#it will bring me comfort regardless through its familiarity
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locker room | luke hughes
summary: you find an angry luke in the locker room after a loss and figure out exactly how to help him.
warnings: 18+!!!! SMUT. oral (m receiving), swearing, slightly angry luke, whimpering, begging if you look hard enough. a little fluff. poor rutger gets caught in the crossfire. pretty tame (just wait for my next one. it’s on its way.) not edited, i’m impatient
word count: 2.5k
A/N: hello! welcome to my new venture. i’ve not written anything like this before so please, give me some grace- and feedback, if you’d like. tell me how you feel, who you want me to write about, what you want me to write about. with that, let’s get into it, shall we?
18+ below the cut
you heard laughs echoing from the press stand where the opposing team was giving post game interviews. you scoffed as you strode by, muttering to yourself. absolute ref show.
the path to the locker room was second nature to you, ingrained in your head, as familiar as your own bed. you’d been there enough times. familiar faces passed you as players quickly headed out, a few gracing you with a look, even fewer with a smile. you smiled back at those who did. one caught your arm, a freshman who’s name you hadn’t learned yet, right as you were about to turn the final corner, and gave you a warning glance. “he’s really upset, y/n. really upset. just thought i’d warn you. i’m not sure if he’s sad upset or mad upset but regardless i figured i’d let you know.”
you knew this. you knew it the second the buzzer screeched at the end of the third and luke stormed off the bench, shaking his head. you knew when you heard a loud snap and then the angry voice of an equipment manager, scolding luke about breaking a stick.
you knew luke.
“thanks, kid.” he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. you reached up to gently pat his shoulder; friendly, comforting. “hey, don’t do that. you played amazing. the refs were horrid.”
he nodded, releasing your arm and bringing his hand up to wipe under his nose, followed by a loud sniffle. at the same time, you heard a scoff echo from around the corner and turned your head to find a brown, curly head and a bare shoulder disappearing back through the locker room door.
the freshman- who’s name you still couldn’t remember- looked at you, panicked. you just huffed out a sigh and drew your hand away from his shoulder. “oh, goodie.”
“i- y/n, he’s gonna think- shit,” he breathed out, letting his head drop backwards.
“hey, whatever he thinks doesn’t mean shit because it’s not true. he’s upset anyways and now he’s gonna spiral cause he thinks i’m messing with his freshman teammate. so, good game, honestly, but i’m gonna go figure out that situation before it’s too late.” you rushed out, pointing towards where luke’s head had disappeared to.
the freshman- you really had to learn his name- nodded and muttered a tiny ‘bye’ before making his way down the rest of the hall. you offered a quick wave as you stepped around the corner and pushed the door to the locker room open.
upon your immediate surveillance, there was no luke. but, you heard water streaming against tile, and the showers don’t shut off or turn on automatically, so that means that someone turned it on and was still in there. you did a quick second scan of the stalls, and upon seeing that everyone’s jerseys were hung up, bags folded, and there were no shoes resting underneath a stall- except luke’s- decided that it must be, could only be, luke in the shower.
“luke?” you called, making your way across the maize and blue carpeting.
“in here,” he answered, voice clipped. impatient. upset.
“can i come in?”
“yeah, i don’t care. ‘less you have rut with you, in which case, stay out there.”
“rut?” who the hell names their child rut?
“rutger, honey. my replacement, apparently.”
you surmised that rutger must be the freshman, and decided that yes, rutger was a name you’d have a hard time remembering.
“baby, he’s not your replacement. we were just talking.” the water shut off as you were talking and you heard bare feet slapping against the wet tile, followed by a low ‘fuck.’
“why are you swearing, lu?” you wondered, taking another stop towards the showers.
“forgot my towel. would you grab it for me? it’s hanging in my stall.”
you chuckled, walking back towards his stall and grabbing the towel. it was rough, pilled. threadbare on one end. “ew. gotta get you a new towel, babe.” you giggled, sticking your finger through a hole in the corner and turning, wiggling it at him.
“can you just bring it over here you weirdo?” he grumbled, but a small smile graced his lips as he poked his head around the wall.
“can i explain?”
“honey, i’m soaking wet. can it wait?” still upset, then.
“no.”
“go, then.” he bit out, exasperated, angrily gesturing at you to explain. you made a face at him before speaking.
“he was just warning me that you were upset, lu. i was thanking him and he looked sad so i told him he played well and that it was a ref show, ‘kay? just talking.” you finished, tossing the towel to him. his head disappeared behind the wall briefly before he made his way fully out, towel wrapped around his hips.
“alright. just don’t want him getting any ideas.”
“wait, lu, doesn’t he have a girlfriend? i swear, one of the freshmen this year has a girlfriend.” you thought out loud, following him towards his stall before plopping yourself onto the ground, electing to sit rather than stand as he got dry and dressed.
“oh. yeah.”
you laughed without humor, watching his back flex as he undid and redid the towel around his waist.
“glad i got you that shitty towel. didn’t feel like getting dripped all over, if i’m being honest.” you said, pulling your knees to your chest and resting your chin on them.
luke froze, turning his head with a devilish smile on his lips. your playful expression dropped as he turned all the way around, water slowly trailing down the planes of his chest. you gulped.
“lu, don’t even think about it- LUKE!” you started, trying to get up, but it was to no avail, because in a split second he was standing over you, shaking his head like a dog, sending water all over you- and the rest of the locker room, for that matter. “you little shit!” you screeched, holding your hands up to your face, the water splattering unceremoniously on you.
you heard his hoarse laugh as he finished tormenting you, turning back to his stall and pulling a sweatshirt over his body. you heard the rustling of fabric as he reached into his bag and pulled out a pair of sweatpants. your hands still covered your face, trying to be prepared if your child of a boyfriend got a second wind, but by the wet thump of the towel against the ground, you assumed he’d pulled the sweatpants on.
“i’m not gonna splash you again, baby. you can move your hands.” luke said, his voice calmer than it was a few minutes ago.
“why aren’t you putting your suit back on?” you asked, taking in his outfit.
“not going out the front, so nobody’s gonna see. just gonna go out the back, s’where i parked anyways.” he spoke towards the ground, pulling on socks and slipping his feet into a worn pair of birkenstocks.
“nobody’s even here anymore,” you added absentmindedly, looking down at your apple watch. 11:37. “it’s late.”
“yeah, honey, i know. you got a date with rutger at 11:45 or something?” he mumbled, the sass making its way back into his voice at in response to your apparently stupid statement.
“oh well, pardon me, mr. perfect. wasn’t sure if you were too busy being mad at me for talking to someone to look at your watch. oh, boy, am i excited to walk to the car, freezing and wet with your mopey ass.” you cut out, voice raising at the end, having had enough of him. “i get that you’re upset about losing but come on, luke. he’s got a girlfriend, he’s younger than me, and i would never do that to you.”
“oh, so you admit that i was right for thinking that? you’re defending yourself pretty heavily, y/n, i dunno. you sure he’s not waiting for you?” he whipped around. there was no more playfulness.
“you’re kidding, right?” you returned, voice emotionless.
he simply shrugged, nostrils flared slightly, anger written all over him. tense shoulders, arms crossed. wide stance.
“god, luke, you’re such a child sometimes.”
“oh, i’m a child for being protective over my girlfriend, but it’s fine for you to get all up on him and touch his arm? fucking double standard if you ask me.” he was harsh, accusatory.
your mouth dropped, incredulous at his words, but more so his tone. “don’t you fucking DARE talk to me like that. once you’re thinking straight and decide to not be an asshole, text me. i’m gonna go to my dorm tonight.”
you shook your head, pulling your phone out of your pocket and clicking into snapchat, swiping into your roommate’s chat, starting to type a message to her to ask her to pick you up, but you felt a hand close around your arm, spinning you back. you were ready to fire off more words but said words were nipped in the bud as you felt luke’s mouth on yours, hot and heavy. any anger you had took a backseat as you felt his tongue on yours, his hands finding their place on your hips, pulling you into him.
he kissed you desperately, hard enough to almost hurt. you moaned when he bit lightly on your lip, sticking the tip of your tongue out to flick his upper lip. a type of retribution. something between a moan and a growl clawed it’s way from his throat, angry and ready to be released.
you pulled away, shoving him firmly backwards by the chest. his eyes were apologetic and he looked like her was about to say something but you quieted him by pushing him down into the bench in front of his stall. “talk later,” you muttered, kneeling in front of him.
“baby, i was mean to you, you don’t have to-” he cut himself off as you undid his sweatpants and pulled him out, felt him heavy in your hand. you pulled slow, languid strokes over his cock, relished the way his head tipped back, the way his adams apple bobbed, the way he whimpered when your thumb ghosted over his angry tip. you grinned at the noise, deciding to tease him even more. his breath caught in his throat, a wet, choked, noise, as you dragged your tongue across his slit, letting your saliva mix with the precum that was gushing out of him. he looked down at you then, bringing a hand to the back of your head to gather your hair. “don’t tease me, baby. can’t take it.”
“gotta ask nice, pretty boy.”
“please, y/n. i need your mouth, i need to feel you on my cock, please.”
a wicked grin carved itself onto your face as you spat into your hand and gave him three long, hard strokes from the base. “all you had to do was ask, lu.” you purred, taking him into your mouth, moaning around him at the taste, the weight, the relief of feeling him in your mouth, on you tongue.
you heard his head thump against the wood of the stall, his breathing ragged as your moan vibrated around him. you felt him twitch in your mouth as you pressed your tongue flat against the underside of his dick and swallowed around him, curses falling from his lips.
“god, y/n, not gonna last. take me so good, baby,” he cut out, voice strained as he bucked into your mouth, hips and words stuttering in some sort of fucked up prayer to your mouth.
you smiled as much as you could with a mouth full of dick, moaning around him to try to get him there faster. his fist tightened in your hair and a whine escaped your lips, buzzing on his cock.
you looked up at him through your lashes, saw the flush on his neck making his way up to his cheeks, pride in the fact that you made him like that, that you could have him like this. that you could reduce him to a moaning, whimpering mess with only your mouth. you moaned at the mere thought, feeling him swell in your mouth.
you tapped his thigh twice, knowing he was getting close. his eyes met yours, hazy and hooded and drowning in lust, in you. you nodded, wanting, needing to see him when he finished.
his chest heaved, eyes trained on you as you worked him, bobbing up and down his cock, spit coating him at the base.
“fuck, y/n, look so pretty like this. so pretty, baby.” he whimpered, impossibly close. you moaned around him, long and loud, wanting to taste him. “so close, baby, so close.”
you took a deep breath, steadying yourself, before pushing your head down further, feeling his head hit the back of your throat, your nose pressing into the soft skin of his pelvis, feeling him tense under you. a long, drawn out call of your name left his lips as you swallowed around him, trying not to choke.
“fuck, gonna cum,” he whispered, lightly pushing his hips into your mouth, thighs shaking as he finally let go, warmth filling your mouth, his cock jumping wildly. you moaned, tasting him, feeling his hot cum coat your tongue and throat, swallowing it down as much as you could with his dick still in your mouth. he hissed, pulling your head off, overstimulated. you swallowed again, not wanting to miss a drop, settling back onto your knees, looking at him trying to collect himself.
“you still mad?” you quipped, cocking your head. he rolled his eyes at you, still trying to catch his breath as he tucked himself back into his pants. “gonna take that as a no,” you answered yourself, pushing yourself up, brushing your hands over your knees, feeling the imprint of the carpet and your jeans on the skin.
he stood up, gathering you into his arms and pulling your head into his chest. you nestled your head there, arms draping lazily around his waist, leaning all your weight onto him, the lateness of this rendezvous catching up with you. you smiled into the softness of his hoodie. “i’m sorry, babe. just get jealous, you know how i am.”
“i know, lukey. it’s okay. but you know i would never do that to you, to us, so i got defensive.”
he pressed a quick kiss into your hair, muttering an ‘i know,’ tapping your butt lightly so you would jump. you did so, weakly wrapping your legs around his waist, clinging to him lightly, knowing he had you. you rested your head on his shoulder, pressing a light kiss to the column of his throat. “can we go home? i’m tired.”
he smiled, readjusting you so he could grab his keys from the hook in his stall. “‘course we can, baby.” he kissed the side of your face, and you felt the smile still gracing his lips.
#nhl hockey#luke hughes x reader#luke hughes#luke hughes smut#nhl smut#jack hughes#quinn hughes#hockey#hockey boys#hockey romance#hockey blurb#hockey smut#hockey fluff#luke hughes fluff#luke hughes imagine#new jersey devils#university of michigan#umich hockey#rutger mcgroarty#lucijawriteswords
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———
Hand tight around the handle of his sword. Shadows pulled close, close, closer; cloak, hood, shroud. Still as a stone, hardly moving, barely breathing, waiting, waiting, tensing.
The whispers outside his cabin door grow louder.
He shot awake half an hour ago. A shift, under the cracked-open window, rustling, turning. Fabric, maybe, or fur brushing across the polished stone of the wall. Not a hellhound — he’d feel the bent shadows of its presence — nor any other creature from the Underworld, but clearly something dark, foreboding. Some heavy, stifling presence. And many of them, too, or perhaps one thing that is growing. It shouldn’t be possible within camp borders, but he can — feel it. A sense of ambush, of impending attack.
Every few minutes there’s a shake at his door handle. A wiggling of the Stygian iron metal, a whisper of sound as it’s jiggled, fruitlessly, a hiss as something draws away. The sound of quiet, throaty murmurs, muffled through the obsidian door. Escalating. Louder, louder; angrier, frantic.
Something is waiting for him.
