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ronearoundblindly · 1 year

Note

sweet sunday request!

i've been thinking about reader giving Ari a massage. He could be complaining about his stiff shoulders and back (bc he's beefy🤤 or his muscles are sore after a workout) and reader insists to help him feel better.

( I guess reader doesn't have much strength and didn't really relieve the tension on Ari's shoulders, but Ari likes her hand on his back, so it's a win-win 🤭)

and congrats on 600 followers!😘😘😘

Do you know? I never realized until yesterday that I hadn't ever written Ari. (Why???? I've read soooooo much of him.) But I love this. He is a big, burly, beast of a man, and he deserves attention. I originally thought this would wife!reader, but upon further thought, I'm going with best friend!reader and mutual pining...kinda.

Tension (see previous)

Warnings for oh my Gawd this got steamy and I didn't even mean for it to, light/vague smut, some dirty talk that made me walk away from my computer to cool down, hot!Ari you've been warned.

Summary: Your best friend helps you around your new house.

The step stool is wobbling while you carefully unscrew a blown lightbulb. Your body seizes in fear momentarily, and you can't help but grumble, "I don't know how you talked me into this."

"What was that?" Ari calls from the kitchen.

"Nothing, dear," you joke back.

Buy this one, he said. It's a fixer-upper, he said. I'll help.

It's a piece of shit is what it is. The house needs more than just TLC; it needs to be saged and bleached, needs all this horrifying wallpaper stripped off, and needs roof repairs badly. Luckily, it doesn't rain much here, so Ari can wait for that part. The goal today (more like this week) is to make the master bedroom, one bathroom, and the kitchen livable.

Otherwise, your best friend is about to have a surprise roommate because this is his fault.

"Shit," Ari hisses. You can hear a soft bang.

"What happened?" Before you're off the stool, he's poking his head around the dividing wall.

He holds his hand tight with his other. "Nothing," he groans, "just got myself on a nail from the cabinet. Where's the kit?"

"Let me see--"

"No, no, I'm fine."

He flashes a pretty, white smile before his lips curl back down.

"Medicine cabinet." You point across the living room. "Second shelf."

Ari lumbers off to clean up while you inspect his handiwork for the first time.

Say what you will about men's eye for detail, but damn, Ari is babying every surface of the kitchen, smoothing every corner, polishing every inch, leveling every shelf. If the man shows even half this devotion to his own house one day, it'll be the prettiest place on Earth. Also, the man is good with his hands. Hopefully, he's not hurt too badly.

All seems well when he returns though, and you inspect his bandaging to see if he's okay to keep using the hand.

"You wanna take a break?"

Ari looks at you while his hand is palm-up in yours, smirking.

"Maybe just for some of that lemonade in the fridge."

Good because that's 'bout the only thing in the fridge at this point. You tell him to go sit while you rinse out two dusty glasses and pour each of you a serving.

He's reclining on the sheet-covered couch, which is again one of the only pieces of furniture here already, and you hand him his drink.

"Thank you kindly." He gently tips the glass in a toast to you and takes a huge gulp, puckering at how tart it is. That's how he likes it, you know--little less sugar, little more lemon.

He's just starting to sweat through his cut-off shirt, pushing his long hair out of his face as he runs his fingers through it, wincing as the bandaged hand pains him.

You sip your lemonade and lounge on the other end of the sofa. "The fixer-upper fights back, huh?"

"Oh, I'll win the war. Don't you worry," he booms with a cocky smile.

"I'm not," you mutter.

If you can trust anyone in your life to follow through on helping you with such a monumental undertaking, it's Ari Levinson. He's the kind of friend who sticks around. He won't even leave when you two argue, which is borderline annoying, but he is that reliable.

I'm not going anywhere until you see sense, woman.

Granted, half of the time it's Ari who sees sense and admits you're right. That's when he sticks around to apologize and makes sure you both cool down. He's bull-headed and strong, strong like a friggin' ox, so he's--

Ari puts his empty glass on the floor and rubs his neck with his undamaged hand. You can tell by the way his bicep bulges and the veins in his forearm pop that he is using whatever force he can to get at a knot.

"Here, let me help." It's the least you can do.

Sheepish blue eyes flicker over to you. "Yeah, okay." His voice is softer than usual as he scoots forward for you to position yourself behind him, seated up on the back of the couch.

The height gives you good leverage to knead into the taut muscles of his shoulders, but you can't make much headway over the cotton shirt.

"Why are you built like a brick shithouse," you grumble loudly, digging as best you can while he seems barely affected.

Ari snorts. "Thank you?"

You jump off the couch and head to the bathroom. "This isn't working."

He's standing in confusion by the time you return with your bottle of lotion.

"Sit," you insist. "Shirt off."

He flops back down but eyes you questioningly. "You sure?"

For such a big man, he looks so cute when he pouts, so you kiss his temple playfully.

"Yes, I'm sure. How else am I gonna stop you from filing worker's comp?"

That makes him snort again, and he rips the tank off over his head.

Now, you've seen Ari shirtless probably hundreds of times, but there's never been an occasion to touch him other than a bit of suntan oil at the beach several summers ago. Sitting this close behind him gives you full view (and access) to the expanse of his back--

--and hoo boy, is it expansive.

Right at the base of his neck and down his spine, Ari's slippery with sweat, but you add a pump of lotion, working first at his right shoulder and then his left, warming up his muscles and your hands until everything is a bit more pliable.

When you grip and knead at the column of his neck, his head lolls forward and Ari moans, a sound that somehow makes you giggle and clench your thighs all at once.

"Sorry," he mutters, "feels nice."

Seems so, you bite back. Instead, you simply say, "good."

It's indulgent and fascinating to see and feel such strength yield beneath your touch, so you get lost in working his back, his shoulders, his neck, and then his chest when Ari melts backward to lean between your spread legs. You're following the corded bands in his pecs. You've grabbed more lotion three times when he finally breaks again.

"Fuck, you've got magic hands, woman."

Up until now, he's made pleased noises and offered soft praise for your efforts, but the timber of that statement is much lower and undeniably more sexual.

Ari's your best friend, so you know when he's dating someone. You know it's likely been a few months since he last got laid, and since he's a relatively affectionate man, you rationalize that he just can't help his phrasing at this particular moment.

That's what it is.

He's a bit touch-starved, but he's not starving for your touch.

You only realize you've stopped moving when his hand encircles your wrist.

You can't think of anything to say, so your mouth hangs open as you watch Ari crane his neck to look up at you with brilliant, blue eyes.

Don't undo my handiwork, you think. The angle of his head looks uncomfortable, but Ari doesn't move.

You're completely frozen in place, wondering what he's thinking, what you're thinking, if you should be thinking it at all, and then he pounces.

He stands so fast and pulls you so swiftly to him that the couch tips over, and you both land along the back cushions as if they are the seat.

Ari's plush lips and rough beard sear a hot trail across your jaw till he finds your mouth, and that same dirty moan of his vibrates down your own body this time. His hands paw at your baggy work shirt until you feel the textured bandage slide across your bare ribcage. The contact makes you shiver up into his hold and open for him, allowing his tongue in, a gush of arousal soaking your underwear.

Ok, fine, maybe it's been a while for you, too.

Your fingers dig into the lotion-slicked skin of his back while he ruts against you, each roll of his hips pushing your shorts tighter and tighter against your heat.

But the top half of the couch isn't angled for this. You two lose balance and topple halfway onto the floor. The fall knocks Ari out of whatever feral trance he was in, and his hips stop moving.

He buries his face in your neck, panting.

You can hardly hear him say your name.

"I'm sorry, I--" he drags his hand away from your breast to press it to the floor and hold some of his weight "--I didn't want to tell you like this." He won't remove his head from its hiding place.

"Tell me what," you gasp, scrambling to control a frantic heartrate and throbbing core. "That I have magic hands?"

You expect a laugh and instead get a heavy thrust of his pelvis in response.

"Fuck, honey."

Yeah, no chance you're gonna wrangle that throbbing now.

Ari still won't lift his head, but he does turn slightly to suck a mark beneath your ear. The tickling suction makes you keen again, arching up off the floor and cushion enough that his arms thread through the gap beneath you. He has you pinned and wrapped up tight now. You feel him everywhere.

"The times I've imagined this..." His gruff words trail off as he latches another kiss to your collarbone.

Your turn to dry hump him helplessly from below. You're hot all over and about to writhe right out of your skin for more contact.

You swallow harshly, closing your dry, gaping mouth. You have to think while his lips drag up and down your throat, and that is hard to do.

"So what you're saying is--" you take a few big breaths "--we have work to do in the bedroom now?"

Ari groans into your skin.

"Yes," he shouts with elation, using all of those thick muscles to haul you upright.

Your legs cross over his expansive back and hold on as he thunders across the empty house to the lonely mattress beyond.

Buy this one, he said. It's a fixer-upper, he said. I'll help.

Have an idea for a Sweet Sunday Scenario? Send me an ask!

Turns out I wrote a sequel (smutty)! Or you can check out the Bedrock and Blueprints Masterlist.

While I do try to maintain a taglist for series and/or characters, you can also follow @ronearoundlibrary and turn on notifications.

Find a typo? Is the formatting off? Let me know! I’m happy to fix it because English may be my first language but we all make mistakes.

Think I’d enjoy another writer you love? Recommend them to me. Let me know if you write, too! I love to be supportive; I just have to admit it’s hard for me to keep track, so don’t be shy—refer yourself!

Find more on my Main Masterlist!

#ari levinson fanfiction #ari levison x reader #ari levinson x you #ari levinson imagine #ari levinson fluff #ari levinson smut #sweet sunday asks #ro answers #bedrock and blueprints

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sticks-and-stones-are-great · 1 year

Text

Merry Whump of May - Day 3

(Mystery Men - 1999)

@themerrywhumpofmay

Roy ducked into the bathroom, flung on the cold tap and splashed water on his face. It stung. Lukewarm and stale. Blood dripped into the grimy porcelain sink. Roy drank from the faucet and spat out pink water. He caught sight of his reflection in the smudged mirror. The lightbulb above flickered and blinked. He touched his cheek and winced.

That would be a black eye tomorrow.

The lightbulb flickered out and the bathroom went dark.

“Ah, man.” Roy sighed, reached up, and unscrewed the dead bulb.

Bulb in hand, he pushed back out into the bar.

“Come on, Roy, chip in.” Eddie said as he counted cash out on the bar. Jeff was adding coins to the mix. The bartender was standing behind the bar, looming over them, arms crossed.

“What’s all this?” Roy slipped the dead bulb in his jacket pocket. He would tell the bartender about it in a minute.

Jeff looked back, nose crusted in blood. “We are paying the gentlemen for the damages done to his establishment in the scuffle.”

They happened to be walking by half an hour ago when they heard screaming coming from the bar. Turned out that five or so guys were robbing the place. Of course they had to step in. And it had gone the way it usually did. Badly.

But that’s what superheroes did. They tried.

“Damages?” Roy sidled up and stuffed his hands into his jeans pocket for his wallet. “What damages? We got the guys, didn’t we?”

“Well…” Eddie started and trailed off as the bartender strode around the bar.

“Broken window?” The bartender pointed to one of the large front windows, shattered glass lying all around on the floor.

Roy frowned. He was tired, and dizzy, and sat down on a barstool. “When did that even happen?”

“Two of them threw you through it, Roy.” Eddie supplied.

Roy nodded, then stopped, because his head hurt too much for that much movement. “Right, right.”

“Tables and chairs.” The bartender continued. HIs shouting was painfully loud.

A table or two leaned on broken legs and a few chairs lay in pieces.

Roy did remember falling into those. So did his back and ribs.

“And the upholstery!” The bartender pointed at one of the booths, the red leather pierced with several forks.

“That was him.” Roy pointed at Jeff. “He’s the fork guy.” “Thanks, Roy.” Jeff rolled his eyes and shoved his change across the bar. “Pay up already.”

Roy opened his sad, deflated wallet and pulled out his last few ones. “All I got.” And slapped it on the bar. “I’m going.”

And now he had no more money until payday. Great. Just great. He moved towards the door to the outside, limping a little. His knee was swollen and stiff.

The bartender blocked his path. “Uh-uh, oh no, look at this place. That isn’t nearly enough!”

Roy stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, one hand found the dead lightbulb. His fingers wrapped around it as the bartender continued to shout.

Roy nodded a little. “I understand. I can come back tomorrow and help clean-”

He was cut off. The bartender continued to point out every bit of damage, a finger jabbed into Roy’s sore shoulder.

Roy lowered his eyes. He grit his teeth. Breathe in. His head pounded. Breathe out. His heart raced. Felt the blood leave his face. He balled his hands into fists. Pushed past the guy.

Stumbled into the alleyway. Trying to breathe. Trying to stay standing.

Rouy staggered as far as he could go and leaned against the cool, brick wall.

Finally his ears stopped ringing. Someone was talking to him.

Roy looked up.

“Roy, you okay?”

Eddie and Jeff stood there, Eddie’s hand on his shoulder.

“We did break quite a lot of things, but he was quite unpleasant to you, Roy. Don’t let it get to you.” Jeff was trying to scratch away the blood from his nose.

Roy just focused on breathing.

“You’re not looking so hot.” Eddie sighed. “Are you hurt?”

“A bit.” Roy panted. “Maybe. Not really. No. I’m fine. I just- You know. Yelling. I’m fine. I think I’m gonna go-” He took his hands out of his jacket pockets.

