#i didn’t cuss at her except to say it doesn’t fuckin matter to her
Text
yelled at my mom a little got some weed in my system and got spaghetti overall not bad
#personal#spaghetti double funny bc my mom made my bowl while i was like ur a fucker#i didn’t cuss at her except to say it doesn’t fuckin matter to her#but anyway i just chewed her out about being so mean this morning#her argument she wasn’t being means and im in a probationary period#my argument i literally couldn’t fucking walk#also also also. they have to give me at least three warnings before they can me#technically four in total since one isn’t even on paper just a hey dude#but also even before we got on the floor i’ve had coworkers call out leave mid day or 30 minutes in or whatever#sometimes in a row of days#they’re still here#and i’m not saying i WANT to call out during a probationary period but i couldn’t fucking walk#emergencies happen#anyway so we argued about that and i asked what would have happened if she was hurt and i heard her#she IMMEDIATELY said i’d take care of her#so i was like why can’t you do that for me. even when i had the flu it took like 3 days before you checked on me#sickest i’ve ever been and 3 days to even be liek you good#we didn’t get anywhere as far as understanding each others side but i did get to yell at her so i feel better ish#like there’s no feeling better about your mom genuinely not liking you and making you question if she loves you but like#close as you can get#i also ended it with telling her i hope she gets hurt and someone treats her just like she treated me#bc i know i’d care for her but i hope someone treats her like she did me and she gets it#and also blah blah crutches in a hoarder house hard#and she was like i did it too!! she did#and i yelled back like WELL WHOS MESS ARE WE WALKING THROUGH. NOT MINE.#some weed bro were 8 edibles deep i do not want to be alive
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Angel On His Shoulder | Steve Rogers x Guardian Angel!Reader
Summary: You met Steve and Bucky at a young age. The three of you did everything together, up until the two boys went to war. You’re a badass, so of course you became a nurse and helped out wherever you could, even got to see Steve and Bucky a few more times. That of course wasn’t enough, so you became the first female Howling Commando. Unfortunately, when the Howling Commandos heard a plan of an attack on the base you were stuck at while tending to wounded soldiers, they were too late. Steve found you, a pretty cliché moment if you did say so yourself. Which you did. After you died in his arms, and after Bucky “died”, Steve crashed the plane into the arctic. Little did anyone know, you became his guardian angel, and saved his life once or twice in the process. Now, as he wakes up 67 years later, you have a few words to say.
Requested by: @wintersoldierslut
Warnings: Swearing, Threats, A bit of Self Depreciation, Mentions of Smut.
Word Count: 2.1K
A/N: I tried my best on this one! It was a little hard to figure out at first, and I kind of made the reader like Castiel and Gabriel in Supernatural. Hope you guys enjoy, and remember requests are always open!
The soft light greets Steve as he slowly opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling before deciding to take in his surroundings. He looks around the small room, immediately noticing almost everything wrong with it, that fact putting him on edge.
“Am I dead?” He whispers, mainly to himself, not expecting anyone to answer.
“No, but you should be.” His head whips around to the dresser next to the bed, where you are seated, kicking your feet in the air. “And so should I, but the afterlife works in mysterious ways. I really still don’t understand it and I’ve been stuck in it for 67 years.”
“(Y/N)?”
“Yes?”
“How are you here?”
“If I didn’t already know, I’d ask the same for you.”
“Okay then, how am I here and how are you here?” Steve asks, fully sitting up in the small bed and turning so his feet are on the ground and his head is facing you.
“Well, after I died in your arms, pretty cliche if I do say so myself and I did at the time, I became your dumb ass’s guardian angel and-”
“Wait, how can you swear?”
“Number one, moo. Number two, same way you can.”
“I thought angels couldn’t cuss?”
“You do realize how many times they explicitly explain sex in the bible, right? Now back to what I was saying before I was rudely interrupted,” You pause again, making sure Steve’s mouth is shut before continuing. “I became your guardian angel, and when you said you were putting the plane in the ice, DIDN’T THINK YOU MEANT PUTTING YOURSELF IN THE ICE TOO!”
“It was the only way!” Your expression instantly morphs into one only described as ‘are you fuckin kidding me’.
“There were multiple windows. Right in front of you. And next to you. And probably behind you. I didn’t get a great look at the ship, as I was too busy SAVING YOUR ASS!”
“Alright, I get it. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you, now, you’re probably wondering where you are.” You speak, gesturing to the honestly confusing room the two of you are in.
“Yeah…” He trails off, looking at everything a little closer. The puke green and blinding white walls, the weird decor, the radio playing a game the two of you attended with Bucky.
“Welcome to the future. 67 years in it, to be exact. HYDRA lost, by the way.”
“Spoiler alert.”
“Well, I’m so sorry, Mr. Captain America, sir. I thought you’d want to know that you didn’t have to jump right back into the suit. Speaking of Captain America, a weirdly dressed lady is coming in like five seconds, so I gotta bounce. Call me if you need me!” And with a snap of your finger, you disappear. As you said, five seconds later, a woman dressed in a very bad copy of what would be a 40’s nurse/agent/he doesn’t even know at this point outfit.
“Good morning.” She says, her voice having a weird perkiness that makes him honestly want to vomit. And that’s where it all goes wrong.
~~~
“You’re a laboratory experiment, Rogers.” Tony spits, looking him dead in the eye. You appear in the corner of the room, only to Steve of course, but that doesn’t matter. You are fuming. Steve can almost hear the steam pouring out of your ears, and he barely moves his hand to signal you to stop moving towards Tony. He looks at you out of his peripheral vision, and he slightly smirks, as to not communicate to Tony that he’s smirking because of him.
‘You’re cute when you’re angry. Always have been.’ He thinks, barely catching Tony’s next sentence.
“Everything special about you came out of a bottle.”
“You think I’m cute when I’m angry? Well, get ready, cause I’m about to be fuckin gorgeous.” You mutter, snapping your finger to disappear before reappearing behind Tony. Steve is about to respond to Tony when you tap lightly on the man’s shoulder, Stark turning around before becoming very confused.
“(Y/N) (Y/L/N)-”
“Oh, so you know who I am?” You hiss, fire practically burning in your eyes, causing the playboy to slightly shift back. “Listen here motherfucker. I haven’t made a promise in 67 years, but I’m promising you this.” As you start moving forward, both Tony and Steve slowly start stepping back to avoid your wrath. “You spit another goddamn word out of your mouth about how Steve is nothing, how Steve is just an experiment, I will end each and every person in this room, except for him. And I will do so smiling while I bathe in your blood. Do you understand me?!” The man nods and you slightly back away, a look of awe on Natasha’s face.
“Woah. I thought you were just something from storybooks.” She mumbles, making a sense of pride run through your veins.
“I lied, she’s safe too. I like her.” Natasha smiles while Tony gains a little more confidence and decides to speak up once again.
“CAN SOMEONE PLEASE EXPLAIN TO ME WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!”
~~~
“Not helpful!” You yell, throwing three Chitauri warriors off of you.
“Sorry!” Thor yells. You continue shooting and stabbing Chitauri warriors, occasionally helping one of the Avengers.
“Why is she here?” Tony asks, speaking through the coms in your suits.
“Because Fury sent me out here!” You respond, fighting off another few foes.
“They keep coming from the huge flying things!” Steve yells, meaning the Chitauri Leviathan floating above you guys. You sigh before turning to the man, giving him a grim look before coming up with an idea.
“Launch me, off the shield, get ready to catch me.”
“Um, okay.” He quickly launches you, giving you enough momentum to get plenty of feet up in the air. At that exact moment, a Leviathan flies towards you. You pull out your knife, driving it through the chest of the beast before the momentum forces you forward, dragging the knife through its chest and all the way down to it’s “tail”.
“Falling, Falling, FALLING!” You scream, praying that someone catches you. Thankfully, you land in Cap’s arms, giving him a small smile before hopping out.
“Let’s finish kicking these alien asses.” You mumble, already running back into the fight.
~~~
After the Battle of New York, Stark threw a massive party to celebrate. Sure, it was for the newly formed Avengers, but Fury was already talking about adding you to the initiative. So, there you sit, comfortable on one of the couches surrounding the windows looking out onto New York City, the other avengers scattered on the remaining couches and chairs. You take a large sip out of the bottle of beer in your hand, and you nearly choke on the liquid as Thor starts talking.
“Y’know, you and Lady (Y/N) would make an excellent couple.” He booms, talking to Steve, but having everyone hearing it. A glimmer of hope rises in your chest, almost immediately being crushed as Steve laughs it off as a joke. You laugh along, trying to ignore the slight tightening in your throat. You sit there for a few more minutes, the air full of silence before you stand up and excuse yourself from the party.
“You okay?” Steve asks, a concerned look on his face. You nod quietly before answering.
“Yeah, just tired.” You mumble, walking up the stairs to the elevator, taking it up to your temporary room. You walk in, closing the door behind you, flopping on the bed with tears in your eyes. Tears stream down your face as you think back to the conversation downstairs, how Steve laughed off Thor’s comment. You continue to quietly sob into your pillow until a knock sounds at the door, causing you to shoot up and wipe your eyes quickly.
“Hey,” Nat speaks, walking into your room and closing the door behind her.
“Hey” You whisper back.
“You love him, don’t you?” She asks, sitting down on the edge of your bed. You simply nod, the woman in front of you laying a hand on your knee. “You don’t see it, huh?”
“See what?”
“He loves you too.” At this comment, you shake your head, letting out a short laugh before looking up at the ceiling and back to her.
“He doesn’t love me. Steve’s not that stupid.” You mumble, wringing your hands together.
“What do you mean?”
“Has he showed you the compass yet?”
“Compass?”
“Steve keeps a compass in his back pocket. On the top part, is a picture of Peggy Carter. She’s older now, obviously, but he’s still in love with her. He took one look at her, and I was simply in last place. It’s just what I have to accept.”
“Oh sweetie-”
“Guardian angels aren’t supposed to fall in love.”
“You were in love before you died, right?”
“I’ve been in love with him since we met, Nat. Not exactly something I can shake.” She offers you a small smile and a hug before she stands up, leaving you alone to figure things out. What you both didn’t realize, was that Steve had come up to talk to you, stopping outside your room once he heard you and Nat talking. He heard everything you said. Nat doesn’t notice him, turning the other way down the hall. Steve walks in, startling you, seemingly coming out of nowhere.
“Before you ask, I heard everything.”
“Oh-”
“I love you too.” He blurts out, surprising the both of you. Your jaw drops open, and he starts profusely blushing, slightly stepping backward before you stand up, grabbing his hand in yours.
“Are you telling the truth, or are you just saying it.”
“I’m 100% serious.” You smile and your eyes flick to his lips, his eyes seemingly doing the same. The two of you slowly lean in, Steve taking the extra step and pressing his lips against yours. He smiles into the kiss, wrapping his arms around your waist before pulling you closer, your hands resting on his chest. He pulls away first, pressing his forehead against yours, giddy smiles on your faces.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“I have a question.” You whisper before he kisses you again, moving his mouth down to kiss your jaw and neck
“Hmm?” He hums, the vibration tingling against your throat.
“If I was naked right in front of you, what would you do?”
~~~
“What a lovely little mess I made.” You whisper, looking at the array of hickeys and lovebites across Steve’s chest.
“I’m not done with you yet, sweetie.”
“Oh, I hope not.”
