#which is a load of horseshit if I’ve ever heard one | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dothwrites · 4 years

Text

15.20 coda--at the end of the world

author’s note: while i am still reeling from the finale, this was my way of making some kind of personal peace with it. don’t mistake this for me agreeing with the choices made <3

---

“I would know him in death, at the end of the world.”--Madeline Miller

---

Castiel opens his eyes.

All around him is green. A moment later, he hears the soft sound of birds chirping in the background; from further away, the faint sounds of children laughing. The air is ripe with the smell of growth, damp in the air and life underneath his fingers.

He sits up. The sky is a perfect shade of blue, the kind found only in poet’s and painters imaginations. A few feet away, the shrubs grow, flowers spilling over themselves in their enthusiasm to be born. Everything is a riot of life and color.

“Cas.”

Castiel’s heart thumps against his ribs. He knows that voice.

He whirls around, already knowing who he’ll find. Several feet away, Jack waits, one hand raised in a short wave.

Castiel finds himself up on his feet, and within two short steps, he’s enfolded Jack in his arms. For a moment, he forgets about everything which came before, and allows himself this sheer comfort. If nothing else remains, then Jack is here.

Jack hugs him back, twice as fiercely, before they separate. Castiel holds him at arm’s length, trying to find injuries or hurt on him, but there’s nothing. In fact, it’s almost as if...

“Jack,” he says slowly, his arm falling away from Jack’s shoulder, “what happened?”

Jack smiles, a little lopsided, but still his boy.

“Well,” he says, gesturing towards a bench, “It’s kind of a long story.

---

For all that Jack said it was a long story, it ends up being remarkably quick in the telling. Castiel listens, sometimes grieving and sometimes proud, as he hears of how Sam, Dean, and Jack ultimately defeated Chuck. His heart grows in his chest as Jack recounts Dean’s words.

That’s not who I am.

A small part of him wishes that he could be there to see it, but he tucks that part of himself away. He said his piece. He relieved the burden which has been pressing down on his shoulders now for years. In his lifetime, it was nothing more than a blip on the map, but those years have made all the difference in the world to him. Finally, he can look back on them now without regrets.

“And so, I came here,” Jack finally says, shifting a little on the bench. He looks oddly guilty, like the times Castiel would find him sneaking snacks back into his room. “I thought...”

“What?’ Castiel prompts, after a few moments when it becomes clear that Jack has no interest in speaking.

“Sam and Dean don’t really need me anymore. I mean, I know that they want me, but the world is bigger now. And the people up here need me too.”

It’s then that Castiel looks around, scrutinizing his environment more closely. The nagging sense of familiarity hits and then he wonders how he didn’t see it before. His favorite Heaven, caught in an eternal Tuesday afternoon.

“It’s not right,” Jack says, his forehead wrinkled into an earnest expression of worry. “The people here are stuck. While I was on earth, we all talked about free will, but the people here don’t have it. They’re stuck forever in an endless loop of memories, and it’s all just...empty.”

Jack looks at Castiel, and Castiel doesn’t see God. He doesn’t see a divine being, or Lucifer’s son, or even an angelic being. He just sees his boy, lost and confused, but still so pure, still wanting to do the right thing, no matter what.

“Cas?” Jack asks. “Will you help me?”

---

Rebuilding Heaven is slow work, but time doesn’t really mean anything here. It’s delicate to rebuild the walls separating billions of souls so that nothing collapses. Castiel works alongside Jack, making suggestions as his mind trips along to potential problems.

Though it’s never said aloud, Castiel knows why Jack is working tirelessly. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, the knowledge sits that Sam and Dean are going to die. One day, they will pass from the earth, and come to Heaven, and on that day, Castiel wants everything to be perfect for them. He wants to show them a true paradise, a place without walls or barriers, a place where emotion is genuine and not just a manufactured memory. Rebuilding Heaven is his last chore, the last of his penance to be performed.

He does make one stop, however.

When he walks in the door, Kelly’s head lifts up from the book she’s flipping through. Her smile is a balm to the hurt places inside him, the ones that he likes to pretend don’t exist, because he was happy, yes? That was the whole point of everything, was to be happy. “Hey, Cas,” she greets him, shifting over and patting the couch next to her. “I was wondering when you’d be by.”

“I’ve been busy,” Cas says, settling down on the cushions. In Heaven, his body is easier than it was on earth, more flexible, and he wonders if that’s because after all these years, he’s finally returned to where he was supposed to belong, or if it’s because he no longer has the shadow of his love pressing down on his shoulders.

“Jack told me. Rebuilding Heaven? Sounds ambitious.”

“The old Heaven was...not ideal,” Castiel says. “I thought it was at the beginning: each soul gets a paradise tailor made to them. But then, I realized that human life is meaningless without the connections we form along the way. Each soul, stuck forever in its own loop is...”

“It’s lonely,” Kelly says, reaching out and squeezing his hand. Castiel returns the gesture, grateful for the connection. Her eyes are kind as she moves closer to him, her shoulder pressing into his.

“So what happened?”

---

In their time together, Castiel never told Kelly about Dean, at least not explicitly. But she had a brilliant mind and was able to see the threads of his longing woven into everything he did. Relating the story to her comes easily, and he tells her things which he would never tell Jack.

“And I was happy,” Castiel says at the end. “I was.”

“You trying to convince me or yourself?”

“Neither,” Castiel replies, bristling slightly. It was true that he might have been happier--he had performed a willful obfuscation of the original terms--but that doesn’t negate what he felt in that moment. The sheer love, the overwhelming gratitude, the incandescent happiness of being able, one last time, to proclaim to the world Dean Winchester is Saved.

Everything else is unimportant when viewed through those lenses.

“Why haven’t you gone to see him?” Kelly was always good at cutting to the heart of the problem.

“Dean has his life on earth. I have my work here in Heaven. I don’t...” Because, of course, he’s asked himself the same question many times. Why doesn’t he go find Dean and tell him of one last, improbable miracle?

“Cas, let me tell you: I didn’t know Dean all that well, but I didn’t need to if I wanted to know how he felt about you. It was all over his face.” Kelly turns to face him, suddenly serious. “Cas, you should go to him. At least allow him to speak his side. If he doesn’t feel the same way, then you’ll know. And if he does...”

Castiel shakes his head. Happiness in the being is what he’s told himself ever since he awoke to find himself in Heaven. Happiness doesn’t come from the having. He will live with himself and find contentment in the works which he does.

Kelly looks sympathetic, but doesn’t say anything as he walks out.

There’s work to be done.

---

Castiel sighs with satisfaction as he walks through Heaven. Slowly, the walls are coming down. Souls are mingling and interacting. There’s joy in the once quiet halls, the giddiness which comes from freedom after too long without. He moves through the different realms, silent as a thought, and goes unnoticed, at least until a gruff voice catches his attention.

“What the hell are you doing here, boy?”

A wide grin splits Castiel’s face. Only Bobby Singer would think to call an angel ‘boy’. He walks towards the old hunter, who looks the same now as he did in life, and is surprised when Bobby sweeps him up in a hug which would threaten to crack his ribs, were he human.

“You did good,” Bobby whispers, his voice thick in Castiel’s ear. “I heard what you and that boy Jack did, and you did real good.”

It means more than he would have thought, to have Bobby’s approval. After a moment’s pause, he hugs Bobby back.

When Bobby pulls away, he quickly knuckles his eyes, before clearing his throat. “So, you fixed Heaven on top of everything else? What do you have planned next?”

Castiel’s shoulders lift in a shrug. “There’s always work to be done maintaining Heaven. We don’t know what, if any, effects the restructuring will bring, so I suppose I will be traveling and making sure that everything is stable.”

“If that ain’t a load of shit,” Bobby scoffs. “From what I’ve seen, your boy has enough power in his pinky finger to do just about whatever he wants. Stop making excuses and get your feathery ass back down there.”

Castiel swallows. “It’s not quite as simple as that. Sam and Dean have a chance to live their lives, the way that they would wish for them to be lived. It’s not fair of me to intrude.”

“Now, if that isn’t the biggest pile of horseshit I’ve ever heard.” Bobby’s mouth twists underneath his beard. “Only one thing keeping you from going back down to see those boys, and it sure as hell ain’t concern for Heaven or some BS notion that they’re better off without you.” Castiel opens his mouth, but Bobby speaks over him. “And don’t tell me that you’re just waiting either. Something I learned a long time ago--you never have as much time as you think you do.”

Castiel closes his mouth and says nothing.

---

Bobby is wrong.

There’s still time. He doesn’t have to go yet. There’s still work to be done in Heaven, souls to be guided, walls to be broken. Jack still needs him.

There’s still time.

There’s still time, until there isn’t.

---

Castiel feels it before he knows what’s happening. It’s a rift, a tear, something which ripples throughout the universe and comes to hit him in the chest. He staggers backward, hand clutching at his shirt.

His first thought is that Heaven is under attack, but a second’s observation tells him that’s not the case. Everything is fine. The fabric of Heaven remains secure, the souls are unbothered. It’s only him that feels the blow.

With a flutter of wings, Jack appears beside him. His face is a mask of distress, tears welling in his eyes. “Cas,” he cries, clenching his hands into fists at his side. “Cas, it’s--”

“Dean,” Castiel says, finally understanding the bolt of pain which ripped through him.

It was too soon. He doesn’t know how much time has passed on earth, but he knows it was too soon.

It’s always too soon.

“Cas, what do I... I can heal him. I can go and heal him now. I can save him. I can...” Jack trails off, his feet still pacing in desperate circles. “What do I do?”

It’s a child’s question, and Castiel has no answer.

“Free will,” is all he says. “Whatever you do...It’s your decision.”

---

Castiel feels when Dean Winchester’s soul enters Heaven. He held that soul within his grace, he snatched it away from the filth and flames of Hell. He cradled that soul while he was reassembling Dean’s body, pulling atoms out of air to create skin, flesh, and bone. He would know that soul at the end of everything, and he knows it here, when it settles into the place which was created for him.

It was as perfect as Castiel could make it; down to the Impala sitting in the Roadhouse’s parking lot. He created every inch of Dean’s Heaven in homage, in apology.

It wasn’t fair. Dean deserved to live to a ripe old age. He deserved to enjoy the world for which he fought so hard. He should have grown old, should have found peace, should have discovered the foibles and pitfalls of normal, human existence. Dean worked too hard, for too long, and he deserved a kinder, softer fate. Instead, he’s here, and all Castiel can do for him is to craft his Heaven with painstaking care.

He pauses on the boundaries of Dean’s Heaven. Every fiber of him yearns to go forward, to rejoice in Dean’s presence, to see that beloved face again. He wants it so badly he can almost taste it, leather and gasoline and whiskey mingling together until he’s back in the bunker, listening to the sounds of his family--

Castiel takes a step away from the border. First one, then another. After three steps, it becomes easier.

Dean has his paradise, and Castiel won’t interfere.

---

Heaven moves as it always does, timeless and changeless. There is no turn of the earth to mark the passage of time. Instead, it moves like the ocean, rolling waves which are always moving and yet the surface remains the same. Castiel travels through various Heavens, observing the newly liberated souls, and taking his peace from their newfound enjoyment. It eases something within him to see his former home restored, better than it ever was before.

He’s inspecting a field of sunflowers when the sound of a car door closing surprises him. Immediately, his heart lurches in his chest, dipping down to somewhere around his knees before hurtling upwards to lodge in his throat. He swallows before he turns around.

Dean Winchester is there.

Castiel’s heart, always out of his control, performs a quick dance against the confines of his ribs. Dean looks...He looks whole and wonderful, vibrant and alive. The lines around his eyes look as though they’ve been carved through laughter instead of despair. His shoulders sit easier, no longer pressed down with the burden of the entire world.

Castiel licks his lips. “Hello, Dean,” he finally says, when it becomes obvious that Dean has no intention of making the first move.

Dean’s lips quirk up in a grin. “Cas,” he says, not moving from where he’s leaning up against the frame of the Impala. “You’re a hard guy to track down.”

Layers upon layers of subtext are placed within the seemingly simple sentence. Castiel remembers Purgatory as well as anything else, the desperate year of keeping one step ahead of Leviathans while close enough to Dean to protect him if need be.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says faintly. “I wasn’t aware anyone was looking.”

Dean’s face performs a series of interesting maneuvers, dropping and rising and twisting. It finally settles into an expression like stone as he pushes off the car and storms towards him. Castiel waits, caught up in breathless anticipation of the oncoming storm.

“Look,” Dean growls, reaching out and snagging the lapel of his coat, almost like he wants to ensure that Castiel doesn’t escape. Castiel doesn’t even dream of it; there’s no other place he’d rather be than caught in Dean’s grip. “There was a lot of shit going on at the time, so I didn’t get to say it then, but there’s nothing happening now, so you are going to sit here and listen, all right?”

Castiel nods, but Dean doesn’t seem to notice. “I can’t believe you didn’t...” He runs the hand which isn’t still wrapped up in Castiel’s coat over his face. “You idiot,” he finally breathes. “A couple of dumbasses. You’ve had me, Cas. All along, you’ve had me.”

Castiel looks up at Dean in sharp surprise. When he meets Dean’s eyes, there’s nothing but the infinite compassion which he fell in love with. “You... You’re this force of nature that came bursting into my life. All this time, you’ve always been there, always helping, and I took that for granted, I know I did. But, god, Cas, I should have told you every day how thankful I was to have you there with us. I should have let you know what a miracle you are. You never gave up on me, not once, not even when I deserved it.”

Castiel’s breath hitches in his chest as Dean lets go of his coat. Slowly, with a shaking hand, he reaches up to cup Castiel’s cheek. “You never stopped believing. You never stopped trying. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Dean.” The name bursts out of Castiel’s chest in a harsh breath. Dean’s words are working their way underneath his skin, to the point where his body can’t contain them.

“Cas.” Dean gently angles his face up so that there’s no escape when he says, “I love you.”

“I’m sorry,” explodes from Castiel’s chest, the helplessness and grief he felt when he felt Dean’s soul leaving earth erupting in a single quick sob. “Dean, I’m so sorry, I should have been there, I should have done something, I never should have left you alone--”

“Cas.” Dean’s fingers press into his cheek, not hard, but firmly enough to get his attention. “It sucks, all right? There was so much I wanted...” The corner of his mouth drops. “I was going to get you out, and you, me, and Sam were going to head to the beach. I was going to get you drinking out of a coconut, maybe a Hawaiian shirt. We were going to do Christmas, I was going to take you to a theme park and see if you puked on roller coasters. I wanted...” For a moment, grief so overwhelming that it can’t be touched crosses Dean’s face, but then, with effort, he pushes it away. “There’s so much that I wanted, but it’s done now. And besides, you’ve been busy.” Dean raises his eyebrows. The grin on his face invites Cas to smile as well. “Reforming Heaven?”

“I wanted...There was so much I did wrong here. I thought if I could make it right, that maybe...” Castiel leans his cheek into Dean’s hand. “I wanted it to be perfect for you. You weren’t supposed to be here yet.”

“I know. I know. And it’s not okay, but you’re here, all right? Mom’s here, Bobby’s here, Charlie, and Jess, and Kevin, and Ellen and Jo...They’re all here, and thanks to you, I’m going to see them. You did that, Cas.”

“Jack did most of the work--” Castiel begins, but he’s cut off by the soft press of Dean’s lips against his.

Sparks burst in his chest as Dean’s hand slides around to the back of his neck to cradle his head. His other arm slides around his waist, and suddenly, Castiel is held by Dean Winchester, by this miracle of a man. Dean’s kisses consume him, until he’s no longer Castiel. Instead, he’s heat, and friction, and more.

“You and me,” Dean pants against his lips, pulling away just far enough to run his nose along Castiel’s. “We’ve got time now, Cas, we’ve got so much time. I’m going to take you apart, going to show you how much I love you, every single day. I’m going to show you everything.”

Castiel is drowning in the outpouring of Dean’s devotion. He’s helpless in the riptides. All he can do to save himself is kiss Dean again, tasting salt on their lips from where their tears trace down to their lips. Castiel cries partly for Dean’s missed opportunities and the fact that life is so cruel. But he also cries from happiness. Dean is right. Here, they have all the time they could ever want. There’s time to explore every feeling and desire, time for them to become themselves, without the pressure of the world around them.

They part. Somehow, Castiel’s hands have found their way onto Dean’s waist. One of his thumbs is braver than the rest of his whole body, as it sneaks underneath Dean’s shirt to touch bare skin. Dean grins at him.

“Hey, Cas,” he asks, pressing his forehead to Castiel’s. “Do you want to take a drive?”

Their fingers entwine as they walk towards the Impala. Castiel’s chest feels light, like Dean’s hand is the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. “I’m still trying to figure out the roads here. It felt like I was driving around for forty years to try and find you.”

They settle into the Impala, where they’ve been so many times before, but now Castiel can enjoy every squeak of the leather seats. He can revel in the imperfections of the car because of the perfection that’s next to him. Dean Winchester reaches across the seat and takes his hand, as easy as breathing.

“I can’t wait to show Sam everything,” Dean says, as he guides the Impala back onto a road which Castiel is almost certain wasn’t there when he arrived. “I, uh...Hope it takes him a while to get here. But. Yeah, when he gets here, I can’t wait to show him everything.”

“We’ll see it all together,” Castiel finally says. It’s all he can say, his heart too busy dancing in his chest.

They have all the time they want.

---

Time slips and passes and stops. In between his time with Dean, Jack, and the rest of the residents of Heaven, and performing maintenance throughout Heaven, Castiel watches the earth. He sees those left behind grow older. Claire and Kaia start a family, Claire finally having set aside the kernel of anger in her heart. Castiel watches Sam and Eileen’s family grow, smiling when Sam finally goes back to law school and gets his degree. He spends the rest of his career fighting for justice for children lost in the system, those who can’t fight for themselves. Saving people, hunting things, indeed.

Several times, Castiel thinks about going to visit Sam, if only to assuage the grief he can still see the man carrying, but each time he stops. It hurts, but grief is a facet of life. This grief is natural. It comes honestly. It’s not manipulated by a sadistic higher being for a voyeristic pleasure.

Eileen comes out to the Impala and brings Sam back into the house with gentle touches. Throughout the years, she’s learned how to navigate Sam’s moods, and knows how to bring him back. They lay in bed, foreheads pressed together, Eileen’s body curved into Sam’s.

“I just,” Sam begins, twisting slightly so Eileen can read his lips, “I just miss him so much sometimes.”

“I know,” Eileen answers. It’s all she needs to say.

After a while, Sam gently wraps his fingers around Eileen’s wrist, partly for comfort, partly to grab her attention. “Dean’s baseball game is next weekend. Do we know yet if it’s going to conflict with Beth’s dance rehearsal?”

“It shouldn’t,” Eileen answers, and with that, the normal routine of their life is reestablished. The grief is always present, but it’s part of the human condition.

Castiel turns his eyes back to Heaven, where Dean waits for him. Despite it being Heaven, he insists on making repairs to Bobby’s house as well as the Roadhouse, even when Castiel reminds him, for the hundredth time, that if he truly wanted to, he could fix these imperfections with a thought.

“Sometimes, you just have to do things the hard way,” he answers, through a mouthful of nails.

Castiel rolls his eyes and goes to help him.

---

The morning dawns, quiet and gentle. The dawn is silvery-gold as it stretches across the grass leading up to the cabin. In the distance, the birds start singing. Castiel can smell the fresh scents of spring, dew clinging to the grass, the clean, bright potential in the air. His toes stick out from underneath the comforter, but a quick flip of his foot flicks the corner of the blanket back into place.

A warm, heavy arm winds over his waist. “Babe, it’s too early,” Dean mumbles into the nape of his neck. “Go back to sleep.”

Castiel strokes over the back of Dean’s hand. The words are tempting, but something has woken him up, and now that it has, he wants to know what it is. He props himself up on his elbows, ignoring the chill of the air as it bites at his bare skin, and concentrates. After a second, he startles.

“Dean,” he says.

Though he doesn’t put urgency or fear into his voice, something about his tone makes Dean open his eyes, suddenly alert. Castiel looks at him, and Dean rolls over onto his side. After their time together, they’ve mastered the art of the wordless conversation, much to the chagrin of Charlie, Kevin, and anyone within ten miles of them, at least according to Jo.

“It’s time?” Dean asks. He rolls closer to Castiel, stealing his warmth, as he trails his fingers over Castiel’s ribs.

“Yes,” Castiel answers, taking Dean’s hand in his and pressing kisses to each of Dean’s fingertips. “Won’t be long now.”

Dean’s fingers slide across his cheek before he curls his fingers around the bolt of Castiel’s jaw, pulling him down. Their lips meet in a chaste kiss which still manages to make fireworks explode in the pit of Castiel’s belly. He doesn’t think the thrill of kissing Dean will ever fade. Castiel doesn’t want it to.

“I should get going,” Dean murmurs, rubbing against the bristles on Castiel’s cheek. “You want to come along?”

Castiel relaxes back into the mattress, only reluctantly parting from Dean. “No, you go. I’ll be here when you get back.”

“I know.” Dean slides out of bed, and Castiel takes a moment to appreciate the play of his muscles underneath fair skin. He lets out a small, disappointed noise when Dean slides into a pair of jeans and a jacket, causing Dean to roll his eyes at him over his shoulders. “Yeah, keep it in your pants. Definitely wearing clothes to this particular meeting.”

“Shame,” Castiel murmurs, waggling his eyebrows.

“Shameless,” Dean corrects, leaning over the mattress to kiss Castiel once more, short and sweet. “We’ll be back before too long.” Another kiss to Castiel’s forehead, and then Dean murmurs, “I love you,” into his hair.

Castiel smiles. Much like kissing Dean, hearing those words will never grow old to him. He’ll revel in them, roll in the simple syllables, allow them to sink into him, with the simple truth that Jack tells him, that Charlie tells him, that Kelly tells him, that even Bobby and Ellen and Jo tell him.

You are valued. You are loved.

He smiles at Dean Winchester, this impossible, miracle of a man. “I love you too,” he replies.

Dean out of the bedroom. The door to the cabin opens and closes. Castiel rolls over onto his back and stretches, staring up at the ceiling.

There’s work to be done today. He’ll need to travel through Heaven, informing the various interested parties that Sam Winchester has arrived. There will be a party tonight at the Roadhouse, a celebration instead of mourning. Then he and Dean will get to show Sam their Heaven, will listen to Sam relate through his years.

There is so much work to do.

But they have time. They have all the time they need.

---

“Life never ends when you are in it.”--Lemony Snicket, The Beatrice Letters

1K notes · View notes

morganaspendragonss · 3 years

Text

the lovers that went wrong

after the incident at the market, tk finds comfort - and more than a little common sense - in a talk with his mom

or: if the show isn’t going to give us gwyneth and tk bonding, then by god i’m going to write it

ao3 | 1.4k | 2.04 spoilers

Maybe TK should feel guilty about how he acted at the market. He doubts he made a good impression on Carlos's parents, but he's not sure if that matters anymore. He just... He couldn't bring himself to pretend. He couldn't walk around acting like they were just friends - acting like he wasn't hurting.

So he'd lied and said he had to meet his dad, then left the market as quickly as possible, too late realising that he'd taken half of their groceries with him. Now he's standing on the curb, stupidly staring down at the bag and thinking about how he's ruined Carlos's plans for the night.

Well. Technically, they had been their plans, but while that's clearly not happening now, Carlos might still have wanted to go through with them. With his parents, maybe. He can't now that TK's absconded with half the ingredients. He ought to return them.

(He won’t. He can’t.)

TK starts walking, speeding up until he’s almost running, desperate as he is to put as much distance as possible between him and the market (between him and carlos). He barely pays attention to other people on the street, probably earning himself several irritated looks, but he doesn’t care. The market isn’t too far from his dad’s place, and all TK needs right now is to shut himself away for a while, away from anyone’s prying eyes.

It’s not until he steps inside and is greeted by the sound of several voices coming from the patio that he remembers his dad had planned a gathering at the house. He freezes, wondering if it’s possible to sneak out again, which is (of course) exactly when his parents decide to round the corner, a confused frown appearing on both their faces.

“TK?” Owen says. “What are you doing back? I thought you were spending the day with Carlos.”

“I, um.” TK swallows roughly. “I was. We… Something came up. I forgot you were doing this. I’ll go.”

“No, hold on a second -”

“Really, Dad,” TK interrupts, holding a placating hand up. “It’s all good. Sorry to have interrupted.”

He doesn’t wait for his dad to respond, turning on his heel and going back outside. He manages two steps away from the house before stopping, realising that there’s nowhere else he really wants to be.

No. That’s a lie. But the one place he wants to be is the one place he absolutely cannot go.