It’s some comfort that it can’t get in. The handle was his design — not that most monsters would try to use it, but the burn as it touched their flesh, the threat of the Pit, would certainly would deter them. The obsidian doorway he insisted upon, regardless of skeletal complaints, was for practicality as much as pageantry. He has spent enough time in the well-run Land of the Dead to take notes from his father, paranoid he may be.
The noises, though, still grow stronger. Whatever is waiting for him has not been deterred by his fortifications, nor frightened by his aura of death. The handle jiggles again, and this time, the intruder is smarter — the lock turns, clicking as it is overcome, handle turning to follow it slowly, slowly. Nico holds his breath, gliding along the shadow, hovering in the doorway.
The door swings silently open. A clumsy lump of something steps hesitantly forward, huge and cumbersome; bulbous. At the front of it is a single long, glowing talon. The intruder pauses, contemplating, in the flood of low light, the cabin’s twisting shadows, turning slowly, carefully around. Nico glides along the floor, guessing at its blindspot, holding close to himself, waiting, waiting.
One.
The creature pauses.
Two.
The talon twitches to the left, following the creak of the settling bed springs.
Three.
Nico surges forward, bringing down his sword. It clangs against the talon, reverberating outwards, echoing the screams of the monster and tear of fabric —
“Nico! Nico! It’s us! Cool it! Watch the sword! Watch the sword!”
A burst of fire shoots upward, enveloping the cabin in a burst of white light. Nico hisses, nearly dropping his sword in his hassle to clamp his hand on top of his eyes, hunching protectively forward.
“Leo! Fucksake, you tryna blind us?!”
“Sorry! Sorry! He freaked me out, I flamed too hard!”
“Just fuckin’ — scream, next time! Jesus! I’ve gone blind!”
“What the fuck,” hisses Nico, blinking the spots out of his eyes, “are you idiots doing?”
In front of him stands not a monster but five infuriatingly familiar faces, each holding — for some reason — a mattress. Percy’s sword is still held loosely in front of him, and Jason’s jacket has been singed. Piper and Annabeth blink spots out of their eyes. Leo stands, in the charred ruins of his mattress, wringing his hands.
He glances up at the ceiling. Nico follows his gaze, noting where the black rock has been re-vulcanized into glass from the heat of the flames. He looks back down.
“From the bottom of my heart,” Leo says, solemnly, “my bad.”
Nico sinks to the floor with his head in his hands.
His friends, for some reason, take this as a cue. The heavy door is pushed back closed, cutting off the last of the low light from the Greek fire torches outside and the whistling of light wind. Someone feels around for a light switch, and, upon finding none, shrugs and pokes Leo until his nose catches fire, guiding him around until all the lamps and fairy lights have been located and turned on. Someone else — Annabeth, he guesses — begins instructing mattress placement, directing a crew to dig through his closet for linens. A comment about how spacious it is now that he’s not in it pops into his mind and he shoved it back down. He will not make light of the situation. He won’t.
“What the fuck,” he reiterates, louder this time.
Nobody answers. A faucet starts running in his background, and he hears the flip of a drachma.
“If nobody answers me in the next ten seconds I’m going to reanimate Andre the Giant and have him bodily throw y’all out. He will not be gentle. He will —”
“Y’all count,” they all say at once. Percy, gleefully from the bathroom’s running faucet, calls, “I’ll keep track! Remember if it goes over twelve I win!”
Nico snaps his mouth shut, ears burning.
Why has he remained at camp, again? He trained with Achilles and Patroclus. He learned how to read with Literal Shakespeare. Alan Turing taught him math. Not successfully, or anything, but still. He has no bearing here. He could be anywhere he wants to be, and for some reason he is putting up with unrepentant disrespect.
Nico four months ago would smite them. Nico five months ago would turn them to shadows for their insolence. Nico a few weeks ago, even, would have at least sulked off into the forest to cool of for several days.
Here he stands, Nico of tonight.
Unmoving in the centre of his sieged cabin.
No Andre the Giant raised.
No terrors inflicted.
Hardly even a threat.
What the shit.
“What love does to a young lad, eh?” Piper says, patting him condescendingly on the head. He aims a kick for her knees, which she unfortunately dodges, cackling and scampering away. He surges after her.
“I am several decades older than you, you little snot, what are you even talking about —”
“Older and uglier, you wrinkly ass bitch —”
“Guess who’s gonna be ugly when I remove the flesh from her body —”
“Ha! Catch me first, shrimp arms —”
“It’s working! I got it!” Walking very carefully, not unlike a toddler holding a too-full open cup for the first time, Percy steps out of the bathroom, faucet finally off. In his cupped hands is a quickly spinning vortex of sink water, letting off a fine mist. A prism taped to the side of his forehead refracts a rainbow into it. “Say hi, Hazel!”
“Hi,” says Hazel, waving from her surprisingly solid connection. She meets Nico’s eyes, grinning. He matches it immediately, dropping Piper out of the headlock he had her in.
“Hey,” he says, ignoring Piper’s dark muttering and promises for revenge. “You look eager.”
“I am eager. I heard we’re having a sleepover and talking about boys!”
“…You heard what.”
Percy shucks off his shoes, stepping gingerly over Jason and plopping right in the middle of the mattress pile, legs crossed. Nico realises for the first time that he is wearing pattered Superman pajamas, which is frustratingly endearing. He shifts the water vortex so that Hazel’s projection faces him.
“I’m so pumped,” he says earnestly. “I’ve never done this before. I’m so intrigued. Do we talk shit? Is that how it’s done? Is there swooning? I have a plan if there’s swooning.”
“We’ll get there, Seaweed Brain.” Annabeth brushes a hand through Percy’s hair as she walks by — somehow dignified, which is impressive, Nico has never seen anyone wobble over a mattress elegantly before — and presses a kiss to his forehead. He leans into it. “Ease into it.”
“Yeah,” Hazel snickers. She sticks her tongue out at Nico’s glare. “Don’t spook him.”
Nico throws his hands up. “Don’t spook me, she says. Heaven forbid anyone tell me what’s going on.”
“Well, you’re trying to court that boy, right? The cute one with the motormouth?”
Crazy how two sentences can reach down your throat, grip onto your beating heart, squeeze out your soul, drag it from your body, still pulsing, and leave it to actively shrivel on the floor next to your withered, fetal-positioned body to the audience of your cackling friends. Genuinely wild.
There’s a woman who wanders around the poplar fields of his father’s kingdom and has for tens of thousands of years — longer than even his father. Legend says she is the first user of language as it is understood in modernity. Nico may have to beat her up the next time he sees her. Or, well, try, ‘cause she’s jacked, but her crime cannot go unpunished. How dare she introduce the curse of language upon the human race.
“Which one of you,” he croaks, voice cracking more than Jason’s old man joints when he sneezes, “you — fuckers, told my sister about — about.”
If he says his name he’ll die. Like Voldemort except not stupid.
When he looks up, all five of them hold their hands proudly in the air.
“It was more of a conference call,” Jason explains. “And it was less ‘us telling’ and more us calling to say hey, Hazel, Nico keeps shutting down every time this particular person smiles at him, and then Hazel went oh, is it the medic boy he keeps rambling about when he calls me, and we went yeah, totally, can you elaborate on the rambling —”
“Cool.” Nico scrambles to his feet, brushing off his sweatpants, tucking his sword under his arm. “I’m going to go drown myself, if y’all will excuse me.”
He barely makes it one quarter step away from the stupid fucking mattress pile.
“Initiate part two of the plan!” Annabeth hollers.
“Y’all count!” Percy yells.
Without waiting to be chased, Nico sprints for the door. Immediately a fireball is launched at the handle before he can reach, melting it. He veers for the window, but a gust of air slams it shut, and a shining dagger pins the lock in place. In his final desperate dive for the nearest shadow, Piper sprints over — curse her long legs — and tackles him to the ground, rolling them both towards the nearest light source.
“Every single one of you —”
“Ow! Teeth away! Teeth away! Don’t make me muzzle you!”
“—except you, Hazel, never you —”
“Jason! He’s fuckin’ — his nails are clawed into the doorframe, help me!”
“—will be facing me in judgement day! And I shall not be lenient!”
“Quit trying to bite me or I’ll beat you up again!”
“No! Suffer!”
Conveniently, a spot on the uncomfortable floor has been left free of mattresses and pillows and beddings so that Nico and Piper can claw the shit out of each other properly. He lands a good hit on his collarbone, but she jams her heel into his ribs when he foolishly leaves his left side open. He manages to pin her arms to her sides with his legs, but she mirrors the move and squeezes her thighs around his neck.
“Do you usually just let them kill each other?”
“Oh, yeah, don’t worry about it. They didn’t get to spar yesterday so they’re a bit pent up, they’ll be fine soon.”
“…Must be a Greek thing.”
“Don’t you guys have Violence Fridays?”
“Uh, not quite.”
“We have war games,” Jason explains, “but there are generally repercussions for aiming for one’s jugular.”
Annabeth frowns. “Well, that seems flawed. How do you children ever learn to defend themselves?”
“If I recall correctly, by surviving to adulthood.”
“Touché.”
Knowing the scolding he’s about to get is going to be fierce, Nico rolls them both towards his (thankfully untouched) bed, sinking them into the shadows under it and popping up on top of Jason’s reclining body. As he planned, the combined chaos of Jason’s screech and Piper’s nausea gives him just enough leeway to kick himself free and scramble away behind Annabeth. Not that she’ll usually protect him, but he has a feeling that she has an itinerary and is therefore invested in keeping them on task.
“Okay,” she says, holding Piper back by the forehead — success. “Piper, put the nails away. Nico, quit making faces at her or I’m gonna let her claw you. Go sit on opposite ends of the mattress pile.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” they both say, immediately cowering and Annabeth’s glare and scampering to do as asked.
“Thank you. Alright, everybody grab a blanket and gather around. Nico, is there a — thermostat in here, or something?” She tightens the skull-patterned blanket (that she stole from his closet like the thief that she is) around her shoulders. “It’s freezing.”
Nico sniffs haughtily. “I prefer to have my external environment the internal temperature of my soul.”
He smiles smugly to himself at the chorus of boos that echo around him. That was a good one. He feels no shame.
“You should,” Percy tells him seriously.
“Stick your finger in a socket.”
Annabeth tosses an overflowing binder into the centre of the mattress pile before they can really start to go at it.
“Be quiet and behold,” she says grandly, “the plan.”
Nico stares at it dubiously. “The plan.”
“Yes, the plan.”
“Say plan one more time and I’m chewing the floor.”
“You’re such an odd person.”
“Having your fucked up ghost mentor put you in a labyrinth to be hunted for sport by his monster friends for ‘training’ will do that to you.”
Will once told him that he reverts to making people uncomfortable via depressing personal anecdotes when he is nervous. Startlingly perceptive for someone who, in the same breath, asked Nico if he could bring his siblings to the picnic Nico had planned in the strawberry fields for them, alone, at sunset.
“Just — open the binder, oh my gods.”
Huffing, Nico does.
It’s less intimidating than it looks. The heavily doodled title page reads OPERATION: WOOING WILL, which is embarrassing, but the rest of it is as cleanly professional. Several sub chapters including plans A-L, gathered information, outside input, sources, and hand-drawn diagrams are neatly organized and typed out. It’s even in dyslexia-friendly font. Truly a work of art. Too bad Nico is considering incinerating it.
“It’s not even gonna work,” he mumbles, pointedly avoiding the six pairs of eyes watching him. Well, five, Leo walked in the cabin and immediately got distracted by something else. He’s been poking at a pile of bronze for the past forty minutes at least. “He’s — unplannable.”
“Nothing’s unplannable.”
“He is. He doesn’t — think about things. In the same way.” Nico traces his fingers over a page titled Dropping Hints — How Begging Someone To Go Out With You Has Changed In Seventy Years. “You and me’ll see someone go out of their way to make life easier on somebody and know they’re — crushing, or whatever. But Will goes out of his way for everybody, all the time. It’s not odd for him.”
“Can’t you just tell him? Outright?” Hazel asks. “I mean, he told you, didn’t he?”
“That’s different.”
It isn’t, really. Nico could tell him. He could walk up to breakfast tomorrow and just blurt it out. Same words, even. I think you’re gorgeous.
He wants to. He wants Will to know, wants his bright eyes to go wide and his nose to go red and his voice to go quiet as he says, really? And Nico wants to feel the goosebumps that cover his arms when he rubs his thumb over the inside of his wrist and says, yes. Wants to watch him shiver as he says, you make me feel safe, you know. Watch his golden eyelashes flutter as he adds, wanted. Safe and wanted.
“It has to feel right.”
———
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#i wanted to finish so bad but it’s like 1am i gotta be up in five hours#oh well#pjo#percy jackson and the olympians#hoo#heroes of olympus#pjo hoo toa#solangelo#nico di angelo#nico di angelo & the seven#annabeth chase#modern courting#my writing#fic#longpost
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The Bee & the Bear, Chapter 1: And Then There Were Four
summary: Mikey’s death brings the gang back together again.
pairing: carmy berzatto x f!reader (Bee)
contents: 18+/NSFW/heavy content, mention of suicide/mental illness, grief, longing, pining, angst, friends to strangersish to lovers
wc: 2.1k
an: this is my first time writing for the Bear so i beg of you to go easy on me.
series masterlist
The sky is gray and cloudy and birds are singing softly, perched in dead trees. There’s snow on the ground, crunching beneath the weight of everyone’s shoes. Beneath the weight of everyone’s grief, so heavy it's palpable. It’s the coldest day of the year, fitting for the occasion. Because Mikey’s dead, taken from all of you with his own hand.
You’re sandwiched between Sugar and Richie, to keep them apart, to keep them together. Regardless of their history and their care for each other, it's always touch and go– a disaster waiting to happen. But with you here and in the flesh after so many years, they’re both trying to balance that fucked up mixture of happiness from seeing your face and the pure despair from losing Mikey.