“Jesus, Roy!” Eddie exclaimed. “Oh boy, do we need to get something on that. Jeff, you got any gauze left?”

“What’s wrong?” Roy blinked slowly.

Jeff did a double-take. “Oh my lord. I’m going to be-” He retched a little. “How did you do that?”

“What?” Roy was getting annoyed now.

“Your hand.” Eddie gripped his wrist. “Don’t touch anything.”

Roy looked down at his hand.

The lightbulb.

He had gripped it so hard that it burst. Exploding into his palm and fingers. His whole right hand was covered in blood and glass splinters. Funny. He couldn’t even feel it.

Blood pattered down onto the gravel of the alleyway. “Hospital.” Eddie ordered.

“Hospital.” Jeff gagged.

“Ah, man.” Roy fainted.

#themerrywhumpofmay #mwmday3 #whump #mystery men #mr. furious #the shoveler #the blue raja #roy #eddie #jeffrey #I'm still trucking #Working to catch up!#I bet no one remembers mystery men #I remember

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penpatronuswhump · 3 years

Photo

WHUMPTOBER 2020

No. 21

Fandom: Avengers

Whumpee: Tony Stark

Caregiver: Steve Rogers

Title: We’re Not Dying Here

By: PenPatronus // PenPatronusAooO

“Did I ever tell you,” Tony said to Steve, “about the time my dad put his cigarette out… in my ear?”

“N-No,” Steve huffed and puffed, “did I ever tell you about the time my dad spent half our rent money on new writing utensils for me?”

“Mom was at her book club. My nanny had the night off. I couldn’t find a screwdriver, so I took one from dad’s workshop… and broke it. Turns out it belonged to his old man.”

“Dad had to work double shifts for two weeks to make up for that. I think I saw him twice that whole time.”

The boys’ tried to talk quietly, but their voices still echoed a bit in the cold, silent subway. They’d been ambushed. Steve had never been in a limo, Tony discovered at 2:00 in the morning. So naturally Tony, against Steve’s wishes, called for one of his stretch limos to pick them up in front of the Tower for a joyride. Steve relented, and the pair went for a ride through a snowy Manhattan. Twelve and a half blocks later, while they were crossing an icy intersection, a monster of a black truck drove into the intersection and slammed into the driver’s door. The truck was so large that its front end stretched wide and hit the seat directly behind the driver, too. It hit Tony. The limo crumpled and aluminum smashed Tony’s leg, breaking his right femur.

The driver died on impact. Steve and Tony, leaving their phones in cupholders, got out on the opposite side of the limo while the bad guys popped out of the truck and started firing their guns. Steve tore off an icy manhole, but they didn’t go down there. Instead, they ducked into a closed subway station, Tony leaning on Steve as he hopped. They hoped their attackers would assume they escaped into the sewer, and would spend the whole night on a wild goose chase down there.

The pair got down onto the subway tracks where it was somehow even colder than it was on the street. Tony asked what street they were on and when Steve told him, he sighed and said, “This track is shut down three miles in both directions. They’ve been making repairs all winter.”

“Well, we can’t stay here,” Steve had said. He went from holding Tony’s elbow to pulling his friend’s arm across his shoulders. “Start hopping.”

“Steve…” Tony pointed back up at the station, at the bathrooms nearby. “Just stick me in there. Get out of here, get to the rest of the team and come back for me then.”

Steve shook his head. “If they figure out we’re down here then they’ll tear the place apart. It’s too risky.”

“Cap, my leg’s shattered.” Tony’s nose was red from the cold and the air turned white when it exited his throat. “I’m just going to slow you down… Get out of here.” Steve’s response was to wrap his other arm around Tony’s waist, and step forward. Now they were hopping along in the darkness, ears on alert for anyone following them, eyes squinting by the barest light coming from blinking lightbulbs that lined the tunnel.

“Bastard perforated my eardrum. I had to have surgery that night,” Tony continued. “And did anyone at the hospital call child services when I told them my father stuck a lit cigarette in my ear? Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Not Howard Stark, no, he would never do that…” Tony stumbled for a second, and Steve hefted him up into the air, only putting him back down when he found a smooth spot on the track. “Steve, I… Just need a minute, ok?”

Steve looked at his friend. He was both sweating and shivering. Tony’s hand on his elbow trembled. “Ok,” he said. “We can sit for a minute – but just one.”

“I’ll take it.”

Steve slowly lowered Tony to the ground and arranged him so that he was sitting back against the cement. Stark clamped his mouth shut and struggled not to scream when Steve accidentally put his arm on Tony’s knee. “Sorry,” Steve whispered. “Hey Tony, what… What’s… Tony, you’re bleeding!”

“Am I?” Tony looked down at his broken leg for the first time and saw that his jeans were dark red and wet. “Huh. That explains it.”

Steve took his winter coat off and pressed it against a three inch cut in Tony’s upper leg. “Explains what?”

“That darkness in the corner of my eyes,” Tony mumbled. “The fact that I see a Cap and a half right now… And you’re blurry.”

Steve looked up into his friend’s eyes. “I think we’re in trouble here.”

“We’re always in trouble.” Tony laughed at himself, then stopped when the vibrations caused his leg to throb even more. “God, this hurts…”

Steve finished wrapping his coat all around Tony’s leg. He used his belt to hold it tight. “All right, Stark, you’ve got more hopping to do.” Steve took his winter gloves off and put them on Tony’s, over his, and then helped his friend to his feet. “Here we go.”

“Here I go again on my own,” Tony sang, “goin’ down the only road I’ve ever known. Have you listened to Whitesnake yet, Cap?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure, Tony.”

“Ah, the eighties,” Tony mused. “I broke my other leg in 1987. Fell off a garage roof.”

“What were you doing on a garage roof?”

“What I always did! I was trying to impress a girl.”

Steve chuckled. “Hop a little faster, Tony. I think I see a brighter light ahead. Must be the next station.”

“Oh, thank God,” Tony groaned. “Let’s hail a cab.” His teeth rattled then – clicking together as he shivered in the cold.

Both of their stomachs sank when they came to the station. Like the first one, it was shut down. Unlike the first one, it was barricaded shut… from the outside. Steve left Tony on the track and tried his best to break through the barricade, with no luck. He did, however, find a vending machine. He put his fist through the glass and got Tony a couple Snickers bars and a bottle of water. He broke into a security station, next, and found a gun hidden under a desk. He pocketed the weapon in the back pocket of his jeans, then jumped back down to Tony. He’d ordered Tony to stay on his feet, but he’d ignored him. Tony sat against the cement again, clutching his knee. Blood had seeped through the winter jacket.

“You know what really impresses girls, Cap?” Tony asked him as Steve unwrapped the candy and unscrewed the bottle cap. “Goatees. You should grow a goatee, Steve. Might look good on you.” Tony held his lips open while Cap poured some water down his throat. Stark coughed for a moment, then gestured for more water. “Thanks…” He waved away the candy. “Slight possibility I might puke,” he explained.

Steve ate the Snickers in two bites. “We’ll be able to get topside at the next station,” he assured his friend. “Just a little more hopping to go.”

Tony had closed his eyes. “Hmm…” he hummed. “How cold do you think it is?”

“It was ten when we left the Tower… Probably five down here.”

Tony opened his eyes. “I made a giant snowman when I was five… Hijacked a bulldozer.”

“Get up, Tony.”

“You know where my dad put his cigarette out on me that time? Back of the neck. Hurt for weeks.”

Steve sighed. He pulled Tony’s arm across his shoulders and stood up with him. Tony sagged. He coughed. He rested his head against Steve’s shoulder. “Come on, buddy,” Steve urged him. “We’ve got a ways to go.”

“You know where it really hurts to get a cigarette put out on you? Back of the knee. Boy, that stings.”

The two Avengers hopped along for another half mile. This station was barricaded, too. Steve got another bottle of water and a second gun. More hopping.

Stark had stopped talking. “Tony?”

“Hm?”

“I’ve never seen you this quiet. It’s weirding me out.”

“Hm…”

Steve looked at Tony and saw that his eyes were shut. But he kept hopping, kept hopping.

They were about a third of a mile away from the next abandoned station when Tony stopped moving, except for the constant shivering from the abhorrent cold. “Steve, I don’t think I…” Tony’s left knee buckled, and he collapsed onto the track with his broken leg outstretched. Steve let him fall, but slowed the fall so that Tony wouldn’t hurt himself. He maneuvered his friend so that they landed side by side, arm against arm, Tony’s head lying on Steve’s shoulder. “Steve, it’s so cold and I can’t… I just can’t…”

Normally, Steve would say, “Of course you can! You’re Tony Stark! You strolled out of a terrorist camp, flew a missile through a wormhole, saved the President…” But, there was something so sincere, so desperately true in Tony’s voice, that he knew now wasn’t the time for an inspirational speech. So instead of arguing and insisting and lecturing, Steve gently put his arm around Tony, giving him a sideways hug. Tony collapsed against him, going nearly limp. Steve rubbed his back and arm to try to warm him up, but nothing could beat back the whistling wind in the dark tunnel. Tony was sweating and shivering and shaking. His skin was pale and there was just the tiniest, faintest tinge of blue under his chin. The blood flow hadn’t stopped. Steve looked up at the ceiling and made a wish on a lightbulb as if it were a star.

Steve let five minutes go by. Then, he shook Tony’s shoulder and said, “Time to go, Tony.” He took his arm away but Tony was limp, and he would’ve smacked the back of his head on the iron track if Steve hadn’t grabbed him and maneuvered him into his lap.

Tony groaned and pressed his nose against the inside of Steve’s right knee. “I’s… dizzy…” he sighed through a mumble. “Think I need to sleep…”

“Tony, no, Tony – you need to stay awake. If you fall asleep you might…” Steve didn’t want to think about what might happen. He lifted Tony up half a foot and pulled his friend’s face to his chest and held him there, Tony’s ear against his breastbone. “Tony, for me – stay awake.”

“t’s hard.”

Steve rubbed Tony’s entire upper body, desperate to keep him warm and alert. “Tony – we need go to a little further. Just a little further, all right? Then you can rest again.”

“Cap, I can’t…”

“Tony, look at me.” Steve gently clasped Tony’s chin between his bare fingers and forced him to meet his eyes. “Hang on. Just a little bit longer.” Tony blinked hazy eyes. He licked his chapped lips and sniffed the freezing air. “Do it for me, Tony, all right? Do it for me.”

Tony nodded. “For you,” he conceded. He nodded again. “Help me up.”

It was then – right then – that both men heard the voices. Men’s voices, coming from behind them – from down the tunnel they’d been walking. Steve and Tony shared a brief terrified look, then they scrambled up onto their feet. Tony hopped forward three steps, almost four before his knee collapsed again. Frustrated, scared, desperate, Cap tossed Tony over his shoulder and started to run. He reached the next station and lifted Tony up onto the platform. He scrambled up behind him, then dragged Tony to the bathroom wall. “This is where we make our stand,” he told him. Steve got a third gun out of that platform’s security station and put it in Tony’s gloved hand. “We’re not dying here today, you hear me? Not freezing to death and getting shot in some shitty subway.”

“Mhmm,” Tony muttered. Then he agreed, “Not today.”

“That’s right.”

The voices were getting closer. One of them chuckled.

Steve gently cupped Tony’s cold face. “Stay awake,” he ordered. “Tony… Stay with me.”

Tony looked at his friend. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to see your dad.” Tony swallowed, his Adam’s apple bouncing. “I’ll promise I’ll stay awake… For you.”

“That’s my man.” Steve patted Tony’s shoulder, then took up his post on the edge of the platform, waiting for the men to get closer.

When he saw their shadows, he aimed his gun at the nearest lightbulb and shot it dead. Only two lightbulbs remained along that short stretch of track. Steve was willing to be that he had the upper hand at seeing in the dark thanks to his super soldier eyesight. “Turn around now!” he called to the approaching men. “Unless you want to die!”

“Cap?” a voice called.

Steve lowered his weapon. “BARTON?” He looked around the corner and, sure enough, Clint, Bruce, Natasha, and Thor were jogging down the tunnel towards him. Steve sighed in relief. “Thank God it’s you guys.”

His teammates climbed up onto the platform. “We’ve been looking for you for hours!” said Bruce. “We were worried you’d frozen to death.”

“Tony is close to that. He’s practically hypothermic.” Steve turned and jogged back over to his friend. “Tony?” Tony had broken his promise. He was unconscious. Steve shook him, but he didn’t wake up.

“TONY!”

----------

Tony was delightfully surprised to find himself in his own warm bed when he woke up. He was surprised, but not particularly delighted, to find Steve Rogers where Pepper was supposed to be – lying right beside him. In Steve’s defense, he was lying over the blankets instead of under them with Tony, and he was on the very edge of the bed. Still, Tony couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. Abandoned Chinese food sat on his bedside table. Tony plucked out a chopstick, then used it to poke Steve in the nose. Cap flapped his hand in front of his face as if there was a pesky housefly there. His own movement woke him up and he made eye contact with Tony. “Hey.”

“We got out of the death tunnel, I see.”

“Of course we did. We’re us.” Steve sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, walked around it and then sat on the edge on Tony’s side. “You look better.”

“Did I fall asleep?”

“Uh huh.” Steve looked down at his hands folded in his lap. “You promised you’d stay awake.”

