, Mon-El slips out of the door into the corridor. The DEO is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year, but it does run on a skeleton crew during the wee hours of the morning. It will be at least another three hours before the next shift starts pouring in.

The door to the roof is just one flight up, which is skips by leaping up and over the railing and then out the door. There’s a rock near the door he uses to prop it open so that he can get back inside later.

He follows their rules to the spirit and the letter – most of the time. But as it gets harder and harder to keep the memories at bay, and his body begs for sleep; he can’t stay here lounging in his windowless room. The walls close in around him and it’s like that sinking, drowning sensation he felt dropping into stasis, never knowing if or when he’d ever wake up.

With three long steps and a push, he’s leaping up and over the building next door, clearing the distance with ease. His body soars, light as a feather, and glancing down at the streets below he wishes he could stay above it all, like he knows Kara sometimes does. When gravity finally takes hold, the descent is considerably slower than terminal velocity and he lands on the roof of the high rise beyond with barely a thud, stepping out of the leap like a skydiver coming in for an easy landing.

He’d been told that while he slept, fighting off the effects of stasis, his body used the medical equipment leads to siphon electricity from the building in an attempt to jumpstart his comatose brain. That was what gave him the idea initially; to use electricity to give his body a jolt of energy. Of course, the first time he’d attempted to test his theory had been an unqualified disaster. He got the jolt he needed, but a three block radius had gone without power for two days – in the middle of the week. Slowly, he is learning to control the influx of electricity and how to shut it off when he has just enough.

Mon-El removes the panel behind which the transformer core sits. Placing his hands on the exposed primary and secondary conductor coils, he feels the shock instantly. Electricity always looks for the path of least resistance, and interrupting its flow causes the stream of power to jump to his body, racing from one hand, through his body and out the other, juicing his cells as it travels. It hurts a bit at first, but then a buzzing sensation moves through him, raising every hair on his body, and it feels good, like a high. Shutting it down, unlocking his grip from the conductors, is the more difficult task, because he has to remove them simultaneously so that the electricity can resume its coil-to-coil connection.

Once disconnected, he replaces the main core panel. With a little luck no one will ever notice he just borrowed a few kVs for a top up, but now he can feel his blood rushing through his veins, and his heart pumping full out. He needs to burn off some of it to level out. He considers heading back to Kara’s place and surprising her with a special morning wake up call, but thinks better of it. Explaining why he’s not still tucked away in his cot at the DEO would likely not go over well in the eyes of his favorite goody-two-shoes.

Mon-El has just about settled on practicing his leaping to see how high he can go, when the sound of screeching tires followed by a booming crash assaults his ears. Automatically, he focuses in on the direction, pinpointing its location as the Otto Binder Bridge, two miles to the west.

Tightening his focus, he listens to gather more information, hearing heavy breathing and the sound of panic. A rustling he can’t identify, and the sound of metal screeching against metal mix together.

“Oh, God,” a woman’s voice weeps quietly. Her voice is slurred, as if she’s been drinking, or has taken a hit to the head and is disoriented. “Bobby wake up, please wake up!”

He hears a repeated beeping noise followed by a tinny voice saying, “911. What is your emergency?”

“Please send help.” Despite her cries she exhibits a remarkable but forced calm, as if trying to convince a riled snake not to strike. “Otto Binder Bridge. Our car hit the rail. It’s about to go over the edge.” Another long, painful groaning sound comes from the car.

He has to do something. Rescue will never make it in time. Already he can hear the sound of rending, screaming metal as the car tilts too far in the wrong direction, and the woman praying for her life. Without telling his body what to do, he’s in the air, leaping with every ounce of his strength.

He hits the roof of a building three streets away, and transitions straight into another running leap. Two more successive leaps and he comes to a landing at the end of the bridge. Already, other early morning travelers have stopped to render what little assistance they can. Two men have placed their bodyweight on the vehicle’s trunk, but neither can extract the passengers without the car toppling over the side. It’s a 200 foot drop to the water below.

Mon-El flips the hood of jacket over his head, and pulls the drawstring just tight enough to keep the disguise in place. He takes the rest of the distance to the car at speed, the men at the back of the car, too busy trying to keep the car from falling, fail to notice his arrival.

The car tips further, the two men losing contact with the ground, their own lives now in imminent danger.

“Step aside,” Mon-El commands.

“Are you crazy? It will fall!” one man, dressed in a custodian jumpsuit, shouts.