“Thank you for comin’, sweetheart,” Richie squeezes your shoulders, his eyes soft and watery when you look up at him.
You lean more firmly into his side, “You know I wouldn’t miss it.”
“You know who would.”
You know exactly who he’s talking about. Carmy isn’t here, and while anyone else would expect him to show up to his brother’s funeral it had not surprised you. Not with how the last several years have gone. Richie’s words make you sigh tiredly, and you give him a stern look. The last thing that Mikey’s funeral needs is more blaming. That didn’t start at Mikey’s funeral though, the Berzattos have pointed fingers at each other for as long as you can remember.
There are faces familiar and not around you, all of them turned to the ground, paying their last respects to Mikey. This hurts, it hurts deeper than anything you’ve ever felt before. Since you’d gotten that phone call from Sugar something heavy and dark has sat in the pit of your stomach, taking root and finding its home there. Life has always been the 5 of you, even with you and Carmy strewn across the country. You and Mikey and Carmy and Sugar and Richie. A reality that you’d always known, that you found comfort in on days you felt a little too homesick. Your relationships with all of them heavily inspired your art, they had become your family.
As you watch Mikey’s casket be lowered into the ground you can’t help but feel like your lens on life has shifted. For the first time in a long time, you aren’t completely sure where anything goes.
—
“Are you hungry?” Sugar asks as the two of you shed your coats and head into her kitchen.
There was no repass, what with the restaurant currently closed. Everyone had agreed it didn’t feel right to eat anything but The Beef in Mikey’s honor. There had been one last huddle, shared goodbyes and I love yous, and many tears before everyone had dispersed. You’d promised Sugar that you’d help her sort through everything since Carmy never showed up.
“Starving.”
She sets the file box full of Mikey’s paperwork on the counter and takes a step towards the fridge, “I’ll make us something.”
You rest your hand over hers, shaking your head, “No, it’s good, Sugar. Sit, start sifting, I’ll do it.”
“You sure?” She asks skeptically– sure you know how to work your way around a kitchen-- its impossible not to with Mikey and Carmy-- before you’ve never been known for being a cook. You're the artist, the traditional creative of the bunch who has mess and color strewn all about.
“I’m sure, just let me help. It’s what I’m here for, yeah?”
Her eyes go a little soft and she nods, “Yeah, okay.”
She goes to sit at the breakfast bar, looking at the pile of documents that hold Mikey’s life. Heaps and heaps of paper that mean nothing to her. That do a terrible job of capturing who Mikey was and what his life meant to others.
You open the fridge, poking through the contents as if you’ve done this a million times. That’s just how things are with Sugar, they’re comfortable– always have been and always will be. She has the ingredients for their mom’s chicken piccata in her fridge and you quickly fetch them and the proper tools.
Sugar does her best to stay on task, but the sounds of someone else in the kitchen, and the smell of her mother’s food are distracting. She watches the flick of your wrist and the speed of your knife. You dice and sprinkle and stir in similar ways to her brothers. It’s impossible to notice.
“You look like them,” She says, her voice a little melancholic.
“Look like who?” You ask, glancing over your shoulder at her in concern.
The smile on her face is wistful, “Like Mikey. Like Carmy. Carmy especially.”
Something in your chest cracks. You turn back to the pan in front of you, spooning sauce over the chicken one too many times, just to stay away from the tender look on her face. “They did teach me the basics.”
She’s silent for a moment, battling herself, wondering if she should ask this question. It’s a touchy subject, it always has been despite your closeness but she just had to know. “I sorta know the answer to this, but did you…did you try?”
“Don’t start with me, Nat.”
“I just want to know,” She assures you gently. “Did you really try?”
You reach for the jar of capers angrily, though this is less about the anger and more about the hurt. About the longing, this brings up. “He treated me just like everyone else. There was nothing for me to try.”
“You know Carmen’s always had a soft spot for you.”
“Not soft enough to follow through on his words,” You mumble sourly.
She goes quiet then because you’re right. Carmy had taken off for culinary school and seemingly never looked back, besides the infamous Christmas– the one you don’t even know about. All of his promises of staying in touch and showing each other new worlds fell flat.
You had tried. You offered to take him on a food crawl through Seattle where you were going to art school.
“Oh my fucking god,” She grits out, the shock in her voice sending you into fight or flight. The plate in your hand clatters to the counter without breaking, thankfully.
You turn to her, leaning across the counter, “What? What’s wrong?”
Her eyes continue to scan the page in front of her, over and over as if the letters will say something different. “Michael you fucking— he left Bear the restaurant.”
“He what?”
“Fucking Mikey,” She stands abruptly, scrubbing her face with her hands. “Ok, ok, um–uh–can you call Bear? I’m gonna call Richie.”
“Me? Call Carmy?”
Was the man that you’d fallen in love with when he was just a little boy really still out there? Sure, he was— living and breathing, walking and cooking and testing. But, all of that was mechanical. Was his smile still the same? His laugh? Did a heart still beat in that empty chest of his? Did his blue eyes still hold as much as Lake Michigan?
Sugar sees your panic, face softening with concern, “We both know he won’t answer, you’ll be fine.”
“But—“
“Please, Bee?”
The name that Sugar calls you knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s been a long, long time since anyone has called you that— since you left for college. Since the last time you’d seen Carmy. Would he still call you that? He’d started it after all. Named you Bee because you were obsessed with painting flowers, they covered your room, all of your canvas and anything else your parents deemed invaluable enough to lose to your hobby turned career.
“Hey, you okay?” She asks when you don’t respond after several seconds.
You blink a few times before refocusing on her. You shrug, trying to appear nonchalant, “What? Yeah, just fine.”
Her brow furrows, and she steps closer reaching out to run her hand up and down your arm, “Are you sure?”
You give a smile that doesn’t touch your eyes and fish your phone out of your pocket, “Yeah, I’m good. I’ll go call Carmy.”
Before Sugar can respond you make your way to the front door and let yourself out. You’re met with the frigid Chicago air, the wind whipping at your cheeks. With your coat inside, the cold chills you to the bone but the feeling is welcome. It shocks your nervous system in a way that makes it easier to call Carmy. Your head is clear, and most of your focus is now on warming your fingers as you dial his number and start to pace.
Sugar was right– he doesn’t answer. It rings and rings and rings until you hear his voice for the first time in years. It's the same message that he’d set years ago: Hey, it's Carmy. Let it rip at the beep.
Many beats of silence pass before you realize that it's time for you to speak.
“Oh fuck, sorry. H-Hi, Carmen. It’s…it’s me. Nat and I just went through Mikey’s will and well…he left it to you. The Beef I mean, it’s yours. Sugar really needs you to come home to figure this out.”
You pause for a moment, wondering if you should say anything about yourself. About your friendship that he’s let crumble. About your heart that he’s ground into dust with each day that goes by with no contact. No that won’t do.
“Just come home and help your fucking sister. Please, Carmy,” You plead softly before hanging up.
You aren’t sure if that was a good enough attempt, but you don’t want to risk calling back and having to face him. Despite your worry, it does the trick.
—
You and Sugar are tucked in Mikey’s office, combing through records of unpaid pills and disorganized expense reports when it happens.
“Cousin!” Richie yells with just enough disbelief in his voice for you to know.
You and Sugar look at each other with wide eyes, hands frozen and full of stacks of paper. You can hear them clambering through the restaurant, making their way to you and you wish that some freak accident that denies the laws of physics would swallow you up.
To your dismay, It doesn’t.
Carmy and Richie round the corner, and you’re a goner like you’ve been all these years. Soft blue eyes that give the crystal skies a run for their money and a messy mop of ashy hair. It doesn’t matter that a man waits for you at home or how many times you’ve told yourself that you’re over Carmy. It never sticks, you don’t know why you thought it would. You were hoping that he’d hurt you enough for it to fade.
Carmy stops in his tracks at the sight of you, throwing Richie a look that clearly says “you couldn’t have warned me”. You aren’t sure how to interpret it– was he excited to see you? Upset?
He stuffs his hands into his pockets nervously and leans against the door frame. “Hi. Hey,” He means to say it to you and Sugar, but his eyes don’t leave your face.
“Hey,” You squeak, cheeks heating in embarrassment. You clear your throat and try again. “Hi, Carmen.”
“Hey, Bear,” Sugar waves her hand playfully as if she’s trying to get his attention, and his eyes finally flit over to her.
He smiles, one that you know is genuine despite that lack of teeth. His eyes drop to the ground and he nods a few times before glancing to Natalie again. “So he left it to me,” He says lamely.
“Yeah, Carmy, he left it to you,” Sugar repeats his words, frustrated not only with Carmy for his late arrival or for his lack of appearance at his own brother’s funeral but for this entire situation.
None of them should be here trying to figure this out. Mikey should be in this kitchen with Richie, she should be at home thinking about what she and Pete for dinner. And though this finally brought you and Carmy home, she wishes that things were the way they were just a few short weeks ago. She wants Mikey alive.
“Guess that means I should open it.”
Richie gives out a shout before clapping Carmy on the shoulder, “See now I like the sound of that, cousin.”
Carmy flinches under Richie’s touch, hoping no one will notice. It's not something he wants to talk about or even think about. He can feel your eyes on him and quickly makes up an excuse to put some space between the two of you. “I’m gonna go check out the stock in the fridge. It— uh, good to see you, Bee.”
You nod awkwardly, though those simple words make your heart race, “You too, Carmy.”
Richie doesn’t follow after him, stepping into the office and crossing his arms. The three of you sit there in a silence that screams he has something to say.
“Just say it, Richie. Fuck’s sake,” Sugar finally says, rubbing her temples.
Your brow furrows as your head whips from side to side to look between them. “Say what?”
“You know he’ll notice, right?” Richie asks you, leaning back against the desk.
“Notice what?”
Richie looks at Sugar expectantly, and she sighs, rubbing at her temples again. She fixes you with a look that is as sympathetic as it is accusatory, “That you don’t call him Bear anymore.”
| > chapter 2: Back in the Beef
let me know if you’d like to be on the carmy taglist!
#carmy berzatto x reader#carmen berzatto x reader#carmy berzatto x fem!reader#carmy x reader#carmen berzatto#carmy berzatto fanfiction#carmy berzatto fic#carmy berzatto angst#the bear fanfiction#not sfw#arson writes the bear#the bee and the bear
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Hii!
I saw your requests are open, so I was wondering if I could request some cute and fluffy domestic stuff with Mingi? Or with Yunho even?
Or maybe Matz noticing that their s/o gets hate for being with the boys?
Whichever of these you are most comfortable 🥰
Hello ! 𖹭
Thank you for your request 𖹭
It isn't long and I haven't done fluff for a long while so pardon me if it doesn't fit your expectations, but here is a lil domestic!mingi imagine for you 𖹭 have a lovely day!
“Okay, think this is the last one” Mingi sighs, exhaustion in the tone of his voice as the last box drops to his feet with a loud thug — nothing too fragile, luckily, a bunch of books and random stationary stuff you couldn’t fit in any other boxes — and just like that, you are moving in with your boyfriend.
It still feels surreal to be standing there in what is now your new place with its two bedrooms and a lovely view over the park you like to walk across, sometimes stopping when the warmth of a late afternoon sun calls for a well-needed break, a good book and some snacks. Although the walls are still empty and furniture needs to be put together, everything already feels like home. Starting with the man pulling you against his chest, both his arms around you as his chin rests above your head with a content sigh.
“We did it, love— this is our home” the word hits you like thunder as you feel your heart grow twice its size at the sound of his voice, low and comforting as ever. Home. Precisely how you like to describe him. Through the highs and lows, over the many years you have spent together, Mingi has always felt like home to you, regardless of the place you would end up crashing to. No more ‘your place or mine’, no more missing him at night, no more waking up in the morning to find his side of the bed still cold and empty. All of this left in the past with nothing but a bright future ahead.
As you both stand here in silence for a while, Mingi is quick to notice the shivers running down your spine, coldness hitting your skin from moving around all day and only now taking the time for some well-needed rest. Without a word, you watch as your boyfriend takes off his hoodie, motions for you to lift both your arms up so he can easily wrap you into it. The comfort it brings you is beyond anything you ever felt before as you feel instantly tucked into the familiar smell of him, a perfect mix of his favorite fragrance —nothing too fancy but spicy enough to locate him in a crowded room— and the natural scent of his skin. Within seconds, his fingers find a nest into your hair, your messy bun now messier than ever and lower than it originally was as Mingi starts to massage your scalp softly, almost forcing you to doze off into his chest as you close your eyes for a while, soothed by the sound of his beating heart.
“Should we order dinner?” he asks as your stomach suddenly breaks the silence of the room with a brutal reminder of your last meal being hours away already.
“Kinda necessary— all we have is an empty fridge and warm soda in a box somewhere” you barely mumble into his chest as Mingi can’t help but chuckle at the laziness of your tone.
After a while, your boyfriend eventually convinces you to jump in the shower and get into some comfier clothes as he settles a few things in the living room. While the cabin feels much colder without him there, you cannot ignore how much more alive you feel as you step outside of the bathroom in your comfy clothes — one of Mingi’s oversized shirts, pretty much a dress for you, and sweatpants.
“You cannot be serious” you laugh at the sight of him already setting up his gaming corner, surrounded by empty boxes and the expected mess that comes with it, although you’re nowhere near mad at the nerdy boy you’ve been obsessed with since high-school. Nostalgia hits you suddenly as you recall the afternoons spent at his place, playing video games when you were both still too shy to openly flirt until he eventually found the courage to come forward and kiss you. This thought only is enough to give you butterflies as you stumble across the boxes and make your way towards the love of your life, settling between his legs as he sits on the floor, hands already busy with his controller.