Permanent Tags: @wintersoldierslut @breakmy-bedbarnes@stuckys-hot-dogs @andreasworlsboring101@yaxamarvel @donutloverxo
Just a reminder that all requests are open! My masterlist is in my bio, so you guys know who I specialize in, but really I do anyone y’all request. As I’ve mentioned, nothing is too fluffy, angsty, smutty, or gorey for me. I mainly write Marvel and its characters/actors. I can also write some characters from other things, you just have to ask! Also please let me know if you want to be a part of the Permanent Tags! But please, for now,
Call me Emily
#steve rogers x reader#steve rogers#steve rogers imagine#steve rogers one shot#steven rogers#captain america x reader#captain america imagine#captain america one shot#captain america#captain america fic#marvel#marvel x reader#marvel imagine#marvel comics#fluff
47 notes
·
View notes
Text
Caprice - Oneshot
Pairing: Ezra x female reader
Warnings: cussing, SMUT, unprotected sex (wrap it up), oral receiving (m & f), mixed emotions
Requested?: Yes from this ask - Hi! Can you do an Ezra x reader where it’s kinda like the movie where the reader is kind of afraid of Ezra after being stranded on the planet but starts to develop and show feeling for him and NSFW things happen between them? Please and thank you!
Author’s note: pic by @letaliabane
~ ~ ~
Your legs and back are screaming in pain as you trek your way across the Green. The landing pod you descended in from the station malfunctioned on entry and now you were stranded, alone, on this alien moon.
You were sent down alone to find another group of diggers. You were meeting them at the Queen’s Lair, and with your pod malfunctioning you were miles away from the famed dig site and had to move across this foreign terrain blindly without knowing what awaits you.
The map in one hand is battered and the compass in your other hand isn’t much help. The dial keeps fidgeting every time you stop and check the direction you are heading. You cuss your boss for making you come down here.
“They need extra protection Y/N!” He had hissed at you.
“The group has enough! I was to stay here because I am going on another expedition with another crew!” You had grounded out.
“That crew is going to have to wait. You are the best gunny, and I need you down on the Green with your exceptional weapon skills. Coms have already come through there are independent diggers clamoring for the Queen’s Lair!” He had risen his voice over the course of his little spiel.
You had sighed, fucking wishing you had never agreed to come to the station. You should’ve stayed home – on Earth.
“Goddamn it,” you hiss at yourself now as you check the map and the compass.
Your eyes move between the battered paper and the compass. You blink multiple times hoping the dial stops fidgeting, stops ticking every millisecond trying to find which way is north.
“Fuck my life,” you sigh as you begin walking.
You hear the crack of a branch and stop. You heart pounds inside your chest as you slowly put away the map and your compass. You hear another crack of a branch.
“Still don’t know why you can’t talk?” Drawls a deep voice yards in front of you.
Your eyes land on two figures making their way towards you. You slowly backup and take cover behind a tree with an enormous trunk. You swallow as sweat begins to roll down your back.
“Had to place me with a fuckin’ mute,” the voice drawls as the two make their way past your hiding spot. “Where were you pointing again? ‘Cause I don’t see anything, or anyone.”
Seconds tick by slowly.
“Well,” the voice drawls angrily, “there’s no one here. I don’t know. Maybe they vanished? Been down here too fucking long man! Mind playing tricks on you.”
Silence fills the air.
Your hand moves to your rifle as you feel something against your helmet. You move your rifle at lightning speed, pressing it against a chest.
“Came prepared I see,” the voice drawls out.
“I’m not here to cause any trouble,” you remark as your finger hovers over the trigger.
“What are you here for?” He asks with a grin.
You take in the man pointing his pistol at you. You can make out his brown hair with a single patch of blond hair. He has a full mustache and fuzz covering his cheeks and jawline. Your mind races through the people aboard the station. His face doesn’t look familiar.
“Who are you?” You hiss out.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I think it does!”
He grins, “part of security? Rifles are given to those with security and military clearance. Which means you’re here to help with protection.”
“It doesn’t matter,” you ground out. “Who are you?”
He shakes his head and laughs, “I’m here to find gems and make bank.”
You sigh heavily, “doesn’t answer my question.”
“And you didn’t answer mine!” He retorts. “Look light is fading, and trust me, a woman alone on this moon is danger. I recommend you follow me and my mute partner to our tent.”
“I can handle myself.” You remark.
“You might be security, or military. I don’t care. There are men who have settled on this moon and when they find you, they will not hesitate to do things to you a sex deprived man like myself wants to do to you.”
You instantly take a disliking to this man even though he’s being honest with his words. You know there are settlers on the moon along with diggers looking for the Queen’s Lair.
“What says you won’t do the same?”
He grins, “I’m not a monster like they are.”
Your eyes are on him as he lowers the pistol.
“Come on, if you want to survive,” he turns and begins walking.
The mute partner glances at you and turns, following the talker.
Your stomach growls as you lower your rifle.
Damn this, you think as you begin following them, damn him.
-------
Two. Goddamn fucking months. You’ve been stranded on the alien moon for two months with Ezra and the now deceased mute companion.
Things went sideways one day when the three of you came across a father and his daughter digging for gems in an area Ezra had claimed as his own.
“It was my area Y/N,” Ezra had seethed at you.
You had rolled your eyes, “this isn’t Earth ya know. This is all free land. The Green isn’t something you can just claim Ezra. They wanted to dig so let them dig.”
“I need to make bank,” Ezra had hissed at you.
You were both grabbing the mute’s pack as his lifeless body laid between the two of you arguing.
“You could’ve gotten her,” Ezra had remarked.
“I was not shooting a fucking teenage girl Ezra! Are you out of your goddamn mind?” You had shouted at him as he stood.
Now you watched as he sat on the cot across from yours. You two had become friends.
Nope, you think, not friends. More like acquaintances.
You two bickered about everything. You had become like an old married couple but without the sex.
You lie down on the bunk thinking about sex. Thinking about a man’s hands on your body, his mouth moving against yours then his mouth moving down your naked flesh, licking your nipples. His mouth would then move down across your stomach then he’d dip his head and lick up your folds.
You moan loudly at this picture inside of your head.
“You okay over there?” Ezra asks in his deep drawl of a voice.
You sigh and turn to your side, making sure your back is to Ezra. “I’m fine.”
You close your eyes and think about a man’s tongue against your clit. Your mind flashes to him between your legs thrusting in and out of you.
Fuck, you think as your body heats up.
In your mind, your eyes move up this man’s body and your eyes land on Ezra’s face. He’s the one giving you pleasure, he’s the one fucking you.
You sit up, turn, and face Ezra.
Ezra notices your movement and glances at you. “What?”
Are you really wanting to know what his mouth against yours will feel like? His mouth against your naked flesh? Against your core and on your clit? Are you wanting to feel his cock inside your slick walls?
He had been so blunt and brazen the first couple of days. You got used to it, you had gotten used to most of the men in your security unit being the same way. You weren’t afraid of them because they were your team, they’d never mistreat you like the man you’re looking at now would. Yet he was the only means of sexual release on this planet. The only means you felt comfortable with anyways.
“What’s going through your mind Y/N?” He asks in his drawl of a voice. It’s airy, seductive.
You squeeze your legs together as your core floods with pleasure from his voice alone.
“Nothing,” you whisper as you lie back down.
Your ears listen as Ezra moves in his bunk. You try to stay awake as he falls asleep. You need release even if it’s from your own hand, and even if you’re picturing Ezra eating you out with his tongue and fucking you endlessly with his cock.
-------
Five months. Your eyes roam over the tick marks in your journal. 150 days on the Green with Ezra.
You need to get off this moon, you need to get back to the station. You need to get back home.
“What are you doing?” Ezra asks as he hands you a bar.
“I’ve been here five fucking months Ezra. I’m ready to go home.”
“Five months?” Ezra laughs. “Means it’s been close to eight for me.”
“Eight months? And you aren’t itching to go back to the station? Back to Earth?”
Ezra shrugs as he bites into his own bar, “like I’ve said, I need to make bank to get back to Earth. You are security you get paid no matter what! Whether you are on the station or down here on the Green. Me? I’m just a lowly digger who gets paid by the gem. I need money to go back home!”
You had told Ezra what your job was – doing security for digs and expeditions to moons. You had told him your boss had sent you down to find your team because of distress coms the station had received. You left out two little details – you had the map to find the Queen’s Lair and you were here to protect the team from people like him.
You wonder why you hadn’t told him about those two details. Were you protecting him? Were you protecting yourself?
You do know if the two of you come across the Queen’s Lair and the team, they’d welcome you, not him. Ezra would cease to exist the moment they saw him. The team would see Ezra, an independent and lowly digger, as a threat. They wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of him in a heartbeat however you’d probably defend him and try to keep him alive.
Your eyes roam over Ezra. Was he becoming a friend? Someone you cared for? Someone who mattered to you?
Your mood towards Ezra was becoming sudden and unaccountable. Were you desiring him when you didn’t want him? Were you willing to trust him with the one intimate thing you could give a man?
The bickering between the two of you still happened on occasion but it wasn’t constant like it was for the first two months you had been stranded on the Green.
Ezra looks over at you, “what?”
“Nothing,” you mumble.
Ezra smirks, “you have your deep-thinking face on Y/N.”
You have been with this man too long.
You sigh and lie back on the cot. “It’s nothing Ezra.”
“I’m the only person here,” Ezra drawls in his deep seductive voice.
The only one within reach, you think. The only one I trust between my legs.
Did you really just think of Ezra as trustworthy?
Your body floods with heat as you imagine his head between your legs and his cock thrusting in and out of you. Those two pictures haunted your dreams and made you cum against your fingers in the middle of the night. Maybe tonight should be the night he makes you cum with his tongue and his cock.
You inwardly moan as you squeeze your legs together.
Fuck, is all your mind screams. Fuck me. Fuck me Ezra.
You want to say those words, need to say those words to him.
“Ezra,” you whisper as you sit up. You hear the lust in your voice.
Ezra looks over at you and raises a brow. “Y/N.”
You hear the seductiveness his voice has as he says your name. You know he wants you too.
“I need help with something,” you whisper, “I need you to come here. Please.”
Ezra raises a brow but gets up.
Your eyes look up at him as he walks over and closes the distance between the two of you. You reach up and cup his cheek. You pull his head down and brush your mouth against his.
Ezra moans against your mouth as you pull him down on top of you. He reaches down with one hand and palms your core. He grins as his fingers teasingly rub your core over the material of your pants and hears you inhale a breath.
Minutes later you pull away and look at Ezra.
Ezra looks down at you and smiles, “I’ll be glad to help you.”
You moan, “Ezra.”
Ezra dips his head down and nuzzles your neck. “Say my name again.”
“Ezra,” you sigh contently as you feel his mouth against your skin.
“Y/N,” Ezra moans back as his hands find their way under your shirt and onto your stomach.
You can’t wait. You need him now.
You sit up in the bed and remove your top. You take his hands and place them on your breasts.
Ezra moans as his hands cup your breasts. He’s wanted you naked since the day he first came across you on the Green.
“Don’t take your time Ezra. I need release,” you lean forward and lick his lips, “I know you need it too. I’ve heard you in the middle of the night.”
Ezra growls as he strips himself of his shirt then claims your mouth again.
“You little devil,” Ezra mumbles as he pushes you back against the cot. His mouth moves ferociously over your skin.