“Sorry…”

Steve raised his eyebrows. “Want to make it up to me?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “My leg is broken, and I have pressure in my chest that tells me I was hypothermic at the end. What can I possibly do for you?”

Steve turned serious. “Don’t do that again,” he said quietly.

“Don’t do what?”

“Almost die.”

Neither man made eye contact with the other. “Only if you make the same promise,” Tony said.

Steve smiled. “Deal.”

The End

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bwemph · 4 years

Text

Darkness Rising / Volume I: The Force Awakens / Chapter I

Pairing: Kylo Ren x Reader

Summary: Your mundane, tasteless life takes a turn for the more exciting when a droid and a Resistance fighter bring the fight with the First Order to your middle-of-nowhere planet, Jakku. Little do you know, you are about to get wrapped up in saving the universe.

Word Count: 3,377

Warnings: N/A

A/N: This is kind of a “pilot” episode, so to speak. I’m planning on rewriting the entire sequel trilogy and fixing a lot of the creative choices that I personally didn’t like, so things will MAJORLY divert from the original plot when we reach the ROS landmark. Should I keep going?

Luke Skywalker has vanished. In his absence, the sinister First Order has risen from the ashes of the Empire and will not rest until Skywalker, the last Jedi, has been destroyed. With the support of the Republic, General Leia Organa leads a brave Resistance. She is desperate to find her brother Luke and gain his help in restoring peace and justice to the galaxy.

***

Blood trickling down the side of the pilot’s head matted his black curls in the sticky red substance.

Poe Dameron, best and most daring pilot of the Resistance, was now unconscious and beaten nigh senseless in his holding cell.

Kylo Ren watched him with cold eyes, prodding him with the Force every so often to coax the hostage to life again.

Poe had resisted each interrogator with impressive resolve, and finally Kylo decided if he wanted to get anything done in a timely manner, he would have to do it himself lest he face the wrath of Supreme Leader Snoke.

Besides, he wanted to give Skywalker what he deserved. It was time for Kylo to face Skywalker himself, as Snoke promised.

After making one last lap of pacing around the cell, he turned and faced the wall with a sigh.

A sudden stir in the Force alerted Ren of the pilot now waking. He turned silently. “I had no idea we had the best pilot in the Resistance on board.” He looked the pilot up and down. “Comfortable?”

“Not really,” Poe rasped, that infuriating wit intact despite his bruises.

“I’m impressed.” Kylo stalked forward, watching the way the dim light reflected off the silver on his mask and into the pilot’s eyes. Poe winced before Kylo went on, “No one has been able to get out of you what you did with the map.”

“You might want to rethink your technique.”

A twinge of vexation pulsed through Kylo’s veins. He raised his hand toward Poe and took a moment to revel in the way the pilot fought against the Force.

A grunt escaped Poe’s lips as he writhed in silent agony.

“Where is it?” Kylo said, jabbing at some of the the pilot’s more recent memories. He thrust Poe back against the headboard.

“The Resistance,” Poe’s breath caught in his throat, “will not be intimidated by you.”

“Where...is it?”

Poe let out a harrowing scream, sweat beading on his forehead and veins protruding from his neck. He fought against his bonds, and Kylo could feel the hundreds of pleas and cries that Poe fought back with a last effort to retain where the map was hidden.

Finally, he cracked.

Kylo released him, watching as he slumped forward while labored breaths wracked his body.

“A droid…” Kylo mused. “Clever.” He leant in close to the pilot one last time. “Thank you for your compliance.”

With that, Kylo strode from the room.

The door hissed open to reveal a man waiting for him. A pale, scraggly General with slicked back ginger hair and an unpleasant expression that crumpled his lips as he caught sight of Kylo.

“It’s in a droid. A BB unit,” Kylo said.

“Well then,” General Hux replied, “if it’s on Jakku, we’ll soon have it.”

“I leave that to you.”

***

Unscrewing the panel in the rudder, you took a moment to look around inside.

The lightbulb on the side of your goggles was dim and starting to fade. Hopefully you could find someone to trade portions with for a new bulb soon.

You reached inside and poked around, pulling pieces of machinery apart until you found enough satisfying parts. This thing had to be ancient. Hardly anything of worth to be found amidst the dusty wires and pieces that used to move.

You tucked the dismembered machinery into your bag and grabbed hold of the rope to your left before sliding down, down, down, to the rusted floor of the once glorious Star Destroyer.

The pieces of scrap and metal rubbed against each other with unpleasant clanging and scratching as your feet hit the ground. You removed your goggles and ragged mask as you emerged into the hot sun.

Amidst the metal was your last bottle of water. In order to ease your sandpaper tongue you poured the last few drops down your throat, but they were nowhere near enough.

Now you started your journey back across the desert on your speeder. It coughed up two puffs of black smoke before humming to life and carrying you over the sands of Jakku.

You were pleased to find the breeze drying your sweat and cooling your skin as you neared town. Small black dots appeared on the horizon, all hard at work. The heat made them dance around a little and you hoped your dehydration wasn’t playing tricks on your mind.

Finally, you reached town and hopped down from your speeder. You pulled a lever and slung your staff over your shoulder before dragging all the parts you had collected today across the sand to clean and polish them.

After vigorous scrubbing and polishing, you sat back and admired your work. All this had to be worth at least three portions. You gathered your things and waited in line at Unkar Plutt’s shack. When it was your turn you laid them all out for him to inspect.

“What you’ve brought me today is worth...hmm…” he inspected the items closely, “one quarter portion.”

Disappointment grabbed your heart and yanked it downwards, but you took your quarter portion with a glare.

That night you found yourself cooking for one, your only company the sizzling of the rehydrated meat you had been saving for a while. You stirred some powder into a rusted bowl, and it instantly rose until it was a small loaf of bread.

Now that the sun was setting, it was cool and the humidity had gone down. This led you to your decision to eat dinner outside that night.

You licked your plate clean and allowed yourself a moment to gaze at the horizon. You watched a small ship leaving the atmosphere. Someone far more fortunate than you must have the chance to get off this speck of sand. You pondered on a hundred different places they could be headed to. Were they as golden yellow, deserted, and dry as this place? Or was it somewhere swampy and wet?

A high pitched, mechanical squeal caught your attention. It wasn’t a sound you were unfamiliar with, but it wasn’t common near your home.

A distressed droid.

You jumped to your feet and caught sight of the brutish Teedo indeed struggling with a droid.

You called out to the aggressor in the native Jakku language, “Tal’ama parqual!”

Your accent wasn’t exactly accurate, but it was enough to get across that you were demanding Teedo set the droid free.

Teedo and the droid went silent and looked to you in surprise.

“Parqual zatana!” you shouted.

Teedo spat a handful of threats back and refused to free the droid, continuing to struggle with it.

You rushed forward and pulled a knife from your belt, cutting the droid loose from the netting it was all caught up in.

Teedo lost his temper and frantically spat more angry words at you, demanding you stop immediately. He found that droid, and it was his to sell.

“Noma,” you replied when the droid was free, pointing a finger in Teedo’s face.

Teedo shook his head, exasperated, and gave his clunky steed a kick. You watched as it lumbered away.

The droid beeped and buzzed a long thread of provocative insults and names after him. You hushed it. “That’s just Teedo. He wants you for parts.” You snarled. “He has no respect for anyone.”

The droid hummed in response.

You crouched to eye level with the droid. “Your antenna’s bent,” you said, reaching out to pluck it from the droid’s head and carefully reshape the small wire. While you fiddled with it, you took a moment to fully consider the droid, noting its unique orange and white coloring, round body, and dome shaped head that remained on its top regardless of how it rolled or maneuvered.

“Where do you come from?” you asked.

It gave a handful of tones equating to “That’s classified information”.

“Classified. Really?” you said, your voice reflecting that of humoring a small child. “Me too. Big secret.”

You clicked the antenna back into place on its head and pointed to the west. “Niima outpost is that way. Stay off of Kelvin Ridge,” you said as you gathered your staff stood. “Keep away from the Sinking Fields in the north or you’ll drown in the sand.” With no further instruction you turned and began heading back to your home.

The droid beeped a question.

You turned sharply. “Don’t follow me. Town is that way.” You pointed again toward Niima Outpost.

It tweeted a protest.

“No!”

This time it gave a sad tone and drooped a little, cautiously rolling toward you. The droid was alone, lost and afraid. You were the first being on this planet to show it a little kindness.

Your heart broke a little for it. After a long, long moment of consideration and a further hesitation to follow it up, you made a small head gesture for it to follow you.

“Beeeeep!” The droid excitedly rolled after you to catch up. It chattered a string of thank yous as you started back toward home.

“In the morning, you go,” you said.

Another thank you from the droid, as if it had ignored the statement.

“You’re welcome.” You couldn’t help smile a little at the droid’s enthusiasm.

***

The droid, who introduced itself as BB8, ended up keeping you company all day. It was hard to say no to it, and the it was actually quite useful when it came to scavenging. It would scan the room and alert you of any pieces of machinery that might be worth something.

The two of you rode into town and you began unloading the parts you had scavenged that day. BB8 told you the whole way how worried it was about whether its master would come back.

“Don’t give up. He might still show up, whoever it is you’re waiting for,” you assured. “Classified. I know. And I know all about waiting.”

BB8 asked who you’re waiting for.

“For my family.” You squinted against the sun, looking to the sky as if you were waiting for their ship to return any moment now. “They’ll be back. One day.” You nodded and looked at the droid, forcing a smile. “Come on.”

You got in line outside of Unkar Plutt’s shack, making sure to keep BB8 close and keeping a close watch on those who eyed it almost hungrily. You laid out your parts on the counter and watched Plutt inspect them.

“These five pieces are worth...Let me see here...” he made a gurgling sound deep in his throat, something of a hum, “One half portion.”

Dismay grabbed your throat and you furrowed your eyebrows. “Last week they were a half portion each!”

Plutt didn’t listen to you, but he leaned over the counter and inspected BB8 with interest. “What about the droid?”

You looked to BB8, who had an air of confusion as it stared back.

“What about him?”

“I’ll pay for him.” He disappeared from view of the window for a moment before dropping a large pile of portions right before your eyes. “Sixy portions.”

You rushed forward, your stomach rumbling at the many nights worth of dinner--and snacks and breakfasts and second breakfasts and lunches--right in front of you. You started scooping them up, but took another look at BB8, who looked silently up at you, shaking.

Your eyes fluttered as if you were snapping out of a trance, and you breathed out a sigh of resolve. “Actually...the droid’s not for sale.” You took your one half portion and looked to BB8. “Come on,” you said to him before you both promptly left.

You strode through town back toward your speeder.

BB8 gave a string of tones and bleeps. Why did you do that?

You sighed and looked at the plastic package in your hand, eyeing the food that would leave you with a half filled stomach tonight. “Because it was the right thing to do.”

He thanked you and rolled along, beeping and buzzing with glee. BB8 told you again and again how happy he was to have a new friend, and how grateful his master would be that you saved him. You smiled, listening to the droid’s happy chatter, but then the droid appeared a little sad the longer it talked about its master.

You knelt to face him. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you until he comes back. You’re safe here. Nothing much goes on here anyway.”

“You there!” a guttural voice cried.

You stood and saw two thugs approaching you.

“We are taking that there droid,” the same voice said as the goon pointed at BB8.

Before you had time to react, the other threw a sack over BB8, who squealed in response.

“Oi!” you cried, kicking him in the stomach. “Get away!”

The thug with the sack crashed into a stack of metal urns, while the other grabbed you around the waist and pinned your arms to your sides.

You kicked the air and cried out, landing on your feet and sinking your teeth into your aggressor’s grimy arm wrapped in musty black rags.

You thrust your elbow back into his stomach while he was distracted. The man tumbled backward. The other recovered.

You picked up your staff and began trying to fight off the second goon, kicking him away again when the first grabbed your staff and trapped you between it and himself.

Spinning, you nailed his jaw twice with your weapon and he stumbled away, passing out in the sand.

You took a moment to catch your breath and knelt to free BB8 from the sack.

He beeped, frightened, then let out another shrill alert sound.

You followed his gaze to a man in a brown and red leather jacket.

That’s my master’s jacket! It’s just like it! That man took my master’s jacket!

“Him?” you asked, waiting for confirmation before rushing toward the thief.

The man made a dash in the opposite direction with you hot on his tail.

You took a sharp left turn and cut around in front of him, swiping at him with your staff before he could process you standing in front of him.

He tumbled to the ground with a grunt.

“What’s your hurry, thief?” you accused, keeping him pinned to the ground with your staff.

He took a moment to catch his wind. He was still dazed when he said, “What? Thief?”

BB8 rolled up fast and a small arm extended from a compartment in his side. He proceeded to zap the man with some kind of electric spark.

“Ow!” he cried, still confused. “Hey! What?”

“The jacket,” you said. “This droid says you stole it!”

“Look, I’ve had a pretty messed up day, alright? So I’d appreciate if you stopped accusing me of--ow!”

BB8 had zapped him again.

“Stop it!” he snapped at the droid.

“Where’d you get it?” you pressed. “It belongs to his master.”

The man looked between you and the very agitated BB8, then let out a long sigh. He took a beat to piece together some words.

“It belonged to Poe Dameron. That was his name, right?”

BB8 looked to you, confirming, arm still extended.