“Table’s all set!” he chimes, almost too proudly as you grab a few fries from the take-away box to feed him first.
“Good job, I might have to marry you” although your words are filled with sarcasm, you cannot miss the way Mingi fails to flinch even a little, eyes still locked on the screen as if this isn’t new information to him in the slightest.
“Like you had other plans?” he jokes back, his lips twisting into a smirk while you spin just enough to meet his gaze, your own eyes filled with nothing but complete adoration.
“What you starin’ at, stalker?” you feel him chuckle against your back, his voice vibrating in perfect sync with his chest as you fight the urge to shut him up with a kiss — but when you don’t, Mingi’s attention drifts from the screen to your face, pausing the game as he leans forward to melt into your lips, his palm resting against your jaw as you soften under his touch, fingers tightly wrapped into his sweater in hope to keep this kiss going until you’re both left gasping for air.
“I fucking love you” Mingi barely growls against your lips, his teeth nibbling at your flesh while his fist wraps into your hair, deepening your embrace until your cheeks start to burn with the flames of your desire, only now increased with the idea of being home, at last.
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hi dear
no because i love anything domestic and mundane and with henry even more.
you know those sweet little things. like washing the dishes, drying them, cooking, glances across the room, reading quietly together, falling asleep on his lap, oh and if i saw one of those small smiles adorning his lips i would never stop grinning ( or sobbing) while looking at him ( honest id love to see what he'd do if he saw me staring at him with a big smile upon seeing one of his smiles). i so so so need this.
im violently sobbing rn
-A
i, too, am immensely fond of domesticity and the simple things, specifically applied to a character as cool and otherwise indifferent as henry. it's very mellowing, so tender, and comforting beyond all comprehension. i wholeheartedly love the few ideas you've pitched in the request, they're marvelous. let me see what i can conjure up on the basis thereof.
doing the dishes for him after a long, taxing day; knowing he is merely situated in the adjacent room, working; being reassured of the fact by the waft of smoke curling its way into the kitchen. washing mugs that previously harbored tea he'd made for you, precisely the way you like it; drying plates that were previously used to serve a meal you'd brought from home for the two of you, a loving gesture he appreciated so much he couldn't help but press a gratuitous kiss into your forehead, specifically because he had been so busy lately he couldn't even bring himself to cook. but there you were, swooping in, and saving him from the brink of giving up on himself once more.
finishing up the dishes and tiredly lowering yourself into his couch with a book as he sits at his desk in the same room and continues working on something so tremendously important to him. flicking through the pages placidly, calmly, at utter peace — lighting yourself a cigarette when and if you feel like it, having wordlessly snuck one from the pack of luckies lain by his dominant hand. indirectly and passively listening to how he breathes, how his pen scratches ink into the firm paper, how he turns over book pages of his own and sighs every now and again with a heaviness that awakens sympathy in you. all the while, you read, immersed in either a story to get your mind off of your studies or matching henry in productivity by reading something on the curriculum.
soon enough, he would rise, and flick off the desktop lamp — thereby marking his work time done for now. without detaching your eyes from your book, you'd know that his would be looking for you, only because mere moments later, you'd feel his tired, large frame sinking into the very same couch you're curled up on. he would gently grab hold of your legs and place them on his lap, tenderly caressing them through the dark tights posing a barrier between his digits and your bare flesh. you'd sigh, then, laying your book aside — only to be met with a mellow, soft glance exuding from him. he'd smile upon having locked eyes with you, albeit lightly — tiredly. that smile would simultaneously cause your heart to swell and bleed, aware of how much relief your presence provides him but also due to the bitter recognition of how much he needs said relief in the first place due to constantly being burdened and plagued by his studies, his environment, and his problems.
"read that to me, please," he'd request, then, nodding at the book you will have lowered in your lap. "and come a little closer, if you'd like."
because of his kind, meager proposition, you'd be propped against his shoulder, his arms tenderly encasing your body, in no time. you'd be lowly reading to him, regardless of whether he is familiar with the content of the book or not; he would merely delight in listening to the velvety, quiet flow of your voice. every now and again, his lukewarm fingertips would drift across the stretch of your arm, your waist, or your legs — whatever he will be holding onto. once you would end up falling asleep on him in this way, he would slowly lull you into a more comfortable position, and then light himself a cigarette — descending into contemplation and worry once more, ready for yet another sleepless night, which would merely be sweetened by your warm and comforting presence asleep in his grasp.
#henry winter imagine#henry winter x reader#henry winter thirst#indulgent thoughts#astrum asks#i went off on this one okay oops#i need this very badly though#like wow wow wow craving this carnally#all i need is tenderness and domesticity#mr winter i NEED you#please let me have this#godddddddddddddd
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Jackie and Wilson, Pedro Pascal
Song link
Fanfic, gn! reader
Meet-cute, fluff
Word count: 3168
Tw: I hate this fic haha, but enjoy anyway. Also, you’re a bartender now so obvious mentions of alcohol. Paparazzi, slight anxiety, mutual pining. Making fun of paparazzi? That’s it?
Summary: You work in a local bar when the building is suddenly surrounded with paparazzi. You knew why they were there - you had already served him two drinks. However, instead of throwing him out, you got talking with him. And after a day of keeping up appearances and minding rules, you are an incredibly comfortable distraction to him.
Buy me a coffee/force me to write more
“So tired trying to see from behind the red in my eyes.
No better version of me I could pretend to be tonight.
So deep in this swill with the most familiar of swine.
For reasons wretched and divine.”
When a career finally takes off, it could offer one more than they bargained for. Take a wealthy lawyer, who bathes in money, but wallows in sunken dignity and dishonesty - or a proclaimed doctor, who performs surgeries and saves lives like no other, but returns home with dreadful stories of the day and baggage they wish they could have left at the hospital.
When an actor’s career begins to take off, they will gain fame. A fandom is built, money flows in, your name can be seen on billboards; it seems as if you are on the top of the world. But with that also comes the need to constantly watch what you say or what you do. Be professional during interviews, don’t spend too much time taking pictures with fans on a red carpet, don’t go out too much or the restaurant might have to close because it can’t handle its guests’ capacity.
It could bring stability, financial safety, a feeling of satisfaction - the ability to take care of those who you love and spoil them unconditionally. But regardless of how often stars will tell you that the famous life can be miserable, most fail to correctly grasp this concept.
You weren’t famous by any means. You worked in a local bar, serving local drunks and local students. So, when a crowd of people began to gather in front of your windows, taking pictures with obnoxious flashes with no apparent respect, you had been taken aback. After multiple warnings and questions for privacy, your boss had finally called the police to clear the situation. Then, after two hours, it was finally somewhat quiet again.
“She blows outta nowhere, roman candle of the wild.
Laughing away through my feeble disguise.
No other version of me I would rather be tonight.
And, Lord, she found me just in time.”
However surprised, you were not stupid. You knew why they were here, or - more specifically- for who. You had served him two drinks at the bar before he retreated to the table in the far corner of the room, further away from the windows. He didn’t even have to say his name before you put the drinks on his tab. You didn’t hide the fact that you knew him, but he was a customer. You were not going to hinder his privacy or dignity if you could help it. Not during work hours, not after work hours. Which brought you back to the point that it was company policy that a customer on tap had to order at least one drink every thirty minutes, or they had to make room for new customers.
And thus, with the crowd finally cleared, you made your usual round of the room, taking orders and offering people their drinks. When you finally arrived at his table, you grabbed his empty glass, immediately drawing his attention to you. “Can I get you anything else?” A polite smile was shot from him as he nodded briefly, then turning back to his phone. As you grabbed a pen, you tried to strike up a casual conversation, not even thinking about your words until they were spoken: “If you don’t mind me asking, what brings you all the way here?”
Shocked at your own words, you squeezed your eyes shut in embarrassment, remembering his line of work and his reputation. “And if you do mind me asking, just tell me it’s work.” You quickly added, now grabbing the notepad as well. Pedro only chuckled at that, putting his phone on the table as he looked back at you: “I don’t mind you asking,” he answered. “But it is work.”
Raising your eyebrows, you nodded at him with a relieved smile. “Lucky guess.”
“'Cause with my mid-youth crisis all said and done.
I need to be youthfully felt 'cause, God, I never felt young.”
Seemingly pondering his next words, he spoke before you could begin your next sentence, a gentle expression on his face. “The place I’m staying at had cameras on me at every angle. Figured I’d have a little more privacy in a downtown bar.” You pursed your lips at that, nodding sarcastically: “Ah yes, that worked great.”
Again, you squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head as you tried to correct yourself. “I’m sorry.” But instead of a stupid remark or an uncomfortable silence, you heard his laugh followed by a dismissive wave. “No, you’re fine.”
His eyes fell upon the pad before you, unseemingly changing the subject: “I’ll have another cola.” Observing his smiles and laughs made some part of confidence grow within you. All night he had ordered nothing but cola, and where you would usually tease your customers for it, you found yourself somewhat withdrawn with him.
You didn’t know if it was because of his entire reputation or simply the way he looked at you, but you were hesitant to speak your next words. But when he continued to gently smile at you, you couldn’t resist the light tease: “It comes with a lemon. You sure you can handle that?”
“She's gonna save me, call me "baby"
Run her hands through my hair.
She'll know me crazy, soothe me daily.
Better yet, she wouldn't care.”
You didn’t know it then, but that simple remark had made him feel incredibly at ease. A day filled with formal greetings and the constant need to make himself look presentable faded the second you teased him over ordering another cola. He didn’t even have time to comment on your words, your figure already making its way back to the bar.
It was your coworker who later arrived at his table with his drink. When he couldn’t see you behind the bar, he stood up, grabbing his stuff as he made way to the long counter. He had sat down on one of the chairs, trying to subtle glance around the room trying to catch any glimpse of you.
You walked back into the building a handful of minutes later, announcing your break to be over. That had explained why he couldn’t see you. Your face lit up slightly as you noticed that he changed his seating, now in front of you as you would work. In a way, it didn’t seem distracting nor unwanted. If anything, part of it felt comfortable.
“We'll steal her Lexus, be detectives,
Ride 'round picking up clues.
We'll name our children, Jackie and Wilson.
Raise 'em on rhythm and blues.”
“Corner got lonely?” You asked, hanging your jacket up behind you before turning around, facing him from the other side of the bar. “Music’s better here.” He countered, pointing to the box above the doorway. You followed his gaze, rolling your eyes jokingly as you spotted the equipment.
“Here I thought you were beginning to like me.” You quipped, grabbing a glass as you began to clean it. He watched you work, unsure if he should interrupt or not. “You lied,” he suddenly said, gaining your attention. His hand raised slightly, the cola clutched tight in his fingers. “It doesn’t come with a lemon.”
You grinned at him, reaching for a slice of lemon before handing it to him. “I did promise.” You agreed, returning to your work as he grabbed the slice from your hand. Once more, a silence fell over the two of you.
“Lord, it'd be great to find a place we could escape sometime.
Me and my Isis growing black irises in the sunshine.
Every version of me dead and buried in the yard outside.
We'd sit back and watch the world go by.”
“You from around here?” He asked, trying to fill the silence. You shrugged at him, knowing it was no good idea to announce your address in a public space. But a vague idea could never hurt: “Ten minute drive,” you revealed. “Why?”
Toying with the straw in his drink as he pushed the lemon down, the man revealed: “I was wondering what there was to do around here. It’s gonna be at least two more days.”
You scoffed at that, finding pity in the fact that he of all people got stranded in a town not widely known for its publicity, media, or events. Yet, a world famous star was sitting in front of you, and you were about to announce that there was nothing to do here.
“Light shopping?” You tried to promote, referring to your local stores and perhaps three big brands. “Maybe the cinema plays a good film, but that’s about all you’ll find here.” Placing the glass back on its original place, you spun around with a dramatic gesture of your hand. “You’re stranded in the middle of nowhere, my good sir.” Humming lightly, you spoke the hooking cords of the infamous Eagles song: “Welcome to the Hotel California.”
“Happy to lie back watch it burn and rust.
We tried the world, good God, it wasn't for us.”
Pedro shook his head in entertainment, earlier anxiety slowly settling down as the nerves left his system. Being around someone who was somewhat nonchalant about him made him feel relaxed in some sort of unusual manner. It wasn’t unwelcomed, though.
“Any good restaurants?” He continued, his interest growing as he tried to build up to next questions. You remained oblivious to his intentions though, and happily answered him: “Like a handful. There’s not much here.” When he failed to respond to that, you grabbed a post-it, already jotting down some names. “I could give you a small list of recommendations.”
He simply hummed in reassurance, peeking over the bar to look at what you were writing down. He could not help but feel slight disappointment as he found out you were indeed writing down names of places that sounded a lot like restaurants and cafes. So, maybe flirting hadn’t been his strong suit, but he was steadfast if he was anything. He just leaned back, leaving you to finish your writing.
“She's gonna save me, call me "baby",
Run her hands through my hair.
She'll know me crazy, soothe me daily.
Better yet, she wouldn't care.”
When you handed him the note, he pretended to read the names, asking you a question while his eyes remained on the paper: “What’s your favourite place? One you can really recommend?”
Instead of a genuine answer, what he had expected, you laughed instead. When he looked at you, he noted the way your expression had also found slight humour in his earlier words. “Way out of my budget,” you chuckled. “Went there once for a birthday.” Then, you looked at him, shrugging as you remembered what he did in life. “Might be your alley, though. And otherwise, the local cafeteria serves amazing fries.” You put the emphasis on amazing, almost imagining the dish in front of you now. You could go for some good fries.
“Could you show me where?” His voice tore you from your thoughts, forcing you back to the bar, his eyes gentle. Instinctively, you reached for the paper, ready to start writing again: “I’ll write the address down.”