“Yeah, man…help us!” the other man begs. He’s wearing a suit and tie, minus the jacket. The tie is knotted all the way up to his neck. On his way to work then, not on his way home.

“I will,” Mon-El says, “but I need you to move before you’re injured.”

The two men look at each other, trying to decide if they should just let go – if they can live with the consequences if they do. “No way, man,” the custodian decides first.

“Fine,” Mon-El decides. “When I tell you to let go…let go.” Approaching the side of the car, he reaches his hand into the broken passenger’s side window and places a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Are you injured?”

“My h-husband’s unconscious,” she replies. “And I think m-my arm is broken.”

“Stay calm,” he tells her. “Medical assistance is on the way.” Still a full minute out, judging from the distance of the sirens. “We can’t wait for help,” he says. “Something’s about to happen in a moment. Try not to panic.”

The metal screams again, the vehicle now tilted at a near 45 degree angle. “Oh, please help us,” she prays, though it’s unclear who is meant to be the recipient of her prayer, him or a god she worships.

Mon-El squats down and places his hands under the car, getting a tight grip on the chassis. “Gentlemen, I have it now,” he informs the men clinging the car’s trunk. Just a little more tilt towards the water, and the combined body weight of the men assisting could turn into the straw that breaks the camel back. And they’ve just begun to see the truth of it. “Let go of the car and get clear.”

He feels the weight distribution change as he hears their boots hit the ground, feels the car list and hears the woman scream. He struggles for a moment with the car’s forward momentum, feels the car fighting him as his muscles strain to reverse its momentum altogether. For a second, his heart stutters and he fears he won’t be able to save their lives. Perhaps he should have added his strength to that of the others after all, until the professionals arrived.

But finally, he wrangles the car into submission, and he’s able to lift it clear off the ground and drag it back from the edge. After clearing the damaged railing and the bridge’s shoulder lane, he sets the car and its passengers down a safe distance from the gaping hole that nearly took their lives, just as a host of sirens turns the corner up ahead.

The men who rendered assistance gape at him, wondering who he is and where he comes from. Is he Superman?

“I’m not Superman,” he replies, without looking at them. He keeps his face lowered to avoid being recognized, or remembered.

The car door opens with a screech of complaint and the woman climbs out of the car. “You saved us,” she weeps. “My husband fell asleep at the wheel and when I startled him, he lost control.”

“Look at you, brother,” Ral crows. He’s there with him now, buzzing with Mon-El’s stolen energy. “Stepping up.”

“How can I ever thank you?” she queries. The ambulance and firetruck arrive, turning their vehicles sideways and taking up all lanes of traffic, the responders rushing to unload their equipment almost before the vehicles come to a complete stop.

Mon-El, keeping his face turned away from the injured woman, shakes his head. “That’s not necessary.” The firefighters seem a bit nonplussed to realize that their services are no longer required.

“Are you like her?” she asks, leaning heavily against the car. “Are you like Supergirl?”

“You know who would be proud of you right now?” Ral asks, laughing, jumping around him. “I would! I would be so proud of you if I could see you now.”

“She’s much better at this than I am,” he tells the woman. “I was just nearby and heard the crash.” Tilting his head he indicates the paramedics gathering a backboard and their bags of first aid necessities. “I think you’ll be okay now.”

“What’s your name?” she asks before he can walk away. “What should we call you?”

“Gods of Val-Or! That was amazing, brother! We have got to do that again! Let’s go find someone else that needs saving.”

Mon-El stands completely and utterly still as the hallucination of his dead brother-in-bond dances all around him, high on his stolen juice. He doesn’t remember ever in his life being this still. There is…was…a belief on Daxam that the world would stop for a person when they experience a moment of clarity, a moment of epiphany. These were the times when a person makes a choice—a life decision—that cannot be reversed. Everything slows down, stops, as if the universe is giving them a little extra time to choose, a little more time to be certain. Making this decision will set him on a new, unstoppable journey. Mon-El stuffs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

“Valor,” he decides, as he walks away from the growing crowd of people and the preponderance of flashing lights. “You can call me Valor.”

TBC

*****

Author’s note: On Earth-38 Leo DiCaprio has yet to win an Oscar. Leo turned down The Revenant because he hates the snow and so the role went to Keanu Reeves instead (who’s always up for a little experimental film making) so the statue went home with him instead.

Sorry Leo -- Best of luck on “Devil in the White City”.

My headcanon.....

#karamel #karamel fic #hanging on letting go series

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