He flicks his tongue over one nipple then the other, moving back and forth between the two. He moves one hand down and snakes it under your pants. His fingers find your folds. He can feel you’re hot and wet. His cock hardens as he pictures himself thrusting in and out of your depths.
You roll your hips as you feel Ezra finger your folds. “Oh, yes.”
Ezra kisses his way down your stomach. When he reaches your pants he scrambles out of the bunk, making quick work by removing your pants and underwear in one swift motion.
“Show me Ezra,” you moan as kneels on the bunk. “I want to see you.”
Ezra stands back up and pushes his pants down.
You moan and lick your lips at seeing his hard cock pop out. “Come here.”
Ezra steps forward as you lean up and reach out. He hisses as your hand wraps around his cock.
“Fuck!” He moans loudly as your tongue swirls around the tip.
You run your tongue up and down his length before you take the tip of his cock into your mouth. You swirl your tongue slowly around the tip as your hand strokes his cock.
“Oh, fuck!” Ezra hisses as his orgasm builds inside of him.
You release his cock from your hand and mouth, “return the favor.”
Ezra moans as he kneels on the bunk between your open legs. He dips his head and licks up your folds.
“Oh, fuck yes Ezra!” You nearly shout as his tongue flicks your clit.
You look down at him as he eats you out. His brown eyes are on yours as you bite your lip and move one of your hands through his hair.
“Mmm—yes,” you hiss as tongue circles your clit faster.
Your orgasm rises inside of you quickly. Your toes curl as your hand pulls tightly on Ezra’s hair.
“Ezra,” you moan loudly as your orgasm hits and rolls through your body.
Ezra keeps his tongue against your clit as he feels your body tremble under his tongue. He inserts two fingers into you. He slowly thrusts them in and out.
“Ezra!” You shriek as your pleasure sensors begin to build another orgasm.
Ezra pulls back from your clit but keeps his fingers inside of you as he kneels between your open legs.
“Fuck me,” you moan as Ezra withdraws his fingers and strokes his cock with your juices.
Ezra places his cock against your folds and thrusts into your pussy in one swift motion.
You arch your back as you feel his cock enter you and your pussy welcoming him. Your hands claw at his chest as Ezra begins thrusting in and out of you fast and rough.
“Fu—yes,” you moan as you roll your hips trying to meet his thrusts.
“Mmm,” Ezra moans lowly as your pussy wraps around his hard cock. He takes in your tightness, wetness, and warmth. Your pussy feels way better than his hand.
Ezra’s orgasm is still rising inside of him. Feeling your pussy around him is driving him quickly to the edge.
“Fuck,” Ezra moans as he thrusts deeply inside of you once, then again.
You pull Ezra down and brush your mouth against his. You look into his eyes and smile. “Cum in me Ezra.”
“You little devil,” Ezra growls as he thrusts into you and explodes inside of you.
You moan as you feel him cum inside of you. You reach down and rub your clit, sending pleasure throughout your body. “There’s something about you Ezra.”
Ezra thrusts into you again, making sure he empties all his seed inside of you.
“I hope it’s a good thing,” Ezra utters before capturing your mouth.
You smile against his mouth, “your voice is seductive. Your cock is magnificent.”
Ezra grins, “and here I thought you didn’t care for me.”
You shrug, “maybe I do. There’s plenty of time to figure it all out.”
Tags: @pascalisthepunkest, @cosmo-bear, @kaelyn-lobrutto24, @knight-of-heart44, @ezraslittlebirdie, @jokersdoll, @caitlincat-95, @random066, @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead, @longitud-de-onda, @earl-01, @readsalot73, @arrowswithwifi, @stardust-and-starlight, @x-wingwarriorbbpoe8, @halefirewarrior, @bonkybaaarnes
#caprice oneshot#anon request#ezra prospect#ezra prospect smut#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fanfiction#ezra x you#ezra x reader#smut#oneshot
166 notes
·
View notes
Note
what are your thoughts on the skeleton twins
Hi! I finished watching it last night but desperately needed sleep after because I knew I had things to do this morning, and I also wanted to process it (sometimes I have to take some time to process movies, other times I just word vomit about them).
This is kind of long but I’ll add a read more later when I have the chance!
Anyway; The Skeleton Twins...I really enjoyed it! I went in knowing absolutely nothing except that Bill Hader and Kristen Wiig were in it and playing twins, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. I think, given the two actors I mentioned, I was expecting pure comedy or something? But I was so blown away by the film and the performances they gave.
Obviously I love both Bill Hader and Kristen Wiig anyway but this movie really showed their serious acting chops. There were some funny moments too, of course, but they’re both really talented doing genres outside of comedy too, and it sometimes takes me aback when I see comedians do such a good job with non-comedic roles - then again, comedy is probably the hardest genre to pull off, and so it’s no wonder they’re both talented anyway. (I’m rambling, sorry!)
{below here I’m talking about themes related to mental health/suicide, and I can’t put a read more at the moment because I’m currently on my mobile - I will be putting a read more here when I get the chance later!}
I was so taken aback though because the film starts with Milo attempting to commit suicide and Maggie contemplating it, and I guess...it’s something I have struggled with, and so it really made my heart drop especially when I saw Milo in the bathtub and the water turn red. It doesn’t show him actually cutting but we all know what happened. Without going into too much detail, SH and mental illness is something I really struggle with, even though I’m slowly recovering these days - it never truly goes away though, you know it’s there even if you’ve gotten better and it’s something you learn to cope and deal with.
Honestly, I was sort of pleasantly surprised by how well the film portrayed mental illness and suicide with both the main characters. I felt at times I should have hated Maggie for cheating and lying to her husband but I also sort of empathized with her (not with the cheating, just the whole situation and being in a huge mess), and I think what made the film was the relationship between the two siblings because it’s so real and natural, especially if you consider the circumstances when they were younger. Their interactions as siblings was so believeable too, like sometimes you’ll watch movies with siblings and the siblings are all mushy or too at each other’s throats, and it’s unrealistic. They both feel so relatable and easy to connect to, though I suppose I am kind of more biased towards Bill’s character because he’s the reason I watched it (after seeing the clip of him dancing online - that was literally the only part I had seen before).
This is kind of dumb, but as I said, I thought they did a great job portraying depression and the aftermath of the suicide attempts? Like when Maggie was drowning herself and then panicked and tried to swim back up but couldn’t - I’ve heard stories of people who have survived jumping off of bridges or whatever, and they’ve said that after making that jump they instantly regretted it. I think that’s so accurate - it’s not glamourizing suicide either, like it would have been so easy to have her sink peacefully and be rescued without her wanting it and then realize what she’s doing but instead they showed the panic, the regret.
I think what especially caught my eye, however, was the fact that Milo was wearing bracelets on his wrists later in the film to hide his scars and like...? That is so relatable, that is something I do during the summer if it’s been one of those instances, I wear bracelets and wristbands and sometimes even tie a bandana around my wrist to hide it.
I don’t know if that’s just something I do/have done and I’m projecting, or if it’s because actual research/thought was put into it, but either way it was something that really stood out to me and made him more relatable?
I can’t remember the name of Milo’s ex teacher but he can get fucked for all I care. He took advantage and manipulated a teenage boy and I think that’s important to remember. It would be easy to just freak out because omg cute gay couple but to me I just saw it as a one-sided unhealthy relationship where one is manipulative and abusive to the other who feels like they need their love, and it’s kind of depressing - but then Milo basically says “fuck that” by the end, and it’s beautiful because it’s like he’s deciding “you know what, I deserve to be treated better” - and he does, he really does. Beforehand it felt (to me) like he allowed himself to be used and mistreated because he felt like that was the only way he could feel worthy, but then he grows and develops and I think that’s so important.
I think I should also briefly mention that the scene where Maggie tells Milo “maybe next time you should cut deeper” genuinely broke my heart for many reasons - because she’s so upset and her marriage is ruined and everything is a mess, so much so that she actually says that to him before immediately regretting it. And ofc I was so upset because that’s literally something your brain tells you when you’re depressed and suicidal/self harm, that maybe next time...yeah. You can see the flurry of emotions on his face as he processes what she said, like he’s in genuine disbelief that she - his own sister, his twin - said such a cruel and disgusting thing to him like that. It genuinely broke my heart to see, though I was glad they did eventually mend things between them.
Some other things I want to mention but don’t have the brain capacity to talk about properly because I’m exhausted and a dumbass:
The Marley and Me joke was so relatable omg, I read the more child friendly version when I was little but I had no idea the dog died and it broke my damn heart, so that little joke about Marley and Me was hilarious to me
Honestly I’m talking a lot about Bill Hader but I do truly adore Kristen Wiig too, like she’s probably one of the most diverse actresses who does all sorts of genres and projects - from voice acting to drama to SNL etc - and she’s incredible in this film.
Lance was a sweetheart and I feel sorry for him? Like he genuinely loved Maggie and was such a nice guy, and while some of the stuff he said wasn’t always helpful or correct, it came from a place of caring and that’s what matters. Also he was totally cool with his brother in law who he never met before coming and living in his house, and he even helped Milo get some work (even if said work WAS clearing brush away)
The scene where the twins go out and Bill Hader is dressed in drag is honestly a highlight of this movie
Actually the scene where he sees himself the first time in drag is also a highlight
The scene where the mother is making a long ass toast while everyone is waiting to drink their wine, and Maggie/Kristen Wiig just downs her glass before she’s finished is so relatable
Okay but there’s a scene where Milo goes to a gay bar looking for a lay and just...the night he goes, of course it’s fuckin “Dyke Night” (their words, not mine!) and then he comes home absolutely pissed and telling his sister and his brother in law that he just wanted “some c*ck”, omg I was laughing way too hard. Also let’s not forget that he said the two “lesbian ladies” he met were lovely and taught him to play darts, we love mlm and wlw solidarity!!
Well since we’ve already established I’m fucking trash for Bill Hader, let’s just include that moment where his character is shirtless (kinda) in bed
That scene where Maggie meets up with some woman she knew (in high school I think?) and that woman has a son, and the son is a little dick and the mom and the son are cussing at each other was a whole new level of hilarious I didn’t expect, like I was deadass expecting this chick to go on about how wonderful it is to be a mother even when he’s a dick to her, how it’s a great gift, but nope, she knows and even says he’s a fucking dick 😂
THE DENTIST OFFICE SCENE JESUS CHRIST I HAD TO PAUSE BECAUSE I WAS GENUINELY PISSING MYSELF WITH LAUGHTER?!
THAT DANCE SCENE AM I RIGHT, OMG, like he’s so cute and happy in that scene and then she joins in and it’s so dorky and fun??
I LOVE all the water imagery and shit, like maybe it’s just because I’m an absolute geek for swimming (it’s one of maybe three sports I don’t totally suck at??) and I love the cinematography underwater, whether it’s the skeleton key ring sinking or the scuba diving or Milo’s goldfish. So much wonderful cinematography and imagery!
This film has ultimately shown me that Wiig and Hader deserve Oscars and awards ASAP
Also this is just a general note to anyone reading, feel free to recommend movies to me anytime because I’m a cinephile and love getting to watch new films!
67 notes
·
View notes
Text
Multi Level Murdering || Nicodemus & Jeff
Et tu, Karen?