“We'll steal her Lexus, be detectives,
Ride 'round picking up clues.
We'll name our children, Jackie and Wilson.
Raise 'em on rhythm and blues.”
You didn’t see the slight defeat in his eyes as you mindlessly grabbed your phone and started looking up addresses. If you had, you wouldn’t have even taken the card to begin with. You would have decided to tease him back on it. But you hadn’t seen it.
In his eyes, it felt like another let down. Either he was being too low-key, you were being too oblivious, or this was your way of letting him down easy. You did stand behind a bar all night. He wouldn’t be the first, nor would he be the last to try to make a move. You must have mastered turning down flirting attempts during that time.
When your eyes finally rose, you did see the way his eyebrows had furrowed slightly, or how that friendly smile had lightly faded. When he noticed you were looking at him, he gave you a questioning look. Not one of curiosity, but as if he was asking you if you had understood him or not.
“Oh.” You sighed, ultimately catching onto his meaning. Your heart skipped a beat when he didn’t try to defend himself. He had been genuine. You could almost curse yourself for not having paid more attention.
“Cut clean from the dream at night, let my mind reset.
Looking up from a cigarette, and she's already left.”
“If you would be okay with that.” He added, his voice more hushed than before, almost as if you had already rejected him. At that, a feather light feeling entered your stomach, the ability to form words finally coming back to you: “The cafeteria or…” you trailed off, unsure of where he wanted to go.
At your words, that same smile climbed back, neither of you missing the slight and - unsuccessfully - suppressed sigh of relief. “Your favourite place.” He cleared up.
You nodded at him, handing him the post-it, now filled with tiny scribbles of street names. “Cafeteria it is.” You decided.
“You sure?” He asked, putting the note in his pocket, his full attention now on you. You hummed in affirmation, waving your hand off in the distance. “I can’t afford that restaurant.” You shared, but interrupted him as he went to speak. “And I am not going to let you pay for everything.”
Though he wanted to, he hadn’t argued with it that night. Nor did he the night after, or the night after that. It wasn’t until you officially started going out, that you allowed him to lay for your dinner every so often.
“I start digging up the yard for what's left of me and our little vignette.
For whatever poor soul is coming next.”
And now, three years later, you were seated in that exact same cafeteria you had dined in back when you first met. When your boss had to call the cops in order to get the paparazzi to leave. It was insane to consider you had not become used to them, even if that was not a fond thing.
To him, you felt like a moment of pure nothingness; he didn’t have to pretend or hold up to any expectations. There was nothing he needed to say or needed to hear. As insane as it might have sounded to him, he simply felt like a normal person around you again. As if he had never become famous, and never played in award-nominated shows and films. And that was why he had initially fallen for you. It was because of your calming demeanour. And none of that had changed through the years.
“They’re not making it subtle, are they?” You joked, as you watched a man with his long lens camera with flash on sitting on a terrace on the opposite side of you. Fries were stuffed in your mouth as Pedro was munching away on some greasy burger. Opening your mouth in an undignified manner, you turned to the camera, flipping them off, before returning to your meal.
Pedro laughed at you, holding his hand in front of his eyes as he tried to hide himself. Grabbing the straw from your drink and the straw of his own drink, he fumbled with them for a while, before turning to look at the camera, the straws now dangling from his teeth like some sort of vampire with a new set of pearls. You snorted at the sight, banging your fist on the table as you held your hand in front of his face, pulling the straws from his mouth: “Now it has your gross bacteria all over it.” “Ew,” he returned in a high pitched voice, mocking your speech.
“She's gonna save me, call me "baby",
Run her hands through my hair.
She'll know me crazy, soothe me daily.
Better yet, she wouldn't care.”
“This is how you get cooties,” you laughed, pointing the straw at his face in an accusing manner. “Disgusting,” Pedro agreed with a grin, pulling the straw from your fingers. Then, he stuck them in his drink, ignoring your betrayed looks. “Asshole,” you scolded with a chuckle
“You know, about three years ago, we sat right there?” His finger pointed to the bar at the end of the street where you used to work. Having now been together for more than two years, you quit your job soon after, noticing the publicity wasn’t working for your job. It wasn’t helping the bar and it wasn’t helping you. You remembered how guilty Pedro had felt when you told him, even after you had reassured him how you knew this going into the relationship. It was all the more reason for him to spoil you even more now.
“I think we caused the manager to grow grey hair prematurely,” you confessed, forcing another chuckle out of his throat. “That may have been my fault.” He added. “I walked into that bar to get a moment of peace. And that’s where I found you.”
“We'll steal her Lexus, be detectives,
Ride 'round picking up clues.”
You smiled at him, fondly remembering that moment. “You could have had any model or superstar, and you choose someone who catered to local drunks.” “An important job,” Pedro added in a joking voice. You joined him: “I’m sure there are some who would agree with you on that.”
From over the table, his hand found yours, squeezing it fondly. “I don’t think I would want any model or superstar now that I know what I could have missed.” “Sap.” You interrupted, yet you returned his affectionate gesture all the same, silently letting him know you were appreciative of his words.
“I’m glad you walked in too,” you admitted. “Even though I had no idea what to say to you.” “You said the right thing,” he assured. “Besides, who else would I bully paparazzi with?” As he said that, he waved to the man with the camera with an unenthusiastic expression.
And moments like these were a perfect depiction to him why it was you and would always be you. Even with cameras on him and his privacy being scarce, you remained beside him, taking it upon yourself to mess the pictures, sometimes marking them unpublishable due to certain symbols being made on them. You were his distraction and his moment of solitude. Perhaps he would have found it in anyone else, but he had no desire to figure that out. You were with him now, and he would hold onto that for as long as he could.
“We'll name our children, Jackie and Wilson.
Raise 'em on rhythm and blues.”
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in love with you- send me a character and an au scenario and I'll write a little baby blurb for it
Can I please ask for a Tangled!AU for Geralt of Rivia + Princess!Reader, please? Thank you!
RUFFIENS | GERALT OF RIVIA
word count: 0.8k words
warnings: reader having very long hair, geralt being a grumpy little simp
Geralt knew the feeling of frustration well, an annoyance to the point of murder, that nagging tug to his brain that had his fist shaking around his glass and his eyes burning- this time, however, the feeling was different, clouded, as annoyed as he was, he was also sort of awed, vividly aware of the fact that he didn't look away from you for even a second as you walked about the drunken witchers with a smile bright enough to light up all of Kaer Morhen despite the darkness that loomed its halls. You were hardly the threatening kind, in fact, he was sure he could quite easily force the information you promised right out of you without much, if any hassle, but when he saw you or rather saved you from the tower your mother had kept you in, he caved into taking you to see the floating lights you'd very adamantly demanded to see.
He questioned your reasoning when you so senselessly considered him a trustworthy traveling companion, it spoke of ignorance and naivety, evidence of being robbed from the company of other humans or living beings for that matter since he was yet to determine what or who you really were aside for a princess. He brought you to his winter home purely for shock value, needing to pass the stony confines on the way to your destination anyway, so he considered it only fitting to tease you some in the process- he'd not, for even a second, considered that you'd be just as sickeningly sweet in a room full of murderers as you were with just the one, him, of course.
You were currently sat atop one of the bulky wooden tables, fawning over Lambert's curls as he offered you a sip of his drink, he looked up at you much like he would an innocent deer running across his path- conflicted between finding you unmentionable adorable and just a bit too foolish and weak to be around him. He allowed you to drag a hand through his curls, musing about the ways you could braid it for him so it bothered him less, giving him advice about keeping it healthy while gesturing to your own hair that spread down the table onto the floor, comically well-kept despite what might be assumed.
"Las, I shall humour your remedies for keeping the curls at bay, but you're not bringing any leaves near me," he reprimanded and you giggled as you sat back, feet peeking out from the hem of your dress as you folded your legs under you, not at all looking like the princess the witchers were accustomed to, admittedly much more satisfying to be around, to listen to and to talk to- you'd managed to charm a group of men who hated your kind with all their hearts.
Geralt was walking towards you before he even knew it, reaching out to support your back when you leaned back just a tad too far while laughing at Lambert's opinions on the different flowers he'd seen on his hunts, listing all the very many reasons why he despised them. A few hours ago the touch of the fingers spread out over the thinning material would've felt foreign, unknown, but despite how uncharted Geralt's presence was to your existence, his touch was quickly becoming familiar, comfortable regardless of how uncaring it was.
"Careful," he grunted though the sound wasn't nearly as annoyed as he wished it to be, earning a shy smile from your lips as you moved your hair out of place to turn around towards him, looking up at him with those big eyes that were daring to break through his cold exterior. "Wouldn't want you to fall and get injured, might not make it to the stars."
"Floating lights," you reminded, he was almost regretting his mistake when your smile threatened to dip into a frown, shaking his system with nerves for being the reason for it. However, luckily the notion was interrupted by a giant yawn, the motion of you slipping from the table to stand next to him being far too smooth. "And I don't think you'd mind it all that much if you didn't have to take me to see them."
"What makes you think that?" he mused and you swore his eyes were lighter as he spoke, a sense of playfulness behind the golden orbs, but you didn't think of it too much, scared to get your hopes up, instead, you gathered your hair into a big ball in your hands, smiling at the white wolf when he helped you do so.
"Just a suspicion that I have," you shrugged in return and tucked the last few inches of roots under your arm, dreading the process of having to braid the main in the morning, not used to having to do so alone- but before you could make your way to the room Geralt had pointed out as yours, you looked back up at him with a sincere smile, one he noted to be very different from the thousand other smiles you were capable of. "Thank you, Geralt," you breathed and he was notably surprised, a foreign feeling for him, you supposed because he didn't recover from the slip of emotion as quickly as you expected. "I know you're only doing this to get something out of me, but I appreciate it still, so thank you," you leaned up to kiss his cheek, a brisk gesture, hardly long enough for him to react before you were tiredly skipping away from him.
"You need to be careful with that one," Lambert noted, a perfect position to have viewed the whole scene as he looked at his friend with a knowing nod. "A girl like that won't be easy to let go of," he explained and Geralt was frozen, dazed as he looked at the arch you just walked through, frazzled and confused as the feeling of your lips still tingled against his white skin.
"Get rid of," he corrected but he wasn't convinced and neither was Lambert because right before his eyes the witcher in question stood lingering, no doubt listening to your steps, determining if you made it safely to your room, a fool really for thinking you hadn't already thread your way into his heart.
#geralt of rivia#geralt of rivia x reader#geralt of rivia x you#geralt of rivia x yn#geralt of rivia fluff#geralt of rivia blurb#geralt of rivia drabble#geralt of rivia one shot#geralt of rivia fanfiction#monique's writing events#right where queue left me#tangled au#tangled!reader#princess!reader
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Like Crazy (2023) as a discussion of (queer) loneliness
hiiii anyways i keep saying Like Crazy is incredibly bisexual/queer and its been hard to explain why without writing an essay so. without further ado:
*DISCLAIMER* I am not claiming I know anything about how Jimin identifies or the intended message of the album, nor am I claiming my interpretation as above any other. This is just my reading of FACE and Like Crazy as a gay person of colour and a grad student writing a thesis on transness where I discuss topics of loneliness as a systemic form of violence and intimacy. I am also looking at this from a very Western perspective; though I know there are likely many Korean and likely queer Korean authors, theorists, and poets evoking similar ideas, I’ll be making reference to authors that I am familiar with who are better known in a Western context.
Loneliness as a cycle of abjection
“I want to introduce Jimin’s true feelings that I didn’t bring up anywhere else. I looked back on myself and honestly expressed my […] emptiness and loneliness.”
I don’t think it would take a particularly high level of analysis to conclude that FACE, and Like Crazy more specifically, are meant to explore loneliness as a process of self-alienation. Non-binary author Olivia Laing describes the cycle of loneliness as one where:
“[…] the lonelier a person gets, the less adept they become at navigating social currents. Loneliness grows around them, like mould or fur, a prophylactic that inhibits contact, no matter how badly contact is desired. Loneliness is accretive, extending and perpetuating itself.”
It’s very clear from the beginning of the music video for Like Crazy that Jimin struggles with reconciling a comfort in loneliness with a need to experience intimacy. Regardless of his efforts, the rot of loneliness is never far, seeps in through the walls and stains his hands. As (ironically) relatable of an experience as loneliness is, it does not occur in a vacuum. Rather, the unique experience of queer loneliness and rejection is one riddled by othering from acceptable sexuality and gender experiences and an inability to be framed within normative categories. Robert Phillips, scholar in language analysis as it pertains to gay male sexuality, wrote on abjection through a trans studies framework. To him, the process of horror or unease that defines abjection, through which the “other” is separated from and by an “us,” goes beyond “casting out” and becomes more interactive process; the hegemonic is protected by rejecting whatever does not conform, that is ambiguous, that does not fit in box. “The anxiety at the root of this unease with transgender subjectivity can be traced back, in part, to a fear of the ambiguous.” Loneliness, like queerness, acts as a sort of mark of Cain, a characteristic that becomes so impeded in our being that it if first noticeable and then rejectable.
Despite being marked by loneliness, Jimin is the center of attention for the first act of the music video, featuring him crowd surfing and posing delicately for pictures. Yet, despite his yearning, he makes no move for intimacy. The music video implies the possibility that it is the result of this very hypervisibility as a figure of softness and boyishness, inviting parallels to be made here with the foucauldian references and the power play between surveillance and identity in other areas of the album, namely Set Me Free Pt. 2 (a discussion for another post for another time…..).
Hedonism as an escape
“[Like Crazy] expresses the emotions of the moment when you run away from reality to forget your wounds.”