“He was captured by the First Order. I helped him escape, but our ship crashed.” He paused while you and BB8 waited expectantly for his conclusion. “Poe didn’t make it.” His words hung heavily in the air.

BB8 drooped and made a low, sad beep.

“I tried to help him. I’m sorry.”

BB8 retracted his zappy arm and rolled off to mourn. You watched after him to make sure nobody else tried to snatch him up.

You turned your attention to the man again. “So you’re with the Resistance?”

He paused. “Obviously. Yes. I am.” He pushed himself to his feet. “I’m with the Resistance, yeah.” He leaned in and whispered, “I’m with the Resistance.”

A little starstruck, you lowered your staff and gave a smile. “I’ve never met a Resistance fighter before.”

“Well, this is what we look like. Some of us. Others look different.”

Excitement welled in you as it now appeared you were going to be face with the opportunity to become an ally and aid the Resistance. “BB8 says he’s on a secret mission. He has to get back to your base.”

“Apparently he has a map that leads to Luke Skywalker and everyone’s after it.”

Further exhilaration coursed through your veins at the prospect of this mission. “Luke Skywalker?” you breathed. “I thought he was a myth.”

BB8 began beeping wildly, and both you and your new ally turned to face him. You followed after the droid and peeked around a corner, seeing something that dampened your excitement a generous amount: stormtroopers. They spoke to Plutt’s thugs, who were still favoring their bruises and pointing in your direction.

Suddenly, your hand was in the Resistance fighter’s and he was pulling you in the opposite direction, right as blaster fire started firing in your direction.

“What are you doing?” you cried.

“Come on!”

You ducked as a red blur passed over both your heads and brought down a merchant’s booth.

“Let go of me!”

“No, we gotta move!”

You ripped your hand free and continued sprinting alongside him. “I know how to run without you holding my hand! BB8 stay close! This way!”

You all turned a corner and again ducked under more laser fire.

As you took a breather under the shade of a tent, you gripped one of the poles to keep balance. “They’re shooting at both of us.”

“Yeah, they saw you with me. You’re marked.”

“Well thanks for that.”

“I’m not the one who chased you down with a stick!”

You heard some things clatter and fall into the sand, then your ally cried, “Does anyone have blasters around here?!”

You knelt to check in on BB8. “Are you okay?”

He beeped frantically before the Resistance fighter quieted you both.

A whirring sound echoed from the sky, and the fighter took your hand again.

“Stop taking my hand!” you said.

The three of you burst from the tent. You glanced over your shoulder to see a TIE fighter screaming down from the sky, and a second one opening fire on you.

The lasers missed you, but they collided with the tent you had previously hidden in, which exploded and threw you, the fighter, and BB8 several feet in the air before you skidded a little farther in the sand.

The dust settled around you and you saw the townspeople panicking and scrambling in all directions, screaming and calling out to each other.

You looked up to see the two TIE fighters reeling back for a second go. Your heart sped up, and you looked around for your ally. He lay motionless in the sand.

You scrambled over to him and shook him awake.

In an instant he was upright and checked you over for injury. “Are you okay?”

The question stunned you. Nobody had ever asked you that before.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Follow me.”

Dodging lasers and explosions and debris, you made a dash for a ship in the spaceport, now only several hundred feet in front of you.

“We can’t outrun them!” the Resistance fighter cried.

“We might in that quad-jumper!” You pointed at the shiny red and white ship in front of you.

“We need a pilot!”

You gestured to yourself. “We’ve got one!”

“You?” The fighter disregarded the issue, then pointed at a much closer, disk-shaped ship. “What about that ship?”

“That one’s garbage!” you said, considering how it hadn’t flown in years.

Right as you reached the quad-jumper, laser fire ignited the ship and it went up in a great mushroom cloud.

You skidded to a stop. “The garbage will do!”

With that, the pair of you sprinted toward the piece of junk in hopes that it would carry you safely out of the atmosphere.

#kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #ben solo #ben solo x reader #star wars #the force awakens #the last jedi #rise of skywalker #bb8 #poe dameron #poe dameron x reader

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laylacooke · 4 years

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You Light Up My Life || Jared & Layla

timing: Monday, 10/6; midnight parties: @themidnightfarmer & @laylacooke summary: Layla comes to wreak more havoc on Jared’s life and farm equipment.

Jared was walking, he was moving around the farm, but he had no true gauge of time. He wasn’t even awake. His body was moving of its own accord and he wasn’t sure how or why, and he wasn’t even conscious enough to ask those questions either. His first action had been to check the gate locks, something his subconscious knew was important. But where an aware Jared would have looked at the open locks after a perimeter walk and known to close them, instead a very much asleep Jared decided looking was enough and he moved on to continue his chores other usual daily chores. As well as that, an awake nymph would have identified the fact that there was someone walking across the farm towards the house was very odd. But as it was, a very asleep Jared jogged to catch up to them with a half wave and a sigh as he joined them wherever they were going. In his mind his dream had shifted from chores to hanging out with someone he vaguely remembered meeting once and he was content.

Layla had been so tired lately, and she couldn’t figure out why. It was as if sleep just wasn’t satisfying anymore. Deciding to head to bed early, she snuggled up to Indy and closed her eyes dozing off sooner than she thought she would. However, not two hours into her slumber and the teenager was unknowingly leaving the trailer with Indy still sleeping soundly inside. Feet carrying her automatically, the young woman walked for miles until she had reached a farm. Her sharp hearing picking up on all sorts of sounds, including someone jogging towards her, Layla continued to make her trek forward with one thing on her mind. If this person was going to be a threat though, she had her claws at the ready. Nothing was going to stop her for what she had come for; lights and the occasional ink pen.

No words passed between the two beings, and yet Jared felt he’d grasped exactly what to do with this situation. He was going to help her, he was going to help her whatever it was she was here to do, surely that's what this dream wanted from him. Layla wouldn’t have appeared had she not been there to carry out some task with him, right? The nymph walked at her side for a while, they arrived at the tractor and he waited to see what she would do. He laughed lightly at the coincidence and then shifted his bare feet on the patch of gravel he’d parked on. He watched her pleased, with himself at having found her, not yet knowing she was here to once again mess with his poor tractor.

Layla had found herself at the destination on the mental map in her head. Jared’s laugh seemed to give her assurance that she was doing the right thing, and as she looked over to him with a smile, she let one of her small sharp claws escape from her nail bed. Looking back to the tractor, she stepped forward, climbing up the front of it, and began to cut into the plastic headlight shielding the bulb on the piece of machinery. It was like something out of a spy movie as her nail drew a perfect circle that seemed to fall out on its own when completed. Reaching into the open space, she began unscrewing the small high-powered bulb, “Help me get the other ones. I need these. It’s important. Then we can start on the back.”

Everything was normal, and everything made sense to Jared as Layla used only her nail to cut plastic. Thick plastic at that. He’d never considered that the bumps under the plastic would be easier to get to if you cut them a gap. In his mind she was doing something revolutionary. He nodded dutifully to her order, quick to snatch the other side and wrench the whole thing away from the vehicle. Usually well concealed increased strength making its appearance for a moment before he dazedly smiled at her and unscrewed the bulb as daintily as his rough hands could manage. “All of them? Need the orange ones from the spinny bit at the top?”

She wasn’t entirely sure why Jared was helping her, but it just felt right. And it was easier. Having a buddy assist with stealing headlights, taillights, and other lights from their own vehicle at their approval was so much easier. Satisfying? Not as much, considering there wasn’t the thrill of the chase, but at least it meant Layla wasn’t going to be arrested again anytime soon. Not if she was given permission. As she continued with her assignment, she glanced towards the man near her, “All of them. Even the ones inside.” She was going to make sure this puppy was picked clean, and if time allowed, she would move onto his truck next.

Jared could almost be called insightful as he removed headlights from spots that might have had to have been missed by anyone but the owner, but only if you ignored the fact that he was removing them from his own vehicle and handing them to someone intent on stealing them away. He handed his haul over before blinking slowly. There was an odd falling sensation in his limbs and then he jolted forward. This happened again, and then again. ON the last occasion he blinked, but as soon as his eyes were open, he was awake. And an awake nymph was far removed from the actions of a sleeping nymph. He stared at Layla outright. “Wh- Did I? Call- no.” He stumbled over his words for a moment before seeing what she was holding and glancing at the tractor. “What’s happening?”

Layla’s arms were getting full of light bulbs, and at the risk of breaking them, she laid them in a nice pile, before searching for something to put them in. Finding a decent sized Amazon box, the teenager began carefully placing the light bulbs in one-by-one. Box in tow, she resumed what she was doing, not noticing Jared waking up. And even when he was awake, she hadn’t completely processed it. Instead, she looked to him with a stone face and replied, “Have you forgotten? We’re getting light bulbs. Light bulbs are needed.” Why they were needed, she didn’t know. She just knew they were needed. “I think we have them all from the tractor. Let's move onto your truck.” She walked past him with the box in tow ready to start stripping his truck of any light source she could find.

She spoke with such authority the nymph didn’t initially realize there was something wrong with the act she was carrying out. Jared took a full step forward to continue to help her strip his vehicles of the lights, but after that single step his confusion ended. “No, I need those. I can’t drive or herd my kids if you take all the lights. They don’t all listen to me, I need these. I’ll buy you some, what do you need them for?” Despite how odd the need for lightbulbs from vehicles (a mixture of vehicle at that) Jared paused. Should he be helping her? Was this something she needed for something important? It hadn’t hit him that perhaps she was sleepwalking as well. The idea that the both of them had met up by chance like that sounded absurd.

Layla had still been blindly in her trance, and ignoring him, she moved towards the truck to resume her mission. A random mission that had been implanted in her brain, and something she had been carrying out on her own around town. Tonight, she just happened to have company. If he didn’t want his light bulbs taken, he was going to have to stop her. And without any hesitation, she sat her box down, ejected a claw, and leaned in ready to start cutting out holes to reach through, “If you’re not going to help me, I’ll do this alone.”

He was calm, confused definitely, but calm for the first few moments as she continued to speak with certainty of her task. It was only when Jared noted that she was cutting the plastic coverings of his headlights that he realized this was all wrong. Blinking away the disorientation from just having woken up, along with the added confusion of being outside and not in his own bed, he came to the conclusion he SHOULD stop her. He moved to her side and gently grasped her wrist to stop her from cutting the plastic covering and held her. He was stronger than a human, but he was also far too soft a person to be firm with Layla. She could easily pull away, he hoped to just dissuade her. “I can buy you bulbs if you need them, please stop, I don’t have money for repairs like this.”

Layla had been so hellbent on her mission, but when he grabbed her something seemed to click. Blinking a few times, the dazed and confused werewolf looked around, “What? What’s going on? Where am I?” It took her a moment before she realized where she was at. Looking between Jared, the box of lightbulbs, and her single claw resting gently on the headlight of his truck, she put two and two together, “Oh...I-I…” Looking between him and the box, she could feel the sting of embarrassment rushing over her cheeks. She was just about to trash something else of his, and she felt horrible about it, “I’m so sorry, Jared. I’m so so sorry. I’ll pay for all of this, but I have to-I have to go.” Pulling away from him, she headed back the way she had come, as if instinctively knowing exactly where to go. A night of sleepwalking came with confusion and a box full of lightbulbs that now sat undisturbed in Jared’s barn leaving him, yet again, in the crosshairs of her mischief and mayhem.

#para: you light up my life #themidnightfarmer #potw: living nightmares #wickedswriting

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modestlyabsurd · 4 years

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Alight Pt. 2 (Loki x Reader)

You were certain things couldn't get worse. That was the stupidest assumption ever. Now you're on the verge of actually believing it to be true - after over 24 hours without food, water, or light - but you will not make that same mistake again.

It can always get worse. You already knew that, though. Which is one reason you're pretty sure you're going insane.

One might think the lack of nourishment would be quick to drive someone crazy. And yes, this deficit will inevitably result in death, however the real highway to delirum is the absence of light. Of guidance, of sight. Light is what maintains balance. After all, complete darkness is arguably the lowest point in existence. It's the closest sense of death. Silence and darkness. That's you, right? That'd be a more accurate name than Doe 618: silence and darkness.

Who would've thought a day without your lightbulb would emit such deep thoughts?

A lukewarm bowl of oatmeal or rice pudding would be nice, very nice, but all you want is your lightbulb. Well, a new lightbulb; thanks to Dickhead who took it upon himself to slam the old on on the floor after unscrewing it from the rinky-dink bed lamp. The pitiful little pile of shards lay in the corner since there's nowhere in your cell to "clean it up".

Not to mention: no dustpan. Your hands still distantly throb and burn from tiny little cuts in your palms. Having to lick them was a reminder of the coppery taste of blood, and how much you hate it.

Without even the entertainment of food, you've been left with no one but your fucking self. The edge of sanity is right there. Just one too many scenarios of Banner and Strange either failing, giving up, or not trying at all and you'd be a nutcase.

The mere thought of the doctors - of any aspect of the past, really - makes your head ache. You can't keep doing this. Sure, if only you hadn't went through with the stupid idea in the first place everything would be fine, but that's not what happened.

It is what it is. Even if it fucking sucks.

Amid the usual white noise of shuffling and talk from other inmates, heavy disgruntled footsteps interrupt it. A periodic scraping sound against the concrete floor grabs your attention; as the steps get closer the smell wafts into your cell.