Content Warning: Murder
@bountybossier
It was advised that Nicodemus stay in the house. He promptly ignored that advice and said fuck it, he was going to do it live. It was better to distract himself with some finding some fucking Facebook mommy blogger than sitting and listening to the ocean lap at the walls. Even with hunter physiology, his nose still hurt like a son of a bitch, two accompanying black eyes the perfect accessory. The night did well enough to cover it as he approached Dell’s. The guy outside looked enough like a Jeff that he offered a short wave. “Howdy. Jeff, right? You got an address for Karen or somethin’?”
Jeff was leaning against his car, waiting for the bounty hunter to show up. He was really concerned about this stupid middle aged woman now. Karen. Hadn’t posted anything on her stupid mommy blogger facebook page. Hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her dumbass ex-husband either. When Nic finally rolled up, though, Jeff wondered if he shouldn’t just contact the police. “What the fuck happened to your face?” He asked, bluntly. “You alright? Must have been some fuckin’ fight,” Jeff pushed off his car. “Yeah, I got an address. Should help. I think it’s her sister’s place though.”
Immediately and to the detriment on his face, Nicodemus frowned. “Some fuckin’ asshole suckerpunched me on the beach yesterday. I was tryin’ to take a nap or some shit.” Was it yesterday? What fucking does what it right then? The doctor and Erin had been there. When was that? Oh well. It didn’t matter. He straightened up and pocketed his rough hands. “Anyhow, that’s a better address than no address.” His eyes narrowed down the street, into the pitch darkness. Fuck, he should probably say something. “Drivin’ or walkin’ distance?”
“What the fuck? I hope you fucking punched him out.” Jeff scoffed. God, and people said that Boston was rude? White Crest, Maine had no competition. He shook his head. “It’s by the beach, some nice ass waterfront house. But even if it weren’t I’d say we should drive anyway, this darkness shit is fucking weird, man. And dangerous.” Jeff would swear he kept seeing shit the night. But he pushed off his car, unlocking it. “Get in, I’ll drive us. Do we have a plan for when we get there? I don’t really know how this is supposed to fuckin’ work.”
“Nah, he fuckin’ ran before I could,” Nicodemus muttered, eyes downcast as he lamented the potential of a sandy brawl. The promise of a beachfront house made him both wary and excited. Why, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was that urge to be near the water again. A weird urge to just sit and stare. He shook his head loose of that anchoring and grunted. “Yeah, fair point. Shit’s been fucky out here.” He rounded to the passenger and sat, reminding himself that seatbelts existed. “Knock on the door, ask a couple questions. We’re just concerned citizens anyway and hell, you know her. That’s gotta stand for somethin’. Ain’t gonna do nothin’ crazy.”
“Fucking dickbag,” Jeff said, disgusted as he turned the car on and pulled out of his parking space. “Somethings fucking weird with this town, man.” And that was saying something becasue Jeff was pretty sure that he was one of the fucking weird things in this town. But ever since he got here it was raining fish, cursed ass coins, mimes running rampant, and now an endless night had fallen over White Crest. “I am a concerned citizen. I mean, she used to come every fuckin’ friday. Shit ain’t normal,” Jeff shook his head and pulled off onto the road that would lead downwards to the beach houses. “Fuck me, I can’t see shit. She said something about blue shutters - look for 609. On the mailboxes or somethin’.”
“Fucking dickbag is right,” Nicodemus agreed. As Jeff talked, the hunter looked at him. Between his head and his broken ass senses, everything felt off. He felt off. Like he was watching himself from a different window. But he tapped a finger against his thigh and brought himself back, wound the cord of sensibility around his fist and tugged himself down as Jeff drove. “Nah, yeah, I gotcha. Nothin’ here is fuckin’ right.” Once they stopped, he stepped out of the car and reached for a heavy flashlight inside his jacket. Clicking it on, he swept it over the house numbers. 615. 613. 611. 609. There it was. Nic called over to Jeff and waved him over. “Got it.” The house was quiet. The hunter tilted his head. All he could hear was the ocean behind it. That compelled him to move up the front steps. “I’m gonna just...fuckin’ knock, alright?” He did as he said and the door opened as he did. He shot Jeff a confused look before he shined the light into the open house. A smear of something dark led away from the door and towards the back. The blood smelled like...blood. The smell of saltwater was too strong to determine anything else. “Yeah...think you were right to be worried there.”
Jeff pulled up into Karen’s driveway, and hopped out, closing the door to his car as he followed Nic up the walkway, his hands shoved in his jacket pockets to protect from the cold. His eyes narrowed as he looked back at Nic with a shrug. “What the fuck -” Jeff said, aloud, pulling his phone out of his back pocket and switching on the flash light. Jeff automatically slipped past Nic, pushing through the entry way to look around. He wished being a fucking fairy meant he had something useful - like night vision, or laser eyes, or wings taht actually fucking worked. “Hey! Karen,” he barked, shining light around. There was a dark puddle of something on the ground near the overturned couch. “Nic?” He called over his shoulder. “I think we might have to callthe fucking - what the hell!” Before he could finish his sentence, something small and round bounced towards him. Smoke surrounded him and he swatted at it, wildly feeling the the wall for - ah! A switch! “Nic, what the hell -” Jeff went to look at Nic, before he realized that he was standing there, like an idiot, with blue and black fucking butterfly wings on his back. What? He hadn’t lifted the glamor. “Uh - look, I can fucking explain -” Except he didn’t get a chance too, becasue some small woman lunged at him. Karen?! Jeff dodged out of the way, the iron knife grazing his forearm. “Ow! Karen! What the hell! No! Stop!” Except Karen lunged again, an angry yell coming from her. Warden. Had this all been a trap. Jeff wasn’t sticking around to find out, and immediately turned on his heel and started running out the back doors to the beach by the water. Maybe he could lose her in the darkness. “WHAT THE FUCK KAREN?!”
Nicodemus knelt down and poked at the blood as Jeff’s flashlight kicked on. He kept his flashlight on hand as he looked and traced the blood toward the kitchen. When the other man spoke to him, he picked his head up and squinted. As soon as the smoke hit, he knew what this was. Dispellate. They were in the house of a warden. The sight of blue wings filled his dark vision as he shone his light on Jeff. “Yeah, you’re fae, I don’t give a sh--” Footsteps. Light. Wardens were always lighter on their feet than slayers and hunters. Their prey was harder to catch. The woman lunged at Jeff and Nic followed the iron knife as it cut through the air, damn near cut through Jeff. Nicodemus was up on hit feet and moving, following Jeff as Karen tore off after him. “Karen, what the fuck? I get you’re a goddamn warden but he makes your fuckin’ margaritas! The fuck is wrong with you?” He stepped out and stared into the sea, a dark expanse in the distance. It looked peaceful. It looked like a grave. Blood and iron. Salt and sea. The hunter blinked and slowed his pace to a methodical step, shoulders dropped and jaw tight. The very way he got when a bounty was getting near. In the dark, Nic saw her clearly. Saw the blood on Jeff’s arm clearer. The sea pulled in closer. By a misstep, Karen was closer to the water and the hunter crashed into her like a freight train. “Gn'th teeth ymg' ephailllln'gha bloody, Karen.” He grabbed Karen by the hair and pulled her into the water, snapped her away harshly from Jeff and his bright wings.
“What! The! Ever! Living! Fucking! Fuck! Is! Fucking! Going! On!” Jeff bellowed. He was pretty fucking fast, thankfully, but Karen seemed to be a lot faster than he originally thought when he was stuffing her in ubers after too many margaritias. “No, no, not the wings! Literally anything but the fucking wings!” Oh, she’d start with those first, and rip them off, he heard her yell. Honestly, Jeff had never really felt this sort of betrayal. What the fuck? The semi-frozen sand had slowed him a little, but he was lucky Nic was there because he pulled Karen away the second before she managed to actually stab him. God his fucking arm hurt. That knife had to be made of iron. The cut was inflamed and a little swollen and he was sure it was going to fucking need stitches He would be eating his words to that doctor on the internet now. Cussing, he looked over as Nic dragged her into the water. “Nic?” He said. He wasn’t stopping. “Hey! Nic! Nic! What the fuck are you doing?!”
Jeff’s loud and vulgar confusion didn’t compel Nicodemus away from Karen. He could feel her hair tug and she swung the knife around on him. The blade went only an inch into his shoulder before he headbutted her back, his already fucked nose splitting open again. He ignored it. She was quicker but he hit harder. “She tried to kill you, Jeff. She’s a goddamn warden. She doesn’t give a shit about your martinis,” he said, eerily calm. Entirely unaware that he didn’t quite seem like just a bounty hunter. “H' epgoka l' fuckin' gn'thor.” He wasn’t even sure he had said anything to Jeff. Maybe he had just thought it. The only motion he felt was the moon-pulled beat of water against his flexed arms and Karen’s thrashing. The blood on his face and the blood falling into the water didn’t phase him. Karen’s thrashing slowed as he pushed her head further into the sand, tightened his fist around her throat until his fingers almost touched. She slowed. Stopped. Nicodemus blinked. Looked from the sea to Jeff. “Jeff, what the fuck?” He stumbled out of the water and spat out seawater. “That was Karen, right? Baby blogger, gross fuckin’ margarita Karen? Karen Dickwell?” She wasn’t moving. “Ah, shit.”
Jeff stayed on the shore, panting heavily as he watched the scene before him unfold, frozen in place. His wings twitched in a sudden anxiety and anticipation. PArt of him, as Karen’s head was shoved under the water, thought she fucking deserved it. She tried to fucking kill him! After he gave a shit about her. What the fuck - and she would kill others like him and Deirdre as well. Like his father. He didn’t feel badly about that. But as Nic’s eerily calm voice crept back to him, as Nic asked him what the fuck was going on, he stumbled forward, boots getting wet in the sand to look at the body. “What the fuck was that?” Jeff asked, confused and slightly disgusted. In a moment, his wings disappeared as he replaced the glamour over them. Didn’t do his silver fucking tongue though. “Yeah that was fucking Karen fucking Dickwell - you just - you just killed her.” That couldn’t be allowed, that was murder. Oh shit, he had jus witnessed a murder. Well, a murder that saved his life. Jeff ran a hand through his hair, looking up at him. “What the fuck do we do now?”
It was like parts of Nicodemus started to shut down. Any tender bit of him, no matter how small, pulled away until all that was left was the efficient, rationalizing pieces. That was normal. He did that all the time in order to function day by day. But looking at Karen's body wading in the sea and Jeff's voice in his head, it didn't feel normal. He chalked up sleepwalking and delirium to just that. On his feet, he stepped back and cleared his sore throat. Looked at Jeff again. That poor fucking guy. Damn near got his fucking wings shredded, a regular tried to kill him after how many months of service, and then he had just saw likely his first fucking murder with said regular. "She wouldn't have stopped. Others like her," he rumbled out. As if that was a great answer to what the fuck had just happened. Fuck, had he just killed someone? The part of him that started to panic, he shut it down and locked it tight. Not the time. "Must've...Must've had you pegged for weeks. Planned it. Fuck, Jeff." It was easier to talk with his back to the ocean, so he turned. "How they work an' all." He looked at Jeff's cut arm and scowled. "You good?" Shit. Jeff was a decent guy. Fae. Fuck. He immediately felt sorry. What the fuck was happening? He looked at the body. How it seemed to sink further. "Maybe we didn't find her. It was too dark and we didn't risk it. She had an accident 'cuz it's so fuckin' dark. I don't fuckin' know."