TK slumps down on the porch, resting his head against the railings. How has he fucked this up so badly? He’d really thought they were doing well, but clearly something’s wrong - else why would Carlos have lied? He doesn’t understand, and a part of him doesn’t want to. TK’s not sure if he can take one more heartbreak.

The front door opens again, and when TK turns, his mom is standing there, arms folded.

“All good, huh?” she asks, one eyebrow cocked, though her tone betrays her worry. TK turns away from her, hanging his head.

She sighs, then comes and sits next to him, one arm coming around his shoulders. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?” She pulls away slightly to look at him, and TK knows he’s not hiding anything. Even so, he waits a while before responding; he and his mom have never been ones for deep conversations. Usually, that’s his dad’s forte, but even then, he’s never felt entirely comfortable.

“His parents don’t know about me,” he admits quietly, all the pain from the market rushing back. “We bumped into them earlier and Carlos… He told them I was his friend.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” She squeezes him gently, rubbing his shoulder and TK closes his eyes, leaning in to the gesture. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, though.”

TK nods, staring at the ground. “Yeah. Me. I’m not good enough for him.”

“TK -”

“No, Mom, I’m not,” he insists, pulling away from her. “I never was. You don’t know what a mess I was at the beginning - I put him through so much, and he still stayed even though I didn’t deserve it. I don’t deserve someone like him, and maybe he’s realising it. I’ve mucked it up again, just like last time.”

Tears burn the back of his eyes and TK lets them fall, past the point of caring what his mom must be thinking. “I thought things were finally going well for us,” he half-whispers. “Guess I was wrong.”

There’s a brief silence, then his mom sighs heavily. “Tyler Kennedy Strand,” she says, “that’s the biggest load of horseshit I’ve ever heard.”

TK looks up in surprise, meeting her unimpressed gaze. “What?”

She shakes her head. “You and your father. Peas in a pod, I swear. Can’t you see how much that boy cares for you?”

“I- I don’t -”

“TK, come on.” She gives him a small smile, patting his shoulder. “Any idiot can tell. You just… You need to give him time. You said it yourself, things were weird at the start, and you have only been dating for, what, four months?”

TK nods. “Officially, yeah.”

“There you go, then. That’s not a long time, TK; maybe he’s not ready yet.”

“But -”

“Have you even talked to Carlos about any of this?” She arches an eyebrow, giving him one of her lawyer looks.

He flushes as he shakes his head. “I sort of just...left.”

She looks at him in disbelief, then mutters something about him and his dad that TK doesn’t quite catch. Her expression, when she meets his eyes again, is one of fond exasperation. “You realise he’s probably just as upset about all of this as you are, don’t you?”

TK bites his lip. He hadn’t, in all honesty, though he feels guilty about it now. He’d been so caught up in his own feelings that he hadn’t stopped to think about Carlos - which really just amounts to yet another reason why TK isn’t even remotely good enough for him.

His mom sighs deeply. “You need to talk to him. Now.”

TK gives her a doubtful look, then pulls his phone out, only for her to smack his wrist.

“In person, TK!” she exclaims.

“I can’t go over!”

“Why not?”

“B-Because,” TK splutters, “what if his parents are there? I don’t want to put him in that position again.”

“Fair point,” she allows. She purses her lips, considering, then points to TK’s left. “What’s in the bag?”

TK looks down, surprised; he’d honestly forgotten about that. “Groceries,” he says. “We were planning a dinner for tonight.” Pain flashes through him again at the reminder of their plans, now completely in tatters.

His mom, however, is smiling. “There’s your excuse. If his parents are there, you can say you were just dropping them off; if they’re not, you can get over yourself and talk to the boy.”

It makes sense, TK will give her that. But he can’t stop the doubt lingering at the back of his mind. “This is a terrible idea.”

“I’m your mother,” she says. “I have no bad ideas.”

TK laughs. He knows that she’s right, that he has to talk to Carlos, and he supposes that the sooner he gets it done, the better. Ripping the band-aid off, so to speak.

“Thanks, Mom.” He smiles and she smiles back, stroking a hand through his hair. “Can you just do me a favour and not tell Dad? I don’t want to worry him.”

She frowns. “He’s going to ask.”

“Tell him anything,” he begs. “Just not this. Please?”

Gwyneth sighs, then nods reluctantly. “Alright. As long as you promise me one thing. However this turns out, even if the worst does happen, don’t let it destroy you. You’re a good man, TK, and you do deserve good things, even if you don’t believe it. Your dad and I will support you, whatever happens, and you have the rest of your team as well. Don’t bottle it up, okay?”

TK swallows, a lump suddenly in his throat. “Okay,” he manages.

She smiles and drops a kiss on the top of his head, standing up. “Now, go on. It’ll be fine, I’m sure of it.”

He nods, not trusting himself to speak. His mom goes back in the house and TK pulls out his phone again, ordering an Uber before he can convince himself that this is a mistake. It doesn’t arrive for another fifteen minutes, so he sneaks back inside (thankfully avoiding everyone this time around) and quickly changes, his mind racing too fast to be able to sit still outside.

He has to fix this. Or at least get answers.

He’ll never forgive himself if he lets Carlos go.

#911 lone star #911 lone star fic #tarlos #tarlos fic #911 lone star spoilers #911ls #lone star #tk strand #gwyneth morgan #carlos reyes #tk x carlos #fanfiction #my fanfiction #writing #my writing #userjillian #userkimmy #tuserpaige #tuserjamie

108 notes · View notes

livesincerely · 3 years

Note

Keepsakes from Jack’s POV? (That fic broke my heart and fixed it all at once. Absolutely beautiful!!)

trinkets

Also on Ao3. Davey’s pov here.

00000

Even after all the trouble he went to getting the address, Jack almost decides not to go. Les’ text message stares up at him accusingly when he double checks his phone, Davey’s new apartment number listed with the blunt instruction, ‘Don’t fuck this up.’

Easy for him to say. Jack’s still not sure how things fell apart in the first place.

He rings the doorbell, his stomach rolling with nerves, and for one terrible second he thinks that maybe no one’s home, or even worse, that maybe that Davey just won’t answer for him.

But the door creaks open.

“Jack,” Davey says, more of a statement than a question, his eyes wide with shock.

Jack’s heart swirls and swoops in his chest at the sight of him. Davey looks just the same as he did when they last saw each other, just the way he always looks in Jack’s dreams and his nightmares—long and lean, with big blue eyes made even brighter by the lush lashes that frame them.

“Hi, Davey,” Jack says, shoving his hands into his pockets so he doesn’t drag Davey into a desperate embrace.

“You...” Davey pauses, visibly uncertain, his fingers clenched in a death grip around his doorframe. “What are you doing here?”

“I got the address from Les,” Jack explains, and it sounds like such a flimsy excuse now that he’s saying it aloud. “I’m in town for the week visiting Ma and Charlie, thought I could swing by and see you for a sec.”

“Oh,” Davey says.

“So, uh, can I come in?” Jack asks, nervous.

“Oh, right,” Davey mutters, holding the door open wider and beckoning him forward. “Yeah, sure. Please, come in.”

It’s a nice apartment. Jack recognizes a lot of the furniture in the entryway and living room from when they were living together, and he spies a few picture frames hanging in the hallway that he’s pretty sure he picked out himself—the scattered reminders help something settle in his chest even as something else fizzes and buzzes behind his eyes.

“You moved out of the old place,” Jack can’t help but point out as he takes it all in; he’s been wondering about the change ever since he found out Davey moved.

“It was a bit too much for just one person,” Davey says quietly. “A smaller apartment is easier to keep up with.”

There’s a brief pause where that statement hangs in the air between them, heavy and awkward. Jack feels like an absolute heel—of course Davey wouldn’t be able to make rent on their old place by himself, and it’s not like there’d been space for a housemate. Of course he’d had to move.

Davey continues, “Can I get you anything? Soda or coffee or...?”

“Coffee would be great, actually,” Jack says, not really all that interested in a drink, but happy for an excuse to linger for a while. “But, uh, only if it won’t put ya out.”

“It’s no trouble,” Davey says, and Jack can’t tell if he’s being honest or just being polite. “Here, go ahead and sit down and I’ll fix you a cup.”

Jack settles down onto one of the stools at the island while Davey putters around the kitchen, taking a moment while Davey’s back is turned to just look at him.

He needs a haircut, Jack thinks, noting the way Davey’s fringe falls into his eyes as he fiddles with the coffee maker—just long enough now that it’s starting to curl up at the ends, making him look even softer then he usually does—then sort of hating that he’s noticed.

He shouldn’t care. He knows he shouldn’t.

But he does.

“So, how have you been?” Davey asks, head ducked down to watch the coffee brew. “How’s Santa Fe been treating you?”

“‘S good,” Jack says, talking out his ass, too focused on the motion of Davey’s fingers as he drums them against the countertops, on the delicate line of his wrists peeking out from under his shirt sleeves, to pay attention to what he’s saying. “It’s great, it’s got everything: clear skies, gorgeous sunsets. If you go out to the desert at the right time of day the views are unreal. So, uh, life’s pretty good.”

Davey still doesn’t turn toward him, still won’t lift his head. It’s making something go uncomfortably tight in Jack’s chest, his pulse beating a few ticks faster in his ears.

“And work’s going well?”

“Real well,” Jack tells the back of Davey’s head, and as he watches, Davey’s shoulders stiffen. “Now that I’ve been there a while they’re startin’ to give me my own projects to work on, which is great. Nerve racking, and I’m constantly terrified that I’m gonna fuck it all up, but great. Honestly, the studio space and the stipend I get for supplies on its own is pretty incredible, let alone all the experience and connections I’m getting too. So, yeah, things are goin’ well.”

“That’s great, Jack,” Davey says, and he actually sounds like he means it, but he still won’t meet Jack’s eyes. It’s kinda starting to piss him off. “I’m glad things are working out for you.”

“Couldn’t ask for much more,” Jack says, but he’s not quite able to mask the hint of bitterness that creeps into his tone—the one thing he’d ask for is standing right in front of him, but he might as well be on Mars for how vast the distance between them feels.

It’s just Jack’s luck that this is the moment when Davey finally, finally looks at him. It’s only a brief glance in his direction before his gaze falls away again, but even just that almost feels like too much: those eyes are as gorgeous as ever, and vividly, brilliantly blue.

Jack’s breath hitches in his throat—if he wasn’t still hopelessly, haplessly in love with Davey, he’s pretty sure that would’ve caused him to fall all over again. But he isn’t so distracted that he doesn’t notice the wealth of emotion swirling in that gaze: something vulnerable and pained tucked beneath Davey’s calm facade.

“How’re you doin’, Davey?” he asks carefully.

“Good,” Davey says to the coffee maker. “I’ve been good.”

“Yeah?” Jack presses, watching him closely. “Anythin’ interestin’ goin’ on?”

“Just the same old, same old,” Davey says, which doesn’t sound like a lie, but isn’t really an answer. “Nothing new to tell, honestly.”

“Nothing at all?” Jack says, relieved and annoyed all at once at this response, but trying to sound like he doesn’t care as much as he does. This is the best answer he could’ve hoped for, probably—he’s honestly not sure what he would’ve done if Davey started talking about how wonderful his life has been without Jack in it. He tries, “Did you ever end up gettin’ that transfer you wanted?”

Davey crosses his arms across his chest. “I, uh, rescinded the request after you— after everything,” he explains softly. “There wasn’t really a need, and it was easier to just stay at my old branch.”

“Oh,” Jack says.

The silence is punctuated by the drip drip drip of the coffee finishing up. Davey pulls a couple of mugs out of one of the cabinets and fixes them both a cup.

“Here you go,” Davey says, passing him a mug.

Jack goes to take a sip, the freezes midway through the motion, heart seizing in his chest as he realizes what he’s holding.

The pottery place had been his attempt at a unique, memorable first date, figuring that he might as well weigh the dice in his favor by going with something artsy. He’d been so fucking nervous the entire week leading up to it, had wanted so badly to impress the beautiful, brilliant boy that had just transferred in, because he’s been in love with Davey almost since the moment they met and it’s not looking like that’s gonna stop any time soon.

So the fact that Davey’s throwing that back in his face, taunting him with the reminder of how something so wonderful has since shattered to pieces... Jack’s whole body tenses up, fury sparking hot in his stomach.

“What the fuck, Davey?” he spits out. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Davey has the fucking gall to look startled, maybe even a little hurt.

“Why do you still have this?” Jack demands, slamming the mug down so hard that some of the contents spill out, coffee pooling on the counter. “Why would you keep—?”

“Why wouldn’t I keep it?” Davey asks, like he honestly doesn’t see what the big deal is. “It’s mine, isn’t it?”

And that is just... Jack almost wants to laugh, except he thinks he’s never heard anything less funny in his life.

“Oh, so that’s where you draw the line, huh?” Jack says, voice tight with anger. “That’s how it is? Knick knacks, keepsakes, sure, those you’ll keep around, but the stuff that’s actually worth having? That’s actually worth fighting for? You can just let all that go without ever sayin’ a fuckin’ word otherwise because who gives a shit—”

Davey’s expression twists.

“Right, because you were so fucking eager to stay?” he asks with a derisive scoff. “Give me a break, Jack, you couldn’t wait to leave. Just fucked off to the other side of the country and left me here to pick up the pieces—”

“You were all but pushing me out the fucking door!” Jack accuses, throwing his hands up. “‘It’s a wonderful opportunity, Jackie,’ ‘You’d be an idiot not to take it, Jackie,’ ‘It’s what you’ve always dreamed of, Jackie!’ What a load of horseshit—”

“Oh, so it’s my fault for being supportive?’ Davey asks, incredulous—as if Jack’s the one that’s in the wrong here. “Are you serious?”

“I’m just sayin’, you weren’t exactly bent outta shape at the thought of me leavin’,” Jack says, frigid, because if he lets himself think about it too much, if he lets himself remember the gaping hole that had formed in his chest when he’d realized that loves Davey more than Davey loved him, he thinks he might shatter completely. “Didn’t seem to bother you one fuckin’ bit. Probably relieved to finally have an excuse to get rid of me—”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Davey hisses, and he strides forward until they’re standing nearly chest to chest—the closest they’ve been in almost a year. “I’ve missed you like you wouldn’t believe, missed you every single goddamn second of the last eight months, don’t think for a moment that I didn’t, you fucking asshole.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jack bites out, not believing this for a second. “If you missed me so fucking much, then why’d we break up?”

“Because you were moving to Santa Fe!” Davey yells back. “You were leaving, Jackie! What else was I supposed to do, except let you go and try my best to be happy for you?”

Jackie. It sounds different coming out of Davey’s mouth. Something prickles at Jack’s eyes, and the threat of tears almost makes him angrier.

“If you really wanted me to be happy,” Jack growls, “you would’ve come with me.”

“You didn’t ask me to come with you!” Davey shouts.

“And you didn’t ask me to stay!”

“Ask you to stay? Ask you to stay?” Davey says, and his eyes are wild, burning and blazing as he stares Jack down. “Of course I didn’t fucking ask you to stay, I was never going to ask you to stay! It was Santa Fe, it was all you ever fucking talked about, it was your dream, Jack! It was everything that you wanted! I would never even suggest that you give that up, God, what kind of shit-ass person do you think I am, that you thought I would ever, ever try to stand between you and Santa Fe when I know how important it is to you—?”

“I’m not fucking hearing this,” Jack says, shaking his head, because he isn’t. He can’t be. Because it sounds like Davey is saying... Like he’s telling him that... “I am not fucking hearing this. I— You—“

Jack turns on his heel and storms out of Davey’s apartment, slamming the door behind him as he goes. He only gets a few steps down the hallway before his knees give out from underneath him, leaving him staggering into the nearest wall, his breaths coming in ragged pants.

Davey.

It’s like it’s seared into the space behind his eyes, woven right between his heartstrings—the look on Davey’s face, the sound of Davey’s voice, the shape and color of Davey’s eyes.

Davey. Always, always Davey

Jack loves him. It’s not like it’s a surprise, but then, Jack’s always known that.

Maybe Davey hadn’t known. Maybe Davey hadn’t known that there’s nothing on this earth that Jack loves more than him, maybe he hadn’t realized how utterly, impossibly, eternally in love with him Jack is.

Maybe Jack needs to tell him.

When he enters the apartment again he finds Davey right where he left him, and Jack can’t help but be reminded of the last time they parted, when Jack left for Santa Fe all those months ago. But this is the part he hadn’t seen back then, the part that Davey had hidden from him: he’d never been privy to the way Davey’s whole body can wilt in on itself when he’s heartbroken, had never witnessed the way Davey’s usually steady hands tremble when he’s holding back a sob.

Davey’s head jerks up as Jack steps back inside and his lips quiver when he shuts the door behind him.

His eyes are wet.

Jack steps forward, bunches his hands in the fabric of Davey shirt, and pulls him into a desperate, scorching kiss.

“I love you,” Jack says fiercely. “I love you. I loved you before I got the job offer, I loved you while I was searching for apartments and planning the move, I loved you every time I talked up Santa Fe to you, tryin’ to convince you to come with me any way I could think of. I loved you when we broke up, I loved you when I left, I loved you when I landed, and it’s been eight fucking months and I’m still so fucking in love with you—”

Davey kisses him this time, and the press of his mouth against his own, the tangle of his fingers in Jack’s hair as he tugs him closer, the taste and heat and feel of him—it’s like coming home.

“I love you too, Jackie,” Davey promises, and hearing the words finally soothes something deep down in Jack’s very being. He hadn’t thought he’d ever hear them again. “I love you and I’ve missed you so much—”

“I missed you,” Jack says, punctuating the declaration with another kiss. “You’re it for me Davey. There’s just you. And I… I can’t give this up again. Santa Fe ain’t worth nothin’ if you’re not there with me.”

“I thought that was what you wanted,” Davey murmurs, holding him tight. “I thought I had to let you go.”

Jack shakes his head.

“I wanted you to keep me,” he confesses—he’s never been brave enough to say it aloud before. “And I wanted to keep you too.”

“Then keep me,” Davey says, and it rings like a promise. “Keep me.”

00000

Tags! @yahfancyclamwiththepurlinside @corbinthecowboy @stroopwafeldetective @lyydiiaak

#newsies #javid #jack kelly #davey jacobs #*editor's note #*the writing desk #*final cut #*ask #*ask game #different perspectives #this ended up being very long #and I stayed up wayyyy to long finishing it #but I’m really happy with it #😊

45 notes · View notes

thetransguard-archive · 4 years

Note

couldnt find the promt posts but: joenicky monster/supernatural au? i absolutely adore ur writing btw💕

you cannot hand me the word supernatural and not expect me to think of buzzfeed unsolved RGEHFBRWFHKJL im sorry this turned into a ghost hunter’s au i just don’t know how to write vampires or werewolves or whatever else constitutes supernatural

nicky does not believe in ghosts.

so why is he standing in front of a long-abandoned house, carrying several hundred dollars worth of largely useless equipment, wearing a shirt emblazoned with a big cartoon ghost? he tells himself it’s a favour being returned. his room mate, lykon, is endlessly more enthusiastic then he is, mumbling to himself as he fiddles with the camera that was paid with money that probably should’ve gone to rent.

“don’t look so worried nicky,” lykon says, as they step inside the threshold. his best friend flashes him a wide grin which is immediately contradicted by the alarming creak of the floorboard under his foot. “we’ve got holy water and everything else. we’ll just check to see if there are any ghoulies in here, they can’t hurt us.”

“you know i think this is a load of horseshit. i’m more worried about the house collapsing on our heads.”

“don’t be dramatic, dude. it’s in perfectly good shape.”

as they start setting up lights, laying out their sleeping bags for preparation of sleeping the night in this place, nicky is forced to admit there’s a sort of melancholy beauty to the place. it would have been a very nice house, once, not too ostentatious like the other houses they’ve “investigated”, with high ceilings and large windows, and stunning art covering the walls. landscapes, bowls of fruit, studies of fire and light and the night sky. but not a single person. nicky notices the same sprawling signature on all of the art, and steps closer to see if he can make out a name-

“nicky! let’s start recording.”

lykon begins unrolling the backstory of this house and the ghost allegedly haunting it, and nicky interjects throughout, punctuating the otherwise dead serious narrative with bursts of skepticism and humour, the way they’ve always done. lykon’s little ghost hunting channel is small now but getting bigger every day, and nicky can’t say he doesn’t enjoy it, verbally sparring with his best friend. lykon’s a believer and nicky isn’t, and while they’ll argue fiercely on camera they agree in pretty much every way off screen. apparently this house used to be home to an artist who’d been slowly making his way up in the art world before being murdered mysteriously. with no convictions, the story went that people were compelled to stay away from the house, wouldn’t be able to write without doodling, and smell fresh paint. also the standard doors opening and closing on their own, lights turning on and off, footsteps and the like. nicky was not exactly enthused to spend a night on the dusty floor, but hey. it beat sitting on the couch watching reruns of the same bland reality tv shows.

nicky’s halfway through a longwinded joke when lykon jolts like he’s been zapped, hand gripping nicky’s forearm, eyes darting around in sudden fear.

“what? dude, let go.” he elbows lykon in the ribs gently to get his attention back. “hello? what happened.”

“swear i heard a laugh, from upstairs, maybe,” he replies, face furrowed in concentration. he flashes a smile at the camera. “alright, i think we got all the background done. lets investigate.”

predictably, they find nothing. well, nothing of worth to nicky, but lykon insists that the room that used to be the studio feels colder then the rest of the house, they hear noises from inside the room once they leave it, and the spirit box spits up a few noises that lykon insists are words. a pretty standard investigation, then. they pack up their stuff and tuck in for the night. lykon spends half of it jumping at every little noise, but eventually drifts off as the exhaustion of the drive here finally gets to him. nicky turns over in his sleeping bag, hoping to salvage at least a few hours of rest from the night, but-

is that paint?

nicky breathes in as hard as he can, and it’s unmistakeable, that scent of chemicals that reminds him very vividly of the disaster that was year seven art class. he sits up, rubs his eyes. lykon doesn’t stir and nicky sniffs again. it’s still clear and strong, and now that his ear isnt pressed against the pillow, he can hear faint clattering, like the lid of a paint tin being wedged off. it’s coming from upstairs, where the artist’s studio would be, if he had to guess.

oh, fuck.

there’s a perfectly rational explanation for this, he reasons to himself, even as he crawls out of the sleeping bag to cram on some shoes and get a torch and a camera. he should probably wake up lykon, but something inside him is telling him, wait, to just see for himself first. maybe we disturbed the paint when we were in there earlier. an old house like this, it’s probably just settling. hell, there’s probably raccoons in the roof, or something. ghosts aren’t real.

the studio is... not how they had left it. it had been such a sad space, everything covered up in white sheets, shelves of paints covered in dust. now, the room is strangely warm, like the summer sun had spent a few hours streaming in through windows that were now uncovered, the night visible through dusty panes of glasses. there is an easel set up, with an empty, clean canvas about the size of a dinner table on it. and on the floor, a thin, fine paintbrush rocks back and forth, like it had just been dropped.

this was entirely too much weirdness for nicky’s brain to handle, but he wasn’t giving up on his hard line stance on ghosts just yet. strangely enough, he doesn’t really feel afraid at all.

“if this is a prank,” he says, deliberately loud in the empty room, as he bends to pick up the paintbrush. the tip of it is still wet, and the paint looks black on his fingertips. “if this is a joke, lykon, i swear-”

hi, nicky.

the words appear abruptly on the canvas, a rushed hand like whoever’s writing isn’t sure if they can keep it going. nicky almost drops the paintbrush he’s holding, but steps closer. the paint is still wet on the canvas, and it’s the same dark shade as the stuff on the brush. he shines his torch at it. it’s a very dark blue, not a black like he’d first assumed, the colour of a twilight sea.

“what the fuck,” he mumbles to himself, touching the canvas. it’s just fabric on wood. what the fuck.

did i scare you? i didn’t want to do that.

"i’m not scared,” he says, feeling oddly giddy. “this is a very strange dream.”

i promise it’s not a dream. tah-dah! ghosts are real. i am one of them.

as whoever it is writes, they doodle around their letters with incredible skill, little birds and flowers and suns circling their words. it’s strangely endearing. the paint smell gets stronger and nicky finds that he does not mind.

“what’s your name?” he asks, remembering that he is technically a ghost investigator and he should probably be doing some investigation. his phone is left forgotten in his pocket, though. he doesn’t know if he should be recording this or not.

joe, joseph, but it’s yusuf, really. the art world of my time was not quite ready for a name like mine, but i suppose it doesn’t matter anymore.

“you’re the artist, then.”

who else would i be? as far as i can tell i am the first, last and only death of this house.

“you were murdered.”

yes, but can we not talk about that? it wasn’t a pleasant experience.

the last full stop of yusuf’s sentence is darker then normal, like he’s pressed harder. nicky touches a finger to the canvas.