The overlap between loneliness and overt sexuality is why eroticism is so culturally important to queer communities. Like Crazy explores desire and intimacy through what can be called a queer lens, as an escape and as an unsuccessful means to being perceived and acknowledged outside of suffering. The whole poem is absolutely beautiful, but a specific excerpt of gay Asian-American poet Ocean Vuong’s On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous comes to mind: “Don’t we touch each other just to prove we are still here? I was still here once.” As Like Crazy, Vuong’s poem discusses intimacy as the antithesis to loneliness. To be intimate is to come out of ones self. The erotic becomes an avenue to salvation (I will permit myself a little shoutout to Christian mythos by drawing parallel to the Song of Songs - we all dream of kissing God, of laying with the presence of something larger than us, and finding deliverance from it!).
Like Crazy communicates a power struggle between desperation for intimacy and an addiction to loneliness. What Jimin says about it and the juxtaposition with the actual visuals of the music video paints the picture of an attempt to build closeness on the foundations of perpetual solitude. In Like Crazy, closeness is futile. Loneliness becomes a lifelong lover, and intimacy an occasional affair. Though still better than perpetual solitude, it is marked by disillusion: “I’d rather be lost in the light.” Rather than evoke the image of a passionate one-night-stand, it acknowledges of the persistence of loneliness. queer latino write John Paul Brammer evokes this feeling:
“Loneliness, I find, continues too. Our relationship with solitude is one of the most important ones we have in this life. No matter how full and vibrant and loud we make things, the quiet always finds us.”
Despite Jimin’s desires for closeness, we don’t actually see him making any move for closeness. Rather, despite his best efforts, he walks against the course of those around him in a repeated shot before knocking the camera’s lens away; again, a parallel to the surveillance of set me free, as well as a possible denial of him pace against the grain.
Queer desires and longing
“Let me have a taste / Give me a good ride.”
For non-queer people, what is difficult to understand in the particularities of queer loneliness is its entwining with desire. It’s an unspeakable yearning - as much in the ways it is indescribable as it is often life-threatening to do so. It is a profound sense of non-belonging felt in the knowledge that you are not as others are or see you because of a fundamental issue with how - and for whom - you experience desire. As a result, the erotic and sexuality along the margins of what is normative, i.e. reproductive cisgender heterosexual missionary sex after marriage, are profoundly radical and embodied manifestations of queer desire: kink, bondage, leather, sadomasochism, casual sex, chemsex, etc. all contribute to this expression of queer intimacy and self actualization.
I know I’m being a little dramatic in the set-up here but it is really difficult to try to explain this inherent outcasthood to straight people. It is such a specific experience that is so untranslatable, and yet it is a feeling that I pick up so strongly in the Like Crazy music video. The remedying of sexuality with the profound alienation that queer people feel up until, very often, a dramatic and self-destructive discovery in young-adulthood, is something that straight/cis people just can’t understand. Leading African queer scholar and (erotic) writer Keguro Macharia writes:
“what is the taste of loneliness? / salt-bitter-sweet-nothing / after midnight, in cars, in booths in sex shops, in dark bedrooms, in anonymous hotel rooms, encounter after encounter, trading orgasms for ‘hold me’ and ‘let’s cuddle’ ‘if I suck you off, will you cuddle with me’ ‘if I let you fuck me, will you cuddle with me’.”
I’m not knowledgeable on kink culture so I won’t get too into it but I think it’s really interesting how submissive the lyrics come off. What is striking about the way Like Crazy approaches desire that sets it apart from any generic “we found love in this club”-type pop song is its desperate tone rather than one that boasts virility with promises of a “good time.” Instead, Jimin is the one pleading.
Queer loneliness as liberation
“She’s saying, ‘Baby, don’t think about it / There’s not a bad thing here tonight.”
Like Vuong’s poem, Like Crazy could also become a larger question on a heterosexual culture that is increasingly anxious about bodies and touch. The music video can be clocked as having the intention to discuss the erotic - the Robert Mapplethorpe reference is enough to assert this - yet it does so very tamely. Everyone is clothed, no one touches too much, the atmosphere is fun, chill, controlled. Jimin, despite his expressed desperation for closeness and hedonism as told through the lyrics and through his interaction with those at the party, through the careless throwing back of shots, does not find what he needs. The environment is too controlled, too “straight” (as in “proper,” or “innocuous”). He himself does not find any intimacy. He stays at the center of it all, untouched, and not daring to get closer.
Something that is reflected by a lot of trans theory writers (some whom I’ve read including Paisley Currah and Dean Spade) is that the normalization process in inclusion produces and reproduces ideas on who is and “insider” and who is an “outsider.” I read a bit of Melissa Caroll’s thesis on the political implications of queer loneliness as part of my own (much shorter) thesis. In it she discusses how “straight” culture, through the aforementioned social accounting processes, delimit the realm of the socially accessible, in a process Denise Riley calls loneliness. Caroll says:
“Currently, any public declaration that “I am lonely” presumes that we are registering this feeling based on what we have been led to believe that loneliness, as a term, means: sad, alone, lacking, in need or want of friends, odd, bizarre, queer, and unhappy.”
Heteronormative abjection of queer and trans modes of being are increasingly reclaimed as constructive and disruptive political strategies. As postmodernist feminist scholar Julia Kristeva writes, abjection is “the place where meaning collapses.” Rejection of inclusion to instead embody abjection and loneliness is another cornerstone of queer self-affirmation that is explored, again, through the erotic and the sexually obscene. The tame nature of the music video, Jimin’s desperation, implies a dissociation from himself and a refusal to face himself. There is an acknowledgement of the futility of his desires for closeness beyond what he is “marked” for, that it will “break” him yet he refuses to be “saved.”
So, regardless of whether Like Crazy truly is an attempt to explore the unique nuances of queer loneliness, it is clear that what it does discuss is struggle against self. The music video depicts not romantic rejection or conflict, but rather an imposed alienation. A self-rejection from an objected self and from a normative way of life. The stained, leather clad hand presumably belonging to Jimin himself dragging him to the party, the knocking away of the camera as a refusal to accept a self or to showcase that “wound,” the interplay between the warm shots of androgyny and desire contrasted with the cool setting of the club. The premise of the music video and its use of a movie itself is a refraction of this longing and abjection in a way; what does it say to attempt to translate a profound feeling of disorientation and loneliness within a normative context through the reference of a romance film featuring a White, conventionally attractive, heterosexual, cisgender, normative couple as a man of colour often read as gender non-conforming?
TLDR: Whether Like Crazy or FACE globally means to discuss queer loneliness and desire, the way they are ultimately explored and the play on gender and belonging imply a framework that is, intentionally or not, queer.
#this is excessive i know. im sleepy n i need to shower ill prbably come back together and chop it down to half wtv#im not joking when i say its long. be warned.#essayposting#🏹
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Okay if this isn't too much to ask but maybe an emotional break through for Kai in the polyam with J? 'Please just hold me'. If it is too spoilery it can be whoever you want saying it ofc! Ty
From this ask game!
I think I can make this work without it being spoilery yep👁️
J steps into Kai’s and your apartment, grumbling about the dusty mess like it physically irks them—and, knowing them, it probably does. They find Kai sitting on the couch, their gaze fixed on some point in the distance, lost in their thoughts. J’s presence goes unnoticed for a moment until they clear their throat.
“Kai,” J speaks up as a greeting, firm and unwavering.
Kai startles, turning their attention to J, their expression a mix of surprise and vulnerability.
“Hey, you,” Kai says, surprisingly lacking its usual bite, sounding a little unsteady.
J raises an eyebrow, their arms crossed as they scrutinize Kai, “What’s with the dramatics? Did the pile of dirty laundry hurt you?”
Kai rolls their eyes, though there’s a hint of amusement in their gaze.
“Very funny, J. I don’t need an excuse to be dramatic,” they claim playfully—or as playfully as they can muster “But if I say yes… will you do our laund—”
“Cut the crap, will you?” J interrupts, taking a step closer, gaze narrowing as they study Kai, “You’re upset about something. Spit it out. I want to help.”
“How chivalrous of you, Jay,” Kai rolls their eyes, sarcasm heavy in their words. Regardless, their façade is brittle—Kai lets out a sigh, their shoulders slumping as they admit defeat, “It’s my parents. They called again.”
J’s features soften, their concern evident as they slowly take a seat next to Kai—knees brushing deliberately—their proximity a silent offer of comfort.
“What did they say this time?” J asks, softer.
Kai lets out a shaky breath, avoiding J’s gaze as they fidget with the hem of their shirt.
“I don’t want to talk— I don’t want to hear you either,” they mumble.
Resisting the urge to prod at their irritation (“Okay, fine, I’ll be really quiet”), J boldly brings their hand up, blunt nails running—slowly, softly—up and down Kai’s back. They can practically feel the way the photographer shivers, the way they lean into it.
“You’re such an annoying pain, you know that?” Kai mutters. They whine quietly when J tries to draw their hand back, “Never told you to stop.”
J chuckles softly, their voice teasing, “Well— You’re not sunshine and roses, either.”
Kai’s lips twitch into a small smile, the tension in the room slowly dissipating as their banter returns to its usual rhythm.
“Shut up,” Kai retorts, their tone playful.
J smirks, leaning down, whispering against Kai’s ear, “Make me.”
The playfulness lingers for a moment, a familiar and comforting exchange that has become second nature to them. But just as the atmosphere seems to lighten, Kai’s expression shifts, their playfulness dying like a snuffed candle.
“Can you— Please, just hold me,” Kai whispers.
Without hesitation, they pull Kai closer, holding them tightly as if to shield them from the pain.
“I’ve got you,” J assures, their voice soft and reassuring, as they offer Kai the comfort they so desperately need.
Kai's fingers curl into the fabric of J’s shirt, their grip strong as they hold onto J, finding solace in the closeness between them.
“You’re impossible,” Kai mutters, a hint of a smile in their words.
J chuckles softly, their hold on Kai unwavering, “And you’re stuck with me.”
[You find them like that a few minutes later, closing the door behind you, chest warm and full of affection at the sight of Kai and J.
“Hey there,” you greet them softly “Is there room for one more?”
Kai snaps their head up, grins lazily, “Get that ass over here, player one.”
“Yeah,” J rolls their eyes, clearly not fond of the nicknames, “What they said.”]
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hello! I hope you're having a good day, I hope it's not much, but can I request a platonic relationship fic with Zoro and s/o that's like Tanjiro Kamado (if you don't see demon slayer, it's limited by saying a simple kindhearted person, well mattered, a swordsman who has a strong will and absolutely determined). Basically these two are polar opposites, but have a good friendship despite all. But one day, Zoro was possessed by a devil fruit user that orders him to kill his nakama, s/o fights with him to stop him, however Zoro is more skilled and powerful and he almost ended up kill them. When Zoro manages to get off the trance he felt horrible about what happend. Something with angst but comfort at the end pretty please.
My middle name is angst: Soraya Angst. That's who I am. Thank you for the Zoro request!! I jump at any excuse to write him even though he causes me such grief. It's a love hate relationship. Anyway here you go! Thank you for being so amazingly patient as I post your request 15 days later lmao. I hope you enjoy it regardless.
Waking Up
ZORO X PLATONIC READER | NSFW for violence
WORD COUNT: 1.38k
CONTENT WARNINGS: blood, violence, profanity. angst lite. I don't think it's terrible but you know everyone has different kinds of tolerance for these things.
You were like two sides of a coin, mirrored images with opposing qualities. You went left, he went right.
Still, somehow it all made sense. It was an easy friendship, one where you both made up for missing traits. No judgements, just acceptance. It helped that you both were swordsmen; living and dying by the blade.
You thought you’d continue on your adventures, laughing at dumb jokes, challenging each other to grow stronger, braver with each hurdle cleared. You never once thought it would come down to this; that you’d be the one pointing the end of your blade at his throat.
“Zoro!” you call out calmly, stopping only to spit out a glob of blood filling your mouth. “Please listen to me.”
The taste of copper on your tongue threatens to drag you down memory lane. You remember, briefly, the times you’ve trained, the times he hit you on the chin with the hilt of his sword. You remember his laughter, the way he’d tease you. You remember his smile, and the sun against his skin.
You remember, belatedly, how fast he is, how viciously he cuts down his enemies. He is a blur of green, black and silver. Your eyes struggle to catch his movements, so you do what you can: you run.
Zoro is aware–and he wishes he wasn’t—that he will kill you. He watches in the darkness of his mind, how he advances towards you. There is no hesitation in the muscles of his calves, no mercy in the way his biceps flex. He knows he’ll kill you and there’s nothing he can do. He tries to cry out. He screams and screams and it feels as if his throat is being ripped apart but there is no sound. His warning doesn’t reach you.
A second too slow and you would be dead. You bring your hand to your side where his blade has sliced your side. Blood is hot against your fingers as they seep through, spilling over your knuckles, dripping down your hip and to the floor. The sound of screaming feels distant, but it echoes in your mind. That voice was familiar, that voice sounded like Nami.
Nami. Zoro is frozen in time and in space. Darkness swallows him whole surrounding him in its frigid solitude. He tries to fight it, but his arms feel heavy, as if they were being held down by inky black chains. He kicks his legs but the darkness doesn’t budge. He tries crying out again, yelling Nami’s name but his throat rips, searing pain down his chest. In agony, he watches again, wishing he could at least fall to his knees and pray, but he can’t even do that.
He was powerless. Useless.
You turn your head quickly to see Nami crumpled on the ground. Her eyes are wide, full of fear as she reaches out for you with a trembling hand. A promise bubbles in your throat, you try to launch it, try to pacify her but Zoro leaves you no grace. His blade slices through the air. You hear it before you feel it, the steel humming its death song. It cuts down your shoulder.
Blood spurts. Bright red, it covers the side of your neck and face; a souvenir of your foolishness.