Jeff nodded. “I know of wardens,” he said. “Killed my fuckin’ father.” His shitty ass, good for nothing father. He wasn’t exactly sure what the hell he was supposed to be fucking feeling right now. Right now he sort of felt the numbing shock of it, watching Karen die like that, and some fucking part of him felt bad. Why should he feel bad? The world was fucking terrible anyway, and she had tried to fucking kill him. The stinging in his arm grit his teeth. “I wouldn’t be fucking surprised,” Jeff said bitterly. He glanced at Nic, looking him up and down. “You know about this shit. That I’m a fucking fairy and what she fucking was?” He digested that information for a moment, before nodding. “I’m going to have to give myself stitches, that fucking knife was made of iron,” he said, looking at his arm, poking at it. He reached out and clapped Nic on the shoulder. “You really had my fucking back, Nic. Thanks for that. You drink for free any time I’m working. I promise,” Jeff said.
11 notes
·
View notes
Text
nothing like a funeral (to make you feel alive)
A/N: Title comes from the acoustic version of “Life is Beautiful” by Sixx AM.
Summary: It’s been a long day for both of them, but they’ll live.
Read on AO3 for notes.
Written for @eldritchjackalope . Tagging @shwarmi as requested.
The trouble starts, as usual, with a shoot-out.
The wood right next to Matthew’s head splinters as a bullet rips through it, two inches east of being fatal. On his other side, Clayton cusses a blue streak to make Swearengen blush and Matthew wonders, not for the first time, how it is that he ran away from a war and still finds himself getting shot at on the regular.
“They’re gonna try to flank us,” Clayton says, the words half a growl.
Matthew nods his understanding. “Then I suggest we flank ‘em first.” He listens to the sharp rapport of gunfire around the front side of the Deadwood bank and gestures for Clayton to go right before ducking around to the left.
Out toward the front, a glass bottle shatters with a burst of heat Matthew can feel from fifty feet away. One of the bandits screams and Matthew finds himself more thankful than he usually is for Aly’s good aim. Miriam’s going to miss that whiskey, but it’s gone to good use.
Matthew rounds the corner and comes faces to face with one of the outlaws. He reacts on instinct, unloads three rounds into the bastard’s chest and watches the light leave his eyes before he hits the ground. He doesn’t think about it, just steps forward easy as breathing and aims at another man across the street who’s pinning the ladies down. On the other side of the building, he hears the familiar pop of Clayton’s Colts and takes it as a good sign, squeezes the trigger of his revolver and watches the bandit across the street go down.
It doesn’t take long after that. The people they’re fighting used to have numbers, but they certainly don’t have skill. Between the combined efforts of all involved parties, it’s only another minute or two before the gunfire stops and fades into an echo, and Matthew dares to take a breath.
There’s six bodies in the street but he doesn’t know any of them, and it’s a welcome change. Matthew holsters his revolver and leaves the doorway he’d taken shelter in, meets Miriam in the middle of the street. Her dark eyes are gleaming with a mixture of adrenaline and pride, and she slings an arm over his shoulder to pull him in for a tight hug. “Nice shooting, Matthew,” she whispers, pleased as punch.
Matthew grins. “You did a fair job yourself. You’re quite adept with that rifle these days. You too, Bella,” he says, nodding in her direction as she approaches and Swearengen appears with a glass of whiskey on the balcony of the Gem, surveying the situation like he always does.
Bella's got her pistol tucked away again and looks innocent as the virgin herself, but her smile is sharper than a wolf's. “I’m glad you think so. I’ve been practising in my free time.”
“Explains all the fucked up lanterns I keep findin’ around town,” Clayton drawls, approaching from behind Matthew with Aloysius not far behind. “You could take out all that excess rage you got brewin’ on somethin’ a little less flammable. There’s plenty of whiskey bottles around this place.”
“That’s a mighty fine idea except for the part where I need those bottles myself, unless you want me to stop with all the little fires I keep settin’,” Aly interrupts, raising an eyebrow and leaning on his rifle. “I don’t mind either way. My baby and I are real good together on our own.”
“Barring any further discussions of Mister Fogg’s unique relationship with his weaponry, is everyone alright?” Miriam’s voice has an edge to it that was absent only moments before, and he knows they all notice. She’s come a long way since that day three months ago in the street when she’d sobbed over Clayton’s body, but the road to forgiving Aloysius is a long one and she’s yet to reach the end of it. Everyone confirms their intactness to her with various gestures and jokes, and Matthew notices the way Arabella’s arm snakes around Miriam’s waist just a little too snug to be counted as friendly.
Not that he has any room to judge, or any reason.
“Sounds to me like a situation well-handled,” Aloysius says, clapping his hands together. “How about a drink at the Gem? First round’s on me.”
“I’ll handle the second out of courtesy,” Miriam says, her smile strained at the edges around the old joke. They all drink free most days at the Gem, but somebody always has to play along. The five of them turn toward the saloon, their backs to the bank and the bodies on the ground, already being moved away by a beleaguered Bullock and his deputies. Matthew turns away last. Maybe that’s why he’s the one who sees it – the way the shadows by the doorway shift in anticipation just as a bloody hand grasps at the frame and a man halfway to bleeding out steps into view with his gun raised.
Matthew sees where he’s aiming, and he doesn’t think twice. He slams into Clayton to knock him out of the way on instinct just as the gun goes off and it works, thank Christ, it fucking works. The bullet misses him entirely.
It buries itself in Matthew instead.
He makes a sound, though he doesn’t quite mean to, his hand flying to his chest as the blood begins to pour warm and thick through his fingers. He gapes like a landed fish and another gun goes off and oh, there’s arms around him now, Clayton’s arms, and he staggers back into them while his eyebrows furrow together in pain.
He didn’t expect it to be like this.
“Matthew!” Clayton’s hands are tight around his arms, his eyes wide with an unfamiliar fear. “Matt, you fuckin’ idiot, what did you do?”
Matthew blinks, confused. Clayton always feels so warm when they’re close like this. Three months ago, his body had been cold. He’d bled out on this street, quick and messy. It won’t happen again.
The blood between his fingers is moving sluggishly now, clotted up and clogged in the fabric of his vestments. They'll never clean up right, but he doesn’t think it’ll matter. Matthew meets Clayton’s eyes, gapes uselessly for words that don’t come. The ground beneath his feet gives way to a dark pit. Don’t let me go, Clayton says, and Matthew tries but his hands are too slick with bloodsweatfear and they slip on the ropes, send him falling uselessly downward-
Miriam’s screams follow him into the dark.
---
Matthew wakes in a room on the top floor of the Gem with Clayton standing over him and pulling at his shirt. He’s had this dream enough times to know what comes next but there’s something wrong with the way the fabric sticks to his skin, the way Clayton’s face is twisted with panic.
Matthew grabs the gunslinger’s hand from where it’s pulling at the collar of his shirt. “What are you doin’?”
Clayton shakes him off. “Don’t talk, you stubborn fuck, just stay still.” The shirt isn’t going anywhere, and Clayton swears loudly as he draws the knife at his hip. He grabs a fistful of the fabric of Matthew’s vestments and cuts and the sound of ripping fabric echoes in the room before Matthew can even begin to process what’s happening.
He winces as the sticking cloth pulls away from his skin and grabs at Clayton’s hand, another question forming on his lips only to die midway when he sees the look on his face. The knife clatters to the ground and Matthew follows Clayton’s stunned gaze to his own chest and finds, quite suddenly, that breathing is a lot more difficult than it’s supposed to be.
There’s a bullet wound square over his heart. He knows why it’s there, understands why it’s a cause for concern. What he doesn’t understand is why it’s not bleeding anymore.
He blinks, waiting for some logic to occur to him. He’s gone loopy from injuries before, has even done it in front of Clayton on at least one occasion, and for a moment he’s convinced that’s what’s happening now. Then he touches the wound and finds the blood already drying like a thin coat of paint.
The door opens and Miriam rushes in with Bella, bandages and surgical instruments and a bottle of whisky in hand. They see Matthew propped on one elbow and the bottle hits the ground with a sound like a window breaking and somehow, it feels like a metaphor for every moment that is now converging.
Matthew laughs, and laughs, and laughs. Somewhere in his throat it turns into a terrified keen and he tugs the shredded vestments back around him, his guts clenching inside while his fingers clamp white knuckled on his arms, the blood rushing away from the pressure he’s applying except maybe it’s not, maybe he doesn’t even have blood inside him, maybe it’s all just decoration, maybe he’s just fucking insane he’s done it now he’s snapped he’s gone they’re gonna tie him down and lobotomise him pick pieces out of his brain until he can’t find a way to scream them all awake anymore and give them all away-
“Come on, Matty, ease up, I got you.” Clayton’s hands hold on tightly over Matthew’s and then his arms are back around him again and Matthew clings to him, his breaths suddenly more shallow than they were on the street when he still thought he was dying. “I got you, come on.”
“I think our services are best suited elsewhere, Arabella,” Miriam says, grabbing the supplies from her hands to place them on the lone chair in the room. There’s something in her eyes but Matthew doesn’t know it, can’t make sense of the hidden meaning. “We’ll be downstairs with Aloysius if you two gentlemen need anything.”
The door closes again and Matthew knots his fingers in Clayton’s vest, breathing hard, trying to focus on the somewhat awkward soothing motions of Clayton’s hands across his back. The last time they were close like this, he was bleeding from a knife to the leg and for a terrible, warped moment Matthew wishes he was there again, pressed up beside Clayton and lightheaded from the blood that had poured out of his leg like it was fucking supposed to instead of seizing up and staying put. It’s an awful thing to consider but that doesn’t stop him from thinking and wanting it just the same.
“Where you at, Matty?” Clayton’s voice is an anchor in the sudden storm of his mind and Matthew clings to it with all his might. “You here with me?”
“I don’t know.” Matthew is scared to look at Clayton’s face, far from certain what he’ll see there. Of everyone he knows that Clayton will understand, but that’s wrong too. Clayton shouldn’t have to understand. Clayton should never have dug his way out of a coffin should never have been in a coffin should never have been underground he still remembers the way the wood felt beneath his hands, flimsy and cold in comparison to how solid the man inside it had been and maybe he should have jumped in front of the bullet then, too, because apparently it wouldn’t have done him any harm anyway. “What is this?” he chokes out. “Clayton, what the fuck am I?”
“Alive.”
“I’m not convinced.”
“You’re alive enough for me,” Clayton says, tightening his grip. “I ain’t about to judge on accounts of bein’ natural or not.”
Matthew wants to say something, wants to protest, but he can’t make himself do it. Instead he buries his face in the crook of Clayton’s neck and shudders breathlessly, trying hard to grasp at some semblance of control when the very concept feels like a hideous joke. He’s not sure how long he stays there, just knows that Clayton keeps a steady hold on him the whole while and doesn’t say a word. He’s grateful for that, really. Conversation is a skill far beyond him right now, but he lets himself be held until his breathing returns to normal and the world stops spinning at long last.
Cautiously, Matthew pulls away from Clayton, exhaling slow and deep. Clayton’s grip loosens but doesn’t drop entirely, and his slate blue eyes are bright with concern as they fix on Matthew’s face. “You alright?”
Matthew nods, swallowing hard. “Better.”
“Good.” Clayton nods toward the hole in Matthew’s chest without ever looking away. “What are we doin’ about that?”