“i’m sorry. i won’t bring it up again.”

thank you.

nicky takes a step back, the room is lightening around him. he hadn’t realised it earlier, but the windows of this room all face east, which is why he supposes yusuf chose it to be his studio. on some level, a part of him is wondering why he isn’t screaming and running to get lykon right now. he really isn’t afraid, though. yusuf hasn’t meant him any harm.

“why did you choose to talk to me? we were up here earlier.”

it’s harder when more alive people are in my room. you take up so much energy. the handwriting pauses, like yusuf is considering. and most people are so afraid. i’ve tried talking to others before, but they get so scared. you didn’t seem frightened at all.

“that’s because i didn’t believe in any of this stuff.” nicky presses a finger to yusuf’s words, just to check. his finger comes away dark blue. “part of me still think i’m dreaming, though.”

well, you can’t see reflections in dreams, i’ve heard. there’s a mirror behind you.

nicky turns to see a sheet drop off a large standing mirror in an ornate frame, and sure enough, he can see his face, a pale shape in the darkness of the room. he steps closer, and skids a finger over the glass, leaving a smear of paint behind. not a dream, then.

he feels a gust of air, warm, behind him and he turns. nothing but the canvas. when he turns back, that’s when he sees him.

he’s about the same height and build of nicky, standing just behind him and to the side. handsome, a full beard and a rueful smile and curls, and eyes that are the kindest nicky has ever seen. and the most startling thing- he is opaque. his head and shoulders are more or less solid, but his torso peters out into nothing at all.

“ghosts are real,” he says, to the spectre in the mirror, dumbfounded, and yusuf’s half-smile widens to a proper grin. he does a little wave in the mirror and something in nicky’s chest swells. he smiles back.

“your friend downstairs is waking up.” a breath, barely a whisper in his ear. and sure enough, noises from below. he can almost hear the sound of his name.

“i won’t tell him about you, if you don’t want me to,” he says, and yusuf shrugs, flickering.

“i don’t mind, but i'd rather you not. the more people come in here, the harder it is to... exist.”

nicky can hear footsteps on the stairs now, and he blurts out, quickly, before this bizarre moment is over, before he is thrust back into the mundane of his normal life. “we’re leaving now. can i come back, sometime?” and the thing is, he really wants to, wants to know this strange, sad ghost with messy handwriting and beautiful art, and kind, kind eyes. he has so many questions. what’s it like, being a ghost? are you lonely in this house? and, why do you not have any paintings of people? yusuf meets his eyes in the mirror and smiles again.

“i’d like that.”

“nicky!” the door opens and nicky blinks, his hands dropping to his sides. lykon sweeps his gaze around the room looks at him with a raised eyebrow. the canvas, nicky is stunned to realise, is now as clean and blank as when he’d walked in.

“c’mon man, you know we’re not allowed to mess with this stuff.” lykon steps forwards and plucks the paintbrush out of his hand, the tip still wet with paint, and sets it on the easel. “you said it yourself, nothing in here now. we’ve gotta get going.”

“sì, of course. i was just... looking around. it’s a beautiful room.”

his room mate just gives him a look. “uh okay. whatever, man. let’s go.”

before nicky leaves, he picks the paintbrush back up again, tucks it into his pocket. says to the empty room, slowly filling with light and colour from the rising sun, “i’ll be back, yusuf, i promise.”

the faint ghost of laughter as he walks out feels, somehow, right.

#the old guard #yusuf al kaysani #nicolo di genova #lykon #kaysanova #joe x nicky #usercacau #usershan #userlyde #userkayla #tuseradriana #anonymous #ask #reply #OOF what did i just write........... i dont know <3 #maybe i have backstory for all of them. maybe. what about it #my writing #mine #the ghost au

199 notes · View notes

a-wanderin-whirlybird · 4 years

Text

Sole Ender AU Its the Little Things

It's the little things that made Ryan feel safe with the Fakes. Like how Gavin and Michael always walk on his right side, never his left, so he can always see them. It's how Geoff makes sure that any Heists outdoors are occurring when it doesnt rain. It's how Jack always has an extra umbrella or Eye Patch for him. How Jeremy and Lindsay make sure to never make direct eye contact. Jeremy looks at his mouth, Lindsay watches anywhere and everywhere else.

Those little things always made Ryan feel welcome. Even after they found out about the experiments, the Lab, the Eye. But still, something felt missing, Ryan could never put his finger on it. But he felt, lost still. He didnt realize the Emptiness was caused by something so simple until one night while playing Trivial Pursuit.

"Authors last names? Fuck that! Every last bastard whose ever written a book has a weird ass last name! They could be Hilda Sasquatch or some shit!" Jeremy shouted. Jack laughed and Gavin snorted.

"Jeremy, you wrote a book." Michael reminded him.

"Well Dooley is a funny last name!" Gavin pointed out as Jeremy growled and slapped the Brit on the back of his head.

"Yeah, like Free is any better!" Jack was losing it in the background as the Lads began to bicker and wrestle. Ryan's nose scrunched as his chest tightened and the empty feeling began again.

"What's with the face Rye?" Geoff asked breaking Ryan's stare. His left eye was covered with a glittering purple and blue eye patch Gavin had made out of his Sparkles. It was a fine gift, one that Ryan treasured.

"Its, it's nothing really." Ryan insisted a bit hesitantly. Geoff shook his head.

"Suuuuuurrrre, it's really nothing." Geoff drawled sarcastically. Ryan rolled his eye.

"Your like a security camera." Ryan muttered. "You keep digging and digging."

"Yeah that's not weird at all." Geoff sighed. "But fine, I'll stop. Just remember you Can talk to us."

"I... I know Geoff." Ryan muttered as the fight before them settled. "Just. Not now?"

Geoff nodded and they all turned back to the game. Ryan hoped that he could bury that empty feeling and never touch it again.

It was just a Last Name after all.

Turns out Ryan couldnt avoid the feeling for long. It was another game night a few weeks later. Jack and Geoff were out with Gavin, so Michael, Jeremy and Lindsay insisted Ryan joined them for Mario Party.

"Right so what's got you so fucked?" Michael asked never looking away from the mini game on the screen.

"Oh elegantly put Jones." Jeremy teased. Michael knocked into Jeremy who went tumbling away and Ryan felt the hole in his chest open again.

"I dont know what you mean." Ryan said as Lindsay pressed into him.

"Bullshit you keep wincing at random! Your eye bugging you?" Lindsay asked this time. Ryan shook his head, he felt stupid he just wanted these people to stop caring so much!

"We arent going to stop caring dipshit that isnt how this works." Jeremy said. Great, Ryan thought, he said that out loud.

"Yeah! We're a crew and shit we ain't gonna not care! Somethings bugging you and we want to help!" Lindsay declared throwing her arms around Ryan and pulling him into a hug.

Ryan tensed then mumbled.

"Sorry what was that?" Michael smirked. "Cant hear you through Lindsay dude."

"I dont have a fucking last name alright? It's a small stupid thing but it drives me nuts! I feel even less human!" Ryan shouted, pushing away from Lindsay. Michael and Lindsay began to laugh.

"Dude chill. It's just a name it doesnt mean shit!" Michael wheezed.

"Yeah dude. No need to get your panties in a twist over it." Lindsay added. Ryan growled and silently rose to his feet.

"Ryan?" Jeremy started but with a Vwoop, Ryan teleported away leaving the three others behind. In a cloud of dull sparkles.

Ryan could teleport pretty far. The farthest he ever went in one go was 20 miles. But now he didnt want to go far, just hide. And what better place to hide than one of the safe houses?

It was a small apartment closer to the suburbs of Los Santos, it was nice, if small. It was usually reserved for when someone was on a solo mission and needed to lie low, which meant that Ryan was there most. So he got to decorate.

Back at the Labs he never got to make any space his own. Everything was sterile and empty. He hated to remember the open space and clean white walls and the smell of bleach and chemicals.

Which was why this space was filled with stuff. Sure it was tidy, nothing was rotten or moldy, but Ryan used every space available. If the floor didnt have a rug there was a table or chair. If the tables didn't have Flowers, TVs, knickknacks or something on it there was usually a cup of Diet Coke. It was filled to the brim with bright plants, paintings, photos you name it.

Ryan plopped down on the couch feeling stupid. Why was he so hung up on a name? He had given himself the name Ryan sure, why not a last name?

Ryan knew why, and as that thought rose up he pushed it away. He didnt want any memories of the Labs in his head right now. Now he wanted to just sleep, he wanted to feel less... less stupid and childish.

So Ryan went off to the bedroom and buried himself deep under the covers, like he used to, and blocked out the rest of the world.

Ryan was 13 again and he sat on his cot, swinging his legs absently.

"Why dont I get one?" He heard himself ask. "Why am I only a number?"

"Names are given by family to people. You have no family and you are no longer human. You are far better than that." One of the blurred figures said. The second scoffed.

"Better? It cant even run the most basic excersise without failing ten times. Its isnt anything but a waste." Ryan couldnhear the sneer in the figure's voice as pain shot through every nerve on his body. "Failure doesnt get you a name of any kind. You are a tool, and a broken one at that. Dont forget that."

Ryan woke up with a start. Turning to the clock Ryan cursed. 3 am. He wasnt going back to sleep. Again.

Getting to his feet Ryan didnt bother to change into fresh clothes. He had slept in his jeans why not just use them again? But he grabbed a jacket and went out into the night.

Mount Chilliad loomed in the distance as Ryan walked the dark streets of Los Santos. He could have teleported where he wanted to go, or even driven. But he didnt want to. Walking felt better, it gave agency, he decided where his feet went, no one else.

"Oh Thank Fuck! I've been looking everywhere for you!" Ryan jumped, ready to fight and run from the handlers. When recognition snapped his mind from bad memories.

Standing before him was Jeremy, holding a tiny wiggling bundle of fur. A cat from what Ryan could tell. Jeremy smiled nervously, but relief was evident in the smaller man's eyes.

"Look, uh. Fuck I suck at this shit. Let's go inside yeah? We are near a place I own. Come on." Jeremy ushered Ryan towards a nearby apartment building. Ryan followed wordlessly, but obediently. At the door Jeremy hopped around a little.

"Keys, keys. Uh Hey Rye mind.holding him for a sec?" Jeremy then thrust the cat into Ryan's hands who finally got a good look at the little fur ball.

They were a tiny black kitten, fuzzy and wiggling furiously. What stood out the most was that it was missing a front leg.

The door clicked as.Ryan made eye contact with the little kitten. His chest tightened and his mind whirled as he looked into the kittens little eyes. Then it looked at Ryan's jacket and started burrowing into one of the interior pockets. Ryan felt a purr resonating out of the tiny cat from in his jacket and through his ribs. His chest began to unclench and suddenly he was.aware he was inside a studio apartment.

There were art supplies everywhere. Everything from Yarn and Knitting needles, to paints and canvases to wood sculptures, and musical instruments were strewn about. Jeremy hopped around the room over to a ragged old bed, kicking off his shoes as he went.

"Well, make yourself at home. Dont mind the mess things just get thrown around alot." Jeremy said sheepishly. Ryan picked his way through the room, his eye moving around and soaking up all the little pieces. The space felt lived in not just visited like the safe houses.

"Is this a safe house?" Ryan asked as he sat down on the bed. Jeremy shook his head.

"Nah. It's my apartment. Before I joined the Fakes I lived here. Still try to come back, sometimes you just need your own place you know?" Jeremy explained. There was a tense silence for a few minutes then Jeremy spoke.

"Michael and Lindsay were being a bitch." Ryan tensed ready to run. "No please just, hear me out?"

Ryan froze, suddenly aware he had gotten up to leave. Jeremy had his arm, and the Kitten purred even louder than before. Ryan sank back onto the bed.

"Look. I dont know what your life was like before you joined us but it obviously wasnt even a little bit good. Actually it sounds like it was fucking awful." Ryan laughed dryly.

"That's putting it lightly."

"Yeah no shit. But it's not stupid to feel shit." A pause. " If not having a Last name bugs you why dont you give yourself one?"

"Its not..."

"Not that simple yeah?" Jeremy finished Ryan nodded as the kitten crawled out on Ryan's lap.

"Alright, well. Do you think you can tell me why?" Jeremy asked. Ryan thought, eye down on the kitten as the little guy curled up on his lap without a care.

"Its not the same. It belongs to a family. I cant be a family of one." Ryan insisted and Jeremy shook his head.

"Ok two things. One. Thats a load of horseshit and who ever told you that was dumb as fuck. And two. There is more to it isnt there?" Ryan stayed silent. Running his fingers through the Kitten's fur. Jeremy began to whisper. "You're human, Rye. Just cause someone says you arent doesnt make it true. I know that one."

Ryan froze he didnt expect anyone to pick up on that. The whole Not human but was always somewhere in the back of his mind, eating at him. Jeremy wrapped himself around Ryan hugging him tightly. Ryan shook as he melted into the other man's touch, a few tears spilling out.

"You know. My family abandoned me when I was a teenager. Said I was a monster just cause I kissed both guys and girls. Not exactly dubious experiments but it is dehumanizing all the same. I kept my last name though. I did it as a big old fuck you to them. They died during one of the Fake's heists. Got to watch then burn myself. But the name never connected me to them, a name connects you to who ever you want it to." Jeremy was quiet as he spoke, his voice against Ryan's skin as he pressed into Ryan's neck.

Something was bubbling in his brain, but Ryan had no idea what it was. And right now was not the time to figure that out.

A small Meow pulled the two away from one another. The little kitten was trying to climb up Ryan's jacket between the two. As it scrambled up Jeremy laughed, and Ryan felt a chuckle escape his throat. The kitten then flung itself over Ryan's shoulder, it's one front paw kneading his shoulder blade and purring up a storm.

"I forgot this little guy was here." Jeremy said through a laugh. A pause, then Jeremy smiled softly. "Ya know, I was going to take him to the shelter. Geoff won't let me keep any animals. But I think you should take him."

"You just said-" Ryan began but Jeremy shook his head.

"I'm not allowed any animals. Geoff never said anything about you keeping a pet. And hey! Now you have another family member! You can give him a first name and a Last name of your choice!" Jeremy beamed at Ryan who smiled a little.

The sun rose as the Battle Buddies walked into the penthouse. The morning news was filling the living room, telling the story of several Petstores that had been robbed of supplies in the night.

"And what a coincidence, you both have Pet stuff." Geoff hissed as he sucked back more.coffee.

"Yeah well, Ryan's got a cat now so you gotta have toys and a litterbox to you know?" Jeremy said as he dropped a giant bag of cat food next to the kitchen Island.

"I thought I said no pets!" Geoff shouted, his voice cracking.

"Yeah but only for Jeremy." Ryan pointed out. "Abd Finnieas isnt a pet. He's family."

Geoff paused, Ryan knew the gears were turning. Geoff groaned.

"Ugh! Fine! You can keep the damn cat!" Geoff hissed. "And Finnieas? The hell kind of name is that?"

"Ih his full name is Finnieas Gavallo Haywood thank you." Ryan insisted with an air of dramatics. Jeremy giggled and kept in front of Ryan who held the kitten before him.

"A poud name Haywood! Ancient and divine! Dating all the way back to 4 hours ago!" Jeremy exclaimed. Geoff laughed.

"Alright you dolts get a move on. I'm going to text Jack and let them know you two caused the morning rukus." Geoff said. Jeremy took off down towards Ryan's room, a bag of cat toys in hand. As Ryan went to follow, Geoff got up off the couch. He placed a hand on Ryan's shoulder and gave a lop sided smile.

"Haywood's a good name. You know. I picked Ramsey myself when I built this crew. Jack took Patillo at that time to." Geoff then walked away, pulling out his cellphone and typing.

Finnieas purred as Ryan took in the unspoken message.

A name may seem like a Little Thing, but it holds importance all the same. And sometimes you need to give yourself those Little Things to heal.

#Sole Ender AU #Ender!Vagabond #A kitten has joined the party #Ryan Haywood #yes he named himself #FAHC

25 notes · View notes

bigsnzstanacct · 5 years

Text

The King’s New Allergy (1-3/5ish I think?)

Okay this is the last one I’m gonna post for a bit I think. Male, Mer/lin fanfic if you squint maybe, not quite gigantic sneezes but also WILDLY unrealistic in volume.

---

I. The Night Watch

“Ha-ehhhh… ehhhhhh… hHHEEEEHHHHHhhh…”

I could practically see the castle walls shaking. I was on the king’s watch, posted just outside his bedchamber. Ordinarily the night’s watch over the king’s chamber was an uneventful, easy enough job. But that was ordinarily. And these were hardly ordinary circumstances.

“hheeeEEHHH! EEEHH! HEH! HEHH! HEHHH!”

“ ‘ere he goes again…” complained Caspian, the guard assigned the watch with me, rolling his eyes, and covering his ears, for all the good it’d do. “Whole castle’ll be wakin’ up five hours early in three… two…”

I did likewise, covering my ears in preparation for the explosion.

“HUUUUUUUHHHHHH…”

“…one…”

“HUUURRRRRRRRRSSSSCCCCHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” The king fairly roared.

I heard more than one started yelp in the aftermath of the king’s sneeze. But those were faint, only perceptible to an elite guard like myself, trained to notice all manner of slight, subtle noises. The king’s sneeze, however, was neither slight, nor subtle. It was a veritable war-cry. Worse than a war-cry, I myself had heard the king’s war-cry and it had nothing on his all-consuming, castle-awakening, sleep-destroying…

“HHHHHAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRSSCCCHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOEEEEYYYYYY!!!” Our Vesuvial monarch erupted again, adding an involuntary—surely involuntary, he SWORE up and down it was involuntary—scream to the end, in case the body of the noise hadn’t been sufficient.

“How long y’think ‘e goes on this time, Damien?” Caspian asked, nodding towards me.

Frankly, on the strength of that first wall-rattling sneeze, he was either going to blast the irritation out in four or five full-strength sneezes, or else…

“Sounds like ‘is nose is tickled right good, my friend.” I confessed, shaking my head, “I’m afraid it’ll be a long night for all of us. We’re in for more fits tonight. And he’ll be in a right mood in the morning. It don’t let him sleep anymore than it does the rest of us. If I didn’t know better, I’d think this allergy of the King’s was more than an allergy…”

“AAAAAAAAEEEERRRRRRRRRRSSCCCCHHHHHHHHUUUUHHHHHHHH!!” The nasal bombardments continued, that one less vocal, more nasal, still a wall of sound that surely awoke what precious-few castlefolk had managed to cling to sleep through his first two sneezes.

“Arrrggghhhhh… and you know if ‘e sneezes all nigh’, ‘e’ll prob’ly sneeze half the day too… that’ll be no sleep for us either.”

“Says you,” I replied, “I sleep down in the lower town.”

“You’re telling me, you can’t hear those great big galumphing—“

“AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHH!!”

“That. You’re telling me you can’t hear that down in the lower town?”

“Well, of course you can. But you know my brother does a bit of the…” I wiggled my fingers a bit, to indicate the forbidden: magic.

“Warded the house ‘ave you? Smart one.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Caspian, you can still hear ‘im if it’s a really big one. But it’s faint, an’ I’m a plenty heavy sleeper when I want to be.”

“HaahHHH… AHHH-HHOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRSSCCCHHHHHHHH!!”

“Gods, that was a big one!” Caspian exclaimed, “Even after all this time, ‘e still shocks me with how big they are. I know it’s a whole ‘thing’ with the royals, the whole sneezing like the thunder thing. Lord knows the princess could rattle the walls good before they married ‘er off to whatever kingdom she’s gone to, but…”

“EEEEHHHHHHTTTSSSSSHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”

“But even Princess Eleanor couldn’t compare to this,” I finished for him. And it was true, she couldn’t. None of them could. In fact, before this whole… thing started happening, I’d personally thought the whole “descended of Jupiter with sneezes of the thunder” thing was a great crock of shite. Not that I blamed them of course; royals had to have some mystique to maintain their legitimacy, and the gods know I’d worked under worse kings as a sell-sword, before I found my place here. But still, seemed like another load of royal horseshit. Until a fortnight prior, when the king had been plagued with the most terrible allergy that seized upon him and wrung out of him sneezes that seemed fit to wake the dead… or perhaps to rival the thunder in their volume and violence. It hadn’t been so bad, the first few days. But after that first night, when the allergy refused to leave him, even in his sleep, awaking the king with the most awful irritations—who subsequently woke the entire castle with the most awful sternutations—the people of the castle had been less than enthusiastic, turning to barely-concealed rage. Lack of sleep did that to a castle. It wasn’t every night, of course, and it wasn’t as though the king sneezed constantly through the night, but… it was certainly enough to set the entire castle on edge. And this, the third night in a row? Well, blessed be the gods for gainful employment solely at night.

“AAAAARRRRRCCCHHOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” The king thundered again.

“That one sounded tuckered out!” Caspian exclaimed, “y’think that means he’ll taper off soon?”

I shook my head. “It was a bit smaller than his usual but… mark me, we’ve got plenty left in this fit of his. If the gods are kind—“

“HHEEEEEEAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRR-CCCHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” And there was the loudest sneeze yet, perhaps the loudest I’d heard from him since the whole business began. I nearly jumped in fright, and poor Caspian leapt fully into the air. He was only lucky he stifled his squeal of shock—more than one guard had already been replaced for reacting too noisily to the king’s eruptions. Poor thing. I think it embarrassed the king. He was already suffering, he didn’t need the reminder of how much he was inconveniencing everybody else with his inability to get a hold of his accursed, enormous, explosive, seizing sinuses…

“AAAAAAEEEEEEEEESSSSSCCCCCHHHHHHHHUUUHHHHHH!!”

“If the gods are kind, we’re halfway through. If not… for all we know this fit’ll go straight into the second and we’ll barely get a reprieve for thirty minutes.”

“Gods, I don’t know how you do it.” Caspian said, shaking his head at me, and clutching at his chest, trying to recover from the fright the king had given him. “They really weren’t this bad, during the war? I know you fought in his unit, back when ‘e was just the prince.”

“Oh, well… ‘e sneezed plenty big back then too. Woke us up more than once, tho half the time I think it was on purpose. It was always suspiciously close to time to march. But that…” I shook my head, “that was a bunch of soldiers, sleeping light and sleeping rough, ready for action at any time—you know he had us on the dangerous route, aroun’ through that forest—and sure, ‘e was loud but this is—“

“HHAAAAAAAAA-SHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”

“This is different. This is worse than I’ve ever heard ‘im, by far. I heard tell in the old days, if ‘e caught cold, you could hear him, real faint, down in the kitchens. But not like… you know old Caliphrea said it sounded to her like he was right next to her bedside. First night she woke up all ready to curtsey and ask what the king was doin’ in ‘er bedchambers!” I chuckled.

“You don’t think…?” Caspian said, looking at me meaningfully and giving a little wiggle to his fingers.

At last he’d got it. I’d been hinting around at it for a while, but. It wasn’t wise to speak too openly about these things. A little enchantment of a bungalow in the lower town, sure. The occasional herbal pick-me-up, a little help with the chores… that much was fine to speak about. That much had changed, since the bad old days, where magic was concerned. But this? Speculating that the king had been ensorcelled? Especially with something like this, something so close to the mythology that had always surrounded the crown? To attribute it to anything other than the king’s royal blood and manly fortitude (at least in earshot of any of the nobility) was unwise, to say the least. But now that he’d said it, I could reveal a bit more of my thoughts.

“HAAAEEEESSSSHHHHOOOOOOOOOO!!! AEEEEESSCCCCHHHOOOOOOOOO!! HUUHHH… AAAATTTTTTTTTT-CCCHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOEEEEEYYYYYYYYY!!!”

Or, at least, I could if the king stopped sneezing long enough for me to be heard over the din. And to think this was only his first fit of the night…

— II. The Head Cook

“EEEEEEAAAAAACCCHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”

Thank the gods I hadn’t bothered to attempt sleep. Five nights running, and my old bones, and my bad health, I think the king’s sneeze might have shocked me into an early grave! Saints and heavens, louder than ever! And the gods know the king would never forgive himself for that, would probably set that sorcerer of his—not that the king’s manservant was to be referred to as a sorcerer, and wasn’t that peculiar, though it’s hardly the first not-entire-secret-secret that’s gone around this old castle, including the nasty business about the king’s own mother… oh dear me I’m rambling. Well in any case, I’d die of fright, he’d send down the sorcerer to save me and before I knew it I’d find myself an undead cook, cursed to make the king’s favorite pastries for all eternity. Which, after some consideration, doesn’t sound all that bad, especially if the sorcerer fixed my aching hip. I quite like making pastries.

“Ms Caliphrea… ’e’s off again!” Tarran said, as she shuffled into the kitchen, still in her nightgown, looking harried and upset. I should never have told that girl she was my favorite of the maids—she was always seeking me out, more and more since the King’s booming sneezes had started up. She was a sweet girl, but somehow in the evenings she never had the energy to help me mix dough and cut tarts.