Okay. Either your brain is betraying you completely, or they're actually serving something appetizing for breakfast. The former seems more likely. Warmth fills the cold industrial air and it becomes clear that you're in fact not crazy. These motherfuckers are dishing up some decent food.

The sweet smell of toast, cinnamon, maybe even jam or fruit. Your stomach rumbles fiercely, desperately. It's not until you're bouncing at the cell door and you feel the sweat coating your palms that you realize what you've become; a dog, caged and hungry. It takes a second longer, when the scraping of food trays against the floor stops, that that's exactly what they wanted.

The footsteps approach your cell, and keys jingle before the smell flows into your cell freely. The first bit of light pours in as well. It's blinding. But Dickhead's large shadow helps with that.

Your appetite almost disappears. Almost. But when Mobius strides in behind him, it's gone.

"Wide awake, huh?" Mobius drawls. His mustache rises with his ugly smile. "It's so dark in here. What happened to your lamp?"

Dickhead smirks in the darkness.

"Hm. The bulb must've went out. Go get me another one from the supply closet," he commands his guard. A part of you relishes in Dickhead's embarrassing reminder of who's in charge of who.

He hands the tray of food to Mobius before fetching, leaving the cell door open. Leaving Mobius alone with you for the first time since you've been here.

"You look hungry." He motions to the food tray, "French toast, honey, bacon and eggs. All cooked fresh just a while ago. I thought I'd give everyone a little something special."

There's something different here. A new element, and with every small step backward you feel it. You're not in the interrogation room. He's now intruded on your quarters. There's no retreat.

"But I have to be fair. I'm a man of my word, and we made an agreement."

Agreement? What, his order of no food until you speak? You agreed to nothing! The thought of knocking the tray out of his hands is tempting. But you don't.

"Are you ready to tell me your name? Little doe?" he whispers. Your mind goes to the glass shards in the corner. The big one.

In spite of yourself, in spite of your fear and your hunger and your sanity, you remain silent. Without breaking eye contact. Without question.

Seconds pass as slow as days, and Mobius disappointedly places the tray on the floor. His back's turned. The door's open. Run! you scream at yourself. But you don't.

A heavy sigh cuts the tension as Dickhead's frame comes through the door. It was right there.

"Thank you," says Mobius as he takes the lightbulb. It was right there.

The outside light conceals Mobius' eyes through the glare of his glasses. He shakes his head and tuts his tongue. You see Dickhead's jaw clenching angrily. Wonder if he knows just how stupid he looks.

Mobius steps closer to you. His shoes echoing, his presence burning your chest. Something holds you in place. Either achoring stubbornness or crippling fear; it matters not when he's close enough for you to kill. Close enough to kill you.

He holds the lightbulb between you. "Here. Take it. I even have some reading material if you'd like."

You would. Some sort of escape would be nice. No more darkness. Just moments ago that's all you wanted in the world; this lightbulb. Now you're not so sure if you want anything from the greasy hands of Mobius.

His eyes are clear now. Black, beady, and not blinking. Like a shark on its prey.

"I can tell you're gonna be a tough nut to crack." He bends to your level and your teeth grind when his hot, stale breath fans your nose. "But everything cracks under the right amount of pressure."

Mobius crushes the lightbulb in his fist.

He can't believe it!

Those charged with maintaining the universe's timelines detect his presence but cannot for the life of them figure out anything. He could lay out the answers in plain sight, and they would still not know. Or not believe him. But isn't that the fun? Blurring the lines? Between one reality to another, between what is true and what is a lie. That's where things get interesting.

The fools are eating out of the palm of his hand.It won't be long they'll believe he's working for The Avengers. Oh, that'll be such fun.

Just when that little bit of innocent mischief returns, Loki is reminded of his purpose. He mustn't forget. The world needs restoration. He means to rule it, not burrow in captivity.

While the nightly reminders aren't so kind, this little interlude isn't so bad. Especially since this morning he was served something besides porridge. Not that it was spectacular or anything, but it did hit a sweet spot in his tastes.

As he chewed the soggy toast in silence, he fights off the pestering thoughts of failure. The invading thoughts of another entity, not his own. He knows he hasn't failed. He saw the flaws in the plans of The Other from the start. The irate, brainless creature.

He doesn't even care if his thoughts can be heard at this point. The strength of the humans shouldn't have been underestimated. He was right all along.

Even though he didn't get far in his travels through the Tesseract. Even with his capture by the Time Variance Authority. This is far from over. This is just the beginning.

So why not take a break from the game?

"You're really starting to piss me off," the brutish guard who patrols the wing states - loud enough to tear Loki out of his own head. Ooh, the mysterious neighbor again!

This time he listens, he really listens, thinking that they must be provoking the guard somehow. But just like before, he hears nothing from them.

"You're gonna tell me your fucking name."

A series of crashes are heard through the concrete walls. The throwing of objects. The sound of the struggle makes Loki wince.

The sound of a shriek lifts his eyes wide open.

"You bitch!" the guard yells. He groans in pain and the struggle ceases. Oh what he would do to know the details!

A moment without words passes and Loki believes the ordeal has ended for the day.

"L/N," a fiery voice says.

"What?" asks the guard in disbelief.

"You can go tell Mobius ... that L/N is the one who cut your fucking cheek open."

tag list: @sydneyss-worlddd @afinedilemma @fire-in-her-veinz @belladonnabarnes @drakesfiance @internetgremlin @dragon-chica @triggeredpossum @tarynkauai

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artistic-writer · 5 years

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Forged in Ireland

Title: Forged in Ireland by @artistic-writer Rating: P for penis innuendo and T for its real rating. Summary: Humourous Forged in Fire AU. Four novice bladesmiths, three of them Irish, compete in one of the toughest competitions of its type, Forged in Fire. Killian Jones, his brother Liam Jones, Graham Humbert and David Nolan. Who will win? Who has the skills to best the other men? A/N: Thank you to my kickass beta, @hollyethecurious - I’m posting this for @kmomof4 who i promised a fic to yesterday, but them posted a whump fic instead. No one dies in this one ;)

Taglist: @resident-of-storybrooke @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @hookedonapirate @winterbaby89 @courtorderedcake @cocohook38 @branlovesouat @teamhook @snidgetsafan @sherlockianwhovian @shireness-says @wingedlioness @lenfaz @therooksshiningknight @ilovemesomekillianjones @bmbbcs4evr @blowmiakisscolin @deathbycaptainswan @onceuponaprincessworld @chinawoodfan @seriouslyhooked @snowbellewells @doodlelolly0910 @darkcolinodonorgasm

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"Great men are forged in fire. It is the privilege of lesser men to light the flame."- John Hurt

They had never met until now, apart from Killian and Liam, who were brothers. Graham, a tall, curly haired, blue-eyed bulk of a man, was also from Ireland. The three of them had made it through to round two of one of the toughest competitions currently aired on American television. Forged in Fire. Four bladesmiths competing against the clock for the grand prize, which, as they had all learned when the fourth competitor, David, had been eliminated, was much tougher than they had anticipated.

“We’re sorry, David, but your blade did not make the cut.”

Red-faced and in slight shock, David had gathered his tools and left the studio, or the forge as it was known. He hung his head as he walked out of the room, metal tools rattling in his tool bag, lifting it again as he had been instructed by the production team. They were going to put a slow motion shot of him leaving and they wanted him looking tall and proud, his own opinion on getting eliminated voicing over the sequence.

“It’s tougher than you think, and I respect the judges. It was the right choice. I just didn’t make the best knife today and that’s okay because I’ve learned a lot.”

“David’s knife was good,” Graham whispered to Liam, their forges right next to each other back in the studio. “I thought I was going for sure.”

“Aye,” Liam muttered under his breath with a nod, setting his footing into a wider stance behind his anvil.

“This is tough,” Killian whispered to both of them, tucking his chin to his chest to hide his words.

“Bladesmiths!” Wil Willis bellowed out over the forge, making all three men turn to face him. “Round two,” he grinned devilishly. Killian gulped. “You have three hours in which to attach handles to your weapons using the items offered to you,” he motioned to the well-dirtied metal racking in the corner of the room, stacked with offcuts of all kinds of materials, “turning them into fully functioning weapons for our judges tests, which include a rope slice and sleeper chop.” Liam, Killian, and Graham all followed the motion of his arm, eyes scanning the pieces of odd materials. “But,” he added dramatically, and they all returned their gaze to him. “They must include a guard and an element from this.”

They all held their breath as the host reached for the silky red sheet covering an oddly shaped object. With a flick of his wrist, the material fell away to reveal a huge, brass ship propeller sitting neatly on the table in front of them.

“Oh, Jesus,” Graham uttered, his words lost on a chuckle.

Killian looked over to his brother, both ex-naval men, and smirked. It was ironic, in a strange way, that the thing that had carried them across oceans would now, potentially, sink them.

“Bladesmiths, your three hours begins...now!” Willis yelled and all three men scurried to the pantry.

“I have no idea what I am going to do,” Graham mumbled to himself. His blade had received the most attention from the judges because of a slight warp in his tang. He could fix this easily by hiding his tang in a cylinder of material as a through tang, but which to choose? His eye scanned the shelves, flitting back and forth before he fixed his gaze on some deer antler. It was big enough to drill and shape into a comfortable handle, so he grabbed it before either Jones brother had a chance to.

Killian went to the top shelf immediately, spying some Micarta. It was one of the strongest materials and would stand up to the tests set out by the judges, but as he reached for it, so did Liam. They both looked at each other with a smirk, fingers holding the grey material tight.

“Age before beauty, brother,” Killian quipped with a wry grin, releasing his hold on the scale.

“No, no, I insist,” Liam said with a nod, offering Killian the piece. “Shit before the shovel, little brother.” He’d uttered the words under his breath, and they would probably be edited out of the final cut of the show, but it was mostly lost in Killian’s laugh. “Here, take it. For your little knife,” he smiled.

“I assure you, brother,” Killian began, pushing the Micarta back into Liam’s hand. “My knife, much like other things, will be much bigger than yours.”

Liam took the Micarta with a smirk, heading back to his workbench, whilst Killian grabbed some African Blackwood. It was strong and would fit his blade well, the rustic, camp knife style with a Celtic twist. Traditionally, Celtic knives were shorter, more like a small dagger, with a single loop handle and leather wrapped handle, but the shows specifications meant he had to go bigger. Killian had made a Viking Seax, a single edged blade with, traditionally, a handle made of natural materials, a knife style that had a reputation as a great chopper.

“I’ve made a Seax. It’s strong, and it’s a great chopping blade that will knock my brother right out of the competition. I’m going to cut off a piece of the prop, flatten it out and slide it between the scales and my tang, giving my handle a third layer.”

Killian ran to the tool bench, eyes searching over the dusty surface until he found what he was looking for. The grinder, fitted with a diamond cutting disc, was in his grasp before he could blink, and he then ran to the propeller in the front of the forge.

“Looks like Killian is taking a huge chunk of that flat edge side of the prop,” said David Baker, historic weapons expert and advisor to Hollywood.

“He is most likely going to flatten it out and use it somewhere in his handle,” J. Nielsen, another of the judges, pointed out, watching Killian whizz across the room with the section of propeller he had ground off.

Killian was at his anvil in a second, gripping the brass in his tongs and whacking it flat with his blacksmith’s hammer. The sound of metal on metal rang out, a bead of sweat on Killian’s brow falling to his anvil. The forge was hot, heat from the four propane forges still lingering in the air, and with each collision to his anvil, Killian felt the ricochet in his wrist and his forearm.

“Hitting that brass a little hard there, brother?” Liam teased, brushing past Killian with his own part of the propeller. He had popped off the boss cap, unscrewing the bolt that held the shaft in place, testing the weight in his hands. “When are you going to learn that hitting something harder doesn’t always yield the best results.”

“And when are you going to learn, brother,” Killian began, grinning from ear to ear with a filthy smirk. “The force from a hammer is proportional to the size of the tool. I cannot be held accountable if my tool is bigger than yours.”

“So you say,” Liam sniggered, shaking his head at his brother’s cockiness.

“Have you ever heard a complaint?” Killian raised an eyebrow at his brother who met his comment with silence. “I didn’t think so.”

“Layers will add integrity as well as a sleekness to my blade. I’m going to slip the brass under the scales to give my knife a really sexy look, kind of like a brass vest under a wooden jacket.”

Once he had the brass as flat as he could get it, Killian got back to his table and set about tracing the holes of his tang so he could drill out the brass and African Blackwood. Killian knew Liam’s plan. He had already watched him put a thread on the end of his tang so he could just screw the brass bolt in place and shape it on the belt sander. It was ingenious, really, but Killian liked the challenge of creating the perfect handle for his blade.

Glancing to his right, Killian spotted a frown on Graham’s face.

“Uh oh,” Willis thought out loud, spying Graham’s mistake instantly. All three of the judges followed his nod of direction, sucking in mouthfuls of air through their teeth in a triple wince. “Looks like Graham has messed up his material.”

Graham, in his haste to repair his warped tang, had misjudged the size and angle of the hole needed in his deer antler and had managed to drill right through the side of it. He sighed audibly, shaking his head from side to side before swiping his hand over his brow. Antler dust stuck to his sweaty forehead and the muscles in his jaw ticked.

“You can fix it,” Killian encouraged, his voice shaking Graham from his self directed rage. “Get some dust and epoxy,” he instructed selflessly.