Never thinking about it again, Matthew doesn’t say, both because he knows that’s impossible and because it’s not what Clayton’s asking. He can’t go around with a hole in his chest, bleeding or not. “Think Bella brought up some things, left ‘em on the chair.”
“You want me to do the stitchin’, or you want her?”
Matthew doesn’t want to look at anybody but Clayton right now, but he knows he’ll have to face them eventually. “I suppose we all might as well go on this adventure together,” he says hesitantly. Clayton nods, his grip falling away completely, and Matthew feels the loss like a tangible thing. Without thinking he grabs for Clayton’s hand before he can get out of reach. Clayton stops immediately and looks back at him, but Matthew doesn’t meet his eyes. He just swallows and stares at their joined hands. “Don’t go.”
Clayton nods. “Alright. Just a few steps.” He squeezes Matthew’s hand and pulls away just enough to open the door, their fingertips still brushing as he does. He says something to someone Matthew can’t see and then he’s back on the bed beside him, fingers resting against the pulse point of his wrist while Matthew holds his hand tight enough to crush it.
There’s a knock on the door before too much longer. It opens slowly to reveal all three of the others, wide-eyed with concern as they look at Matthew. They make their way in and then stand there, awkwardly silent, none of them daring to address the elephant in the room.
It’s Miriam who finds her voice first. “You feelin’ more composed, Reverend?”
“Much,” he says, mostly honest.
“Then we should get that hole in you resolved. Arabella?”
“Of course.” She starts doing something with the needle and thread as Miriam comes to sit on Matthew’s other side.
Aloysius stays standing at the door, looking between Matthew and Clayton long enough that he starts to grow uncomfortable. It’s Clayton who brings the matter to attention though, his voice careful and measured. “Somethin’ on your mind, Mister Fogg?”
Aly shakes his head. “Just thinkin’ that the pair of you are two of a goddamn kind.”
“And?” Miriam snaps.
“And nothin’. It’s a good thing. Ain’t neither of you belongs in the ground just yet.” He looks at Clayton but doesn’t hold his gaze for long, eyes going to the floor.
After everything, Clayton’s forgiveness toward Aly had been a cautious, quick thing, given far more easily than it had been due. They’ve all talked with him about it on different occasions, but the bad air between them still hangs heavy sometimes, and just now Matthew can’t deal with the weight of it, the way Clayton’s mouth tightens wordlessly around the edges. “Then I suggest we all be thankful to whatever deities we’re inclined to,” he says, “because it seems neither of us are going to be heading anywhere.”
Clayton’s eyes flash toward Matthew with gratitude, and the tension eases somewhat. “Got bigger fish to fry anyway,” Clayton says, nodding again toward the hole in Matthew’s chest. Arabella steps forward with an alcohol soaked rag in one hand and an apologetic expression on her face as she starts to clean the wound with a practised carefulness.
For all her attempts at being gentle, it still hurts like a bitch. Matthew grits his teeth and closes his eyes and thanks God that Clayton’s always with him when these things happen, because it’s just about the only thing keeping him from slipping back into memories that are far worse than his current sense of doubt.
Arabella’s halfway through stitching before she finally breaks the silence when Matthew winces with a particular emphasis. “It’s a bit strange,” she says quietly, the corners of her mouth turned up in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Cynthia was always better at sewing than I was, but somehow I keep finding myself holding a needle.”
“I imagine your sister used quite a different canvas when she did her work,” Matthew says, careful not to flinch when the needle goes through skin again. “There are some things people frown upon displayin’ on the walls.”
“The concepts transfer better than you might think,” Bella replies, and he feels the pain in her eyes as keenly as his own. She’s come a long way in being able to talk about it, but loss is always a terrible thing.
Miriam touches Matthew’s arm, drawing his attention away as Arabella begins to sew. “You make it awful hard to keep that good heart of yours beating, sometimes,” she says, her voice strained the same terrible way it had been three months ago. “That was a very foolish thing you did.”
“Not nearly as foolish as it could have been. Seems my heart hasn’t been beating for some time.” It’s meant to come out as a joke but it falls far too flat in the silence and Miriam just holds his hand tighter with a look on her face like her own heart’s breaking.
Aloysius clears his throat quietly. “I ain’t lookin’ anything to start anything, and if there’s a God He knows I don’t deserve an answer to this but….about that heartbeat thing. You got any ideas, Reverend?”
Matthew shakes his head. “When I left the cavalry, things had been…close, for a time. I made it out, by what grace I don’t know, but I managed.”
“Well, I imagine being bulletproof must have helped in that endeavor,” Bella murmurs. She breaks the thread on his stitches and gestures for Matthew to finish removing his shirt. “Do you remember when that started?”
“No,” Matthew admits with another frown. “As far as I can recall, I’ve always endured injuries the same way as everyone else. I can’t even begin to think when that would have changed.” He turns on the bed to face his back toward Bella so she can address the exit wound, struggling with the distinct memory of when he had nicked himself shaving and bled for twenty minutes, of having taken his shoulder out of commission for three days climbing trees as a child.
He’s so lost in thought that it escapes him for a minute, the way the silence spreads sudden and cold in the room once he isn’t facing the others. As soon as Matthew picks up on it, he stiffens with a sudden nervousness and looks over his shoulder to see what the hold-up is.
Instead, he sees four different variations of shock staring back at him – Arabella’s jaw dropped, Aloysius’s eyes so wide with shock that Matthew half-expects them to pop out of his head, Miriam’s hands trembling just barely in her lap. Clayton’s expression is neutral as ever, but there’s something shuttered about it now, like he’s making a special effort to keep his face clean of any giveaways.
A deep, cold wariness creeps into Matthew’s chest and settles like a rock in his stomach. “What is it?”
Of all people, it’s Aloysius who finds a way to speak first. “Nothin’ major, Reverend. Think we’re all just tryin’ to wrap our heads around you bein' shot in the back before.”
“What?” Matthew’s hand flies up to his back on instinct, blindly groping for proof. The contortion is strange and pulls at his stitches and Arabella has just started to protest about the risks of tearing them out entirely when he finds it, his fingertips sliding through the fresher blood on his back to find a long-healed scar over his heart, big and round as a quarter.
His traces it once, twice, a third time. He thinks of his last ride with the cavalry, how they had sabotaged the munitions of a nearby camp and the fuse had been wrong and he’d woken up as the only survivor in a fort full of corpses. He’d taken his life and he’d ran as fast as he’d been able to manage, not caring what it looked like, what any of them would have to say if they went back through the bodies and found his wasn’t there.
He’d thought he’d made it. He really had.
Miriam’s hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes, and it’s only then that he realises he’s started laughing again, soft with disbelief. “Reverend?” she asks. “Are you alright?”
Matthew blinks at her and stupidly tries for a bravado that falls entirely flat. “I suppose this explains the fog, then. Guess I wasn't so lucky after all.”
“Oh, Matthew,” she says, and her face crumples like a wet piece of paper and then she’s hugging him the way his mother used to, tight and sturdy as an iron clamp, her face buried in his shoulder. He returns the gesture on instinct, far past the point of registering if he’s getting more blood on her dress because it hardly seems important.
There’s a lot of things that don’t seem important right now. Matthew breathes slow and steady and pulls away long before he really wants to, tugging the shredded fabric of his shirt back over his shoulders. Arabella protests on the grounds of still needing to bandage him but he shakes his head and she lets it go, her lips tight with concern. There’s not much to say after that and none of them bother trying, just filter out one by one again until it’s only Clayton and Matthew in the room again.
Matthew can feel Clayton’s eyes on him like a physical weight, but he doesn’t meet them. He just studies the blood under his fingernails, on the floor and both their hands. There’s supposed to be more of it for a wound like his, but there isn’t and there won’t be and he knows that, feels sick thinking about it.
“’f you want, we can take this back to the church,” Clayton murmurs after a long while. “Oughta get that wrapped up still, even considerin’- well. All of it.”
Matthew laughs and doesn’t look up. “Don’t think I belong there, in light of recent revelations.” Clayton opens his mouth in an admonishment but Matthew cuts him off before he can really start. “I wonder if that’s why Cynthia came back? Makes sense that somethin’ soulless couldn’t send anyone else’s soul on.”
“And who says you ain’t got a soul?” Clayton shoots back, the words an obvious challenge.
“How could I possibly know? Whatever it is that brought me back, it – maybe it was God, but we don’t know that. You said it yourself. God don’t play cards.”
Clayton leans forward onto his elbows. “You remember playin’ poker at the pearly gates, Matt?”
He shakes his head.
“Didn’t think so. You remember fuckin’ around some wasteland where you couldn’t see shit and all you heard were voices around and a bunch of hands?” A pause, another shake of Matthew’s head. “Well, that’s good then, because I do.”
“Clayton-”
“No. Look at me.” He hesitates and Clayton reaches out, guides his chin up with one hand. It’s not a rough gesture, but it’s far from gentle, and when Matthew meets the other man’s eyes he finds them burning. “I’m not sayin’ that to get sympathy, I’m sayin’ it to make a point. If I got through that and came back and I ain’t damned, you don’t get to say you are.”
“But-”
“No buts. Not on this. I ain’t inclined to arguin’ much, Matthew Mason, and sure as hell not with you. But I’ll say this as many times as it needs sayin’. You’re not soulless. Anyone in this fuckin’ town has a soul, it’s you.”
Matthew’s always been stubborn as sin, and he knows it. There’s an argument on his tongue immediately, but it fades away like it’s been burned in the wake of Clayton’s gaze, his certainty. Matthew doesn’t think he’s ever heard him say so much at one time, and he doesn’t know how to react to being the subject of it now, doesn’t know how to react to any of this. “We have no idea what’s kept me here. How can you be so certain it’s good?”
Clayton’s eyes soften like chips of ice in a child’s hands. “’Cause I know you, and I wouldn’t if it weren’t for whatever luck’s kept you on your feet. I ain’t gonna be angry about that. I don’t care what it is.”
Matthew can’t help it. He stares at Clayton, even though he knows he shouldn’t, that Clayton hates it, that it’s a foolish thing to do for so many reasons that he can barely begin to list them all. He stares and he finds himself drifting again, only this time rather than drifting away he feels himself pulled in closer to Clayton and farther to sea, off his feet and into the uncertain depths of things he hasn’t felt for years and is half-afraid of still.
He doesn’t know where he’s going or what he’s done to deserve this or how he’s even here when he’s supposed to be underground, but Clayton’s right about one thing. They’d never have met if things weren’t what they are. Whatever God or other force is responsible for that, it’s holy enough to hold to.
Matthew lets out a breath he hasn’t noticed himself holding and nods once, twice. He trusts Clayton’s judgment. He trusts him. “Alright,” he says, “You wanna take this back to mine? Think we could both use a drink while we clean up.”
Clayton nods, stands up, and hands Matthew his coat before he can even ask. “I’ll follow you,” he says, and holds open the door.
---
The evening finds them in Matthew’s room above the church, still together and not particularly bothered by the alcohol they’ve been having. They’ve been trading a flask between the two of them for a few hours now, taking periodic sips from it and talking in between or else sitting in a strangely companionable silence. Clayton doesn’t stray too far from arm’s reach and whether that’s intentional or not, Matthew can only be grateful for it.