“Worse ’n last night!” I said, commiserating as I poured the milk and sugar in with the flour, shortly before the king proved me right with a great thundering

“HHHHHHHAAAEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSHHHHH!!!”

You really could hear him just as clear as bell, as if he’d been right next to me. Though clear as a bell might’ve been something of an understatement. The king’s sneezes—

“HHHERRRRRRRRAAAAAAASSSCCCCHHHHHEEEWWWWW!!!”

—were more like standing inside a great cathedral bell as it was being rung, filling your whole head with sound, resounding and resounding til it was all you could even think of. At least, that’s what they were like lately. The good King’s never been a quiet sneezer, that I can say with a great deal of confidence. Even when he was still the Prince and not a crowned and holy King, he’d still sneeze loud enough that I could hear down in the kitchens. Of course, then his chamber was right above the kitchens, even if a few floors of the castle above. And it was loud, true. (Although I might exaggerate the tale a bit, that’s my right as a matriarch of this castle!) But back then he wasn’t being heard in the lower town, I know that; no one sneezes that loud. Or no one did, because these days…

“EEEEEEEAAAACCCCCCHHHHOOOOOOOOOO!!!! HAAAAAACCCCHHHOOOOOOOOOOOO!! HHHHAAAEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

“Auuggghhh…” Tarran moaned, “I’m just so tiiiiiiired, mum. I don��t mean to complain but…” She flopped down onto the counter, rather dramatically. I must’ve been tired myself because I’d ordinarily scold her for such behavior, but I just nudged her over a bit, so I could get at the rolling pin. The first dough, that I’d made earlier in the night, would be rested and ready to roll out soon.

“But it’s just… does the King have to sneeze so loudly?” she whined, “I’m half-deaf, mum! And my sis, she works in the stables and she says it frights the horses so they’ve got to keep someone to the stables all the time and if his sneezin’ didn’t wake the stablehands as much as it does the horses…”

“He can’t help it, you know that,” I said, giving her a gentle pat on the head. “If he would, he could. The King loves his people. You know he’d do anything to make things better for us. I’ll bet the king has tried five or six times to exile himself til he gets his sneezing under control. But we need him here—”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-EEEERRRRRRRRSSSSCCCHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

“MERCY!” I yelped, “that was a loud one even for ‘im! Must’ve been brewing in there for a while… now what was I saying, Tarran?”

“Blah blah blah he’s a good king and he loves us and we need him here. I don’t care, mum, I just wanna sleep!”

“Now Tarran—”

“HHHEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRSSCCCCHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-AAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!”

The king sneezed again, with a scream at the end that rattled like the thunder. In fact, that’s exactly what it sounded like, like the King was a one-man storm, like a clap of thunder…

“Mum?” Tarran asked, tapping at my shoulder. “Mum, you were saying?”

“I was… I was saying…”

“HEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAASSSCCCHHHOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” The King sneezed again.

“Tarran. Tarran, have I ever told you the tale of our royal family and the great gods of Olympus?”

“The great who’s of a-what-ness??”

“The gods of Olympus… Jupiter, the King of the gods. Our royal family is descended from the god of…”

“AAAAAAAAARRRRRREEEEEESSSSSCCCCCHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

Louder still. It seemed that the King’s roars were louder than thunder, louder than ever…

“Tarran… in the morning… go and fetch the physician, will you? Tell him that old Caliphrea wants to see em. Tell ‘im it’s important, and to come right away.”

“YYYEEEEEESSSCCCCHHOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! HEEEESSCCHHOOOOOOOOOO!!! AAAAARRRREEESCCCHHHHH!!! HEESSCCCCHHHH!! HAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYEEEEEESSCCCCCHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!”

“Oh by the gods!” Tarran exclaimed. “How is he doing that? If I sneezed that loud I’d… I’d blow up! It’s impossible! D’ye hear that mum? How are any of us supposed to sleep with the King storming away up there…”

I put an arm around her, going back to rolling out my dough before cutting it and putting it in the oven. The storm was over for now, you could always tell after a big fit of sneezes like that. “There there child. Run along now and catch some sleep before he starts up again. You know the King’s manservant has been called back to the castle; between him and that old physician of ours, we’ll have the King fixed right up in no time, isn’t that right?”

“Yes mum. I’m sorry… I don’t mean to speak ill of the King I’m just… I’m just so tired…”

“So run along now, and get your rest. Odds are he’ll start up again before the sun rises. Get in your winks while you can.”

“Yes mum. I hope it’s a long time before he starts up again this time. Me poor ears can’t take much more!” She whined, giving one last forlorn look back at me before she slunk back to her chambers for a bit of rest.

For me, I had plotting to do. I knew the old physician knew of the stories, the legend of the power of Jupiter and all that. All us of a certain age knew the fairytale. But not all have been in this castle as long as I have. Not all remember how the stories can come true. And besides, I had baking to do! And he was going to start up again soon. If I needed my rest, I’d take it during the day while the maids spread the food throughout the castle. Of course, the King had taken to sneezing more and more during the day as well… but with any luck, between my old stories and the physician, and the King’s sorcerer heading back this way… hopefully our nightly disruptions—and our exhausted King—would be set right soon enough.

“Sneezin’! Of all things, sneezin’!” I chuckled to myself, “Well, wonders never cease around here. I’ve certainly seen worse.” I murmured as I cut the dough and carried it towards the ovens. — Bugger. Blighter. Codswollop. Addlepate. Nincompoop. Stubborn old never-changing know-it-all arrogant clotpole of a king!

“AAAAEEEEEEEESSSSCCHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”

And damn near the most attractive man in the whole history of the planet!

It was enough that he’d lied, said he was fine, said it was just a little allergy, said it was no worry at all if I went out on a quest, said he’d deal with it, said he’d solve the issue just fine on his own… and never even bothered to think that he might keep up the entire kingdom! That was all enough, but that the problem I was now—finally—called upon to solve was so gods damned distracting…

“HHHHAAAAAAARRRRRRAAAASSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

“Bloody hell, they’ve gotten louder! Ohhh, you don’t know how much you’re helping me with this sleeping draught, er, I mean, this sleeping medicine." The old villager assured me. And ordinarily I would be gracious and more than glad to help but right now all I could offer him was a distracted,

“Oh, yes, of course, uh…”

For all I knew, he was nattering on in the background, joking about the draught or magic or the sneezes but oh the sneezes were all I could focus on, all I could think about, waiting for the next one to strike wondering how each one was impossibly louder than the last, standing on edge, hoping I’d be able to hide my reaction to the next gigantic, impossible, ridiculous, practically supernatural:

“WWWWWWHHHHHHHHAAAAAAASSSSSHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOEEEEYYYYYY!!”

“Bloody hell, he’s putting me on!” The words leapt from my throat before I could contain them but by all the gods if it didn’t seem like he was making them louder, more vocal, more desperate just for me…

I had to get out of here, preferably without visibly adjusting myself.

“Alright, so nice to talk to you but I’m afraid I’ll have to go, of course I’m glad to help you, as the King’s Right Hand it’s my duty to help everyone in the kingdom but especially our beloved capitol citizens and..”

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAASSSSHHHH-HHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”

“Oh by all the gods that was a bellow, he’s practically roaring them…” I bit my fist. Apparently whatever cursed robbed him of control of his nose left my mouth similarly uncontrollable. Who would have thought I’d ever have a secret to conceal from the people more than the magic? And yet, here I was shuffling out of a house, grateful for once for the abundance of robes our damned “apothecary” insisted I wear, because I wasn’t sure how much longer I could restrain myself from reacting to the constant eruptions coming from the throne room, where I knew he was attempting to hold court, but couldn’t because his nose, his beautiful nose, his itching, twitching, out-of-control, world wonder of a nose wouldn’t let him conduct state business, was more demanding, more powerful even than a king, forcing him to surrender every few moments to another magically-amplified:

“HEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAARRRRRRRRSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

He was always a loud sneezer. I wouldn’t say that was the first thing that attracted him to me. No, that wouldn’t even be true. But I wouldn’t lie and say I didn’t notice it either. He’d get colds, back when I was his manservent, and I would tend to him and try so hard to pretend every great galumphing roar of a sneeze didn’t make me want to swoon. And the servants, the kitchen staff, even the knights would laugh and joke that he had the sneezes of thunder, that they could hear him all over the castle and into the lower town, well… it might have been a joke then, but it certainly wasn’t now. Neither the range of his boistrous sternutations, nor their thunderous source.

“AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRAAASSSSSSSHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

“Gods!” I cried out, unable to restrain it. The townsfolk would think, there goes the King’s Right Hand, as annoyed with him as the rest of us are. But annoyance was as far from my mind as the King was from his senses when he sent me away, in the midst of what I knew was not some ordinary ailment. Even before they’d grown to their present titanic scope, I knew there was something unusual about this new allergy of his, something stronger, deeper. I almost felt my magic react—of course, I figured it wasn’t exactly my magic that was pulling me to stay with him, care for him. These things can be hard to tell apart. Apparently it was both.

Was it three? Five? Ten? Twelve? Seventeen? more roaring sneezes he released on my walk from the lower town up to the castle? I couldn’t keep track, distracted by how desperately I wanted to go either to him, or to my chambers; to comfort him, or to relieve the ever-mounting tension I felt every time he—

“HHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRSSSCCCHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”

“By the ancient—!” another bitten off curse. It was as though I was walking through a wall of sound. The shockwave of his sneeze felt as though it bodily pushed me back, washed over me like a wave. Was it my magic that was tingling my skin or was it just… me? These things could be hard to tell apart. But no, no time to focus on that. How ironic that this of all things would be the most successful attack on the kingdom in years, practically decades. How could anyone have known between his pride and my predilections, we would find this perhaps the hardest to break of all known curses?

I had trained. Trained ceaselessly, trained til I had control over my magic that I could only have dreamt of as a younger man. (And did, actually). And as such, ordinarily breaking such a curse—powers of the ancient gods notwithstanding—would be… well, if not child’s play, certainly achievable. But as desperately as I focused on the needs of our Kingdom, there was always a tendril, and edge of my dumb desire, that I could not will into the spell. To break a curse like the King’s “allergy,” one bound up in centuries old magics even I knew more by feel than by fact, would take all my concentration, all my will. But I could not bend all my will to the containment of these eruptions he called sneezes, not when there was still a part of me that found nothing in all the world more attractive.

But I had to put that out of my mind as I passed through the castle halls. I was approaching our apothecary’s chambers. My old Druid rival, turned a friend. Still, friend though he might be, I knew better than to trust him with a secret like the real reason I was unable to break this curse—the mockery might literally never end. Still, I had to suppress a shudder when the King sneezed just as I passed by the Audience Chamber, where he was still doing his best to conduct offical business.

“W-we shall not see a rihhHHHH… riiHHHHHHHHHHHH… HIIIIIIIIIIIIHHHHHHHHHHH…”

I couldn’t help my curiosity, couldn’t help but peer in to see a chamber full of petitioners and nobles, scribes and scholars, openly bracing themselves, covering their ears, looking at the King’s working, flaring, twitching nostrils as though they were facing down a lance at a tourney, hunkering down in the hopes that their ears would survive another:

“HHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Oh by the g-gaaaAHHHH… gods I… I’m s-sorryaaaAAHHHHHH… AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRSSSSCCCCCHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! Damn! No rise in the tahhh… tax… oh…”

He sounded so pitiful, so miserable, so utterly at the mercy of the tickle in his nose. The sneezes sounded as though they were wrenched from him, and I cursed myself for my weakness—surely my love for him ought to be strong enough that all of my being would spare him this suffering. Surely that love ought to outweigh that tendril of silly, foolish desire…

“RRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHH-EEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!”

I couldn’t stand this much longer, caught between the pleasure of the sight and the torment of my powerlessness, not before the King’s new allergy, but before my own stubborn selfishness. Whoever managed to work this curse, to channel the magicks of the King’s bloodline in such a frankly ridiculous way, surely they never could have suspected they would practically grind royal business to a halt, since the king could hardly get through three sentences without succumbing to sneezes that shook the castle to its foundations.

I could only hope that the apothecary had a remedy where I did not. I suspected I was still red in the face when I arrived at his chambers, to see him standing outside, smirking.

“I see you took some time to check on our monarch and his nasal bombardments,” he drawled, smirk never fading.

I could have asked him how precisely he knew I had taken such time, but I knew that was a question I would do decidedly better not to ask. “Yes, I have.” I replied tersely.

“Oh, the King’s Right Hand is too austere and wise for a bit of ribbing from the Court Physician I see. Alright, alright, we’ll play this your way.” He said, as he ushered me into his chambers. I could hear the laugh in his voice, and despite my very firm pledge never to use magic to harm, or for selfish ends, I quite wanted to curse him into silence. Although that would prevent him from telling me about his remedy, assuming he had one.

“Yes, of course, I have a solution. Never thought I’d be the one to solve a magical malady with you around but I suppose this is why it never hurts to have a backup, hm?” He said, mirth still dancing around his eyes. I perhaps would have succumbed to a desire to at least place a mild hex on him but of course, the King intervened with a—

“EEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRAAAAASSSSSSSHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

It would be undignified, and untrue, to say I had to stifle a moan. It was just surprise.

“Ah, I see the typhoon still rages.” He said, looking up at me under coy eyelashes. “Well, it won’t for much longer, as I have devised a solution!”

I wanted to scream at him to get on with it, but frankly I didn’t trust my voice as another great cracking “HHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRSCCCCCCCCCHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” lascerated the air.

“So, we know that you are unable to directly attack this curse. And while there are rituals I could perform—very lengthy and painful rituals which I would not at all enjoy—” his curving lips belied that statement but beyond a raised eyebrow I did not dare comment, “that would separate our King from the ancient Olympian magicks that echo through his bloodline. Oh, pause for thunder!”

“AAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

I wanted to ask him how he knew that the King was about to sneeze yet again, but so often with the Druid it was better not knowing.

“In any case, while I could accomplish such a ritual, the consequences on our King’s temperament, abilities, and frankly his sheer dumb luck may be unpredictable. Whatever silly hedgewitch stumbled her way into this curse was dealing in forces far beyond her comprehension or abilities. In all likelihood, all of this involves nothing more than an enchantment on some pollenating plant or other that causes the pollen to excite the Olympian magicks with which our King is imbued. All that energy excited, with nowhere to go, what can it do but release. At this point, the King is probably less responding to an allergy than releasing pure Olympian magick in the only way his body knows how. Which I suppose is better than him manifesting lightning bolts, or perhaps the magic itself tearing him in two. Or three. Or five. Or any number of pieces, really, given the nature of wild mag—”

I was about to interrupt him, to demand he get to the point, but of course the King’s nose did it for me: “HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

That one seemed to be the loudest yet. Maybe this theory of magic all riled up with nowhere to go was true. And whatever the magic was, it seemed to be more and more riled by the second.

“So!” he said, either brought back on track by the King’s exp,losion or the impatience he saw on my face, “we could track down the agent causing the reaction, which would presumably involve exposing the King successively to every flower that grows in the nearby region to see which most excites the Olympian allergy, rather than the King’s ordinary sensitivities to pollen, which in turn would involve some sort of measure both of magic and of, well volume…” he continued, his smirk back and wider by the second. He wanted some sort of reaction. I wouldn’t give him one. If I could summon a yawn for myself, I would.

“But then again, the exposure might excite the Olympian magicks too much and well we’ve already discussed the possibilities there… in any case, after much thought, I have finally come to the correct conclusion! It will require your assistance, of course, although in a roundabout way, as you seem to experience some sort of… disability… when it comes to this particular magical circumstance. Our issue is that the King’s wild magick needs somewhere to go. So we shall simply tell it to go to you!”

“To me?!” I couldn’t help but blurt. I had done my best to stay stoic during his explanation—any reaction risked revealing too much—but this was too much. “You mean, when the King sneezes… forever, it will… send ancient Olympian magic into me?”

“Well, not forever. Over time it will… hm… it will establish a flow with your magic. A sort of… channel for the magic to travel. So rather than release in a sort of uncontrollable, violent…”

“HHHHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

“…that,” he chuckled, “rather than that, if his magic is excited, it will simply flow into your infinite supply of magic, of which it is already, in some sense, a part. And presumably if you are in regular and close contact with the King, which, as his Right Hand you must be, the magic will naturally flow back to him, in gradual, manageable amounts, which shouldn’t cause such a—”

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!”

“--dramatic reaction.”

I couldn’t help but lean against the counter for a moment, as I felt my knees give a bit with that last sneeze. I still had reason to doubt the Druid, although his plan made sense. And he truly was an ally, he’d proven that a thousand times over. Still, his alliegence—as he regularly made plain—was not to our King, much less to our Kingdom, and still less to me, in any real way. His alliegance was to prophecies, to the Old Religion, and some role that my magic—not me, but my magic—supposedly played in their Grand Design. But at present I could have given a flying codswollop about a grand design. All I wanted was to be at the King’s side, and sooner rather than later. And I wanted this problem solved. So…

“Alright. How soon can the remedy be prepared?”

“I’ll need a list of herbs…” he said, brandishing a rather long scroll, “how would you like to relive your former days are the physician’s apprentice, and help me gather these? I couldn’t possibly entrust it to anyone else, and it will help the spell for you to have as much proximity to the ingredients as poss—”

I did indulge myself in a bit of magic to summon the scroll from his hand. I may or may not have also indulged myself in sticking my tongue out at him. Which of course only promptly caused me to bite said tongue when another great rushing

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRCCCHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

—resounded through the castle. The Druid’s face remained placid, smirk constant, but I could tell inside he was quaking with laughter.

“Alright, alright, I’ll gather your ingredients. Just… help him. Please.”

“Of course I shall. I am ever at your service.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.” I muttered, as I turned to go, already scanning the scroll for the list of elements needed for this remedy.

“Hm, what was that?”

“HHHHHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”

“Sorry, couldn’t hear you over all that, gotta go!”

And with that I rushed from the Druid’s chambers. I suspected I heard a chortle through the closed door.

#snz story #snz fic #male allergies #snz fanfic if you squint maybe #not... really gigantic sneezes?#but like still wildly unrealistic and highly fanciful #super loud sneezes I guess?

26 notes · View notes

pinayelf · 6 years

Text

Tell me about your OC: Companion edition

Rules:

Describe your OC as they are described by your companions.

Show us what they look like!

Tag at least 5 (or more) followers and 5 blogs you follow! :)

Enjoy writing! :}

Thank you for tagging me @pocketpeanuts! ^_^

I’m tagging: @star--nymph @crystal-grace @dirthara-mama @a-shakespearean-in-paris @wardenofmyheart @the-rogue-apostate @serafinetheangel and @midgardian-hero!

I’m going to do my squishy and fluffy girl Imryll, who funnily enough is a companion OC as well.

Varric: Ahh, Squishy? I think the Inquisition only ever got acquainted with her bad temper. She’s actually a bowl of sugar and you wouldn’t know it. I think Tala is tougher and that’s saying a lot. Squishy’s picky with her sweetness and I sort of understand it. Not everyone deserves your good side. And there’s a lot of people here that I think doesn’t deserve her good side - or anyone else’s for the matter.

Cassandra: I will not lie, I was not very fond of her in the beginning. Bear with me - she marched into Haven, claiming that the Inquisitor was her cousin and when we refused to believe her she broke into tears. Then we let her say and was cross with everyone. But when everything settled and we spoke, she was such a comforting presence. She’s quiet yes, but but she listens and despite our differences I know she has a good heart.

Solas: Lady Lavellan...yes. She’s uh, quite talented in alchemy. Though she lets her emotions cloud much of her casting. She has potential in being a good mage, just lacks focus. Although I fear her reaction to me giving her this piece of advice.

Sera: IMMY!!! She’s a lot elfy too that one, but never makes me feel stupid for any of it. I guess because Egghead spends a lot of time making her feel proper dumb for it too. I can tell her anything, which is good and she doesn’t give me that nasty look - you know the type where you know the nobhead you’re talking to thinks you’re crazy? Immy doesn’t do that to me. Lady Inquisitor is loads of fun and I love her, but Immy’s the only one in this horseshit place that tries to understand me. But she needs the stick out of her arse, come on Immy! Let’s have fun!

Vivienne: Lady Imryll has certainly proved to me that first impressions aren’t everything. While yes, she needs to work on her composure amongst many things, she’s extremely intelligent. And surprisingly compassionate, which is a rather far cry from my first impression. I enjoy her company greatly and admittedly she’s helped me see things in a new light - as I have with her. I consider her a dear friend.

Blackwall: Please don’t take this into any offense, but I’ve not much to say about her. She’s quiet and aloof and I don’t think I’ve ever heard her voice. She and Sera are quite close and it’s nice to see them smile. If the Inquisitor believes in her cousin then I believe in her too. She’s made the health poultices taste less...metal-y.

Dorian: She’s smart, I swear to the Maker she and Vivienne could go on about the properties of Royal Elfroot for hours and not get bored. If there weren’t any family resemblance I wouldn’t know that she and Tala were related. You can hear Tala from a mile away. Imryll is a good person despite outward appearances.

The Iron Bull: You know what Imryll reminds me of? Those fancy flossy, fluffy candies from Orlais. The ones that look like clouds. Except maybe the flavor would start out a little tart then become sweet. She doesn’t say much to me, don’t know how she feels about me either really, but she seems like a good one. Definitely easier to talk to Tala though.

Cole: She’s very heavy inside, filled with storm clouds. She wants some light but there’s something in the way and she hasn’t quite pushed it aside. There’s a lot of hurt and sometimes it’s bright red and icy blue all at the same time. But it doesn’t happen often anymore. Yes, she’s getting better.

Bonus, because I can:

Cullen: The Inquisitor’s cousin? Yes...*coughs*...Imryll. We began on the wrong foot, the very wrong foot. But it’s different now - much how I feel different from who I was back in Haven. She might outwardly seem cold but she’s very warm in actuality. We spend a great deal talking and in each other’s company. She’s a very, very dear friend. She doesn’t often join the Inquisitor in her missions so I see her more often.

She is...intelligent and brilliant...and kind. And beautiful.

Oh Maker, please, could you not write that down? I uh...she’s...she’s amazing.

#imryll lavellan #non inquisitor oc #i wanted people's feelings on her to vary

21 notes · View notes

redditnosleep · 7 years

Text

The Coroner’s Son

by kmcooney

My dad used to work as an EMT back in his twenties while he saved up money for med school. Growing up, I always pestered him to tell me gross and gory details from his time in the ambulance. He used to appease me, much to my mother’s disapproval.

“Girls shouldn’t be hearing these kinda stories,” my mother would clip at us from behind a newspaper. My dad would only smirk and wink at me.

“No daughter of mine is gonna be squeamish, that’s for sure,” he’d retort as he’d pat me on the knee. “She’s gonna hear all my stories, no matter how bloody or filled with vomit.”

“Well, if she’s fucked up, it’s your doing,” my mother huffed.

I didn’t care if it wasn’t “girly” to listen to my dad’s stories. I always loved them.

He told me a story about the time where him and his partner found a severed foot hanging from a tree limb in the local park. His buddy and him tried to get it down with a broom and a coat hanger. They were only successful when the foot came crashing down on his partner’s head, covering him in pus and blood. The owner of the foot came limping out of his trailer, cursing at my dad for disturbing his “property.” I also learned about the time when my dad was called over to an old lady’s house on Christmas Eve. No one was hurt, but the old woman was so lonely that she faked a heart attack to get someone to come and sit with her for Christmas Eve dinner. My dad stayed for four courses. He came back every year after that until she passed away one Spring morning. We all attended the funeral with him. And I even heard about the time when he was called to untangle two teenagers who got, uh, piercings stuck in, uh, let’s just say delicate places.

From broken bones to bloody accidents, my dad has seen it all. And he’s shared it all. Well, at least I thought he had. That is until a few hours ago when we polished off the last of the scotch we had on the shelf.

We were sitting on the front porch, watching the rain hammer into the street, collecting into big, sluggish pools. I set my glass down on the end table and leaned back on the rocking chair. We were silent for a minute, listening to the thunder roll across the small, Pennsylvania town.

“What’s the worst thing you ever saw as an EMT?” I asked, more out of boredom than genuine curiosity. I was sure he would reiterate the story about the time he found a kid who was hit by a drunk driver, his stuffed bunny still clutched in his bloody hand.

My dad was silent for so long that I thought he must have fallen asleep. I turned towards him only to find him staring hard into the night, his knuckles gripping the wooden chair so hard that I swore they were starting to look white.

“Pappa?” I murmured, afraid that I had upset him.

He ran his hands through his greying hair and rubbed his temples. He looked at me and smiled sadly.