It was like a lightbulb went off in Graham’s brain and he rushed to the saw, gathering what dust he could so he could mix it with some epoxy resin and steel dust. His handle would be off colour, but it would be functional, and that was the most important part of the competition.

“Thanks, mate,” he called to Killian who simply gave him a nod of assurance.

“Did you see that?” Willis asked the judges, directing his question at Doug Marcaida, an edged weapons specialist. “Killian just helped his fellow competitor.”

“He’s a source of inspiration,” Doug nodded humbly. “Great men are forged in fire,” he began, pointing out Killian who continued to work on his blade handle with a stern focus. “It is the privilege of lesser men to light the flame.”

“Did you just quote Doctor Who?” David Baker asked his colleague, aghast the man had delivered such a poetic quote from a TV show character.

“John Hurt,” Doug laughed. “As Doctor Who.”

All three men were at the same stage. The materials they had collected had been sized and cut into a rough shape using the huge bandsaw, and they are all currently hunched over their workbenches mixing epoxy. Two syringes full of the two resins were squeezed into each other on a flat surface, mixed with a flat spatula made of wood, the chemical reaction happening almost instantly. Graham added his dust to the epoxy, turning it into a lump consistency that wasn’t as easily spread over his tang as the glue Liam and Killian were using. They all rushed to get their handle scales in place, tapping them gently with a hammer.

“No, no, no!” Liam cursed, turning from his bench dramatically and running his steel greyed hands through his curled hair.

“Tap, tap, tap, crack. I’m done. Now my blasted brother is going to win.”

“Oh no,” one of the judges said. “Looks like Liam has broken one of his scales.”

Liam ground his jaw in frustration. He had hit the handle material too hard at just the wrong angle and it had snapped the top corner of his scale. He stared at his knife, shoulders tensed, fists balled in anger. In his anticipation to get his handle fixed he had lost his patience with tapping the delicate material with the hammer, chipping of a corner. It was a little too much to cover with some strategic sanding, so he had no choice but to start again.

“It’s going to be tricky getting those scales off now,” judge J. Nielsen told host Wil Willis. “His epoxy is already set.”

“Fuck!” Liam grunted, sure his outburst would most certainly not make a final cut.

Killian looked up from his own project, his brother’s cheeks pink with a mixture of heat and fury. He looked at Liam’s faux pas, sitting in front of his brother like a mockery of his skills, and his lips turned up into a smug grin.

“Problem, brother?” Killian taunted, looking back to his own work. His epoxy had set, fusing two brass plates between his tang and his outer wooden scales. It was perfect. All he had to do was sand it to shape.

Liam didn’t answer, punting his toe into the edge of his table.

“Shorten it,” Killian barked over the sound of Graham grinding his handle behind him. Liam looked over to him, raising an eyebrow in Jones brother fashion. “It’s only a tad, Liam,” Killian added, leaving his bench to pick up his brother’s knife. He pointed at the end, rubbing his grease covered thumbnail over the butt of Liam’s handle. “You can cut a smidge off, add an extra layer of new material and then thread your bolt on the end.”

Liam looked up at his brother, astounded by his commanding nature. He barely had time to respond before Killian thrust his knife back into his hands and Willis was announcing a time frame.

“Bladesmiths! You have thirty minutes remaining!”

Graham began humming a tune to himself as he pushed his knife handle against the sanding belt. Dust flew towards the floor and into his face, the mask he was wearing shielding his most from most of the splinters of antler. He was rushing, grinding in the wrong direction when all of a sudden the knife slipped from his grasp and his fingers were pushed against the coarse sanding belt, his knife point stabbing into his palm.

“Jesus, fuck!” He screeched, his Irish accent much thicker than it had been all day.

“Maybe, my reaction was bit drastic, but at least now I can say that literally my blood, sweat and tears are in that blade.”

“Oh, we got blood!” David Baker announced, tapping J.Nielsen’s arm in excitement.

“Is Graham going to need a medic?” Willis frowned, arching his neck to see more clearly.

“Are you alright, mate?” Killian asked Graham, his voice muffled behind his own face mask. He lifted his head, shutting off his machine to silence the screech of the belt, placing his knife on the bench beside it. “Is it bad?”

Graham hissed, clutching his hand to his chest. Killian motioned him closer and encouraged him to show him his hand, dark crimson flowing from his palm as soon as Graham opened it. Killian shook his head, looking up to catch the eye of Wil Willis, motioning with his arm.

“Can we get a medic in there?” Willis said, concern etched on his face.

Paramedics rushed to Graham’s aid. Liam downed his tools and for the first time ever, in the history of the entire show, the clock was stopped. Graham had sat on the floor under a medic’s instruction, and his leg was shaking, knee tapping the floor to distract from the pain throbbing through his hand.

“Is he going to be able to continue?” Baker thought out loud.

Graham was lost in a huddle of men, Killian pushed out by the circle by the medics. He looked over to Liam, his face pale, absolutely no colour in his cheeks, a solemn look on his face.

“When I reached Graham, I saw that his palm was sliced nearly to the back of his hand. His little pinkie finger was almost cut clean off, and the first thing I think is, he can’t possibly continue. The second thing is, that means it’s down to me and Liam. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a tad disappointed to be entering the final round because of an injury, but that won’t make besting my brother during the final any less satisfying.”

After the drama had cleared and Graham was on his way to the hospital, the forge fell silent once more. Liam and Killian stood before the judges table, part finished blades wrapped in protective blue cloth in their hands. Killian shuffled his feet, scuffing the dust with the toe of his boot, and Liam was nervously gripping his blade.

“Due to Graham’s medical elimination, there will be no need for further testing of your blades,” Wil Willis began, addressing both of the men in front of him. “For the first time in this competition’s history, we have brothers competing for the title and the check for ten grand.” He had his fingers tented, pointing to each brother in turn. “Congratulations on making the finale round. How do you guys feel about that?”

“No finer opponent,” Liam shrugged, looking sideways at his brother who had his trademark smirk and raised eyebrow plastered on his face.

“May the best man win,” Killian added, bobbing excitedly on the balls of his feet.

“Liam, Killian, we asked you here to forge a blade in your signature style, and we have not overlooked the fact that most of our competitors in this competition were Irish, so now we are sending you back to your home forges to recreate an iconic weapon from Celtic history.”

“The instant Wil Willis mentions Celtic, my heart flutters. Our family has strong Celtic roots, so beating Liam is going to be all that much sweeter.”

Liam looked to his brother, the same gleeful expression lighting up both their faces at the host's words. He hadn’t even revealed the weapon yet and they were both poised to explode with excitement as he reached for the red, silk cloth covering it next to him.

“And that weapon is...the Irish Ring-Hilted Sword.”

The covering fell away from the sword in slow motion, the glint of the silvered pommel catching their eyes. It was beautiful. A long, hefty sword with a distinctive design that simultaneously caused joy and terror to course through them both. What looked like a simple design was actually a long list of complex crafting techniques the show's host was about to divulge.

“You’ll have five days at your home forges in which to complete this challenge,” Willis said enthusiastically, a wicked grin on his face. “Your blades must meet the following parameters. The length of your blade must be between twenty nine and thirty one inches in length, it must be double edged, and include a fuller on both sides of the blade, that runs at least three quarters the length of the blade. You must have an ‘s’ shaped guard, with forked terminals, with at least three prongs on each terminal. Additionally, you must include a ringed pommel, through which you can see the tang. Bladesmiths, after five days you will return to present your swords to our panel of judges, and after they have thoroughly tested them, and inspected the quality of your work, they’ll declare one of you the Forged in Fire champion, who’ll walk out of here with a check for ten thousand dollars. Good luck, Bladesmiths. We’ll see you in five days.”

“Unfortunately, for Killian, he is not used to wielding such an impressive weapon, so it’s going to be easy to, once and for all, instill in him that he will always be the little brother.”

“My older brother seems too preoccupied with the size of the weapon when it’s really about how the sword will perform. I assure you, I’m up for this challenge, and when I forge the better weapon, and I will, whoever is jabbed with it, will most certainly feel it.”

After five days in their home forges, and after extensive rounds of judge testing - including both brother’s hearing Doug Marcaida declare that their blades ‘would cut’ - it was settled once and for all.

Killian Jones did indeed have the bigger knife.

#fanfic #ff #ouat fanfic #forged in fire #forged in fire au #killian jones #liam jones #graham humbert #david nolan #bladesmithing #swordsmithing #tw: near amputation of a finger #its Graham #and one sentence #you'll be fine #Krystal.

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seasonofthegeek · 6 years

Text

The Trouble with Babysitting

I’m not sure why but I got the desire today to write Gabriel and Nathalie babysitting Hugo and Louis in The Trouble with Kittens universe so here we go. :)

“Are you guys sure?” Marinette winced as Hugo floated up to the chandelier and grabbed one of the delicate crystals hanging down. He let out an excited giggle as he clinked them together. “Hugo, floor time please.”

Gabriel eyed his grandson apprehensively but nodded. “They’ll be fine. We’re prepared.”

“It’s just that a weekend is a long time when it comes to three year olds,” Adrien warned. “And the twins can be a little more challenging than most.”

“I’m aware of that. You were this age at one point and you survived.”

“Yeah, but...” Adrien trailed off and busied himself with the luggage, unwilling to finish his statement.

Gabriel opened his mouth as if to question him but Nathalie shook her head and he snapped it shut.

“Plagg and Tikki are willing to stay as well, so you’ll have a little help,” Marinette added quickly, rubbing her swollen belly. “And--”

“Race car,” Louis demanded, tugging on her sleeve.

“Race car, baby. And we’re only going to be a two hour drive away so if anything hap--”

“Race car!”

“Race car. If anything happens or if you guys need us to come back, just give us a--”

“Race car! Race car! Race car! Mama, race car please!”

“Race car, Lou. Give us a call,” Marinette finished, fishing a red toy race car out of her jacket pocket and handing it to her son.

Adrien coaxed Hugo down with a blue race car and the toddler turned the same shade of blue as he settled into his father’s arms happily.

“Right,” Gabriel cleared his throat, suddenly very uncertain about what he’d agreed to, “things should be fine.”

___________________________

“How’s your shoulder?” Nathalie leaned closer to the mirror as she applied moisturizer under her eyes but glanced at her husband’s reflection.

“It stings but I suppose it could’ve been worse.” Gabriel let the singed button-up slide off his shoulders and he studied the angry red burn on the right one. “Louis is a dramatic child. Not a fortunate combination with his abilities.”

Nathalie tried not to smile. “Seems he’s an Agreste man through and through then.”

“You can keep those thoughts to yourself.” Gabriel caught her eyes to take the sting out of his words.

“You’ve been thinking about Adrien tonight, haven’t you?” She moved behind him, gently touching the braised skin.

“What do you think he was going to say earlier, before they left?”

“That you didn’t really raise him,” she answered simply.

His shoulders slumped. “That’s what I thought.”

“He isn’t wrong, Gabriel. You can’t be upset.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Well, I suppose you can but it won’t do either of you any good.”

“I’m trying.”

“I know you are.” She rummaged around in a drawer and brought out a nighttime face gel. “This should soothe the burn. I know things between you and Adrien go back and forth but you’re both working on your relationship and you’re trying with the boys. That’s all you can do. You can’t change the past.”

They spent the rest of their nighttime rituals in a thoughtful silence. Nathalie went down the hall to peek into the twins’ room. Louis and Hugo were cuddled together on one bed, the other one filled with a mountain of stuffed animals.

“They wore themselves out about twenty minutes ago,” Tikki whispered, zipping to the door. “Hugo did unscrew the lightbulb though so that will need to be fixed tomorrow. I tried to explain he could just use the lightswitch but he’s as stubborn as Marinette.”

“Hey, Louis didn’t destroy anything except old Gabe’s shirt and shoulder in his tantrum. I say it was a good night,” Plagg cut in, looking at them from his throne of plushies.

“We’ll see you in the morning then. Goodnight.” Nathalie pulled the door shut and made her way back down the hall. “Both boys are out.”

“I’m glad. I have to admit, I’m feeling my age tonight.”

She smiled and climbed into bed beside him. “You are a grandfather.”

He pursed his lips, brow furrowing. “Did you ever want children, Nat?”

She settled down in the bed and rolled onto her side, looking up at him still sitting against the headboard. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “There are days when I regret that I didn’t.”

“Is it my fault?”

“Bold of you to assume I couldn’t have left at any point that I wanted and started a family,” she replied, quirking an eyebrow.

“That’s not...I didn’t mean...”

“I wasn’t so lost in love with you that I was never with other men, Gabriel.”

He scowled. “I’m well aware of that.”

“Jagged was an especially talented lover. There’s something to be said for dating a rock star.”

“Would you like me to call for the divorce papers now or wait until morning?”

She smiled and tugged on his arm until he slid down into the bed, flinching when the pillow rubbed against his shoulder. “What’s got you wondering?”

“Adrien and Marinette are about to have a third child and I know you were around for most of Adrien’s life but I guess I wonder if you regret not having your own.”

“Do you regret not being a bigger part of Adrien’s?”

Gabriel’s jaw clenched and he gave a stiff nod. “Yes.”

“But you’re happy with what you’ve got now, aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Then I suppose you know how I feel, a bit anyway. There might always be a part of me that wishes I’d had my own child but I don’t regret the choices I’ve made. And now there are two little boys to love and another sweet baby on the way. Things could be worse.”