It’s late, and he’s turned the lamps down. The only light in the room comes from streaks of early moonlight and the slowly dying fire through the slats of Matthew’s stove, and Clayton is next to him on the bed, close enough to touch if he was feeling brave. He isn’t though, which is why Matthew takes another drink instead and sits the flask between them again, leaning it up against Clayton’s leg. He’s been staring at the fire for some time now, and if the silence weren’t so companionable Matthew thinks he’d be concerned.
He should go to sleep sooner rather than later, he thinks. Miriam will be wanting to see him tomorrow, and probably Swearengen unless he’s missed his guess. He likes to be in the know about everything, whether it’s his business or not. Matthew’s in the midst of weighing the merits of not telling him anything when Clayton speaks beside him, a low murmur that breaks the silence. “Got a question for you. Dumb one.”
Mathew blinks, perplexed, then shifts. “I suppose that will excuse if my answer is equally foolish. What’s on your mind?”
“Today,” Clayton says, then stops himself without warning. “Earlier, after all the fuss this afternoon.”
He goes quiet for a moment, and Matthew raises an eyebrow. “Yes?” he prods.
“Forget it.”
“What is it, Clayton? What’s goin’ on?”
“This afternoon, when you knocked me outta the way. You really didn’t know?” Clayton bites out the question like it physically pains him and doesn’t look at Matthew.
He frowns, not entirely convinced Clayton wants an answer, much less an honest one. “No,” he says anyway. “I didn’t.”
“Then why?”
Because I wasn’t about to watch it happen again, Matthew doesn’t say. His hand drifts absently to his now bandaged chest and he shrugs. “You’ve been through enough on that street, is all. Didn’t seem fair to let you go through it again.”
Clayton closes his eyes and breathes out slowly through his nose, like he’s contemplating something difficult long and hard. Matthew knows what he’s thinking without him saying it, because it’s been going through his mind too, a non-stop loop of thinking about how much worse it could have been, how much worse it almost was. “It was mighty foolish of you, Matty. Brave, but stupid.”
“I know,” Matthew says, swallowing back a very different kind of pain at the sound of the old name. “I would apologise, but I’m afraid it didn’t really occur to me to think it through at the time. It was instinct more than anything.”
Clayton snorts softly. “Instinct, huh? You and your protective streak. Gotta be wider than the fuckin’ town at this rate.”
Only because I’ve got so much that’s worth protecting, Matthew thinks. He watches Clayton watch the fire from the corner of his eye and thinks, for a long moment, about what might happen if he said what was on his mind for once. This thing between them, whatever it is, will have to be addressed one day. It feels bigger with every passing week and he knows he can’t be the only one who sees it, not when Clayton is so much more clever and observant than he ever will be.
But whatever they have to discuss one day, they won’t do it tonight. Neither of them have that sort of energy, and even if they did, well. They’ve both covered themselves in too much of each other’s blood for the day to be saying anything too heartfelt. Instead of talking, Matthew stands, stretching carefully. “Think it’s time I head off to sleep. You going back to the Bullock for the night?”
Clayton nods. “Probably should.”
“You don’t have to.” The words are out of Matthew’s mouth before he can think to stop them, and even though he thinks he’s lost enough blood today that blushing should be a moot point, his cheeks warm traitorously. He gestures vaguely toward the bed and the room at large. “There’s room enough for two. If you want.”
There’s a long, strange moment where Clayton just stares at him and the silence feels somewhere close to endless. Then he nods. “Might as well. Heard we’re expectin’ a storm. This is probably 'bout to be the only warm place in the whole fuckin' town.”
Matthew’s heard no such rumours, but he doesn’t protest. Instead, he waits for Clayton to move and pulls the covers down, curling up on his side on one half of the bed. He’s stretching the truth a little about how much room there is but at this point they’ve shared smaller spaces. Clayton joins him a moment later, doesn’t even make an argument about taking the chair this time. It says a lot about how bad the day has been, really.
They lay there in silence, the room too dark to even see each other’s eyes. It’s almost a surprise when after several minutes, Matthew feels a hand against his chest, a little cool and somewhat shaky. There are matching bullet holes in them now, and it’s a strange thing how comforting it is to not be alone in this. Matthew covers Clayton’s hand with one of his own, places the other against where he knows Clayton's own scar is. “Glad you’re alive,” he murmurs.
Beside him, he feels Clayton shudder so faintly it’s barely noticeable. Beneath his palm, the heartbeat is steady and strange, colder than life but so much warmer than the grave will ever be. “Me too,” Clayton says.
Whatever any of this means, Matthew has no idea. He supposes they’ll figure it out together now. It’s as scary a thought as he’s ever had, but the company makes it easier, and when he closes his eyes the shadows behind them don’t chase him to sleep for once. He hopes that when Clayton finally drifts off, he’ll feel the same.
It’s been a long day for both of them, but they’ll live.
#Critical Role#UnDeadwood#UnDeadwood Spoilers#Reverend Matthew Mason#Clayton Sharpe#Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe#Clayson#tw:blood#tw:injury#Non-fatal character injury#m/m#mutual pining#fanfiction#undeadwood fanfiction#atlas writes
31 notes
·
View notes
Text
Pride
Pride month was always Gavin’s favourite. Each year him and his friends - and his ‘Uncle’ Dee, the best god damn drag queen Gavin has met - would arrange to go to their local parade, and just have fun, being themselves.
Dee would dress up, as usual, high heels and, on occasions, a wig (although, she never actually needed to, as her hair was long enough and Gavin would help style it). Tina would wear high waisted trousers and crops tops (much different to her usual loose trousers and band merch). And Gavin would just kinda... be his normal self - ripped jeans, loose t-shirts, brackets, peircings and eyeliner.
Each year, the route for the parade was the same. Start at the Tuesday Market Place, walk through town, pass the police station (which would always change the flag to a pride themed one), and into the park (called ‘The Walks’). The parade would finish in the large expanse of the park, it has shops and booths and a live band. It’s where everyone could meet collectively and sit and relax and just talk to one another. It was nice. Every time Gavin went there was always something new, someone new. He loved it.
This particular year was no exception.
Starting at the Tuesday Market Place, the anouncer came on to the mic to tell everyone the parade would be starting shortly.
Just like every year, the parade started, with much commotion, as people started to make their way down the narrow roads.
Just like each year, there was bystanders on the sides of the road. Some innocently trying to get their shopping done, but paid no mind and made no grief for the paraders - some even joined in and smiled at the lovely scenes in front of them.
Just like each year, however, there where those few bystanders who didn’t support what they saw. This never detered the paraders though, as they where silent - an old man with a cross, a pensioner with his thumb down, or maybe just a catholic mother. Either way, they weren’t actually bothering the people of pride. So Gavin, Tina, Dee and in fact, everyone else, continued walking.
The most narrow street that the parade walked down is one of Gavin’s favourite streets. It had a pizza shop, two record shops, literally the most gothic shop in his area and the police station on it. It was beautiful, old cobble pathed it and he always remembered it because someone made an art piece on it at his college.
The beginning of the walk down this street was fine, he was smiling, laughing with Tina - who’s girlfriend had suddenly appeared. Towards the end of the street, Gavin noticed a few stragglers, a small group of people that didn’t seem to be moving with the parade. Just viewers maybe.
As they got closer, he could see that they didn’t seem to happy about the parade. They shouted cuss words as people walked by, screaming at them as if trying to scare people away. In fact, Gavin could see the clear arch to the right as people started to walk on the opposite side of the narrow street.
Finally close enough to see the group clearly, Gavin could see that there was 4 boys and a young girl. He made eye contact with, who he could only assume was the boy that started to rebellion, and Gavin shook his head at them.
Clearly the wrong move.
The first hit fell to his left cheek. The next was his right side as he fell to the ground. Two, three boys where on him in a second flat. Kicking, punching, even spitting on him as they tried to degrad him with words.
Several punches later and Gavin was finally lifted from the ground by a few sets of strong hands. People from the parade behind him lifted him to his feet and the three boys who’d beaten him backed away.
Gavin looked at them, blood covering his right eyelid, keeping it shut. His lip stung from the sweat and spit and blood that poured over the deep cut. His nose aches like a bitch, he can feel the blood leaking down it, he suspects that it must be broken. He notices the two people from the group that looked at him shocked, scared, guilty on the side of the road. They hadn’t done anything to stop their other friends, they where innocent but never said a word to help. Gavin turned away, and started walking with the parade again, pretending the stinging all over his body and the blood all over his face wasn’t there.
The parade kept walking, as far as he knew, the group that beat him had departed, no one else got the tail end of their fists. That was good.
Finally, they reached the park. Picnic tables, booths and shops, the live band and a police car where gathered in a sort of circle. It brought another smile to Gavin’s face when he saw the gigantic ‘PRIDE’ sign that only gets erected on the occasion of this parade. It looked just like it does every year.
Dee and Tina hasn’t stopped pestering Gavin. Which, to be honest, Gavin didn’t mind the attention, but they don’t understand that he just doesn’t care about those types of people, and that he has the right to move on.
“There’s no point crying over spilled blood, Teeni.” Gavin says.
“Gavin, you know that’s not how the quote goes...”
Gavin’s argument is completely dismissed however when he sits down on the freshly mowed grass. He’s suddenly surrounded by 20 people, give or take. It’s so sudden that he thinks he lost so much blood that he hallucinating, and it’s loud, they’re all speaking to him at once, asking him questions.
They suddenly sit down. All in a circle, looking at him.
It’s the weirdest trip, and Gavin doesn’t actually know if it’s real. Someone asks him if he’s okay, and he says he’s fine. They watch as a medic walks over and sits beside Gavin, carefully ridding his face of the - slowly drying - blood. Adding small closure strips to keep the cuts and deeper wounds together, they even check the shoulder that Gavin landed on when he fell to the floor. Nothing hospital worthy, but the medic confirms that he’ll definitely have a scar across his nose.
Eventually, the medic leaves, along with a few other people from the circle. There’s a couple of people still with him - Dee, Tina and her girlfriend included. They all chat, talk about what just happened, talk about their experiences, prounous & preferences, sexualities and a few of them even exchange phone numbers.
Suddenly, a white bag is placed his front of Gavin’s crosses legs. Confused, and slightly worried at the mysterious white bag, Gavin looks around to see who’d placed it there.
A young man, probably his age, looks at him with, admittedly beautiful, but sad eyes. Gavin recognises him, from earlier. With the group that had beaten him.
Gavin grabs the bag, grunts and asks the man, “what do you want?”
A few people in the circle murmur, also noticing the boy.
“I want to apologise.” He looks at the people in the group and then back to the swollen face, “you er... your cuts, they bled pretty bag. I brought you some food... I didn’t want you to pass out...”
Gavin looked in the white bag, a drink, crisps, some fruit and a sandwich where in there.
Before he could reply, someone in the group shouted, “maybe you should fuck off” at the young man.
He started to leave, head low. Gavin could tell he felt guilty, he took pity in that.
“Wait,” the boy turned again, “you... you can stay. If you want.”
Wordlessly, the man took a few timid steps and sat in the circle. Not next to Gavin, but close. A few people stared at him, some people looked at Gavin as if to say, ‘are you insane?’ But he ignored them.
“So, what’s your name?” Gavin asked, not to loud, in fact he was kind of scared that if he spoke loud enough in that moment the boy would take off in a sprint.
Gavin wouldn’t say the guy looked shy, or like he was easily scared for that matter. He had dark cloths on. Skinny jeans, black long sleeved shirt, Doc Martin boots on and so many piercings. It looked as though him and Gavin had coordinated their clothes.