“Did I ever tell you why I quit?”

“I thought you quit because you got into med school?”

He chuckled. “Nah, nah that wasn’t the reason. I quit a few months before I even began applying.” He took another sip of his drink and swirled the contents around with his pinky. The ice clinked against the glass lightly.

“You know how I told you how I was close with the town folk?”

Since it was such a small town, my dad pretty much knew everyone he worked with. He knew the local cops, the firefighters, the doctors, hell, even the street cleaners. My dad had always told me about his friend “Frank on the force” or his “buddy at the firehouse.” I guess when you’re in such close proximity to other people, relationships tend to bubble.

“Well I never told you about Paul, that’s for sure,” he sighed.

My ears perked up. “No, I don’t think you ever did.”

“Paul was a town coroner. Well, actually, he was the only coroner our town had. See, we were so small that we really only needed one,” he paused then, taking another sip of his diminishing drink.

“I guess you could say that Paul and I were real close. I saw him almost every time we had a bad shift. Which was a lot, back in the day,” he exhaled. “Drunk drivers, idiotic teenagers, angry men who beat up their wives...I guess that all led to some pretty bad shifts.”

The rain began to pound harder against our roof. I scooted my chair closer to my dad so I could hear him over the roaring of the storm. He smiled and patted my knee, his eyes lingering on mine longer than they normally would have.

“Paul had a son named Kenny,” he murmured, his eyes dampening. “He, uh, well he wasn’t exactly the best son. See, he was a big partier. Always up and in some sorta trouble or another. Nothing too crazy, just a few drug busts and some childish fights. Local kids always joked that he worshipped the devil. Ha! I mean, he had a temper, I’d reckon that at least. But Paul always handled it well. He was firm with the boy, maybe too firm. But firm enough to where he made sure that Kenny knew that if he ever got behind the wheel drunk, he would never step foot in their house again.”

My dad paused for a moment, collecting himself. He watched the storm as I watched his aged face, noticing the wrinkles that lined his eyes for the first time. He seemed smaller than I remembered, more human.

“Well, I guess Paul wasn’t firm enough with Kenny. Or maybe Kenny was just going through a phase or something like you teenagers do,” he smiled sadly back at me. “Like when you dyed your hair pink just to piss off your mother. She hated it, but I always thought it was beautiful.”

“Yeah,” I chuckled. “I almost forgot about that.”

“Ha, she was real pissed when you did that, thought you were defying her or something,” my dad took another sip of his drink. “But I knew that you were just testing the boundaries. Maybe Kenny was too.”

“Dad,” I asked softly. “What happened to Kenny?”

“It was a long shift. 15 hours, I’d say. Me and my partner Bud were real tired. It was the night of the full moon. I know that you and your mom think it’s horseshit, but weird stuff always happens on a full moon. I don’t know why. Maybe people just like to cause trouble...or maybe it’s something else. But we were finally nearing the end of the long shift. We had already dealt with a drunken brawl, a beat up wife and some old lady who tried to cut her knickers off with a pairing knife.”

My dad finished the last of his drink, wincing as the scotch hit the back of his throat.

“We were called to the scene of a car accident, a real bad one too. Apparently some car had been going 120mph in a 30mph zone. It barreled right into the side of a tree and wrapped itself around its trunk real good. The whole thing burst into flames on the scene. The fire crew was able to put it out pretty quick, but they needed our help treating the crash victims.”

“When we arrived on the scene, we could tell that it was going to be a lost cause. Three fire trucks were lined up on the side of the road, accompanied by no less than five police cars. This was bad, Bud and I both knew it.”

“Scorch marks littered the road, leading us to the dented and smoking mess of a car that stood before us. Its metal was hot to the touch, glowing dimly against the moonlight. Its front hood was completely wrapped around the massive oak tree before it. We tiptoed around melted metal and pools of blood. Now that I look back on it, those were pretty weird signs. I don’t think a car is supposed to get so hot that the metal melts right off of it. But me and Bud didn’t think about that in the moment, we thought about the victims.”

“Were they still alive?” I asked, my breath caught in my throat.

My dad nodded slightly. “Just barely.”

“How did they survive that kind of a crash?”

“Because they weren’t human.”

I paused, waiting for the punch line that never came. The storm lessoned above us, the rain now falling in gentle drops.

“When we got to the driver’s side, we knew instantly that something was wrong. The driver was burnt to a crisp. Its skin was black and charred and its hands...its, its hands were still wrapped around the steering wheel. We thought for sure it was dead. I mean, it had to be. But it wasn’t. It turned its head to look right at me,” my dad paused for a second, catching his wavering breath.

“I swear, it looked right at me and it spoke. It told me to tell its dad that it was sorry, that it never meant to be a bad boy. It told me that it never meant to kill her, he just got carried away.”

“Dad—“

He put his hand up. “Don’t interrupt me.”

“But—“ my dad looked at me with steely eyes and I closed my mouth.

“It told me all of those things and then it turned its head back to the steering wheel. And it was quiet. It wasn’t breathing anymore. So Bud and I are able to get the driver out of the car and put it in a body bag. Then we move over to the passenger side and I swear, I swear that’s the part that really killed me. It was a kid. A small kid—a girl, I think. She was burnt the same way the driver was, the same impossible way. Her mouth was pulled tight into a wide smile, teeth still intact. She wasn’t breathing either. So we loaded her up too.”

“We talked to the police officers and the firemen for a bit and they all say the same thing. That they didn’t know what happened. They imagine that the driver just lost control because he was going so fast. But no one ever reported a car going that fast on that road. Not even one call came through. In fact, the only call that came through in that location was from an out of date phone booth. And it was static, just static and the name of the road—Devil’s Run. Hell, the phone booth didn’t even work no more! So they don’t know how that call was ever placed to start with.”

“So me and Bud go to move the bodies to the hospital and that’s when we get a better look at the car. It’s still a mess, mind you, but now we have time to examine it. Bud goes up to the plate and he nearly faints. He calls me over and asks if I recognize the numbers that are still intact. And I do. I recognize them better than my own license plate. It’s Paul’s car. I’ve seen it every day of my life.”

“Did Paul...”

My dad shook his head. “No, no I knew Paul was working that night. I had already seen him when I took in the old lady who bled out.”

“So, so it was Kenny?” I asked, clutching the edge of my seat.

My dad shook his head again. “That’s uh, that’s what we thought too. So we call into dispatch to let them know that this would be our last run. We wanted to tell Paul ourselves. So we get to the morgue and Paul is all bright and cheerful, he’s just excited that his shift is ending soon. And we just crack. We crack right then and there in front of him. Bud tells him that we have some bad news and I just stay stone silent. I let Bud tell him that we think we have his son. And the entire time, the entire fucking time, Paul just stares at me. Like he can’t believe I could be such a silent coward.”

“But Paul is brave. He tells us he needs to examine the body—son or not. We protest, tell him that we can find someone else to handle the autopsy, but he persists. He says he has to know. He has to know so he can tell his wife. So I stay with him. I stay with him for hours, watching him work under the harsh fluorescent lights of the lab.”

“And Paul, fuck, Paul held it together. He was stone-faced and straight-backed. And when he completed the autopsy, he turned to stare at me. And he nodded. He said that I was right, that it was Kenny. He told me that Kenny had knee surgery as a kid, and his knee matched the body lying on the table before him. Steel plates and all. Dental records matched too. It was Kenny, alright. There was no going around it.”

“So I drive with Paul back to his wife. He didn’t want to tell her alone. I don’t think anyone could do that alone. So I follow him up to his front door, my hand on his shoulder. He nods at me and opens the door with his key. His wife is sitting on the sofa, drinking a glass of wine. Her happy face bubbles into confusion as she sees me standing there. I guess I must have looked like I’ve seen a ghost or something.”

“Paul leaves me in the doorway and he moves towards her, his back slumping forward. That’s when he starts crying. Shit, he barely even makes it to the couch. He just falls on his knees in front of her and cries, telling her that their son is dead.”

“Oh my god,” I whisper. “That’s horrible.”

My dad shook his head back at me. “That’s not the worst part. See, the wife is just sitting there, listening to her husband, and then her face goes real dark. She’s furious. She smacks Paul hard across the face and tells him that this was the worst prank he’s ever pulled on her. Now, Paul is just dumbfounded. He’s sitting there on his knees in front of her, tears just pouring down his face. His wife stands up and glares at me. I swear her eyes could’ve burned a hole in my head.”

“I don’t know what to do so I start stammering on about how we found Kenny’s body and how Paul identified him by his knee surgery and dental records. Paul’s wife goes real quiet like. Then she looks up towards the stairs and yells Kenny’s name. A few seconds later Kenny comes barreling down the stairs, annoyed that his video game was interrupted.”

“Kenny...Kenny was alive?!” I stammer.

My dad nodded slowly. “We didn’t know what to think. Apparently Kenny had too much to drink at the local pub, so he called a taxi to take him home. He left his car there at the bar.” My dad laughed shortly. “I guess Paul’s firmness really did make an impression on him. With drunk driving, at least.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“Yeah,” my dad said gruffly. “We didn’t either. So Paul and I headed over to the pub where Kenny says he left the car and low and behold, it’s still there. It’s in pristine condition, license plate and all. Not a scratch on it from what we could tell.”

“Then what happened to the car you guys found wrapped around a tree trunk?” I asked.

My dad ran his hands through his hair. “Well, it was still there too. After we found the car at the pub we headed back to the scene of the accident. The car was still there seeing as how the fire crew hadn’t been able to remove it so quickly. Paul was confounded. He said it was the same exact car. There was even a charred disco ball hanging off of the rearview mirror, the same one he had in the car at the pub. It even had the same initials carved into it—PMK, his full name.”

“But that’s...”

“Impossible,” my dad interrupted. “I know. But that’s not the end of the story.”

“What about the people? The two bodies?”

“Well,” my dad said. “That’s what we looked into next. We headed over to the morgue where we left the teenager and the little girl. When we got there, the two bodies were gone. Straight up and vanished. The security footage didn’t notice a thing. And the records? Those were gone too.”

My dad paused for a moment as we both stared off into the distance. The rain had almost stopped entirely, creating a strange calm that seemed almost unsettling rather than enjoyable.

“Dad,” I asked hesitantly. “I know you think one of the bodies was Kenny...but what about the little girl?”

My dad frowned, scratching his head. “That’s the part that scares me most. We don’t know. We looked into missing persons reports and we couldn’t find nothing. Sure, there were a few missing persons reports of little girls, but the bodies were always found. They were always uh, abused to some degree. But not burnt. No, nothing like this. And that boy’s body was Kenny’s, Paul swears by it.”

We were quiet for a long time after that, listening to the night begin to murmur back at us.

“I quit the next day,” my dad whispered. “I never went back to that road or that hospital.”

“What about Paul?” I asked.

My dad shook his head. “Uh, well, he took his own life—after what happened next.”

“What happened, dad?” I asked hesitantly. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hear anymore.

My dad blew his nose into his handkerchief and wiped at his teary eyes. I hadn’t even realized that he had started crying.

“Kenny was a bad kid, he was a bad kid alright,” my dad sobbed. “A few months later they found him in bed with a uh, a little girl. No more than 12. She, she had been dead for a while.”

“How could he...”

“He had been doing it for a while, they reckon. Picking up little kids in that car, touching them....hurting them. Killing them. Keeping them. I don’t, I don’t know how he could have done something like that. But when they caught him, he took off in the car with the girl’s body. He was speeding real fast, too fast.”

“Devil’s Run?” I asked.

My dad just nodded, too emotional to say anything more.

“He crashed, didn’t he?” I probed.

My dad nodded again, blowing his nose into his handkerchief.

“Paul wasn’t the same after that,” he murmured. “Paul gauged his eyes out a month later, on the next full moon. He was in the morgue when he did it. He took a scalpel to his eyeballs and he just, he just kept going. No one found him till morning. And by then, he had cut his arteries out one by one.”

“Dad, I’m so—“

“It’s fine,” he interrupted. “It was a long time ago.”

We sat in silence once more. The crickets had finally come out after the storm, blanketing the night in sound. My dad played with his empty glass, cupping it between his hands.

“Pappa,” I began. “If the crash didn’t happen for a few months later, who did you see in the car that night?”

My dad gently put the glass back on the table, looking up at me stoically.

“I saw Kenny. I saw Kenny and the girl he would murder.”

We sat side by side and watched the full moon rise above the night sky. My dad turned back towards me and grabbed my hand.

“Warnings are everywhere, we just have to listen.” His grip was tighter than normal, almost painful.

“I know, Pappa.”

“Tell your mother I’m sorry,” he pleaded. And then he got up and went back inside.

I’ve been sitting here all night, typing this out. I’m too afraid to go back inside the house—too afraid of what I will find waiting for me. See, my mother has been dead for six months.

#creepy #horror story #premonition #author: kmcooney

91 notes · View notes

iris-writes-things · 4 years

Text

Two Guys and a Baby: Day 12 part 2

Read on AO3, FF.net or under the cut, or read ahead as I write the story as a $1 Patreon patron!

Mr. Shadwell smiled. “Well, wouldya’ look at that. He was in my class through all of primary school, and most of secondary school as well. He and his girlfriend, Delia. Very serious, the two of them. Even as children. But you seem like a free thinking young lad. How are they, nowadays?”

Or, in which sergeant Shadwell asks all the wrong questions but gives all the right answers.

Chapter 17 of 20 Ongoing 2158 words Romance/Humor

“Well, well, if it isn’t mr. Crowley. You’re late, lad. Sleep in?”

Anthony smirked. Ezra hadn’t objected to Anthony wearing his sunglasses for now. It was quite outside, after all and his eyes were still rather red and puffy. On the other hand, Ezra was less than charmed by the return of the fake bravado that came with them. “Oh, you know me, sergeant. Late nights, overnight guests, living the fast life.” He took a quick glance around. “Where’s the missus?”

“The bairn better not have heard any of whatever you did with your overnight guests, or you’ll have me to answer to, son! And take those sunglasses off, you look like those damned mafia.”

Ezra’s first reaction was to firmly, but not painfully, elbow Anthony in the side. For what it was worth, he did take off his sunglasses. Ezra’s second reaction was to shoot Anthony a scolding look and tell the man behind the counter, “What he means to say, is that he’s later than you might have expected due to circumstances out of our collective control. And Adam slept very well, actually. Thank you for your concern.”

“You must be his young man, then,” the old man Anthony had addressed simply as ‘sergeant’ concluded. He extended a flour-dusted hand to Ezra and a dry biscuit to Adam, who vigorously chomped down on it. “Thomas Shadwell. The wife’s at home. We’re getting the WiFis installed for the grandkids.”

Ezra smiled and shook his hand. “Ezra Fell. I run the bookshop a few streets away.”

“Right. I’ve seen you around there before,” mr. Shadwell said before his brow creased in deep thought. “Fell, huh? I know that name. Any relation to John Fell?”

Ezra turned to Anthony, who shrugged his shoulders, then back to mr. Shadwell. “Actually, yes. John Fell was my father.”

“You know I can hear you, right?” Anthony remarked, but there was no bite to it. Ezra noticed the way Anthony was looking at him from the corner of his eye, gauging his reaction. Anthony took his hand in reassurance, making sure he was okay.

For the first time since that morning, Ezra found himself laughing. “I like to think that I am. Thank you, mr. Shadwell.”

“How are they, nowadays?”

“Sergeant, you can’t just—” Anthony started, but when Ezra squeezed his hand, he quieted down.

“It’s alright, Anthony, dear,” Ezra told him, but he could still feel Anthony’s gaze burning holes in his shoulder and he could feel tears pricking behind his eyes. “I’m sorry mr. Shadwell, but I believe you misheard. My father passed away some years ago. As for my mother…” He took a deep, shaking breath and blinked the tears out of his eyes, but before he could continue, he was interrupted.

“Say no more,” said mr. Shadwell. He waved towards a booth between the counter and the window. “You go on and take a seat. I’ll be right with you with cocoa and those chocolate croissants you like so much. Private Crowley, make yourself useful and get the baby that high chair from the corner.”

“Yessir!” Anthony said with a mock salute.

With not a second to spare for a single thought, Ezra was handed Adam as Antony turned on his heel and the older man disappeared in the direction of the espresso machine. He had no choice but to sit down in the booth that was pointed out to him. It wasn’t long before Anthony returned with the high chair and took Adam back from him to place him in it. Ezra was still a bit dazed when Anthony came to sit down next to him, but one question burned on his tongue.

“Why did you bring me here?” Ezra asked quietly. “Did you know he knew my parents?” he hissed, but Anthony only raised his hands in self-defense.

“Scout’s honor. I had no idea.”

“Then why?” Ezra leveled a look at Anthony that made the man squirm in his seat.

“I don’t know. I just… look, my mum was in school with madam Tracy— Marjorie. His wife, who runs this shop with him. They were best friends. I just come here because I felt at home here after she, that’s to say my mum… you know. I was gonna come here even if you hadn’t tagged along, but you did.”

‘Of course,’ Ezra thought. Despite being almost a decade younger, Anthony had been through all of this before five years ago. And if Ashtoreth and Marjorie were really as close as he thought, then visiting the bakery would be the next best thing to—

“Marvels of the universe,” mr. Shadwell commented as he sat down at the table with them, placing a tray of baked sweets and three mugs of cocoa in front of them. “In my opinion at least. I’m a firm believer that things happen for a reason.”

“Dunno, sarge. Sounds like a load of horseshit to me,” Anthony said mopily and took a sip from his cocoa, gasping and hissing as he burned his tongue.

Mr. Shadwell laughed out loud and even Ezra cracked a smile. “Careful, my dear,” he said before taking a sip on his own, finding the cocoa comfortably warm, but not enough to hurt. “Mr. Shadwell, I don’t say this lightly, but I believe your cocoa might be the best I’ve ever had. Thank you so much. For everything.”

“Don’t mention it. Return customers get special privileges, even on their first visit.”

Ezra nodded, smiling.

“So…” mr. Shadwell started again, unsure in his tone. “Your mother then, passed away recently, has she?”

Ezra nodded, frowning. He felt the lump in his throat steadily returning. “Just last night. I got the call at a quarter past three in the morning.” He sniffled. “My siblings are taking care of everything. Making sure the wake is exactly the way she would have wanted it.”

“Which leaves you to…?”

“Write the eulogy,” Ezra stated simply. “But I try to look at it from the bright side, because that way, at least one of my qualities is being acknowledged in the family.”

Mr. Shadwell nodded, peering into his own cocoa as if at the bottom of it lay the answer to life, the universe, everything, before looking back up at Ezra. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You seem like a good lad to me, you don't deserve bein’ treated like that.”

Ezra nodded before rubbing a tear out of his eye. “I’m inclined to agree with you, mr. Shadwell.”

“I’m not done yet, son.” In an unexpected move, mr. Shadwell reached across the table and took Ezra’s hands in his.

Ezra gasped. Even Anthony recoiled.

“I didn’t used to be very good about this… you know. In fact, I’m still not very good about it - ever since I met madam Tracy, I’ve been getting better at it, though. I’m learning.”

“Homosexuality, sergeant. You’re allowed to say it,” Anthony sassed. Ezra would have elbowed him in the side again if he could.

“I said, ‘I’m learning’,” mr. Shadwell insisted.

Anthony raised his hands as a show of surrender.

“You know, you look about my son’s age,” mr. Shadwell continued. “He’s a carpenter, that one. Give him wood and some nails and he can build anything. He’s got a loving wife, excitable kids and most importantly, he’s happy. And I’m so proud of him. Now look at yourself, Ezra. You’re a writer, you create entire worlds just with words. You’ve got yourself a loving… Crowley and you have little Adam,”

‘For all of two days,’ Ezra pointedly didn’t say.

“And I would be so, so proud of you if you were my son. Because from what I’ve seen and heard, you two are happy as can be together. And… I know I’m not your father, much less your mother, but Marjorie always says that kind of thing can be just as meaningful coming from another parent and I’m so sure she would agree with me that I’m just gonna say that we are proud of you.”

The bakery was quiet for a moment, save for the sounds Adam made while he ate his biscuits. Somehow, Ezra’s heart felt lighter. He was beginning to see why Anthony felt so at home in this place and with these people.

“Angel?” Anthony said softly.

When Ezra turned towards him, he noticed with a start that Anthony was reaching for his face. A soft, gentle palm came to rest on his cheek as the pad of his thumb stroked at the bags under Ezra’s eye. It came away wet. Had he been crying again?

“Ah… I’m sorry. Thank you, my dear. (“No big deal.”) And thank you for your kind words as well, mr. Shadwell. But… we’ve only just met. Are you sure all of that was really... appropriate to say to someone who is practically a stranger to you.”

Mr. Shadwell smiled a mischievous smile and patted Ezra’s hands before letting them go. “Trust me, lad. The last ten days, Crowley here has been in and out of the shop, waxing poetic about his ‘talented, genius forbidden love’, this ‘ethereal beauty’, ‘an angel with a heart of gold and a halo of enlightenment’. I guess you could say we were already warmed up to you.”

Ezra glanced next to him. Anthony was starting to turn red at the ears. He smiled and took Anthony’s hand. “Thank you. Both of you. I can’t begin to tell you what this means to me.”

They stayed like that for the entire afternoon. Talking about everything and nothing. Mr. Shadwell had scared away what few customers dared to cross the threshold of the bakery, and was about to do so again when an older lady walked in.

“I expected better from you than to turn away customers, mr. S,” the woman said with a tinny voice and a smile on her face. “And I hope you didn’t forget about date night.”

A look of recognition flashed on Anthony’s face and he turned in his seat to greet the woman. “Good to see you, madam Tracy. Got the WiFi installed alright?”

This madam Tracy was a charming woman, Ezra could tell. She was no younger than seventy-five, but she wore her wrinkles, as well as a brightly coloured paisley dress, with the grace and confidence of a queen and the energy she radiated was so powerful that a sun might as well have walked into the shop.

“I believe I did, Anthony,” she said as she walked up to the table and greeted Adam with a gentle stroke over his golden curls. “Hello, little prince.”

Anthony took a deep breath and turned to her again. “Madam Tracy, I’d like for you to meet Ezra. He’s my, er,” he hesitated, glancing at Ezra.

The realization hit Ezra like a brick to the face. The B-word. No one had said it. No one had made it, as it were, ‘official’. It normally wasn’t like Anthony to hesitate like this, but given the current situation, as well as a slew of previous situations*, Ezra understood he might still have some reservations.

(*As detailed in Day 4.)

Ezra laced his fingers with Anthony’s in reassurance and spoke up. “I’m his boyfriend.”

A sound left Anthony and his face reddened as madam Tracy clasped her hands together.

“Oh, it’s a pleasure to meet you, dearie. I don’t know why I expected you to be younger. Anthony has always had a thing for older men.”

Anthony hid his face in his free hand. “Oh my God…”

“Marjorie,” mr. Shadwell spoke up, turning to madam Tracy. “Ezra and Crowley here have had a pretty rough start to their day, what do you say we treat them to dinner?”

“Oh no—” Anthony started to protest.

“We couldn’t,” Ezra said, joining in.

“You can and you will,” madam Tracy insisted.

Mr. Shadwell got up and gestured for Ezra and Anthony to do the same as madam Tracy lifted Adam from his chair. “Come on, lads. You heard the boss, up you get.”

Now, Ezra had read before that family isn’t necessarily the cards you’re dealt at birth. It’s also the choices you make along the way and the people you keep close to yourself. Ezra had never quite felt it before in the way he did tonight, sitting next to the man he loved most in the world and the child that had brought them together, and across from proud parents that weren’t necessarily theirs, but were there anyway.

And even though he wasn’t sure what tomorrow would bring, he knew there would be no more sadness today.

#EN #fanfic #Good Omens #Human AU #ineffable husbands

0 notes

charmingsoup · 7 years

Text

I knew it. I fucking knew it. I did everything in the house by myself for three weeks, just like my mom always does it. I watered all the plants every week, except for the cacti, I vacuumed the entire house, I did laundry (not just for me, I added things that were already in laundry from my mom and dad even though we made the deal that everybody needs to do their own laundry and ironing several weeks ago), I cooked, I cleaned, I did groceries, I took care of the bunny, I ironed (again, not just for me), I cleaned both bathrooms. But three plants seem to be dying (they are not dead) and there’s one load of laundry I didn’t do, so now my mom accuses me of not doing anything for three weeks. According to my dad, I’m making her feel like it’s all up to her, which is just the biggest load of horseshit I’ve ever heard. I took two weeks off, I’ve been working since december and I still did everything around the house. It’s just never enough. My parents will always think I’m lazy, no matter how hard I work, no matter how stressed I am. They won’t be satisfied until I drop dead from a heart attack age 35 because of exhaustion.