Profanities settle in Zoro’s chest. He wants to curse you for being so goddamn stupid. Has he not taught you enough? Had he not told you to never take your eyes off your enemy? Had he not told you that scars on a swordsman's back was a disgrace? He cries, tries to fight the arms that push the blade down, deeper deeper, trying to cut right through the bone.
You stumble backwards, trying to get away before he can cut your arm clean through. Pain clouds your vision, dots of black blurring Zoro’s face. Even through it all, you know it’s not him. Those eyes dark and devoid of anything but bloodlust; a wide smile stretching and contorting his face.
That was not his smile. That was not the Zoro you knew.
This was not Zoro. This was not the man he was. He wants to cry, but even tears are not afforded to him in his dark prison. He floats, and it feels eternal.
Your legs feel heavy. You’re not sure how long you’ve been trying to parry his attacks. You keep losing blood, and you know there’s a time limit. Your battle was lost the moment you began, but you couldn’t let Zoro do something he’d regret. You force yourself to stand between him and Nami, hair clinging to your face. You lick your lips, more out of something to do than to clean them.
You taste your sweat mixed with blood, and it revitalizes your resolve. You might die tonight with Zoro’s blade ripping through you, but at the very least you’d die knowing you didn’t get to know the taste of regrets on your tongue.
“Nami,” you manage to breathe out. “Run.”
Your breaths come in sharp, painful. You’re wheezing, and in the back of your mind you know what is happening. Your lungs are slowly filling with blood. Somewhere along the way, he must have pierced you but you can’t tell, you can’t fucking tell anymore, where the pain is localized. All you know is pain, everywhere. The pain in your trembling arms as you force yourself to grip the hilt of your sword, the pain in your legs, as you struggle to stand even after he sliced some of your tendons right through. The pain in your chest as you face him. You knew him well enough to know that if he was still there–somewhere lost in his consciousness–that this was hurting him more than it was hurting you.
“You have to fight it,” you tell him, choosing your words carefully. You might not be able to speak soon. You needed to make it worth it. “You can’t give up, Zoro. Aren’t you strong? Isn’t your destiny your own? Why the fuck are you leaving it up to some scummy no good pirate to decide? Wake up.”
Wake up, Zoro. Wake up. Wake. the fuck. Up.
The darkness shudders. His body hisses, there’s a slow build up, a shrill cry from a kettle. He feels his ears pop, his body heat up. The blackness bubbles, and sizzles away. Zoro screams, and screams and screams until sound breaks through.
You hear it–the strangled cry of a man refusing to be defeated. You drop your sword, and the world tries to go black. There are arms around you when your legs give out. They lower you to the ground. Soft hands are on your face. You see orange locks, big brown eyes looking down at you. There are hands pressing at your wounds, you flinch and moan; a pathetic display for a warrior.
“If you fucking die I’ll kill you,” you hear agruff voice say. You focus your eyes long enough to see a blur of green hair, and tanned skin.You somehow have the strength to laugh.
“What took you so long?” you ask him, hand reaching out to pat his shoulder. Zoro grabs it mid air instead, and squeezes it. “You’re always getting lost, you dumbass.”
Zoro sucks his teeth. His brows knit together as he looks down at you, covered in blood from injuries he–not him–inflicted. His expression softens when you smile.
“Chopper is coming. Just hang on, okay?” he tells you. You believe him. You always did.
#fic request#zoro x y/n#zoro x you#zoro x reader#one piece zoro#one piece x y/n#one piece x you#one piece x reader#zoro angst
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Thank you, @stingslikeabee , for showing me that Reddit post about the Northern Territories lore, because it enabled me to finally wordvomit this brainworm that's been sitting in my drafts.
The roses were in bloom back home. The castle gardens were no doubt bursting with color now that the seasons had shifted and the veil of snow had melted away, but it was always the roses that Elwin inevitably thought back to on his campaigns. They reminded him of Anabella, and of Clive, and now of little Joshua as well -- of the unbridled love he felt for all three of them, and of his ever-present desire to return home to them, that he might gaze upon the roses with them once more.
By now, and across the many summers since his youthful days at his father's side, he had witnessed the various seasons of the northern territories. He had trudged through sometimes knee-deep, sometimes waist-deep layers of snow, shuddered from the biting, unforgiving winds of the coldest months that seemed to stretch on into eternity; he had basked in the sunlight on its warmer days, where children from the local settlements played just near enough to the former Duke's temporary encampments, that his eldest son was able to watch them -- and sometimes join in their merriment for a little while. He had mused over the earlier arrival of snow flurries compared to back at Rosalith, and he had found the crunching and cracking of what few dead leaves remained to be a comforting sound in the otherwise stillness and quietness of their surroundings. It was as if the land itself had nestled into slumber to await the next coming of spring. And of course, he had gazed upon the growing patches of green as they emerged from their sleep beneath the snow and ice, and with their rousing did they bring along colorful little buds that would soon enough bloom once more, undeterred by the fighting that waged on around them, or the blood that seeped into the soil in place of water, or the clashing of ideals that rang as hauntingly loud as the clashing of steel.
Unbothered, even, by the looming threat of the Blight as it crept closer and closer towards them. Like a cold and merciless death, a finality so vastly different than the temporary sleep brought on by the winter months.
Conflicts and skirmishes with their northern neighbors were nothing new. But this was something different, something more; this was, simply put, war. What had prompted the assault by Silvermane and his men was inconsequential, in the grand scheme of things. They had chosen to march upon Rosaria's door to trade blows, and so Rosaria would do what it must do -- and so too would Elwin Rosfield. The fight for Kanver's independence was, for the time being, a distant memory in his mind, frozen and encased in the ice of the Northern Territories, buried between blankets of snow.
The campfire was almost dead; its embers would soon flicker out entirely, but the Archduke seemed not to mind, or maybe he didn't notice. His attention seemed focused elsewhere, somewhere in the distance but beneath the horizon that was barely discernible through the sea of trees and the melting stalactites that dangled from their branches. Elwin was no longer the youth he had been, and though his years didn't number overly many, those years since his father's passing had most assuredly taken their toll. The natural furrow to his brow was all that much heavier now, as the weight of his experiences sat heavy on his countenance. Lines and wrinkles, like cracks in a once flawless mask, allowed his sorrows and worries to seep through just as much as it allowed his determination and resolve to display in full. The callouses on his hands had hardened all the more from combat, and the scars upon his equally as roughened form had only multiplied with each battle, regardless of its outcome. But the latter of these things were concealed oh so carefully beneath chainmail and leather, and topped with that familiar red hue that was a staple of the ducal royal line's garments.
Even his surcoat, sewn and stitched with such extensive care and pride to mirror the ones worn by the rulers before him, was somewhat worn and faded. The vibrancy of its color had dulled from both age and stress, and one could argue that the same could be said of Elwin's ocean-green eyes as well.
Unlike those who came before him, he sought at every turn for a more peaceable solution to conflicts. The knowledge that in a few short bells, the fighting against Silvermane's men would resume in force, left him wondering if he was fit to wear this outfit, just as it left him wondering if he was fit to occupy the throne -- even as a mere placeholder ruler. So many questions flitted through the brunette's mind; what could he have done to prevent this? What happened? Why did it come to this? And why now, of all times? (Though he suspected he understood the answer to the last question, it was nonetheless difficult to swallow.) Geir Warrick, though not in control of every settlement of people across his lands, had always proven to be an honorable, sensible man during the times that his father had treated with him. And while the silver-haired ruler's strength and prowess as a fighter was nothing short of impressive, giving credence to the meaning of his given name, the aspect of him that Elwin respected the most had always been his dedication. Because while Geir was relentless in combat, he was also relentless in doing what was best or right for his people. If that meant staying his hand, then he would stay his hand; if it meant fighting, then he would take up his spear and press on without hesitation or regret. In that regard, he did remind Elwin of his own father.
The Northern Territories and Rosaria had never been friendly, no -- at least not in recent history. But to outright declare war on the duchy again? Unlike the king, and unlike his father before him, the reigning Archduke was not so eager to march onward with this war. Not with a second war waging in the south, even if he did know that Anabella was more than capable of handling the ongoing political concerns and disputes back in Rosalith, as well as the diplomatic relations regarding the trundling Kanver situation, while he contended with this situation in the North.
Eyes dropped to half-closed. A deep sigh was exhaled, reminding him of just how cold the temperature had dropped during this night, and he finally withdrew his attention from the particular patch of greenery that he'd been so fixated on 'til then. The buds of flowers had begun to sprout, and it wouldn't be long until they, too, blossomed across these lands. While Elwin had outgrown the days of making wishes to Metia in hopes that they might be delivered to the moon, if there was one last wish he longed to have placed at the moon's feet so that she might carry it to the heavens... It was that Geir, too, had a garden of roses that would be blooming soon, that he too might gaze upon their blooms with his queen and daughter, and his heart be swayed by their love.
#Writings#This is unnecessarily long and the worst part is it doesn't really say anything of significance at any point#Pretend I didn't just ramble on for five years in a drabble about how Tired Elwin is#and how much he really hopes Silvermane will reconsider by Not Doing The Thing#I'm sorry my guy but sometimes your hand gets forced with regards to going to war
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could you do a general analysis of a prince of void, since we are discussing void? its one of the aspects im most interested in, but i dont see a lot of people discuss it.
sure! void is a very cool aspect and i am totally not biased at all >:3
as we know, princes are destroyer classes. similar to knights, they weaponize their aspect very effectively, but where knights wield their aspect in order to fulfill their duty, princes are more suited to attacking, dealing damage, and generally destroying, with all of these things being both literal and metaphorical.
i feel like they tend to be loners, but at the same time they desire connection and belonging - or if that's not your jam, they could have some other conflicting sort of nature relating to their aspect. either way, they're very contradictory, and will usually be self-sabotaging as a result. this internal conflict will ultimately be their downfall if they can't overcome it, their aspect very ironically destroying them in return.
for a prince of void, i think "lone wolf who craves connection" is actually really well-suited to the title. void players in particular often heavily repress things - roxy with her feelings (romantic and otherwise), equius with his overall weirdness, horuss with his negativity as per meulin's suggestion. however, this repression is never fully effective, and these things slip through and cause various neuroses; unconscious attempts at coping, atypical behavior and unintentional revealing of the very thing they're trying to hide. in other words, they try so hard not to think about or address certain things that they actually bring those things into focus.
it's like a black hole, kind of. you can't actually see it, but you can see the effect it has on the things around it. a void player repressing something probably talks around it in conversation, thus bringing attention to it via the obviousness of its absence. it's a very interesting intersection of light and void, where they can both have the same qualities and effects, but go about it in different ways.
void players will sometimes cling to the familiar - tradition, nostalgia, social norms, things that are tried and tested - in an attempt to find belonging, security, or any manner of thing they long for. in a world of uncertainty, these things can bring comfort. unfortunately, they can also do harm - see equius' hemoloyalty for a... D-> STRONG example.
with a prince of void, i'd expect void's themes of isolation to play a big part. to me, this could be a person who feels deeply alone or insignificant, and tries to compensate for this by being aggressively sociable, though they might not quite understand how to do that in ways that are acceptable. we see this kind of behavior in roxy, who is similarly lonely and desperate for interaction and affection.
a prince's problems, though, might not be so direct - it may be that the prince of void doesn't even realize just how isolated they really are, or maybe they just don't see how much of an effect it's having on them. this seems like a prince trait to me: their aspect has a ton of influence on their life, but that just means they're so used to it that they might not think their situation is that atypical until it's pointed out or they're otherwise forced to come to terms with it. that can probably apply to a lot of the homestuck characters, but with princes being destroyers, i think it's fitting for them to have to first figure out what it even is that they need to destroy.
regardless, i can see them being clingy and overly people-pleasing. this could be attempting to destroy Void As In Lack/Absence, or destroying themselves With void - self-minimizing and denying their own desires so that people will like them, kind of like horuss. the thing with horuss is he believed himself to be "everything and nothing" (a blank Page, so to speak), and so he let everyone else decide who he would be.
a prince of void could be similar, but less in a "letting people tell them who to be" way and more in a "trying to be everything for everyone" way. they might switch up their behavior and persona depending on what the person they're talking to responds the most positively to, entirely ignoring their own wants and suppressing their inherent traits. of course, if this sounds too much like a prince of heart to you, there are other ways it could go! (though i think this would be a very good direction to take for prince of void who was raised by or otherwise greatly influenced by a heart player.)
a prince of void could destroy void-as-mystery, making them the kind of person who aggresively uncovers the truth. they may refuse to tolerate lies, or even try to force people to be upfront and honest even if they're not comfortable doing so. or they might just bring clarity to situations, making any uncertain elements or variables into definite ones - think of a super observant detective with incredible deductive abilities, filling in the gaps in their knowledge by determining what most likely happened at a crime scene. i could see this prince playing that sort of role, and combining it with the truth-seeking idea, maybe they're really good at interrogation, using a combination of social deduction and intimidation to get someone to confess.
in that case, their struggle could be similar to something i mentioned in the seer post. the prince might be this cool, skilled and intimidating detective, but they might be an overthinker, even kind of paranoid. they think everyone is lying or hiding something, when in reality, the thing they're missing is that there's really, genuinely Nothing there. they're so caught up in Mystery and Secrets and Hidden Things that they don't even notice the complete Lack of an actual problem, the Absence of guilt. perhaps their whole investigation was false from the start, either as an intentional distraction orchestrated by some enemy or just turning out to be a paranoia-fueled overreaction that the prince was totally convinced was legit.
on the other hand, a prince focused on nonexistence/potential might be the type who builds or creates things to try and fill a void in their soul, or something like that. or maybe they feel their existence has no meaning, so they desperately reach for any shred of importance or relevance they can find. they might destroy things just to try and make an impact on the world, lashing out because they want to make a difference, they don't want to be forgotten. you can combine those concepts too: a prince of void who's an artist of some sort, but they're underappreciated and feel their work is worthless, so they decide there's more value in destroying things than in creating them. if they can't go down in history for their art, then they'll just have to be immortalized as a villain. vandalism could be a good option for that, especially since things like grafitti, while destructive to property, are still an act of creative self-expression.
honestly, though, there's so many ways to do this i feel like i could go on forever. do tumblr posts have a character limit?? i dunno, but i bet i'll find out one day. :p
i mean, hey, maybe the prince of void is just a full-on brawler who beats the shit out of people empty-handed. or maybe they use deception and secrets to destroy, breaking down group cohesion from the inside by spreading lies and blackmailing people. and they could always be a ninja! ninja is always a valid approach. :3
powerways: roxylike summoning of items via destroying their nonexistence, or complete obliteration of items via destroying through void, effectively vaporizing them by dispersing matter (creating empty space). maybe even deleting things from the timeline entirely, making them retroactively nonexistent, like they were never there in the first place. scientifically inaccurate but really cool looking black hole attacks. they could have the ability to erase things, but only when no one else can see them? like, they have to be the only observer.
and that reminds me of schrodinger's cat... if void is potential, maybe they can even do some really weird quantum physics stuff that i don't super understand and force certain outcomes so long as they haven't been confirmed or decided yet, by destroying the potential alternatives? destroying uncertainty, like making it so a coin will land on heads by destroying the possibility that it will land on tails mid-flip. i'm not a sciencer or anything, and that's kinda out there, but it sounds like a fun idea to explore!
i hope this is interesting! i think i may have focused more on the void part than the prince part... sorry if it's not what you were looking for. princes aren't my strong suit, i always have a lot of ideas for them but i struggle putting them into words for some reason. -u-
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Consequence (Joel Miller x OC)
Summary: What if Joel survived his injuries from the Abby and Fireflies attack but ends up with really bad amnesia. He can’t remember his wife, Ellie, or the Outbreak; only before. How will his family bring back the man they once knew?