“I suppose.”

“I don’t resent you if that’s what you’re trying to get around to, you insecure pretty bird.”

A smile tugged at his lips before his expression turned more serious. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

“Well, I don’t. I made my decisions and while you may have indirectly colored some of them, they were my own.” She closed the space between them with a gentle kiss. “I love you and I love our life.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

A sharp cry interrupted her reply and Nathalie moved to get out of the bed.

“I’ll go,” Gabriel offered, already standing.

___________________________

“How was the weekend?” Adrien asked apprehensively, looking around the foyer for damage.

“It was great. We went to the zoo,” Nathalie began.

“Saw lions and alligators!” Hugo announced. “Roar!” Louis joined in on the roaring and the two chased each other up the stairs, pausing to growl playfully at each other.

“The zoo?” Marinette shot Gabriel and Nathalie an impressed look. “And you survived? The last time we went, Louis tried to melt the glass so he could pet the jaguar because they had the same eyes.”

“We steered clear of the big cat exhibits for the most part,” Gabriel admitted. “Though the lions were accidental.”

“And a big hit,” Nathalie added. “They each have new stuffed lions upstairs.”

“Of course they do. You don’t have to keep buying them stuff, Dad. Between you guys and Marinette’s parents, they have more than every toy store in Paris.”

Gabriel flushed. “They wanted them and they were really well-behaved while we were out.”

“Being a grandfather has turned you into a big softie,” Marinette teased. Her smile turned to a grimace as she put a hand to her stomach. “Goodness, for only one this time, she sure doesn’t give me a moment of rest.”

“And I think that’s our cue that it’s time to head home,” Adrien said, eyeing his wife worriedly. “You need to get off your feet, sweetheart.”

“I know, I know,” she huffed. “I’m fine really.” They shared a look and Adrien frowned but nodded.

“Come on, boys, tell Grand-Pere and Grand-Mere thank you and goodbye.”

Hugo, now a glowing orange color, bounded down the stairs followed by Louis, his black hair trailing behind him as it reached past his waist. They took turns hugging Gabriel and Nathalie and then hurried to the front door, ready to continue their day.

“Thanks again, Dad.” Adrien faltered for a moment and Gabriel stepped closer, pulling his son into a hug.

“Thank you for letting us keep them. I know they usually stay with Tom and Sabine. It really meant a lot.”

Adrien nodded, ducking his head and hugged Nathalie quickly before joining his wife and sons at the door. “Have a good night, you guys.”

“It’ll be nice to have peace and quiet again,” Gabriel said gruffly, turning away from the door after it closed after his son’s family.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get to see them again next week,” Nathalie soothed, voice slightly teasing.

He smiled, looking back at the door. “That’s true. I suppose I’ll have to find some way to fill my time before then. Can I take you to dinner, my beautiful wife?”

Buy me a cherry coke?

#the trouble with kittens #ttwk #gabenath #gabriel agreste #nathalie sancoeur #oops I drabbled again #miraculous ladybug

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thatbangtanbloom · 6 years

Text

let me be yours | | jjk

Jeon JUNGKOOK | | let me be yours

fluff, angst | jungkook x you, mentions of taehyung

best friends!au

&&- Drabble

- “Just let me be yours.”

"Aish... are you really that short?" Jungkook exclaims with a smirk on his face. He takes a step back from his bed, finding it hard not to laugh at the sight of his best friend trying to reach the lighting fixture.

Y/N frowns, holding the light bulb in her hand with a look of disapproval. "I'm almost the same height as Jimin." You exaggerate, you had not been extremely close in height, but the shortest in Bangtan was the easiest justifcation for yourheart.

Jungkook rolls his eyes, climbing on the bed to stand up. "What's your point, small fry?" He ruffles your hair with a laugh as he takes the lightbulb from your hand. You stare at him quietly for a moment and he merely smirks at you before looking away. He hopes you don't know the pink flush on his cheeks. You do.

"I'm not that small. It's not my fault you're freakishly tall. You know, technically, you're more of a product of evolution than I am. That means that you're not as special as you ought to be." you looks at him with an I-told-you-so expression on her face.Jungkook laughs, opting to roll his eyes at you in response. "Whatever that means, know-it-all." He flicks her forehead with a laugh before reaching up to change the light. His hands are roughly two inches shy and Y/N can't help but smirk in satisfaction.

"Looks like you can't get it either, small fry." you wink at him with a laugh.

Jungkook presses his tongue against his cheek before he giggles softly. "You won't be saying that when I successfully change this lightbulb." He pauses to wrap her arms around his waist. "Don't make me fall or PD-nim will sue you for your retirement savings."

"Of course not," Y/N sarcastically replies with a laugh as you hold his waist tighter so he wouldn't fall.

Jungkook chuckles to himself as he looks up, reaching and successfully unscrewing the first lightbulb. He passes her the non-functional one before quickly changing the other one. He gets on his tiptoes before he teeters off to the side.

"Oof!" Y/N groans as you fall on her back. Jungkook follows you through your fall since you had been holding him. As though an instinct, he wraps his arms around her head, as though protecting her.

The two pause, realizing they had only fallen onto Jungkook's bed and not the floor and burst into laughter.

"I can't remember the last time I laughed because of something so dumb." Jungkook admits with a laugh as he lingers over you. You can see the way his pupils dilate as he stares down at you. He notices you were currently covering your face, hiding your smile as you laugh.

"Me either." you reply with a giggle as your eyes finally met Jungkook's.

Although Y/N kept laughing, Jungkook had stopped. He couldn't get over how happy you looked. He wanted to memorize the way your eyes crinkled up and how annoying your laugh (but really entertaining) was. He stares into your eyes - did you feel what he was feeling?

"J-Jungkook?" you ask in between laughter as you stare up at him. You find it hard to focus on just one aspect of him, so you decide to take in all of him... you couldn't remember the last time you saw him like this. Had it been last when you visited him for Chuseok? Or had it been the day of the bonfire from all those years ago? You couldn't remember.

Jungkook stares down at you before hesitantly licking his lips. "Don't say anything... just stay like this, okay?" he lingers over her with a nervous smile on his face. He had never been this close to a girl, ever. Sure, there had been his his stylists, but he would never change the notion of idol and stylist. They were already spoken for... but Y/N? You weren't anybody's and that incited him.

"Jungkook...?" you asks, blinking up at him. Your voice shakes a little because you know this feeling.

Jungkook leans a little closer to you. His nose is barely skimming yours and he swears you can hear his heartbeat. Was he really doing this? "I-I don't know what comes next." He stammers.

"I don't know either." You whisper, trying to keep your voice level. You could tell Jungkook was nervous and that last thing you wanted was to do something either of them wouldn't do if it had been another time. "Jungkook... what are we doing?"

Jungkook laughs softly - but his laughter is forced because oh my god, how could you not see what you were doing to him? "...I really want to kiss you... but I'm scared about what would happen if I do."

"What..?" you ask, blinking.

He darkly chuckles at you, "Aigoo... what are you doing to me, Y/N-ah?"

"I-I don't know," Y/N replies, losing your resolve of being calm. How could you not when he looked at you like that? No one had ever looked at you like Jungkook had and you didn't know how to feel about that... was this how it was supposed to feel? Love?

Jungkook steals a glance at your lips before deeply inhaling. "Aigoo..." He bluyous so hard that his nose is tinted slightly pink.

"Taehyung just rejected me..." Your voice is small and Jungkook fights the urge to reassure you that it had been three weeks since his hyung had rejected you that it had been three weeks of Jungkook trying to piece your heart back together. Three weeks since Jungkook made it his mission for you to see him as a man; and more importantly, a man for you.

"I don't care... it's his loss." Jungkook hastily replies without thought. "... but let's not talk about him, okay?" He opts to move to the side of you because god, how could he even think when you looked up at him like that? ... Was that what Taehyung saw?

Y/N turns to face him. you chew on your lip before smiling at him. "Okay."

"God, you say you're okay." Jungkook says and you laughs softly at his words.

"You're cute, Jungkookie." you giggles softly as you reaches up to ruffle his hair. you yawns, rubbing her eyes. "I'm a little tired..." you yawns once more and so does Jungkook.

"Yawning's contagious." He blurts, and he blurts this because he has nothing else to say. How could someone be so adorable? The question burdens the both of them.

Jungkook practically melts into your touch as he shifts so he can move closer to you. "Do you think you'll be over hyung in time?" His voice is quiet. Though, he notes how your hand doesn't go limp in his hair. Was that a good sign?

"I don't think so.... I liked him a lot." You admit with an equally small voice before you look at Jungkook. "But some crushes... no matter how beautiful they are, they have to be let go."

Jungkook feels his heart jump at your words. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know.... but I think it's better not to." you admit and Jungkook laughs softly.

"You're so confusing." He opts to take your hand in his and he brings it to his lips. He leaves a chaste kiss on the back of it.

You smile, "The best people are." you yawn once more. "I'm sleepy..." you rubs your arm as you stare back at Jungkook. You can see the hints of amber in his eyes. Were his eyes always so beautiful?

"You can sleep here," Jungkook tells you with a soft laugh. He nervously puts his hand on the small of your back and you notice his nervousness. You wiggles your brows and he laughs at the simple actions. His nerves were flaring. "Is it that obvious?"

Y/N giggles softly before you nod, "I think it's cute." You smile at him lopsidedly.

"Can we cuddle? I'll be the big spoon." Jungkook says with a hint of stars in his eyes.

The sentence makes a frown pull on Y/N's mouth, and Jungkook notices; because of course he would always notice. "Okay," you replies in a small voice before you smile at him. You roll over into his arms. "This is harmless, isn't it?"

"Y-yes," Jungkook stutters, feeling his cheeks flush. He decides to ignore soft her tummy is. Was that perverted? He didn't know why, but it felt hypersensitive at the moment. He wraps his right arm around you loosely before pulling you close. He lets out a shaky breath and you have to bite your hand to keep from giggling.

"You're so shy, it's adorable." you whisper as you take his arm and lightly bite on it. You blows a raspberry against his skin and Jungkook feels his cheeks flush more.

Jesus, he thinks to himself.

"Huh?" You ask with a tired voice as you take his fingers and entwines them with yours.

Aish, he thinks to himself. He must have said it aloud.

“Nothing...” Jungkook states with a blush on his cheeks. “Can we just stay like this forever?”

“Forever?” Your voice cuts in and Jungkook swears he has heard the voice of an angel. “Now, maybe.” You joke before Jungkook leans over to flick your forehead. “Of course...”

He closes his eyes and Jungkook’s grip around your waist tightens over so slightly. His heart thuds in his chest and he holds his breath, wondering if he should ask. “Y-Y/N.” He stammers out.

“Yes?” you ask, feeling your eyelids go heavy in Jungkook’s warm embrace.

He swallows deeply and his breath tickles your ear. “If I .... ever came to you.... please don’t push me away.” His voice is shaky and you feel your heart skip a beat at his words. “Please tell me that I can be yours...”

You swallow because you heard every word that he spoke. You feign sleep, hoping that you could push this conversation to another day. Because what Jungkook was asking you was far more than what the last fifteen years of your friendship ever entailed.

“I want to be your laughter and your sighs. I want to be who you pour your heart into at late night phone calls at two in the morning. I want to be the one you need a hug from when exams don’t go your way or the people at work push you to your wit’s end. I want to be your butterfly, I long for nothing more but to flyfor you and be everything that you ever wanted... I’d do all of this for you because you are all that I’ve ever needed.” Jungkook’s voice is shaky as he puyous a strand of hair from your cheek tenderly.

You can see that he is awaiting your answer.

You can almost feel the love that radiates through him to you. You know that look because that same look was you had when you looked at Kim Taehyung.

What would you say?

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ddaddsprompts · 7 years

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How would dads react to a delicate dadsona? slender, light on their feet and light in general, and bruises easily? (The image popped into my head and I like to think the dads' protective instincts would go through the roof)

🎣Brian : “Woah, watch it. Don’t want you splitting your head open,” Brian’s voice makes you jump, and you nearly topple over from atop the ladder. “Don’t sneak up on me like that,” you huff as you look at him over your shoulder. A lightbulb is clutched in your hand and Brian seems ready to catch you at any moment. “Let me change it. You’re going to fall and hurt yourself,” he insists. You shake your head defiantly and point the lightbulb at him “I’m a grown 40 something year old man. If I can’t change a lightbulb, what does that make me?” You turn back to the socket attached to the ceiling, gingerly unscrewing the bulb. Brian says nothing and watches you nervously. It’s as if you can feel his concern radiating off of him, and even though it’s really sweet of him to worry for you, you wish he let you do more than you were capable of sometimes. “There we go,” you murmur when you’re done. Brian’s hands are firmly clasped to your waist before you can say anything else and he’s lifted you off the ladder. Your feet soon meet with the floor, a small pout coming to your lips.