#carlijn is upset #carlijn is done with her parents #carlijn needs to move out

1 note · View note

sunbrights · 7 years

Text

fic: by the claw of dragon (6/7)

fandom: danganronpa characters/pairings: natsumi kuzuryuu, fuyuhiko kuzuryuu, peko pekoyama + 77th class ensemble, et al. kuzupeko. character tags will be updated on AO3 with plot-relevant characters as chapters are posted. rating: m summary: The Kuzuryuu Clan stands on the precipice of the greatest era of its history. Kuzuryuu Natsumi promises to be the strongest leader the clan has ever seen, the Overlord of the South born again. That Hopes’s Peak Academy would select her for it’s 77th class was assumed, not hoped for.

To the younger Kuzuryuu son, everything is as it’s meant to be.

“I’m still fucking pissed at you,” Fuyuhiko says, when they get back to her dorm room. “Don’t forget that.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She sits on the bed, and sets to work twisting her boots off her feet. Her arches are starting to ache. “Like I could ever forget, since you won’t shut up about it.”

She waits for him to snap at her, or shout, or try to stomp out of the room. Natsumi won’t let him leave; they’re settling this here and now, whether he likes it or not. She makes eye contact with Peko on the other side of the room, and she bows her head, message heard.

But Fuyuhiko doesn’t reach for the doorknob. He stays where he is, against the wall with his arms crossed over his middle, and he sighs, bone-deep.

Irritation prickles at her. Where does he get off, acting like he’s the one that’s been so put-upon here? After she’s spent weeks chasing him down, trying to make it right?

He says, “What are you doing, Natsumi?”

“I’m trying to get you to sit down and talk to me,” she answers, “in case you haven’t gotten, I dunno, any of the eight trillion messages I sent you.”

“I’m not talking about that.”

“Of course you’re not,” she mutters, and yanks her other shoe off too hard. It pinches a nerve in her ankle that sends a shot of pain all the way up to her hip.

He ignores her. “I’m talking about whatever the hell that was with Satou back there.”

“What about it?”

Whatever response he was expecting from her, that apparently wasn’t it. She stares at him, steady, while he searches for words. “It was a lot,” he says finally. “Even for you.”

“It was effective,” she corrects. She reaches one arm out towards her desk, where her laptop is sitting. Peko steps forward to pass it to her, and Fuyuhiko tracks her with his eyes. “What? Are you seriously going to side with Satou now?”

“Satou’s a bitch,” he snaps. “Don’t put words in my mouth.” She opens her computer in her lap, and sees him scowl in her periphery. “Hey! What the hell? I’m fucking talking to you.”

“Yeah, talking about stupid shit that doesn’t matter! Let me know when you fall off your high horse, I’m gonna be shopping for a new phone.”

“Dad said he wasn’t buying you a new one.”

“Well, good thing Dad’s not here then, huh?”

“So that’s it then?” She ignores him, and types what she’s looking for into the search bar. She wants something slim and pretty and expensive. “You can do whatever the hell you feel like, but fuck everybody else and what they want?”

She rolls her eyes. “There it is,” she says. She doesn’t look up from her keyboard. “You’re so melodramatic, you know that? I did it as much for you as I did for me.”

“That’s the biggest load of horseshit I’ve ever heard in my life. In what fucking universe would this be what I want?”

“Oh, please. If you had your way, you’d be happy to sit in the background for the rest of your life, letting everybody else take the credit until nobody even remembers your name.”

“Don’t you fucking dare—”

“Would you have told them?” she demands, loud enough to drown him out. She looks at him now, over the edge of her screen. The phone model she’s looking at is jet black, all curved lines and metal edges. “After all that work we did, after all that shit you had to go through, if Mom and Dad had asked, would you have told them about any of it? Would you have told them that all of it would’ve gone under if you hadn’t helped me?”

He doesn’t say anything, and that’s answer enough. She tosses up both hands. “Yeah. So save the speech, okay? I’m sick of hearing it from you.”

“Even if that is true,” he says. “What in the fuck gives you the right to make that decision for me?”

“We were supposed to work together.” He rolls his eyes hard enough that the back of his head bounces against the wall. “I thought you’d at least trust me enough to talk to me before flipping out like this.”

“Trust you? You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go along with this dumbass plan of yours! How the fuck am I supposed to trust you?”

Her throat sticks. It hurts when she swallows around it.

“I’m sorry,” she says, which is nothing at all like the speech she’d already had planned out in her head. “Okay?”

He looks up at her. His eyes are wary, but at least not angry, which is as much progress as she’s gotten in weeks. She’ll take it.

“I should’ve said something to you,” she says. “But be honest. Would you have said yes if I did?”

He only says, “No.”

“Exactly. You’re not some big man of mystery, you know. You’re just my little brother.” He glares at her, but it’s more what she’s used to. It’s built out of irritation and pettiness, not hatred. “I have to make up for everything I fucked up last year. I have to do all that and do triple as well on my practical exam to shut up any of those fucking judges who don’t think I’m worthwhile. I need your help. I need you here.” She feels the corners of her eyes start to sting. She takes a quick breath, and focuses again on her laptop screen. “I wasn’t bullshitting you when I said we were supposed to work together.”

Peko has been silent this entire time. She’s still silent now, but she’s not staring resolutely at the back wall anymore, determined to be a piece of furniture, oblivious to their shouting match. She watches Fuyuhiko while he thinks.

“Fine,” he says finally.

“Fine, you’ll help?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Natsumi feels something in her chest start to loosen. “But,” he goes on, “if we’re making a decision, we make the decision. Got it? I’m not putting up with this behind-my-back bullshit a second time.”

“I can do that,” she says. It’s an easy enough promise to make. The worst thing she’ll ever have to ask him is already behind them.

He nods, and that's the end of it. "I should get back," he says. "I'll talk to you later, alright?"

Peko looks over at her, but Natsumi shakes her head, just enough. He slips out the door, letting it lock behind him, and her stomach sinks with relief, not disappointment. She goes back to shopping for her phone; she thinks she’s found the one she wants, slim and pretty, with the model in rose gold.

She stops going to class.

There’s no point; from the very start it was always just an appeal to Yukizome’s ego. Nothing about a standard curriculum is going to help her advance the clan, and with bridges officially burned with Sonia, there’s no one left in the 77th with anything worth giving her, anymore.

If there’s no benefit, there’s no reason to waste time on it. It’s embarrassing that it took her this long to figure that out.

The rest of the school makes it easy. News spreads like wildfire, even through the main course, and within the week people who were avoiding her gaze before are now stepping completely out of her way in the halls, and people who were unafraid to stare now suddenly have more interesting things to occupy themselves with when she walks by.

She puts her energy into new plans and new deals instead. Enoshima puts them in contact with Hisakawa, and the agreement goes off without a hitch; they give her a reduced interest rate in exchange for a locked-in pipeline. Struggling models, struggling designers, bright-eyed hopefuls: Hisakawa puts all of them on Natsumi’s doorstep first. There’s no deception involved; all of them know what they’re getting into, and where they’re accepting money from. Fuyuhiko knows how to make the numbers work, and Natsumi knows how to get the yes.

It’s less showy than what she was trying to do before, but it’s only the beginning. It’s the step she skipped before, laying the foundation to support future endeavors even when the wind starts to blow sideways. It’s what her father does every day; all Natsumi needs is to do it better.

“Holy shit,” Enoshima says, when she drops into an empty seat at Natsumi and Peko’s lunch table. She’s the only one still brazen enough to sit with them uninvited. “You would not believe what a cluster this day has been.” She tilts her chin up. “What’s shakin’, Peko-senpai?”

Peko doesn’t say anything.

Enoshima slurps on her shake. It’s dark purple today; blackberries, Natsumi thinks. Antioxidants and Vitamin C. “Dark and mysterious. Nice.”

Natsumi tolerates her only because her information is good. The underbelly of the fashion world, it turns out, has a lot of slightly-open doors, all of them waiting for Natsumi to stick her foot into. Enoshima points her to the most profitable ones. She’s never asked for anything for herself, but that only means she knows how to play the game, or thinks she does. Let her think she’ll get a favor out of it later on down the line. Natsumi’s happy to cash in until then.

“Do you have something for me, Enoshima-kun?” she asks.

Enoshima pouts. “You’re awful at foreplay, senpai. You can’t skip right to the main event like that. What about, ‘What’s got you down in the dumps, Enoshima-kun? Exactly what kind of cluster are we talking about, Enoshima-kun? Did you know your skin is glowing today, Enoshima-kun?’”

“Do you or don’t you?”

Her teeth shine when she smiles. “You caught me. My skin looks amazing, right? Not a pore in sight! I’ve been waiting all day for someone to mention it.”

“Then keep waiting,” Natsumi snaps. “Either hand over something worthwhile or get lost.”

Enoshima clucks her tongue. “You’re so serious lately.” She pulls a thin, square envelope from inside her shirt, and slides it to the edge of Natsumi’s tray. “There. You’re welcome. ‘Cause I got a feeling you’re really going to like this one.”

Natsumi reaches to take it, but Enoshima pins it to the table with one bright nail before she can. “But. Before we talk business, I wanna get on the gossip train.” Natsumi jerks the envelope out from under her. Enoshima lets her, grinning. “What’s the news? D’you know which way it’s gonna land yet? I have to know.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Natsumi answers, and she doesn’t, so obviously it can’t be important. She splits the top of the envelope with her nail; the note is a letter of introduction for a production facility in Osaka requesting a loan for capital.

Enoshima keeps talking. “Oh, c’mon, you don’t have to be coy about it,” she says. “We’re partners now, right? What happens with you affects me too, you know! I have a right to know if all my good investments are about to go up in a dumpster fire.”

Natsumi is only half-listening, focused more on the gall of someone requesting their own interest rates, but she hears investments and dumpster fire. When she looks up, Enoshima is still smiling at her. “Why would you think that?”

“Well,” Enoshima says. “Fuyuhiko-kun’s not really an A-list gangster, if you know what I mean, but he’s still part of the family, you know? I always heard good things about him. If that turns out to be wrong, I wanna know it’s...” she searches for a word, painted nails against her lips, “handled.”

Natsumi grits her teeth. “What’s handled?”

“Come on! Is Kirigiri giving him the boot or not?” Heads around the dining hall swivel in their direction. Enoshima leans forward, and picks now to lower her voice. “I mean, it takes a special kind of failure to get kicked out of the reserve course, they’re basically just walking bank accounts over there. I didn’t think you were that kind of family.”

They’re not, Natsumi wants to say, but the words aren’t there when she reaches for them. She glares over her shoulder, and the other students who’d been dumb enough to try to eavesdrop abruptly lose interest. Her hands curl into fists on the table, and humiliation burns in her cheeks.

If it’s not true, who would have enough of a death wish to play a prank like that on her?

If it is true, why does Enoshima know about it before she does?

She doesn’t need to say anything; the grin falls off Enoshima’s face all on its own. She actually looks uncertain, for the first time since Natsumi met her. Her eyes slide to the side, but she’s not just looking away, or avoiding Natsumi’s gaze. She’s looking at Peko.

“Oh,” she says. “Family secret?”

When Natsumi looks at Peko, Peko is looking at her. There are lines of confusion in her face, or maybe anxiety, and Natsumi realizes that for the first time in her life, she’s not sure which it is. “Did you know about this?” she demands.

“No,” Peko replies, at once. It should make Natsumi feel better, but instead the coil of frustration in her belly curls tighter. “I spoke to Fuyuhiko-sama last night, but he never mentioned—”

“Because if you knew,” Natsumi says over her, “and you didn’t tell me, we’re going to have a problem. Understand?”

Peko startles, her eyes big behind her glasses. Enoshima is, for once, silent.

“Young mistress,” Peko manages, head low. “My only priorities are your safety, and your needs. I would not hide something of this magnitude from you, even if your brother requested it.”

“Good.” Natsumi focuses again on her food. The sight of it turns her stomach, now. “You’re done, Enoshima-kun.”

“Hey,” Enoshima says. “I meant what I said. If your family can’t keep it together—”

“What are you trying to get at, huh? You’re saying I should do anything before talking to my brother? Because of something you say you heard?” Enoshima only stares at her, her mouth a thin line. “If there’s a problem, it’ll get handled, believe me. You’re done, Enoshima-kun.”

Enoshima stands up, one hand slapped on the table. “Fine, fine. You’re the boss, after all. Let’s just hope you know what you’re doing better than he does, senpai.”

Her shake gurgles as she goes.

She’s waiting on the steps of the west building when her brother comes out after school. The reserve course students who’d been loitering there all scattered the moment she sat down, eyes low and heads together.

The wide main doors of the west building creak when they open; there are a few, long seconds of tense silence before they creak back shut again.

“I thought you’d be training with Peko,” Fuyuhiko says behind her.

“I don’t train with Peko,” she answers. She doesn’t look up at him. “I’m not the one swinging a sword around.”

“You know what I mean.”

“This is more important.” She pats the space beside her on the step. He sits, but only after he spends a drawn-out moment staring at the back of her head.

“Can we make it quick?” he says, “I’ve got a lot of homework.” He shrugs the strap of his bag off his shoulder before he sits. Probably he wants her to think that him rubbing his neck is from the weight of the bag, but he should know better by now.

“Sure,” she says, conversational, “if you wanna come clean right now instead of pretending like you’ve ever been any good at lying.”

He sucks in a breath. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“See? That’s exactly what I mean!” She copies him, a big gasping breath with both hands clapped over her mouth. He glares at her, shoulders drawn back. “It’s like you don’t even try.”

“What the fuck do you want me to say?”

“The truth, for starters. Since when are we all about keeping secrets?”

There’s no point in asking. He looks away, arms crossed over his knees, and she knows the answer.

She wonders what else there is that she still doesn’t know.

“I’m getting expelled,” he says. His voice, his expression: it’s all flat, like he doesn’t even care. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“You’re not getting expelled,” she tells him, because there’s no reason for him to say it like the decision’s already been made. He only raises his eyebrows at her. “What did you do?”

He stretches his legs out on the steps. “Apparently,” he says, “I attacked another student. Hit her to the ground and then threatened her in front of witnesses. Like a real certified moron.” He picks at a loose piling on his knee. He’s never been this calm about anything in his life, except this, apparently. “Sound familiar?”

“Satou’s saying that?”

“The school’s saying that. You should’ve seen Kirigiri’s face, trying to feed me that fucking fairy tale.”

“Bullshit they are. I’ll—”

The look he throws her is so serious she almost doesn’t recognize him. “You’re not doing anything,” he says. “Leave it alone.”

She almost chokes on her own indignation. “Are you kidding me?” she demands. “No, I won’t leave it alone. They don’t have the right to walk all over us like this. If they want to punish me, they can sack up and face me. “

“They’re covering this shit up specifically so that you don’t get punished, dumbass. You really think I’m the one Satou wants gone?” Natsumi opens her mouth, but he doesn’t give her the chance to answer. “No. You shut up and listen. They don’t give a shit about one reserve course kid, all right? They don’t give a shit about a hundred reserve course kids. They want to keep you in the main course, and so do we. So just leave it alone, and you’ve got a clean slate. All you have to do is give this stupid fucking grudge match with Satou a rest already.”

She stares at him. She doesn’t know when he turned into this, someone so ready to roll over and be beaten. Maybe he’s let the reserve course get into his head. Maybe he really just hates it here that much.

Natsumi decides she doesn’t care.

“Satou got what was coming to her,” she says, before he can interrupt her again. “There was a problem and I handled it. What was I supposed to do, let her go around trashing us to anyone who would listen? People need to know that I’m not going to fucking stand for that.”

“Satou’s not shit, and everybody knows it. Is it worth dealing with all this bullshit now, just to shut her up?”

“Yes,” she snaps, “because nothing’s going to happen! I’m not letting them think they can just lead us around by the nose like a couple of fucking dogs. Do you have any idea how that would make us look? How it would make me look?”

“How in the hell is this suddenly all about you? Again?” She can’t help it; she rolls her eyes, and that only makes it worse. He blows up in her face, enough that the birds resting on the steps below them scatter into the bushes. “Dammit, this is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you! For once in your whole fucking life, will you just listen to what I want? For once.”

“The clan comes first,” she snaps back. “It sure as hell comes before your stupid feelings. How is it that I’m the one who has to explain that to you? This isn’t about you or me, it’s about our reputation! What are people, our people, going to think if it gets out that I can’t even handle a bunch of school teachers? That I’m willing to just let my little brother take the fall because I’m too afraid of what they might do to me?”

She finds ice in her chest and holds onto it, lets it seep through her until she can be the same cold steel as her father. “This school doesn’t control me,” she says. “Nobody controls me. Understand?”

Fuyuhiko doesn’t have an answer. He stares at her, jaw clenched.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “We both know I sure as hell don’t.” He pushes himself up to standing. He won’t look at her. “I’m asking you to leave it alone, Natsumi,” he says, shrugging his bag higher on his shoulder. “So do whatever you want. You always do anyway.”

She hugs her knees against her chest and watches him go with her jaw clamped shut. If she doesn’t do that, she’ll shout something after him, and she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction. He’s her brother. He’s family. That’s supposed to count for something to them.

In her head, she can see the panicked slide of Enoshima’s gaze, from Natsumi’s face to Peko’s: looking for help, or guidance, or some kind of cue. She’s not stupid. She’s seen it before.

She can’t clamp her jaw down on that. “Did you tell Peko?” she blurts.

He stops, one foot on the lowest step, and twists back toward her. “What?”

“Did you tell Peko?” she says again.

“I heard what you said, dumbass. Why the fuck would I tell Peko if I already decided I wasn’t going to tell you?”

She doesn’t know. It doesn’t stop her from needing the answer. “Did you or didn’t you?”

“No.” He bites the end of the syllable off. “The only one I told is Hinata, and that was only because he was there when Kirigiri called me back. Alright? Fuck.”

She hugs her knees closer to her chest. “Whatever you think,” she tells him, “I’m the one who has to make the decisions. I’m the one everybody’s gonna be looking at when something goes wrong. Me. So I’m doing what I have to do, for us. That’s all I’ve ever been doing.”

He doesn’t answer. He turns his back again, and leaves her there alone on the steps.

Peko’s still in the dojo when Natsumi gets back. She’s not going through her forms, she’s practicing on the training dummies, and it isn’t with her shinai, it’s with her katana. When Natsumi slides the door open, she’s split one of the dummies open from hip to shoulder, shards of wood shattering and scattering out onto the floor.

She holds the cut, the far tip of her blade perfectly aligned with her shoulder. There’s a small semicircle of other students watching her; they take one look at Natsumi and slink away with their heads down, either into the locker rooms or out into the hall.

Peko turns toward her, both hands clasped over the hilt of her weapon. She bows deeply at the waist. “Young mistress.”

“I talked to my brother,” Natsumi says. Peko doesn’t straighten. “I believe you when you say he didn’t tell you anything.”

Peko breathes, a long, slow exhale, but all she says is, “Thank you, young mistress.”

“I should’ve trusted you more.” Peko doesn’t react. It’s at the point where it’s annoying, not respectful. “Will you stand up already? I’m trying to apologize.”

“That’s not necessary.” She obeys, though, drawing herself back up to full height. “Fuyuhiko-sama and I are close. It’s not unreasonable to think he might have confided in me. You were well within your rights to confirm what I told you.”

“I know that.” Peko lowers her eyes, deferential. “This isn’t about him. If there’s anybody I can trust in this place, it’s you. Just you. It was dumb of me to forget that.”

Natsumi can read the uncertainty in the way Peko’s fingers curl in at her sides. She wants to look up, but isn’t letting herself. “You can trust me,” she says to the floor. “But I’m sure that Fuyuhiko-sama would always—”

“I said,” Natsumi interrupts, and Peko cuts herself obediently off, “this isn’t about him. The only thing that matters is you and me. I need to be sure you’re on my side. Got it? I need to know you’ll be there, no matter what happens.”

For the first time since Natsumi walked in, Peko looks up of her own volition. Her eyes are bright and her gaze is firm. “Always.”

“Good,” Natsumi says. “Are you done with your training?”

“I am if you need me to be. Have you made a decision on how to address the issue with Fuyuhiko-sama?”

“Yeah. But we don’t have to go anywhere right now.” She picks a spot on one of the empty benches and sits cross-legged. “I’m not in a rush, and it’s important you finish, so.” She waves one hand. Peko nods, and drops into her cooldown forms.

She doesn’t have a partner, but that’s never stopped her before. Her eyes narrow against an imaginary opponent, and she moves through each form with liquid ease. The slim line of her katana makes the whole thing look a hundred times more graceful than her clunky shinai ever did.

Natsumi counts them in her head, the way she has since they were children.

Ippon-me.

Nihon-me.

Sanbon-me.

The school’s computer network goes down in the early hours of the morning. It comes back up within twenty minutes, but the database of student records gets corrupted in the process. There are backups to restore from, but restoring that much data for that many people takes time.

(That’s how the senior class’s Ultimate Hacker explains it to her, anyway, face illuminated by the blue glow of her computer screen as lines and lines of data scroll past. Natsumi doesn’t care either way. She doesn’t need to understand it, she just needs it to happen.)

Principal Kirigiri apologizes to the student body in a morning announcement. “Continue on as normal,” he says. “We hope to have everything back in order in the next few days.”

A few days is plenty of time.

Hinata is harder to track down than she expects. She realizes that the only pieces of his schedule she knows are the ones where it intersects with her brother’s, which won’t work for her, this time. He doesn’t seem to be in any clubs, play any sports, or have many other friends; it’s something she should have expected from a friend of her brother’s, maybe, but that doesn’t make it any less of a pain.

She manages it, though. Obviously. It only takes her a day to figure out that the place he always vanishes off to after school is a fountain in one of the courtyards between the east building and the west building. She catches him on his way there, walking fast through the courtyard. He sees her, and then he immediately ducks his head to pretend he didn’t.

“Hey!” she shouts, and he stops in his tracks, shoulders drawn up to his ears. “Hinata-kun!”

She has to hand it to him: he’s not stupid enough to try and bolt into the bushes. He resigns himself to being caught and turns towards her, smile strained. “Uh.” He fidgets with the knot of his tie until it’s loose against his collar. “Hi, Kuzuryuu-san. Your brother’s not here.”

“Do I look stupid to you?” He purses his lips, but shakes his head. “No. I know he’s not here, I was looking for you.”

“Me?” His eyes dart from side-to-side, wary. “Uh, I don’t….”

“We got off on the wrong foot before,” she says, before he can finish the thought. “You know? So I think we should start over. A friend of my brother’s is a friend of mine, right?”

He rolls his shoulders back, his expression turning stony. There it is again, Hinata’s slim spine. “You seemed pretty convinced I wasn’t his friend, before,” he says, tone flat.

“That was then,” she says. “This is now. That’s what starting over means, isn’t it?”

“Okay,” he says, but there’s still a sardonic bent to it she doesn’t appreciate. She bites her tongue. She needs this to work on the first try. “Why bother now, then?”

“My brother is— stressed out,” she says. “Recent... events haven’t made things any better. I need your help to help him.” She raises her eyebrows at him. “I mean, if he’s your friend. That’s what friends do, right?”

Hinata manages to keep his face carefully neutral, and he only fidgets a little bit. If she were stupid, it might actually fool her. “Sorry, Kuzuryuu-san,” he says. “I don’t know what you mean. He’s seemed fine to me.”

“You can give up the act,” she tells him. “I already know.”

To his credit, Hinata doesn’t break easily. He looks away, a sort of longing half-glance towards the fountain she’s holding him up from, but he keeps his mouth shut. The most he gives her is an anemic little shrug, and nothing else.

“I know they’re trying to expel him,” she says. She doesn’t have the patience to try and unravel him the old-fashioned way. “Okay? Happy now?”

The put-on neutrality on his face gives way. “Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, and she thinks he might actually be. “He didn’t want you to know, and he said that you might—” His brain must catch up with his mouth, because he cuts himself off. “I was just being careful.”

“Maybe next time lie like you actually mean it,” she tells him. “If I didn’t know it would’ve taken me all of, oh, two seconds to figure out something was up.”

“Thanks,” he says, and this time when he looks away it’s to hide the shallow roll of his eyes. She pretends not to notice, for his sake. “Do you actually have a plan or what?”

“Of course I have a plan. Who do you think I am?” She pulls tickets from her blouse pocket, and holds them out to him between two fingers. “Here.”

He looks at her hand like she’s offering him the detonator of a bomb. “What are they?”

“Movie tickets, stupid. My brother’s been waiting months for this dumb explode-y action flick to come out. It’s all he talked about, all freaking summer. So I got premiere tickets.” She waves them under his nose. “Will you just take them?”

He has to stretch his arm all the way out, because apparently he doesn’t want to take a single step closer to her. She makes sure to grin in his face when he makes brief eye contact, right before he plucks the tickets out of her hands.