“My names Niles.” He was quiet, “what’s your name?”
“‘M Gavin, nice to meet you.” Gavin got a small, ‘yeah’ in response.
It was mostly silent for a few minutes after Niles joined, the air a little awkward between them. It was clear that others picked up on it because someone turned and asked Niles, “why are you here, in the parade, sitting with us, when you’re homophobic?”
Niles looked up, wide eyed, eyebrows might as well have been in his hairline. “No! No I’m not homophobic!” He shook his head before continuing, “my group, took everything the wrong way. I suggested that we go to Pride because I wanted to join in. They took it as me inviting them to start a protest.”
Everyone was silent. Gavin especially.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen... I’m not homophobic,” he paused, looking at the ground, hands ripping up individual blades of grass, “I’m bisexual.”
There was a lot of tension in the group. Not because they didn’t except him coming out to them, of course not. But because they’d got it all wrong, and felt bad for judging him. They all understood his good intentions now.
Breaking the tension, Gavin reached over and clapped him on the back, “well Niles, we obviously except you.” He smiled at them as Niles raised his head to look at him, but Gavin’s smile went neutral as he said, “but what I won’t except is that you brought me lunch and forgot my fuckin’ chocolate bar.”
————————
Look at me, two posts in one day? Damn, who is she??
Hope you enjoyed ❤️
#dbh characters#dbh rk900#gavin x nines#gavin x rk900#reed900#gavin reed#niles#pride#dbh#detroit: become human#detroit#tina#hankcon#dbh incorrect quotes#incorrect quotes#funny#lgbtq#lgbtqai#lgbtpride#dbh gavin#dbh tina#the girl in niles’ group is chloe#dbh chloe
105 notes
·
View notes
Text
August 11, 2018. Manchester, New Hampshire.
After seven hours on the road, pausing only to explore an Old Ones cult site, storm a terrible castle, and eat distressingly dry corned beef at a Greek diner that still advertised one of their menu items as “Michael Jackson’s favorite grinder”, we were in dire need of respite.
Establishing a forward operating base was our first priority. For my part, I can sleep anywhere. My bonfire days in the Frozen North frequently necessitated pitching a $10 K-Mart tent over gravel, then drinking bottom-shelf whiskey until you didn’t realize you were sleeping in a puddle of rainwater and broken glass. That’s not a knack you lose. It’s like riding a bike. The Girl was always more discerning, and became doubly so after our experience in Phoenix with the inept criminal front halfway house hotel. We agreed that she can veto any of the lodgings I book. Sometimes, late at night, I’ll hold a flashlight under my chin and tell her spoOoOoky stories about hostels in Ireland.
She insisted on the airport Super 8. I was hoping to stay in a quaint deep woods motel called “Unsmiling Jed’s Sleepaway”, attached to sister business “Unsmiling Jed’s Discount Plastic Surgery Silo and Chili Kitchen”.
If I can’t protect it, I don’t deserve to have it. That goes double for life.
A friendly foreign woman checked us in at the Super 8, then proceeded into utter bafflement when I asked for a first aid kid. I chewed myself up pretty good climbing Bancroft’s Castle, and I’d spent the last half hour bleeding into an oily dog blanket to avoid ruining my upholstery. I’m pretty sure that’s how plagues start.
There were no band-aids here, or antiseptics, or possibly medicine as a concept. There was a three gallon tub of hand sanitizer. I thanked her for the offer but gently declined.
We went up to the third floor. The hallways were lined with people sitting on the carpet outside their rooms, shouting and smoking cigarettes. The room itself was clean and the air conditioning worked. All my boxes were checked. The bathroom reeked of weed, which some would interpret as a bonus. I scrubbed my wounds raw in the sink, tucked away the precious cargo of wine and peaches, and set out to investigate downtown Manchester.
Streetlight technology has not yet made its way to Manchester, so we spent twenty minutes missing exits in ocean-floor darkness. It looked worryingly like Wilkes-Barre, which is not where one would choose to vacation, were one sane.
Downtown erupted from nowhere like graphic pop-in on a video game running at its lowest resolution. One second you’re in leatherface country, with nothing breaking the abyssal darkness but the occasional half-broken Jiffy Lube sign. The next, you’re on vibrant neon market strip, replete with hipsters and the homeless.
We knew we had hit downtown proper when we passed by the “craft grilled cheese bistro”.
only programmers will understand!!!! like and reblog if u get it
Since I am an adult man, grilled cheese cannot be dinner. Both “gastropubs” we tried, despite their bitchin Greek mythology names, offered generic terrible burgers and a draft list that consisted of Coors Light.
“I’m so hungry,” the Girl told me. “I’m gonna die.”
“We all will,” I assured her. “Soon.”
Yelp claimed there was a brewery five blocks away. We walked off the only lit street, into absolute, encompassing blackness. It would’ve been spooky if I didn’t always kind of hope some Putty Patrol mook would lunge at me from the dark while I’m far away from home, having told no one where I’m going and left no paper trail.
There were no incidents. No one was murdered in self-defense. No one knows what we did last summer. The Stark Brewing Company was in the basement of a grim looking office complex, and it was vacant save for two other wanderers.
We sat at the bar and ordered a flight and an imperial stout. I was pushing for finding an actual restaurant, but the Girl ordered “Penne with vodka sauce”, which was not the right color, flavor, or texture to be anything but penne bolognese. The Girl didn’t seem to mind. I ate a pulled pork sandwich.
The beers were warm, but I didn’t care. It didn’t matter what the beers were, so long as they were beers. And not Coors Light. The brewery themed all of their beers off of dogs, for some reason, which I believe to be the ideal business model. According to the bartenders, the brewery had been open for 25 years, but hadn’t yet received their big boom. I was outraged. The beers were excellent, and would probably be even better if they weren’t room temperature, and the taps were not only named for specific dogs, but also provided pictures.
To say nothing of the bathroom, which was covered in sharpie beer lore.
The bartender and waitresses swore a lot more than you would normally expect in this context. The Girl maintains they were swearing at us. I disagreed.
“They were swearing <i>with</i> us,” I mansplained.
“We weren’t swearing,” she countered.
“But if we HAD been.”
As I’ve grown larger and more sinuous, I’ve tried to cut back on how often I cuss at strangers. Cultural relativism is the understanding that not everyone grew up among the coalcrackers, and good-natured oaths like “how the hell are you” or using the fuck-word as a conversational placeholder, while subjectively soothing, can set off fight-or-flight in the small, soft, and bourgeoisie.
I try to maintain direct proportionality between my barbarism and my well-heeledness. Neither the wait staff nor the other two customers shared my bond, and the middle-aged guy on my right proceeded to tell me how his hometown of Denver, Colorado is the greatest fuckin’ city in America, next to maybe Southern California. Which is not a city.
We talked about our homes and travels for a while, then I got my pulled pork sandwich and they left. The sandwich was slightly warmer than the beer, which beat the alternative.
An armada of children came into the bar.
“Oh, shit,” the woman tending bar said. They were visibly teenagers, and on the wrong side of it. They had that gangly awkwardness you get around fourteen or fifteen, and if they were trying to play it off, they were woefully bad at it. There were also nearly twenty of them. It looked like a field trip.
People in their twenties don’t travel in packs of more than six. It’s hard to transport a throng, unless you have a party bus, and why do you have a party bus when you’re twenty-eight? You’re twenty-eight and party buses have always been sad. Get a job. Also, it’s hard to get that many adults to agree on something.
It can be done. You can say, “Hey, adults, you want to do some drugs?” And in a sufficiently sized crowd, you’ll manage to pull twenty or so who will follow you to your house or whatever. This is called an “afterparty”. It doesn’t go to bars at 9pm.
Have you felt out the social zeitgeist recently? Look at a random handful of current memes and it’ll be pretty clear that most adults consider socialization to be a required burden, like paying emotional taxes. “Going out” is the price of living in a civilized society. You’re not going to scare up twenty people, then put them in a party bus, then take them to an abandoned bar half a mile outside of where the actual nightlife is.
“Hey, we’re just about to close,” the bartender said.
A reedy blonde in a top that seemed to consist mostly of straps screeched, “But your WEBSITE said you were open til ONE!”
Screeched.
The bar fell silent. Well, more silent. The Girl and I traded looks, her horror for my delight.
“Uhhhhhh,” the bartender said, but with excellent elocution, as though that were the word she had deliberately chosen. “Okay.”
They sat the itinerant mall food court in an enormous corner table, whereupon they requested shots.
The waitress who had sworn at/with us the least came back to the bar and said, “You guys said you were from Pennsylvania, right?”
We nodded.
“Can I see one of your licenses quick?”
She compared mine against the obviously fake ID one of the tweens had given her. After a moment she said, “Yeah, you can see, the font is different. And the picture looks like it’s photoshopped.”
“Yeah, no one’s license picture ever looks this good,” the Girl said, studying the fake ID.
“Except mine,” I added. They ignored me. I didn’t take it personally.
The waitresses disappeared into the back. Five minutes later, the only dude working at the place was gendered into being the bad cop. He sulked over to the teens.
“You guys gotta leave,” he said. “We know your ID’s fake. We’re not trying to get fined. You gotta go.”
For maximum accuracy, imagine this said in Toby’s voice from the Office. Shamefaced, the flash mob of children dispersed.
We paid for our room temperature beers and left the poor, foul-mouthed brewery to close at 9:30 on a Friday. The Girl and I accidentally stalked the battalion of teens through the street, but only because we were all moving back toward the only lights in the city, not unlike moths. They turned a corner and vanished, presumably to find an arcade or laser tag or some sort of large carousel.
The Girl and I followed the sounds of some obnoxious bros announcing, “It’s like a fahkin sketchy ally, dewd”.
It was, in fact, the least sketchy alley I’d ever been in. Cat Alley was the best lit venue in all of New Hampshire. It was clean and well-maintained, and it was covered less in graffiti and more in an outdoor art gallery dedicated to cats.
There were more, but they didn’t all warrant a picture.
Portland Pie Co loomed from the endless darkness like a beacon in the night, hearkening back to those days lost in Maine during the Great Lobster Drought of 2017. We split a bourbon barrel ale which did me in. It was bedtime.
On the way back, toward the end of the main drag, a man made of pure light rode by blasting EZ-Listenin from his Tron bicycle, also made of pure light.
I can’t prove he wasn’t Jesus.
Heartened, we returned to the hotel, where no one was smoking or yelling in the hallway anymore. Excellent.
Next stop, Portsmouth.
Love,
The Bastard
Into the Abyss August 11, 2018. Manchester, New Hampshire. After seven hours on the road, pausing only to explore an Old Ones cult site, storm a terrible castle, and eat distressingly dry corned beef at a Greek diner that still advertised one of their menu items as "Michael Jackson's favorite grinder", we were in dire need of respite.
#alley#armada#barbarian#bastard#beer#bistro#bonfire#bourgeoisie#brewery#cat alley#cats#cheddar#children#cigarettes#coors lite#culture#doggo#dogs#downtown#fake id#first aid#forward base#grilled cheese#hipster#hostels#hotel#hungry#jesus#jiffy lube#leatherface
3 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
bernhards-oma-albine
Oma Albine
crustynotebook
existing for peace and love
freya-remy
Remy's Dialogue Prompts
meth-clefairy
☆Crystal°Schizo♡
boilercity
IT'S HAPPY HOUR!