🏋Craig : “Slowly, slowly. Make sure you’re breathing right. In your nose, out through your mouth. Back straight! Knees not over your toes,” Craig’s voice urges you on as you do squat after squat. “I’m not going to break my back just by doing 25 squats, Craig!” you finally cry out, thighs shaking already. “Just to be careful,” he nods and checks out your figure. There are other gym-goers staring at you two. A bulky, muscular man making sure that a small and too skinny male was doing his squats properly certainly brings amusement to some people. You roll your eyes as you take a 10 second break, stretching out your legs and you plopping onto the floor. “Don’t sit down! Up! Your heart rate is going to slow down too rapidly,” Craig literally drags you up with his hands under your pits. “Hey!” you struggle a little in his arms, embarrassed. “Jeez, Craig. Go do your bench presses or whatever you healthy people do. I’ll be fine,” you insists as you wriggle out of his hands. He gives you a wary look, seeming to consider it for a moment “Nah. I’ll do them after. Go on, next set!”

🐶Damien :“Darling, you mustn’t push yourself! Come on, hand me that and I’ll do it myself,” Damien insists and you give him your “uh, what?” look. “Damien. I’m just rearranging the library books. My section, not yours,” his cheeks turn a bright pink when he mentions that it’s your section of the library, clearly startled by your mention of his “private collection”. “Still! Those books could fall onto you. Let me help,” he hears nothing of your excuses and bustles past you. Damien grabs the books from your hands, putting them on a table nearby and ignoring your protests. He’s tall enough to reach the 5th shelf, but the 6th requires a ladder. Damien turns to you but you’re already up on the movable ladder with a stack of books balanced precariously in your arms. “(Y/N)!” he shrieks as you carefully descend. “Don’t ever do that again! One day you’re going to fall and break your neck,” Damien scolds and takes the books away hurriedly, though still kisses your cheek gently. “Now let me do it, while you can read a book and have a nice cup of the new lemongrass tea I just bought,” his tone is firm and you know there’s no way you’re going to be able to reason with him.

📚Hugo :The tip of your tongue sticks out of your mouth as you measure out Duchess’s food, shaking the pellets into her bowl. The dog herself is sitting patiently at your feet with her tail wagging. “There you go sweetheart,” you put the bowl down. Duchess is soon devouring her meal, crunching and slobbering everywhere. You watch her with a small smile and indulge her in some scratches along the crown of her head. Before you know it, you’re on the ground with Duchess licking your face excitedly. Even the smell of dog food on her breath isn’t revolting enough for you to push her off, she’s far too precious. “Duchess! Off, now!” she turns her head at Hugo’s stern voice. Her fail visibly droops, but she clambers off you. Hugo is already pulling you up by your arm and thrusting you to the sink for you to wash your face. “How many times have I told you not to roughhouse with Duchess? One day you’re going to end up with a concussion or something,” he sighs, tired. “Sorry,” you apologise meekly and kiss his cheek. Hugo’s lips meet yours for a brief moment, his mustache tickling your nose as he pulls away. “Just… avoid it,” he murmurs.

💒Joseph :“Christ!” the moment the word flies out of his lips, you whip your head around and lock eyes with Joseph. “What happened to the banner- Ah!” his own widens at the sight of the cloth that is stretched across the stage. His face turns a little pale and you clamber down the ladder, jogging over to him. “Ernest,” you only need one word to explain. Joseph sighs and his shoulders visibly sagged. “Again, huh?” you nod. He squeezes his eyelids shut for a moment before walking briskly to the ladder, you not far behind. “Here, let me do it,” you try to intercept him but Joseph is already scaling it. One side of the banner soon droops and nearly touches the floor. The youth minister hops off the ladder, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I’ll do whatever I can, sweetheart. Don’t want to take any chances of you getting hurt- Hey!” you grab the ladder midsentence and somehow manage to run with it in your hands. “Catch me if you can!” you tease.

☕Mat :“How about hanging up the lights?“ “No.” “Carrying the equipment to the kitchen?” “Nope.” “Setting out the furniture?” “Nah.” You try to reason with Mat to let you help out with the renovations of the Coffee Spoon, but so far all you’ve been met with is utter disapproval. “Mat, I’m not some kind of 3 year old child that can’t carry shit,” you throw your hands up into the air and grumble. He turns in the other direction, ticking off a checklist. “I know,” is his simple answer. “Then why won’t you let me help? Can’t I at least arrange flowers?” he shakes his head. “You’re going to accidentally drop the vase and cut yourself, or the thorns on the flowers might do that. also you’re allergic to pollen,” Mat points out as he makes his rounds. “It’s for the best,” he said and you huff, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “This is so fucking annoying…” you murmur and Mat points his pen in your direction. “Now now, no profanities my coffee shop.” You stick out your tongue at him, rolling your eyes at the same time.

🔪Robert : “No matter how many times you beg me to, I am not letting you run through the graveyard with me,“ Robert shakes his head and you whine childishly. “But! It’s! So! Much! Fun!” pouting, you grab his arm before giving it a few good tugs. “It’s too dark, and if we’re getting chased by some cryptid I can’t have you falling down in the midst of it all. And you’re going to get so hurt,” he glares at you. “You could always carry me,” you suggest but still don’t take your hand away as he snorts. “While we’re banging, maybe. Running through a graveyard? Not as much, kid. These dad knees won’t do the job,” a small smile still creeps onto his lips. Robert leans in for a kiss and you oblige, albeit your mood a little ruined. “Then you’re just going to leave me at home?” you mumble. “Sorry.” he whispers against your lips when he pulls away briefly, before pressing himself against you once more.

- mod rae

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wavenetinfo · 7 years

Link

SPOILER ALERT: This story contains plot details from Monday night’s season 3 finale of Better Call Saul, titled “Lantern.”

Chuck McGill was not exactly an easy character to like. He was priggish, self-righteous, bull-headed, and dismissive. He claimed to suffer from an allergy to electricity that prompted him to wear a space blanket around the house and to force all people who came into his orbit to surrender all electrical devices. This illness, however, was ultimately proven to him (in a public hearing) to be more mental than physical. Let us also not forget he ruined his brother’s chances at becoming a partner at his firm, in part because he always felt his brother unjustly accrued the lion’s share of love from their mother.

Chances are that you wished some form of comeuppance upon Chuck. But chances are that it wasn’t that.

At the end of Monday’s season 3 finale of Better Call Saul, Chuck (Michael McKean) apparently decided enough was enough, and instead of continuing to face his daunting demons, he gave into the darkest instinct of them, taking his own life by literal lantern light. The decision, made by someone clearly in an altered, tortured state, came as a shock after he recently confronted the realities of his illness and seemed committed to change, putting in the hard work with Dr. Cruz (Clea DuVall). The results were tangible. He was shopping for groceries again, and could even hold a lamp for a short time.

But after his ego-crushing exit from the law firm he co-founded — his longtime partner/ally, Howard (Patrick Fabian), couldn’t usher him out the door fast enough, handing him a $3 million check drawn from his own personal account — and after a devastating conversation with his brother Jimmy (Bob Odenkirk), the sibling with which he waged many moralistic wars and the one he dismissed from his house by saying, “You’ve never mattered all that much to me” — something in Chuck finally broke. (It was all the more surprising after Jimmy showed up at his house and Chuck looked as good as we’d seen him in recent years, listening to music, surrounded by electrical light, etc.)

After taking a pill and reviewing the journal where he tracked his progress in exposing himself to electricity for the last time, Chuck decided he just couldn’t do it anymore. He shut down the power in the house, unscrewing lightbulbs, and ripping his home down to the studs in search of the one last electrical charge that was causing his meter outside to keep ticking. He never found it, spiraling further into chilling mania. In the final moments of the episode, Chuck sat in his office in a numbed-out state, robotically slamming his foot into his desk, where a lantern was perched precariously on some papers. Finally, one of the kicks did the job, sending the lantern tumbling onto the ground and quickly setting the room ablaze, presumably marking a fiery end to a fiery character who stoked the ire of fans.

RELATED: Michael McKean explains that Chuck shocker in Better Call Saul finale

One can only imagine the damage this tragedy will have on Jimmy, who was destroyed by that conversation with Chuck, one in which his brother also urged him to acknowledge himself for who he truly was. (“In the end, you’re going to hurt everyone around you. You can’t help it. So stop apologizing and accept it. Embrace it.”) The battle for Jimmy’s soul, though, was still ongoing. He attempted to right last week’s wrong of using innocent old lady Irene as a sacrificial lamb in his desire for Sandpiper lawsuit money. He returned her to the good graces of her mall-walking friends by trashing himself, ending his own elder law career that waited on the other side of his one-year suspension. (Yet another piece of ground-laying track for Saul Goodman.)

RELATED: The Cast of Better Call Saul‘ on the Pressures of Following Breaking Bad’ Elsewhere in the episode, Kim (Rhea Seehorn) finally saw the light of workaholic ways after her dangerous car crash and decided to focus on her recovery. She also more than hinted at a future, or at least future office, with Jimmy. Meanwhile, the dark-but-weak-hearted Hector (Mark Margolis) almost met his maker but was resuscitated by Gus (Giancarlo Esposito). This marks the second curious sparing of Hector’s life in a year by Gus, wasting the efforts of fellow Salamanca haters Mike (Jonathan Banks) and Nacho (Michael Mando). One of these men is already starting to find himself in the employ of Gus; the other’s fate remains unclear.

There are plenty of questions surrounding “Lantern,” so let’s flip on the circuit breakers and dial Better Call Saul co-creator Peter Gould, who just might illuminate a light bulb or two over your head.

ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY: Let’s start at the tragic end. When did you decide you were going to kill Chuck? Or rather, that Chuck was going to kill Chuck? PETER GOULD: It happened during the season. We had a choice, and Chuck had a choice. After the midpoint of the season — that great episode “Chicanery” that Gordon Smith wrote — there was this powerhouse confrontation between Jimmy and Chuck, and Jimmy won. Chuck was humiliated and there were a lot of choices that we could have made at that point. One choice would have been to have Chuck redouble his efforts to get his brother, to try another round of tricks. That didn’t feel right, and it’s interesting — the moments that I find most satisfying in the writers’ room are the moments where the characters surprise us, and our first reaction, of course, was what I just said: “Okay, now how is Chuck going to bounce back and be even worse?”

And the more we talked about it, the more we thought about what a brilliant man Chuck is, and what he would actually take out of this experience. We came to the conclusion that maybe this could be in some ways good news for him. Maybe there’s a chance for growth, even? [Laughs.] So while Jimmy is kind of wallowing in his anger — the winner in the conflict is the angry one — Jimmy is pissed that he has to go to community service, he’s struggling to make ends meets and keep the office with Kim — Chuck actually takes what we always used to call his hero’s journey. He goes out of his safe house and goes out into the world and makes the call to Dr. Cruz [Clea DuVall]. And of course, Chuck previously has been vociferous in denying that there’s anything wrong with him other than sheerly a physical ailment. Chuck has been dead set on avoiding any confrontation with the medical establishment. Of course, the whole end of season 2 turned on that. But now Chuck is actually reaching out to this person who he’s never trusted and never liked, and he does some of the work. And you see it in subsequent episodes that he’s under this doctor’s care, he’s starting to make real progress to the point that in episode 8, you see him go out to the grocery store and get his own damn soymilk, which for some of us is not a big deal, but for Chuck, it’s the equivalent of climbing Mt. Everest barefoot and without oxygen.

That just all felt very natural, but we then realized that it’s one thing to make the choice to get help, but the bigger, more difficult problem in life is to carry through with change. And there’s really nothing more difficult than changing yourself. We’ve all tried it, it’s not easy to do, and under stress, as things continue in the season, Chuck reverts. Instead of taking it step by step as Dr. Cruz suggests, instead of really starting to understand himself in a deep way, he turns to the outside world and he starts blaming the outside world for what’s happening on his insides. Of course, the ultimate version of that is, after he has what might be the terrible final confrontation between the brothers, when Chuck says those terrible things to Jimmy, then he’s got an itch that he just can’t scratch. That’s when it all falls apart. And for me, one of the most heartbreaking moments in the finale is when he actually does call Dr. Cruz and there’s a moment where he could actually say, “I’m in crisis. I need help right now,” which is, by the way, what I would encourage anyone who’s in that position to do, but his pride won’t let him. Somehow, his pride keeps him from asking for help when he really needs it the most. And the results of that are, to my eye, tragic.

Now that he has been suspended from the law for a year, we’ve been asking a question in the second half of this season: Who is Jimmy McGill without the law? But for Chuck, in a way, he was nothing without the law. How much did Howard calling his bluff and removing him from the firm contribute to that downward spiral? And he really had no family left after what happened with Jimmy, including that devastating last conversation. What, in sum, led him to take his own life? It’s a little bit of a watercooler question: What drives Chuck to do what he does? I would point out, though, he is expelled from HHM with a giant bonus, and he still has his law license. As he said to Howard in the previous episode, he is getting better. There’s nothing to say that he couldn’t practice law himself. There’s nothing to say that he couldn’t turn around and try to hang his own shingle out in a very luxurious office or even join Schweikart & Cokely, or any of the other firms. There’s the possibility for renewal, and when Jimmy comes to Chuck’s house, Chuck is dressed properly, he’s listening to music, and he’s got it together enough to confront his brother and just cut him to the core. It’s only after he has that terrible scene with Jimmy that Chuck’s downward spiral begins. So to me, that means — however important what happened at HHM might have been — somehow it’s the scene with Jimmy that’s the trigger.

NEXT PAGE: Gould on McKean’s reaction when he learned the news, fan hatred of Chuck

20 June 2017 | 6:16 am

Dan Snierson

Source : Entertainment Weekly

>>>Click Here To View Original Press Release>>>

June 20, 2017 at 12:46PM

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