“My brother loves to wallow,” she says. “If there was a talent for drowning yourself in self-pity, he’d be the top candidate. What he needs is a distraction, so.“ She flicks the tickets with her middle finger, just to see Hinata flinch. It’s worth it. “They’re for Thursday night. You can just go out into the city after school. Tell him you won them in a contest or something, I don’t care.”

Hinata is frowning. He squints up at her. “There’s only two.”

“Yeah, and?”

“You’re not going to come?”

It interrupts her rhythm. She hadn’t expected him to notice or care about that part. “That garbage puts me to sleep,” she says. Hinata doesn’t say anything, so she keeps on talking. “Besides, the whole point is for him to actually relax for once, right? That’s not gonna happen if I’m there. So.”

He hovers, one hand twisting the strap of his bag. The paper tickets make a faint scratching sound when he rubs them thoughtfully together. It grates on her nerves.

“What now?” she demands.

“Nothing. I just—” He chews his bottom lip. When he looks up at her, his eyes are intense. “You know your brother cares about you, right, Kuzuryuu-san?”

The hiccup in her rhythm turns into a pothole. She fumbles her words. “What kind of stupid question is that?” Hinata shrugs, but doesn’t take the question back. Natsumi folds her arms tight over her middle. “Of course I know that. Why do you think I’m doing this?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “You’re right. Sorry.”

She doesn’t think he’s sorry at all, this time.

“So you’ll do it?” she presses anyway. “Thursday, after school.”

“Yeah.” He’s smiling at her when he tucks the tickets into his bag, even if it’s small. “I think you’re right, he could use the distraction. Thanks, Kuzuryuu-san.”

“Great!” He jumps when she claps him on the shoulder. “You’re not so useless after all, Hinata-kun. We might even be a good team.” She turns away from him, and calls back over her shoulder: “Have fun with Nanami-san! I think she likes you.”

She leaves him there, standing dumbfounded in the courtyard with his mouth hanging open. She’s not worried. Hinata’s not bright, but he hasn’t done wrong by her brother so far.

It’ll work.

The day of the main event, she goes to afternoon homeroom for the first time in weeks. Not for any particular reason; she’s spent the last three days doing nothing but preparing, and by the end of the school day there’s nothing left to do but wait. She doesn’t feel like spending it in silence in the dojo, not with the way her pulse has been racing since lunch, and by the start of the period she finds herself in the doorway, one hand on the frame.

Yukizome is beside herself. It’s almost embarrassing. “Kuzuryuu-san! Pekoyama-san!” Natsumi jerks her hands back before she can clasp them, but Yukizome only clasps her own together instead. “Welcome back. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

The rest of the class is less enthused. A year ago, the room would have been buzzing with quiet conversation. Today, it’s dead silent.

“Look who finally decided to show her face,” Saionji jeers, when Natsumi puts her bag down. “Not so afraid of us anymore? I’m impressed, since your muscle’s basically brain-dead. That’s gotta take a lot of courage.”

Natsumi stands over her desk. Peko stands behind her. “You tell me, Saionji-san. You’ve got the whole story, right? You know how easy it is for me to crush a bug.”

“Girls,” Yukizome interrupts. Her voice is strained. “Please.”

“Hiyoko-chan,” Koizumi whispers. “Don’t. She’s not worth the energy.”

Saionji stares at her a few seconds more, and then she tosses her head. “Whatever. Like I care how this bitch spends her time. Let’s just get this over with.”

Yukizome tries. Nobody could deny that. She gives her lecture the way she always does, with enthusiasm and drawn diagrams on the blackboard. She tries to get them to contribute, the way she always does, with leading questions and discussion prompts, but no one picks up the cues she lays down.

Natsumi isn’t listening anyway. She’s distracted by the way her own knee is bouncing beneath her desk, and how it won’t stop even when she tries to force it. She doesn’t even notice when her phone lights up with a new message, not right away.

fuyu-chan 14:42 just reminding you: you’re not gonna be able to bribe your way out of this

fuyu-chan 14:42 it’s a start though

She breathes out. Everything’s in place. The rest of the class feels at once like an eternity and an eyeblink, but the bell rings eventually, and that’s when her timer really starts.

No turning back now.

While she’s still gathering her things together, Yukizome sets a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Before you go, Kuzuryuu-san,” she says, smiling, “would you mind helping me clean up today? I could use the extra hands. And I thought maybe we could catch up.“

Natsumi shrugs her off. “Sorry,” she says, already halfway out the door. “Got plans already.”

Yukizome doesn’t try to stop her.

Satou dropped photography club after middle school. Natsumi wasn’t speaking to her then, so she never heard exactly why, but she doesn’t think it takes a genius to figure out. No one could ever live up to Koizumi’s impossible standards; not even Satou, who always spent all her time talking them up.

The point is: when she dropped photography, she picked up archery. She’s mediocre, Natsumi’s heard, which doesn’t surprise her in the least. Satou was never an athlete. She was never much of anything. Natsumi doesn’t know why she bothers.

It’s just as well, though. She has Satou’s mediocrity to thank now, for the late hour and the empty hallway and the darkness in this classroom. She waits with Peko in silence until she loses track of minutes and starts measuring out time based on the pounding of her own pulse in her ears instead.

Satou drops her bag when Natsumi opens the door into the hall. Brightly colored arrows rattle against the floor when they spill out from one of the outside pockets, cheerful blues and reds and yellows rolling in all directions.

She stoops to pick them up, but freezes when Natsumi whistles, long and loud. “Wow, Satou-san! You’re here late. Did you have a good workout?”

Satou stands slowly, the few arrows she’d managed to grab clutched close against her chest. She looks back over her shoulder, like it will make a difference; the end of the hallway is swallowed by shadows, untouched by the few after-hours fluorescent bulbs over their heads.

“Don’t worry,” Natsumi says to the back of her head. “It’s just you and me. And Peko-chan, obviously.”

“You can’t intimidate me, Natsumi,” Satou says, twisting back around. She lifts her chin, but it trembles. “I won’t let you.”

“Intimidate?” Natsumi echoes. “Who, me? Come on, now, Satou-san. You’ve got it all wrong. That’s not what I’m here for at all.”

“Kuzuryuu-kun is going to get expelled,” Satou tells her. “You can try to delay it all you want, but it’s going to happen.” She gains confidence the longer she talks, and that was always the problem with her, even back in middle school. She could always convince herself of anything, even when the opposite was staring her right in the face. “I didn’t want it to. He didn’t do anything. But you only have yourself to blame for it.”

“Oh, really?” Natsumi considers the ceiling. “Because I bet I could think of a few other people worth blaming.”

She smiles, but the effect is lost, a little bit. Satou’s eyes keep jumping behind her left shoulder instead of staying on her face.

“Hey,” she snaps. “Don’t look at her. Look at me.”

Satou obeys, with effort. Her knuckles are white where they’re wrapped around the small bundle of arrows.

“Like I was saying.” Natsumi lets her expression melt back into the smile. “I’m not here to intimidate anybody. I mean, that sort of thing takes forever, you know? And I’ve already spent way more time in this dump than I ever wanted to. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t be here at all. I’m missing out on a movie night with my brother to be here with you right now, did you know that?”

Satou doesn’t have much of a poker face. The lines around her eyes pinch, confusion and anxiety mixed together.

“But! Business is business,” Natsumi goes on. “And I have responsibilities, you know. It’s a bummer sometimes, but what can you do?” She tilts her head, and Peko steps out around her. Today she only has her katana. “You started this. It’s just professional courtesy for me to finish it.”

And finally, for what feels like the first time ever, finally Satou understands.

“Wait,” she says, and chokes on the syllable. The arrows in her hands clatter to the floor. “You’re not…. You can’t—”

“I can’t what?” Natsumi interrupts. “Defend myself against a shameless attack on my family and my clan? Did you really think I was just going to let this slide? Let you and Kirigiri try to strongarm me into playing by your rules?” Satou is white. Natsumi claps one hand against her own cheek. “Wow, you really don’t know me at all, do you?”

“I— I’ll take back the complaint,” Satou tries. It could almost be funny, how quick that tune changed. “I’ll make sure Principal Kirigiri lets Kuzuryuu-kun stay, just—”

“You still think this is about him?” Natsumi laughs, because she has to. Satou stumbles backwards, and the heel of her shoe sends one of her dropped arrows skidding across the floor. “This isn’t even about you. Are you really just that dumb, Satou-san? I even explained it to you.”

“Then what… what can I….”

Natsumi lets her smile drop. She crosses both arms under her chest. “Nothing,” she says. “What’s done is done. I gave you plenty of warnings. What did I say before?” She waits. Satou seems to have run out of words. “I said, we’re not going to have this conversation again. Peko-chan?”

The draw of Peko’s sword is visceral. Natsumi feels it like another limb, like it’s her blade, her will.

“No,” Satou whispers, a sharp intake of breath. “No, no. Wait, please—”

Natsumi throws out a few fingers. That’s all it takes.

Satou tries to scream, but either her breath is gone or Natsumi’s head is too full to hear it. It doesn’t matter. Peko is faster than her. Peko is faster than all of them. Natsumi only sees a blurred arc of silver in the corner of her eye, and she can’t tell where in it Peko’s braids stop and the curve of her blade begins.

There is a wet, thick sound, and then it’s over.

The spill of Satou’s blood squelches when her body hits the floor. It drips from the end of Peko’s sword, and she flicks off the excess in a messy line at her feet. Natsumi can taste metal in the back of her throat.

When they were twelve, she and Satou and Koizumi had all gone shopping together. Natsumi had bought a pink dress. It’s still in her closet, all the way at the back.

“Young mistress,” Peko says. “I am finished.”

Natsumi forces herself to look down. It’s not the first dead body she’s ever seen, and it’s not even the first time she’s watched Peko kill on her behalf, but it is the first time it’s been on her order. It won’t be the last. She refuses to cower in the face of it.

Satou’s dropped arrows cut abrupt, colorful lines through the dark pool around her. It makes the whole scene look ridiculous, like Satou had slipped and fallen in a child’s finger painting. Her hair is spread out around her in a wide ring, rapidly soaking through with blood. Her arm is bent at an awkward angle; Natsumi thinks that it must be painful, before she remembers.

Satou’s eyes are open. They stare up at her, wide and glassy. Those last moments of fear didn’t get erased by death; they were warped and mangled and frozen there, and Natsumi thinks she won’t be able to imagine any other expression on Satou’s face for the rest of her life.

Natsumi’s stomach heaves. Acid burns the back of her throat, but she doesn’t let it up; she looks at the coagulated clumps of blood in Satou’s hair, and swallows it back down.

Her voice is unsteady when she says, “Peko.”

If Peko notices or cares, she doesn’t make any indication. Her expression is blank when she looks over, but her eyes are clear. The front of her uniform is splattered with blood. There’s a sharp line of it across her cheek.

“Clean this up,” Natsumi says. “I’ve got somewhere I need to be.”

“Yes.”

She leaves through the west building’s front doors. The evening air from the courtyard outside is fresh and cool and clean when it hits her face.

There’s more than half the school year left before the practical exams. The identities of the judges are never released this early, but Natsumi knows they’ve already been chosen. Getting their names isn’t hard. The whole school is cowering at her feet now, and that includes the desk jockeys that send out the Academy memos.

The head judge this year is a board member named Amachi Satomi. She was a homeroom teacher for the senior class for forty years before she retired, and is a graduate of the Academy herself. Her talent at the time had been Ultimate Negotiator.

Natsumi leaves a newspaper from the day after on Amachi’s desk, the top headline reading STUDENT MURDERED AT HOPE’S PEAK ACADEMY. There’s an aerial shot of the east building underneath it, the same image that’s used in all of the school’s promotional materials. Natsumi drives her knife through the image of the school’s tall front gates, until the polished wood of Amachi’s desk cracks and splinters.

She writes a second headline beneath the first in permanent marker, to be sure that she and Amachi have an understanding. There’s been an issue with people not getting her the first time, lately.

THE KUZURYUU CLAN ABIDES NO INSULT

#natsumi kuzuryuu #fuyuhiko kuzuryuu #peko pekoyama #kuzupeko #danganronpa #FINALLYYYYY #i wanted to get this chapter up this weekend so badly y'all #just one more left!!#i actually can't believe that i'm finally working on the last chapter of this #hang on to your butts it only gets worse from here #fic: by the claw of dragon #sunwrites

7 notes · View notes

ylla · 7 years

Text

Friday Night Gurus - Chapter 5

Series: JJBA Ships: josuyasu, koichi/yukako (others will eventually happen too, but im tagging as i go) Tags: celebrity au, modern au, pining, recreational drug use (smoking that wacky tabaccy), meeting some of the fam, dirty talk, dicc succing, josuke and okuyasu go on a learning journey together Rating: E (YEAHHHH TIME FOR SOME SEXY STUFF)

AO3 link

LONG TIME, NO SEE. Sorry for taking 10000 years to update. I’ve got a 20 hour unpaid internship, 20 hour work week, and a full class load on top of it all. I’m slowly losing my mind! :’D But, I’ve been plugging along at this for awhile, and now it is bearing fruit, so I hope that you all will enjoy the new chapter. I can’t give a time frame of when I’ll have the next one up, as I absolutely have to update TMBTP and also finish a commission, but hopefully it will be sooner than later!

Also, fair warning, this chapter is where the fic earns it’s explicit rating :’) I hope the smut isn’t awfully written, and if it is, it’s due to me hooting like a 12 year old the entire time I wrote it.

A FEW THINGS OF NOTE:

- manxom has given me the good content, and helped me flesh out FNG so much, that i gave them co-author status! They’re real, and strong, and my friend, and has really helped me shape the AU!

- puffle-tuff who is a friend and boi drew Oku and Josuke watching RHoA together! FOLLOW THEIR ART BLOG, THEY’RE SO GOOD!

- emberandcelica made a spotify playlist for FNG, and it’s really good! So go check it out when you get the chance!

As always, remember to comment on the fic, kudos the fic, and bookmark the fic to see more of the same fic content.

The worst part of being a world-famous musician, in Josuke’s opinion, was the tedious amount of boring business shit you ended up sitting through. Contracts, scheduling interviews, planning photoshoots; it felt endless at times. Really, being in the business of being yourself could be so dreadful, and Josuke avoided as much as he could. He was a busy man, with a 3 week young relationship with an amazing guy and a load of other horseshit to take care of. The only way Koichi could get him to stay in one place long enough to go over everything was to corner him while they ate at a restaurant, which was exactly what was happening at that moment as they waited for their significant others to appear. “Morioh Records wants you to come by sometime in October to talk about your contract with the new CEO,” Koichi passed Josuke the email he printed out. Josuke made a face while reading it before sliding it back across the table. Morioh Records was his label, and while they had always been good to him, Josuke hadn’t heard anything great about the new guy in charge. He scowled, “I’m good through the next year, why does he wanna talk to me about it already?” Koichi shrugged, “He wants to get all of his ducks in a row, I guess.” “What’s his name again?” “Kira Yoshikage.” “Never heard of him,” Josuke sniffed. “He was some anonymous board member that somehow got appointed as CEO when the other guy retired.” Koichi pulled out another piece of paper, “Last thing, I swear,” he quickly added when Josuke rolled his eyes so hard, they looked like they were about to pop out of his head, “Calvin Klein called, they wanna do another underwear ad campaign with you.” Josuke perked up at that, “Really? Hell yeah, I’m down.” “Thought you would be. I’ll email them and say you’re up for it,” Koichi looked at his phone with a slight frown, “I figured Yukako and Okuyasu would be here by now. Wonder where they are…” As if summoned by magic, Okuyasu and Yukako blew into the private room they were in. Oku had a strange look on his face as he plopped down in the chair beside Josuke, “Keicho has a girlfriend he didn’t tell me about,” he said in lieu of a greeting. Yukako pressed a kiss on Koichi’s forehead before sitting in the chair beside him, “He doesn’t have a girlfriend.” Okuyasu pointed a finger at her, “They go on dates. And you should’ve told me.” “They aren’t official, and it’s none of my business,” she replied, inspecting her nails. Josuke furrowed his eyebrows, “Wait, what?” Instead of responding, Okuyasu fished his phone out of his pocket, and opened up a text message before handing it off to Josuke, “It’s easier to just read it.” Clearly, it was something that was bothering his boyfriend; Josuke turned his eyes to a group chat titled DICKHEAD. Okuyasu: yooooo who wants to get wings with me tonight????? Okuyasu: keicho u gotta come with Big Bro💣: No. Okuyasu: well y the fuck not??? Big Bro💣: I’m busy. Okuyasu: too busy for ur little brother??? breakin my heart over here ;)n(; ☠Fungi☠: oku what the fuck is that face Okuyasu: ITS ME!!! IM SAD!!!! Okuyasu: bro what r u doin thats more important than eatin food ☠Fungi☠: yeah keicho, way to be transparent with your bros Big Bro💣: It’s none of your concern. Go eat gross shit with your boyfriend and don’t annoy me with it. :| A bunch of text messages were Okuyasu and Yuuya needling Keicho, with him responding with various ways of saying ‘shut the fuck up’, until Yukako spoke. YuYu Kakosho👊💥: He’s probably seeing that girl I caught him with back in March. Okuyasu: WHAT ☠Fungi☠: oh shit Toilet Hazmat🚽☣: kek Okuyasu: U DIDNT TELL ME??? Big Bro💣: Goddamn you, Yukako. You said you wouldn’t say anything. YuYu Kakosho👊💥: I’m tired of having my phone blow up. Get it out of your systems now. ☠Fungi☠: you got a girlfriend, keicho?? Someone strike up the band Okuyasu: Y DIDNT U TELL US Big Bro💣: 1) She’s not my girlfriend, and 2) You two screaming is exactly why I didn’t. The rest of the messages were just Yuuya sending suggestive emojis and Keicho threatening to inflict violence upon his person. “Sooo, he’s seeing someone?” Josuke asked. Okuyasu scowled, “Yeah, that blonde-haired fuck. He didn’t tell me.” He sunk down in his chair, face sullen, “Why would he hide that from me?” “Because Keicho never tells anyone anything about his personal life,” Yukako interjected, face neutral. “I’m his brother—” She raised an eyebrow, “I’ve only known you people for three years, and I can see why Keicho Nijimura keeps everything close to the chest.” Koichi had busied himself with his phone, “Don’t take it to heart, he most likely has his reasons.” “Still, we’re all the only family we got left. I don’t wanna hear about things in his life from other people.” Yukako sighed exasperatedly, “If it makes you feel better, the only reason I know this is because I happened to see him with her at that coffee shop.” “What were they doing? What does she look like?” Josuke leaned in. He didn’t care about Keicho or his love life, but he sure did love hot gossip. “Talking. He had his hand on her arm, she was blushing and giggling. Typical flirting.” Yukako took a sip of Koichi’s tea, “She’s not like any of the other girls I’ve ever seen him with; no tattoos or piercings. Has long, curly brown hair, blue eyes, petite. I’d put her at about 5'2 or 5'3. Very pretty." "Damn girl, you really have an eye for that kind of thing,” Josuke said thoughtfully, “How did he find out you knew and how did he buy your silence.” “Took a picture of them together, sent it to him later that night. Got a promise that he’d do me favors in exchange for me not repeating what I saw.” Josuke whistled, “Cold-blooded.” Yukako merely shrugged, “That’s the nature of the beast.” Okuyasu sighed, but said nothing. Josuke frowned a little at him, “Since you don’t really have plans, do you wanna get pizza with me and some of my family tonight?” Oku waved a hand, “Don’t need ya to take pity on me.” At that, Josuke rolled his eyes, “I’m not, I want you to come out with us. You gotta meet them anyways.” “Hmm…who’s gonna be there?” “Polnareff, his boyfriend, my nephew, his husband, and their daughter. Pol’s sister may be there too.” “…Does this place have wings?” “All you can eat.” Okuyasu smacked his hand on the table, grin replacing his scowl, “I’m sold.” “Good shit, I’ll let them know,” Josuke brushed his hand over the one Oku smacked down onto the table, “You’ll like 'em, they’re good people.” “Josuke,” Koichi interrupted, “I emailed the Calvin Klein people. They’re going to get in touch with us to schedule the shoot.” “C-Calvin Klein?” Okuyasu stuttered. “Yeah, doing another underwear ad campaign for them.” “O-oh. That’s…good…” Okuyasu’s face was blood red. Before Josuke could ask what was up, a waiter sprang up to take their orders. Questions for another time.

Meeting at Pineapple Larry’s Pizzeria for dinner, followed by a couple hours at the arcade was a tradition that dated back ten years. Originally it had just been Polnareff, his boyfriend, Josuke’s nephew, and his now husband, but then grew to include Pol’s little sister, Josuke’s niece, and Josuke himself. When he and Okuyasu breezed in, Josuke was in the process of warning him that his nephew was taciturn, his niece would bully him into playing Street Fighter II, and that everyone was great, save for the fact that they liked to put pineapple on their pizza. Josuke couldn’t give anymore heads up when his 5 year old niece went flying into his boyfriend’s arms. “Oku!!!" "Hey, it’s my favorite bunhead!” Okuyasu caught her in a hug, “How you been, Jolyne Cuisine?” “Good!” “Uh, what?” Josuke asked, perplexed. Jolyne waved at her uncle, “Hi, uncle Josuke!” Okuyasu did a double take, “Uncle?” She looked between the two of them, “Uncle Josuke, do you know Oku too??” “Yeah, he’s my boyfriend–” Jolyne gasped and hugged Okuyasu harder, “Really?? Wowie, that’s awesome!” She grinned, her front left tooth missing, “Now I’m gonna have two cool uncles.” Josuke felt his face go crimson, and was only mildly relieved when he saw the same color mirrored on Oku’s face. A man with flaming red hair, cherry earrings, and tattoos strolled up to them, “Jo, don’t choke him.” “'Kay, daddy! I’m gonna tell pops that Oku’s here!!” She hopped down, and took off towards the back of the restaurant. “Sorry, Okuyasu,” Noriaki Kujo smiled, “You know how she can get.” “S'fine, I uh, didn’t know you guys were related?” Noriaki laughed, “Yeah, Josuke’s technically my uncle.” “What the fuck, dude, why didn’t you tell me you knew Oku??” Josuke asked incredulously. “Where would the fun be in that?” Noriaki responded with a toss of his singular hair curl. Josuke learned as they walked to the table that Okuyasu had been patronizing Hierophant Green, Noriaki’s tattoo parlor, for a long time. “He did me and Keicho’s memorial tattoos for our mom,” Okuyasu explained as they followed Jolyne to the back. “Not to mention all those cover-ups,” Noriaki shook his head, “Whoever allowed you two to get those monstrosities should be hanged.” Jotaro, Jolyne, and Polnareff were already at the table; Jotaro was reading through a thick stack of papers, but threw up a hand in acknowledgement that he was aware of their presence. “Bonsoir,” Polnareff greeted them, “Mo is running late, but he’ll be here soon,” his face turned into a grimace, “And my precious little sister will not be joining us today, as she has a date with some man she has yet to introduce me to.” Noriaki took his place beside Jotaro, “Is it the same one she’s been seeing all this time?” “Yes!” Polnareff groused, hands up in the air. “They aren’t even dating! She says it’s 'casual’ and 'non-exclusive’,” he used air quotes while talking. Josuke and Okuyasu sat down. “Not to change the subject or anything,” Josuke started, “But the fact that all of you have met Okuyasu before really took the wind out of my sails.” “He hasn’t met Av yet.” Jotaro pointed out, eyes not leaving his paper. “That is true,” Okuyasu said helpfully, “I ain’t met him yet.” He rubbed Josuke’s shoulder, “It’s all gravy.” Their orders were taken and well on their way on coming out before Avdol showed up. “Apologies,” he said, while kissing the top of Jolyne’s head, then Polnareff’s cheek, “Had a student with a crisis, but it’s all resolved now.” He turned his attention to Okuyasu, “And this must be the boyfriend I’ve heard so much about,” Avdol stuck a hand out, eyes twinkling, “Mohammed Avdol, pleased to make your acquaintance. Everyone calls me Mo or Avdol, so feel free to address me as either.” “Uh, likewise,” Okuyasu shook his hand nervously, “Polnareff talks about you alot.” Josuke snorted. That was the understatement of the century. Avdol elbowed Polnareff as he settled down beside him, “Hopefully you’ve heard nothing, but good things.” Polnareff was affronted, “Excusez-moi? I’ve done nothing, but sing your praises to everyone. Perhaps I should start revealing the truth.” “And what truths do you have to reveal, Jean?” “That you are mean to me, you insult me, you don’t appreciate anything I–” Jotaro rolled up his substantial pile of papers and started smacking Polnareff in the head, much to Jolyne’s amusement, “Shut up, no one cares.” The Frenchman would not be silenced, “Betrayed by my own flesh and blood!” “We aren’t related, jackass.” Thankfully, the pizzas and Oku’s wings picked the right time to come out. Josuke made a face at the Pineapple Larry’s Pineapple Larry Special, which was a Hawaiian pizza. Which Josuke hated with an almost irrational passion, so he scarfed down his little margherita pizza (Oku tried the pineapple. Final verdict: pretty damn good). “Hey Oku, when’s ya birthday?” Jolyne asked between shoveling huge bites of pizza in her mouth. Okuyasu was on what was probably his 27th wing, “October 10th.” Josuke spat his drink all over Polnareff, who immediately started shrieking and ran off to the bathroom, “That’s literally two weeks away! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” “It never came up.” “We gotta throw ya a party,” Josuke whipped his phone out. “Nah nah, don’t worry about it,” Okuyasu put his hands up, “S'fine, dude.” Josuke rubbed his arm with one hand while texting with his other, “Don’t worry about it, we’ll get you and a bunch of other people shitfaced.” Okuyasu was about to protest, but Noriaki waved him down, “Might as well accept it, Okuyasu.” He stood up and stretched, “You guys ready to head to the arcade?” Jolyne hopped up and posed, “I’m ready!” Avdol followed suit, “I’ll go coax Jean out of the bathroom.” As Avdol walked away, Okuyasu leaned over to whisper in Josuke’s ear, “Hey, let’s go back to my place after we get done here.” “Sounds good, sunshine." "Come on guys, I gotta beat you in Street Fighter!!” She started tugging on their shirt sleeves, “Losers have to buy ice cream!!” “You’re on, kid.” Josuke challanged.

“How the fuck did she get so good at Street Fighter?” Oku asked as he finished their shared joint, blowing the smoke into Josuke’s mouth. Josuke held it, then blew it out before answering, “Noriaki is a big nerd. He’s rubbed off on her.” “She’s five.” Josuke shrugged, “I beat Super Mario World when I was five.” They were sitting on a bench underneath a large open window facing out towards the back of Okuyasu’s apartment complex. The arcade trip had been a lot of fun, if you didn’t mind getting schooled at Street Fighter II by a 5 year old playing Blanka. This was the first time Josuke had been to Oku’s apartment in the entire time they’d know each other. It was nice, but didn’t feel like anyone lived in it. 'I hate being alone, so I go sleep in one of Keicho’s spare rooms, Yuuya’s couch, or with you. This place don’t really feel like home, ya know,’ had been Okuyasu’s explanation. The major upside to this place was that the Official Head Roadie and Weedman of Arrowhead, Hazamada, lived directly below Okuyasu. The two of them collaborated on a sick beat while pounding on the door to Hazamada’s apartment, inadvertently pummeling him in the face when he poked his head out to see who was knocking. Josuke almost pissed his pants from laughter; they got a shitty little joint, two middle fingers, and door slammed in their faces for their trouble.

When they lit up, Josuke straddled Oku’s lap and taught him how to shotgun smoke. It took a couple of tries, but eventually he got the hang of it. What followed was intense grinding and sloppy kisses. Josuke was very away of the problem poking at him, but was content with letting Oku twist in the wind for a bit. Then they fell into comfortable conversation, interrupted by the occasional tongue action. “Speaking of games,” Okuyasu stood up and stretched, his shoulders popping in a way that sounded painful, “let’s play something.” “What you got in mind?” “Hmm…” Okuyasu tapped his chin, “How about Metroid Prime 2? I never finished it.” He walked over to his entertainment stand, “I’ll get the Wii hooked up, could you go get my strategy guide for it?” “Why not just look up a FAQ for it?” Okuyasu kept his back turned to Josuke as he sat down to fiddle with the cords, “That guide’s got pictures. Sometimes reading a lot makes my head hurt, so they help.” Josuke nodded, but spoke when he remembered Okuyasu couldn’t see him, “That’s fair. Where is it?” “There’s a big box with "Books stuff” written on the side, filled with old magazines and shit in my spare room. It’s probably in there.“ Okuyasu’s spare room was were odds and ends went to die. The room was full of boxes and clutter that needed sifted through. At first, Josuke thought locating the box Okuyasu had indicated would be an impossible task, but miraculously, he was able to find it lickity-split. The box in question was filled with well-worn magazines and tattered strategy guides. It took a minute, but Josuke was able to find what he was looking for quickly. However, curiosity got the better of him, and he couldn’t help but sit on the floor, and peruse a few of the magazines. Guitar World, Kerrang!, Alternative Press, Rolling Stones; Okuyasu had quite the catalogue. There was a Rolling Stone in particular that, for whatever reason, drew him in. He picked it up and made to flip through it, but noticed that there were some pages stuck together. With care, Josuke peeled the pages apart to find his very first Calvin Klein underwear ad. The ad spanned two pages: one page featured him in nothing but briefs, biting his lip while staring into the camera, arms behind his head. The opposite page was more or less the same, except he had one hand on his chest, the other on a lollipop stick; his tongue peaked out of his open mouth, curled around the lollipop. The pages were covered in some residue. What the fuck did Oku spill on— he thought to himself, until a voice in his head interrupted. It’s semen. He masturbated to your undie ad. This was his spank bank. Josuke became very aware of how sweaty and red-faced he had become. Gently, he rose from the floor, guide and magazine in hand, and returned to the living room. "About time,” Okuyasu said, tongue slightly poking out of his mouth as he struggled to kill an Ing Warrior, “Was gonna go send a search and rescue party to find ya.” Josuke said nothing in response. Instead, he held up the spunk-covered pages, “I see you were a fan of my ad work.” Okuyasu’s face went on a journey from confusion to terrified. “Uhm…” he fidgeted nervously, already starting to sweat, “I can explain…” If he was about to explain it away, Josuke didn’t even give him a chance. He all but leapt onto Oku, shoving his tongue down his throat. A sloppy, heated makeout session ensued, with both of them groping at each other like a pack of horny teenagers. “You know,” Josuke panted, pulling away long enough to catch his breath, “We never cashed in that raincheck.” Before Okuyasu could respond, Josuke slid out of his lap, down in-between his knees. “I wanna make good on it,” Josuke rubbed the pronounced bulge in Okuyasu’s pants, “Can I suck you off, babe?” It seemed that Oku had been rendered completely speechless by that question. After a few seconds of processing what Josuke said, he could only manage to nod dumbly at his boyfriend. Josuke flashed him a wicked grin before pulling Oku’s basketball shorts and boxer briefs down in one go. A slight moan fell out of his mouth when he saw what awaited him. Okuyasu had a huge dick, and Josuke was delighted. It was long, thick, and throbbing; he couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. “Oh fuck, baby,” Josuke bit his lower lip. “Wh-what?” Oku found his voice again. Josuke glanced up at him, and found that his face was puce and covered in sweat. “You look tasty.” With that, Josuke swiped his tongue all the way down Oku’s shaft, pleased at the whimper it elicited from him. He wrapped his hand around Okuyasu’s cock, pumping it roughly, “Is this what you thought about when you jerked it to me? What my mouth would feel like? How I’d sound when I’d beg for your cock?”

“God, yes,” Okuyasu gasped, covering his ruddy face with his hands.

“No baby, look at me when I fuck you with my mouth.”

Okuyasu didn’t remove his hands, but he peaked at Josuke through his spread fingers, eyes wide. Good enough, Josuke thought to himself as he took Oku’s dick into his mouth. Unfortunately, Josuke wasn’t blessed enough to not have a gag reflex, but he made up for it by harshly jerking the inches of Okuyasu he couldn’t fit into his mouth.

Not that his boyfriend seemed to mind. He was too busy moaning and cursing as Josuke prayed at the altar that was his dong.

Either his succ game was too strong, Okuyasu hadn’t known the touch of another person upon his penis in a long time, or the fact it was just Josuke Higashi-goddamn-kata giving Oku’s dick the business, Okuyasu panted out, “I’m close,” after a few minutes.

Josuke pulled back off his dick, still working the shaft, “Where do you want to cum, beautiful?”

“Your mouth,” Okuyasu grunted, voice rough.

Josuke pressed his tongue against the head of Oku’s cock, “Be a good boy and fill my mouth up. Coat my tongue.”

The dirty talk sent Okuyasu over the edge; he let out a single “Fuck!” as he spent himself in Josuke’s mouth.

Hot cum glazed Josuke’s tongue. He waited patiently until Oku was done spurting before showing him the load, and then making a big show of swallowing it. Unable to help himself, Josuke licked the head of his cock clean, revealing in the shudders that he felt pass through Okuyasu and the winded expression on his face.

Josuke stood up, feeling triumphant, “I’m gonna get a soda. You want some water?” He didn’t bother to wait for a response, as he walked into the kitchen.

As he pulled out a can of soda, he was acutely aware of his own boner. It was a problem that needed to be taken care of, but he just sucked the soul out of Okuyasu through his dick, so Josuke felt that it might be poor form to demand a blowjob. Perhaps later—

He was brought out of his thoughts when he felt Okuyasu press up against him from behind, palming Josuke’s dick through his sweats, teeth on his neck. Unconsciously, Josuke hissed, arching his back into his boyfriend. “I’m not the kinda guy to leave someone hanging,” Okuyasu spoke into his ear, voice like sandpaper, “I’m gonna suck you off, angel. Turn around.”

Josuke didn’t need to be told twice. He spun around, pulling his dick out; Oku backed him up against the counter, before kneeling in front of him. As if hypnotized, Okuyasu gently wrapped his callused fingers around Josuke’s cock, slightly stroking. Josuke’s breath hitched at every stroke. After a couple of minutes he groaned, “You’re killing me, dude.”

“S-sorry,” Okuyasu whispered sheepishly, “Jus’ appreciating the view.” As if he was ravenous, he dove down onto Josuke’s cock, taking it all the way to the back of his throat in one go. “Jesus H. Christ, do you not have a gag reflex,” Josuke stuttered out, completely taken aback. He didn’t get a response, only a devilish look from his boyfriend.

Curling his fingers into Okuyasu’s unmade hair, Josuke just tried to enjoy the ride. He was unable to keep his hips still; the longer he felt Oku’s hot tongue or throat clamp around his cock, Josuke thrusted more and more into his mouth.

Okuyasu pulled his dick out of his mouth for a moment, “You can facefuck me if you want.”

“You sure?”

Yet again, he received a response in the form of a look and the feeling of Oku’s throat against the head of his dick.

Not one to deny such a polite request, Josuke snapped his hips, fucking Oku’s mouth. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head; he wondered if this is how he’d fuck Okuyasu’s ass eventually. The thought of it made Josuke’s inside clench, and he couldn’t stop himself from groaning out Okuyasu’s name over and over again while he shot jets of cum down his throat. If he wasn’t so spent, he would feel embarrassed how quickly he came, but goddamn did that feel good.

Okuyasu waited like a good boy until Josuke pulled out of his mouth before he swallowed and stood up. Both of them eyed each other with worn out expressions. Josuke was the first to break the silence, leaning over and softly kissing Okuyasu, who returned it, “Metroid?”

“Metroid.”

“You know, if I went back in time and told myself a year ago that Josuke Higashikata would suck my soul out through my dick, I’d whoop my own ass for being a liar.”

Josuke snorted, eyes trained on his phone’s screen as he organized Okuyasu’s birthday party, “I ain’t a succubus, Oku.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, demon.” Oku was brows were furrowed, trying to not die while fighting Quadraxis.

“So, you jerked it to that ad of me, like, pretty frequently?”

Okuyasu sighed, cheeks going pink, “Yeah. I bought that issue when I saw those pictures in there. It gave me a lot of inspiration.”

“Man, that really feeds my ego.”

“Don’t be getting a big head, Higashikata. It’s already massive.”

“Fuck you, there’s nothing wrong with my head!!”

Okuyasu cackled, which quickly turned into a groan of frustration as he was squished to death by Quadraxis, “Fuck this robotic piece of shit. I’m gonna go to his house and burn it down.”

“He lives in the game, you can’t do that.”

“I know, I know,” he rubbed his face, “Still wanna though.” He looked over at Josuke, “You know, you don’t gotta throw me a party.”

“I want to,” Josuke replied, “It’ll be a good time. I’m inviting cool people.” At the apprehensive look on Oku’s face, he continued, “All of them know about us, so no worries there. You’ve already met most of them, and my family will be there.”

“Okay, then that’s fine. I think. Jus’ make sure to invite Keicho and all them too.”

“Don’t worry, I will,” Josuke said soothingly, “This will be a lot of fun, I promise. Nothing bad will happen.”

He hoped that his promise would ring true.

#okuyasu nijimura #josuke higashikata #josuyasu #josuke x okuyasu #jjba

24 notes · View notes

literateape · 6 years

Text

American Shithole #21 — Jefferson Beauregard Sessions III: Feckless Runt

by Eric Wilson

"I’ve been doing this work for 25+ years, this is the worst thing I have ever seen." — ACLU Director

Who are we, America?

I knew our Attorney General was inhuman (I had him figured for half man, half Keebler Drow), but this chicken nugget-sized evil leprechaun has finally revealed the tesseract of horror that is his true multi-dimensional identity.

It’s like a fucking Hellraiser film all of a sudden, you know? One in which Pinhead is also a racist wood elf from Alabama.

“We’ll tear your family apart!”

"Also, try my cookies."

At least he’s finally tipped his hand as to why he’s been so willing to take golden toilet-loads of shit from Trump for so very fucking long: as everyone has figured out by now — it was so he could torture terrified brown children.

Yes fellow Americans, let’s just go ahead and continue to unpack the fact that our government ripped children out of the arms of parents — all at the behest of our Attorney General; all of whom are seeking asylum in our country.

Instead of implementing immigration policies that reflect a commitment to at least a base-level of human dignity, Sessions shredded the 5th and 8th amendments, and violated international law to boot by deliberately causing the suffering of children for political, financial and ideological gain.

Let’s sift through the rubble of our own ideals for a minute, as we ruminate on the dead father, Marco Antonio Muñoz, who killed himself last week while being held in detention. He was so distraught after being separated from his family; he could no longer go on living.

Let’s claw through the wreckage of the vehicle that rolled over several times, killing five of its occupants as they were chased at speeds upwards of 100 mph by Border Control this week.

And let’s take another hard look at the faces of those terrified children — the children Jefferson Beauregard Sessions ripped from the only safety they have ever known — and let's try to imagine the world they are struggling against defenseless, a world where they have experienced little other than hunger and despair. Their fragile hope for a better life snuffed out in an American cage.

I am sure, dear reader, you have heard the audio.

After we put a stop to this — and we will put a stop to this — we don’t get to celebrate much. (Author's Note: We put a stop to this, sort of. Maybe. It might be worse, unsure yet. It's probably worse.)

Congratulations America! Way to not (by official policy via the justice department) torture children anymore! That’s quite the bar we’ve set. I can see the slogan now…

America! We No Longer Torture Your Kids!

Somebody get on that, I smell a t-shirt.

I've let out quite a few sighs of exasperation in the last 96 hours. Let's take a look back at the last few days, shall we?

DHS Secretary Nielsen was rushed to the White House Monday evening for a 5:00 pm emergency meeting and press briefing. Expected by some to resign (she lied days earlier in her statement that there was no policy to separate children from their parents), she instead was clearly instructed to double down on the horrific situation, and place the blame squarely on congress for expecting DHS not to enforce the (imaginary) laws (congress) passed.

So she lied, again. There is no such law of the land that migrant children be separated from their parents. It is a policy laid forth by Jefferson Shitbag Beauregard Fuckface Sessions the Turd — two months ago.

I can’t believe she came out there on the dais of the White House Press Room, and doubled down on that policy. I was half-hoping at some point mid-briefing that she'd break down and say "fuck this, I can't do it," and walk off the stage. Instead she has to live with the guilt of that performance for the rest of her life.

Kirstjen Nielsen put on a good show, but she’s all angles and sharp edges, with a near constant whisper of discomfort troubling her visage — betraying her desperate desire to be anywhere else. The banner of law enforcement hangs heavy on her bony shoulders; like wet rags on a scarecrow.

She should have called in sick; her sacrifice netted her less than nothing. Two days later the president picked up his ball and went home.

Protesters descended on a popular D.C. eatery Tuesday evening, routing Nielsen from her intended meal with shouts of "shame!" What kind of food is served at the trendy Washington hot-spot, you ask? Mexican. I might've went with "we don't dine with Nazi swine," but "shame" works. Well done, D.C.

This event (and perhaps Corey Lewandowski mocking a little girl with Down Syndrome on live t.v.) might have forced the president to take action Wednesday — although terrible behavior from his minions has rarely moved him to action in the past.

Not that there isn't a laundry list of dark deeds to choose from.

This is quite the rogue's gallery of sadistic, spiteful, greedy whelps suckling away at the sour, sagging, man-teats of this presidency.

Top to bottom, this administration strains the definition of pathetic — and we as a nation are pitiful by proxy.

Pathetic and pitiful as we may be, we are not these monsters. Sessions’ soul is clearly now and forever a colostomy bag filled with the offal of child cruelty — let’s never let him forget that — but we are not these monsters. In reminding him, we will hopefully never forget how he has tainted us all.

He’s American Shithole’s Monster of the week.

Congratulations, Jeff. Tough company up there, but you pulled it off, tough guy.

Tough guy that hurts defenseless kids.

Everybody is blaming Trump, but you’re the worst fucking person in the world right now, Jeffery. Look out though, that was Kirstjen Nielsen clawing at your little elven booties.

Of course, Trump didn’t do anything to stop this horror show; not until he was forced to.

He blamed Democrats for a law that doesn’t exist, when all it takes is a google search to find Sessions announcing the new immigration policy several weeks ago.

Not that his base would bother fact-checking information gleaned from atop Mount Horseshit.

Then on Tuesday he likened these fragile human beings to an infestation.

Trump wasn’t taking cues from Sessions though — he hates Jeff almost as much as we all hate Jeff — no, it was our old friend Stephen Miller who was instrumental from the get-go in convincing Trump that separating children from their parents, resulting in irreparable emotional damage and incalculable physiological and psychological trauma, was somehow a quality policy change.

You all remember Stephen, don’t you? Senior Adviser to the President, and Sessions’ former longtime communications director? Ol’ Sporky? Yes, Mr. “Come Hither Face” was hot on the idea of torturing brown kids from the very beginning.

Still, this is Sessions’ baby; or perhaps it's Rosemary’s Baby. This is the prize he so coveted as he silently took all that presidential tweeting in stride. This is what he risked everything just shy of treason for — to hurt children — and, as I imagine we will soon discover, to get filthy rich.

I spent Monday evening watching various talking heads defend the policy. The usual suspects: Kelly Ann Conway, Steve Cortes, Rick Santorum, etc., and at around mid-Cuomo Prime Time (10:30 PST) I had reached my limit.

What struck hardest for me were the interviews in Red States — various patrons supping at the local Waffle House, diner, what-have-you — and to a one, they were all pissed that they were being made to "feel" something about those kids. That's what they talked about. They were mad about the empathy they were experiencing.

Where are we now, America?

I never imagined the mathematics of our situation to be so dire. There are some grim figures out there, some terrifying polls. Before the election, even well after inauguration, I never imagined the ugly numbers we would be facing on so many different fronts. For fuck’s sake, in a recent poll this week, the majority of republicans supported this immigration policy that treated toddlers like cannon fodder in an ideological war.

Everywhere I turn, if I am not lamenting polling numbers, I am waylaid by the financial gains that are always at the heart of this administration. In this case, it is the influx of wealth for anyone invested in private prisons, where the immigration policies have been a cash cow. For what it costs to house each separated child, they each could stay comfortably in a Trump hotel. That is quite a tidy profit that the private prison industry is reaping.

Beyond the numbers we have SNAFUs at home and abroad that are unprecedented. Untenable, in some cases, and this latest debacle along our border with our neighbor Mexico is certainly not helping anyone — except perhaps Sessions, and the rest of the soulless dirtbags vile enough to invest in private prison interests...

Globally, diplomatically, we now sail where the map is typically marked: Here Be Dragons. Never in the history of our country have we navigated such rough waters with both allies and enemies; we are alone, and adrift at sea.

Economically Trump is setting trade war fires in every country he can pick a fight with; in an obvious attempt to smokescreen the Russia investigation. He would drain our country’s coffers like a tub of dirty bathwater if it meant even a smidgeon of a chance at saving himself.

Morally? Well then... there is the elephant in the room. The cancer of the Trump supporters — blind to evidence, deaf to persuasion, dumb to suffering — these Bronze Age imbeciles are the impenetrable puzzle box. They are morally untethered to any sense of reality, and good ideas seem to harmlessly bounce off their oversized supraorbital frontal ridges like ping pong balls.

They are the black hole at the center of our collective American universe — devouring any conventional efforts to thwart their false god — stray too close with a handful of truth, and it’s drawn beyond the event horizon. Sucked into the nothingness, the emptiness reflected in their eyes.

Starved for victory, thirsty for even a droplet of purpose in dry country — they are still here; their numbers unchanged — rotting from the inside out, festering, baking in the hot sun all along the country roads of a nation that left them behind, long before they were ever born.

What do we do about the Americans that support this madness?

Stay loud as hell, it seems. In a rare turnabout Wednesday, Trump signed an executive order putting a halt to the egregious policy of separating children from their parents. It only took the entire world screaming bloody murder in his ear; we’ll take the win — although it doesn’t really feel, or look like one.

It's been a hell of a week. I don't know what this executive order will mean for families that have already been separated; no help at all would be my estimation. I am not familiar with the legal ramifications of imprisoning entire families together, either. I just know it seems ever-so-slightly less horrifically awful than the day before. It's a win, I guess, but it's clearly still a shit show.

Please get back to your unfinished business of destroying anything left standing in this country with any dignity remaining, Mr. President. Move along. Decent Americans will be busy cleaning up after this new low, the best they can.

Not you, Jeff, you horrible little shit. You’re still going to pay for this, motherfucker. America will not let you torture children and get away with it, you feckless runt.

You are nothing if not representative of Trump's base, I'll give you that.

Speaking of which, after the last couple of weeks we’ve had, I'd like to reiterate my stance on Trump supporters:

Whatever they sell, whatever services they provide, whatever occupation they may hold — don’t support them any longer.

Don’t hire them — ever again.

Someone else out there does what they do, or provides the services they provide; and that American isn’t a raging fucking hard-on that supports the torture of children seeking asylum. That American is not one of the quiet conservatives that know damn well how terribly fucking wrong this all is, yet they have remained silent since the beginning. You know who you are, you fucking cowards.

Those that would support the never-ending list of atrocities this administration keeps deep-fisting our country with don’t deserve our support in any way ever again.

To Hell with family and friends that would embrace this cold, cruel lie.

I know there are some liberals out there that have been hanging on to the idea that if progressives just get a little quieter, the problem will go away. I love you, but no, it won’t. You need to get angry, motivated, and involved.

Engage if you can, but at some point Trump supporters have to feel the pressure that only the stranglehold of an unfavorable market can deliver.

They certainly can't be allowed to successfully silence their most vocal critics. Rob Rogers, for example, is one of many who've lost their jobs expressing their disdain for this president.

If you don’t understand what America — Humanity — is facing from the Trump administration at this point, then your willful ignorance is an enabler of this slow-moving coup. I am not trying to offend you, but if you do understand, and yet can’t be bothered to buck up and attend to your civic duty, then you are a coward, and quite possibly a useless, lazy asshole.

I should know — I used to be all of those things.

Not a coward like the vast majority of Trump supporters, mind you — that propaganda-driven noxious herd of bovine shit-for-brains knows only fear; it is their only driving force, and they are desperate to convince the rest of us that anything other than that is true. Just as they are stalwart in believing anything other than the truth about this unholy administration.

No, you are not one of those cowards, but if you sit this one out, you are a coward just the same.

B.S. Report

The B.S. Report typically focuses on the causes of the brave young adults from Florida and their collective efforts to change gun laws in the USA, but I am fairly certain the Parkland survivors would want every American focused on the terrified, emotionally and physically traumatized, helpless children sitting in cages just north of our border, and elsewhere around our country. I regret not focusing on this crisis last week, or the week before when American Shithole barely mentioned what was going on down there.

Well, America?

Has this soul-destroying administration crossed the motherfucking Rubicon, or not?

(Author’s Note: I would like to offer my thanks to the Doctors and Staff at the hospitals and rehabilitation institutions that have provided my father with another Father’s Day; specifically, one where I had the opportunity to discuss my upcoming visit with the old man, tell him how much I love him, and to tell him about the book I sent him in hopes it would bring laughter — which in my humble opinion, is indeed at times the best medicine.)

Happy Father’s Day, dad. Fuck these fascist scumbags.

4LWjr.

#Jefferson Davis #Hellraiser #immigration #Kirstjen Nielsen #Stephen Miller

0 notes