Pairing: JoelMiller x OC
Note: I apologize it's been a while since my last chapter, but we're back at it now. Hope you enjoy this latest chapter. I was a little unsure of it. Also, I have two chapters in mind that are next to come but I wanna let you guys decide which you want first…do we want to check in with Ellie and Dina first or our boy Joel?? Let me know!
Chapter Twenty-One
Ada’s heart drummed in her chest as she watched the girls run for it. She prays they make it somewhere safe before she's pulled back to reality by Tommy's booming voice.
“There’s too many of em’! He yells over the chaos; they keep coming in force, screeching and screaming at them as they charge. Hands twisted into claws, lash out at them. They’ve run out of ammo, and they’re left with only the melee of blunt objects found in a scramble to survive. Tommy swings the plank of wood in his hands, stomping savagely at the skulls of those that fall upon impact. All the while Ada flails with a blunt axe; long beyond repair. She doubts it’s strong enough to cut through wood let alone bone, but she fights back regardless as it’s all she has left.
The horde grows both in size and aggression; until eventually there’s just too many of them to put down. Ada is tired and her arms burn from overexertion; she flinches as a hand grabs her upper arm and pulls her harshly to the side. It takes a moment to register that it’s Tommy.
“You go! I’ll hold 'em off as long as I can to buy you some time!” He pants; his exhaustion beginning to take over. But Ada is quick to snatch her arm away from his grasp. “Not a chance in hell I’m leaving you here alone!” She doesn’t miss the flash of panic in his eyes as he lashes out against a clicker stumbling towards them. The sound is overwhelming, the squeals and heartwrenching shrieks, enough to make the ears bleed as the horde never ceases. They’re running out of time and energy. They need to move soon and as their eyes meet, they know there’s only one option they have left if there's any chance of them surviving.
Run…
Without a second of hesitation, they bolt, holding onto one another’s hand like it's a lifeline as they take off. The horde is quick to follow, the runners picking up their pace and charging up behind them. The clickers follow suit as they are spurred on by the sound of stomping footsteps. The two run as far as they can. Their legs burn and the adrenaline floods their blood, every muscle cries for them to stop but they resist, pushing through the pain. Blood runs cold when the ground shakes and they hear an all too familiar roar echo no more than a few metres behind them. A bloater. A cloud of spores is hurled towards them; landing far too close for comfort. It hits a few runners in its path but the monster pays no mind to injuring his own. His only goal is to destroy those who disturbed his slumber. It chargers as the sidewalk crumbles underfoot; arms reaching out to claim his prey but Tommy is quick to pull Ada towards him as the bloater falters past, missing his target. They make their way around the exterior of the QZ walls; Ada’s eyes catching sight of a guard tower high up by the top of the wall. With a tip of her head, Tommy’s with her in a second as they veer their course towards their safe haven. They find a second wind to push through, urging their tired feet to pick up their pace. Finally reaching the ladder leading to the walkway; the younger Miller gives his sister-in-law a boost up onto the broken ladder before she reaches down to help him up beside her. Tommy wastes no time in kicking away what remains of the ladder then turns to join Ada. They both make their way across the walkway and into what remains of the guard tower.
It's cramped, no bigger than a small shack. Pieced together from an old shipping container turner on its side. The tin roof is rusted and dented, and bullet holes pierce the thin walls. No doubt a result of the uprising overpowering the Fedra guards once posted here. Long ago looted and abandoned. Any electricity that once powered the lights and radio had clearly burned out over at least a decade ago. The two peer out of the small window below at the horde gathered underneath them. Evidently confused as to how their prey managed to escape them. But neither care. They are safe and that’s all that matters. They both take a seat on the floor; taking the time to rest and reaccess their situation.
“That was too fucking close.” Tommy rasped, running callous hands across his tired face. “Whattda we do now?” The air was thick and heavy as she asked the question. The echos of infected still present not far below them. The older man huffs out a heavy sigh before answering. “Not much we can do until this horde decides to move on, best guest would be to wait it out and move after sundown when it’s quiet. We can make our way into the QZ then and try to find the girls.” He suggested. Ada didn’t like the idea of waiting that long to find Ellie and Dina but knew logically that Tommy was right as she nodded solemnly in agreement. She leads her head back against the wall and takes a moment to breathe, her exhaustion hitting her in force like a train crashing upon full impact. Her eyes feel heavy but her attention is pulled back towards her brother-in-law. She notices he’s fidgeting with his empty gun. Keeping his hands busy by pulling apart the pistol and putting it back together; she knows there's no purpose behind the action as they’re both well aware they’ve no bullets left to load. He’s got something playing on his mind, but from their many arguments and spats; she’s a little reluctant to ask. She notices after a moment or two that his clothes are stained with blood. Some his own, though most of it belonged to infected he’d put down. His forehead is bleeding from a deep gash; that has begun seeping into his brow.
She slips off her backpack and takes out her first aid kit, sheepishly leaning towards him with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a clean rag to clean it. He looks at her puzzled until she gestures towards his head. “You got a cut across your forehead.” She explains to his silent question.
He nods in gratitude then focuses on dabbing some of the liquid onto the rag before pressing it to his forehead; wincing slightly as the solution stings against his wound. “Thanks.” He utters before the heavy silence settles back between them. She watches silently; he finishes cleaning his wound, placing the soiled rag down by his feet. Neither speak or move. Both are tired and she can feel her mind racing with thoughts, worries for Ellie and Dina. Fear and dread if the infected take too long to leave them be. After an hour had passed Ada and Tommy still hadn’t spoken.
The younger Miller was getting antsy as he leaned over the window ledge to check if the coast was clear yet. Only to then slump back down in a frustrated huff which clearly tells her it wasn’t. He leans his head back against the wall; more sighs leave him as his patience wears thin. She lets the tiredness overtake her as she closes her eyes and starts to doze only to start awake when Tommy’s voice finally breaks the quiet.
“Look Ada I’m sorry. I know these past few weeks I ain’t exactly been easy to be around.” He says without looking at her. Eyes still aimed towards the ceiling. She snorts a bitter laugh at his words.
“That’s one way of putting it I suppose.” she bites back.
“Yeah okay, I was an ass.” he admits reluctantly. She scoffs with a smirk, leaning back with crossed arms.
“And argumentative, petty, annoying, not to mention childish…” she’s risen to her feet, pacing as she continued to her list. Tommy’s not far behind, jumping to his and stomping into the middle of the small room, intentionally blocking her path which only irks her further. “Alright, you’ve made your point. I know there’s no excuse but I’m worried about finding Joel-”
“And I’m not?!” She growls in return.
“No that’s not what I mean. The truth… is all of this is my fault, Joel’s injury, the attack. It's my fault.”
That stops her dead. Her words stuck in her throat as her eyes widened at him. Brows creased in confusion.
“What? How do you figure that??” Tommy doesn’t answer straight away. He turns away from her. Almost afraid to say the words out loud. She notices his shoulders tense; a hand running through his hair and a heavy sigh deflating his whole frame that seems to sag in sadness.
“I changed the patrol. Joel wasn’t even supposed to be heading out until later that day but I pushed and made him go. He even mentioned that you weren’t happy about it. I should’ve told him right then and there to turn his ass around to go home.”
She sniffs and sighs as a heaviness is released from her chest. She looks him in the eye as she contemplates her words. Knowing that she needs Tommy to hear her when she speaks.
“Tommy…” She utters to grab his attention, he’s staring at his feet as his guilt evidently weighs him down. “That’s ridiculous. You didn’t know what was going to happen. You know as much as I do that you’re never safe out here. No one can ever guarantee that they’ll make it home. That's just the world we live in. That's the reality of it.”
He shakes his head in defiance. “But I was too trusting Ada. Sure we were overrun with a horde and there was a storm coming in but following that woman…going in blind like that; it was stupid and reckless. Joel and I should have known better. We do know better. He knew better and I told him to relax and stop worrying so much. We’ve helped people like that in the past and it was never a problem.” His lips snarl and his nostrils flare as his voice drops. Anger simmering as he thinks back. “But those fuckers…” he hisses, his voice laced with hatred. “I could feel it in the air the second we walked in the damn place and I hesitated and it nearly got my brother killed. I should’ve listened to him. I should've listened to my big brother and I didn’t. If we can’t find him or we do and he’s dead or…worst…I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for it.”
He pulls away when she tries to comfort him, snatching his arm away before she can reassure him. Tommy sniffs harshly as he clears his throat, his arm reaching up to wipe at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. It’s only then that Ada realised; this was the first time she’d ever seen Tommy cry in all the years she’d known him. She’d always known he was slightly softer than Joel or perhaps Joel had just been better at hiding it than Tommy. During those years living in Jackson; it’d given the two time to mend their broken relationship. In the end, it’d made them closer than ever; even more so than they’d been as kids. They each had their brother's back and she knew both men valued family above all else. She nudges him gently to get his attention.
He wipes his eyes; leaving them red and bloodshot. Ada’s heart aches for him.
“Tommy listen to me; no one is to blame okay? I don’t care how we got here, the only thing that matters is finding and bringing him home.”
“But he left because of the shit I said. Maria was right, I shouldn’t have told him like that.”
Ada shrugs and smiles in spite of herself, giving him a reaffirmed pat on the arm.
“It doesn’t matter anymore. I mean all this, everything that's happened…” she gestured wildly as Tommy smirked sadly at her chaos.
“It’s all just a big fucking mess.” She finally decides as Tommy barks a laugh at her words. “Well, you ain’t wrong.” She smiles widely at him, nodding finally satisfied.
“But it’s all gonna be fine. I have to keep telling myself that because I won’t accept anything else. So you can wallow or you can join me in my hard-headed denial.”
Tommy stands with hands rested on his hips as he pretends to think it over. Damn this woman and her stubbornness. Even now he can still see why she and Joel ended up together. And if there were anyone more determined to get their man back; he was sure in hell they’d never known Ada Miller. He smiles with regained determination in his eyes “Alright sis, I’m with ya. Grab your shit and let's find the girls.”
#joel miller#the last of us#starlessskies writes#joel and ellie#Joel Miller#Joel x oc#ellie williams#the last of us part 2#the last of us fanfiction#the last of us game
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The Unwavering Allowing of Transition
“You are you and the work is the work”
Both concepts exist in connection with one another.
A place like New York where inspiration could cross your path just by walking down the street. Yet we become conflicted by trying to adhere to the norms of this mindless working society.
“Go to work. Get shit done. HUSTLE. HUSTLE. HUSTLE.”
Knowing your creative spirit is what moves you everyday, how frustrating it can be to not be able to pinpoint where it’s resting its head. How badly we want to lock ourselves in a sunlit room, paint, instruments and countless pages of paper and pens to let the imagination actually run.
We work the muscles of the mind. We stretch the muscles of the spirit.
I find myself harmonizing in my head, wishing someone to join me with their imaginary trumpet or take it away with their guitar solo.
Photo books are particularly grounding lately; visual representation of life embodying art in its truest form. Days where I’d capture my friends in their hardest moments, crying in their hands from a love lost, all on a disposable camera; those were the moments where I felt my art to be the most validating. Seeing true pain, true emotion on film and having that memory in my hands.
The one truth that has been the hardest to grasp lately is the knowing that nothing stays stagnant. Everything changes and shifts even when you don’t want it too. I come back to old stomping grounds to find firm sensations of familiarity and land in a place that feels foreign to the naked eye. Places that were once so dear to me, stripped away of its original charm and grief overcomes me like the harsh power of a NYC fire hydrant.
The stripping away of authentic NYC culture feels like a metaphor for understanding the ebb and flow of transition. Wether we like it or not, we are here and we are changing. One day we are here. Next day we are not.
“The person who starts the work, won’t be the same person who comes back the next day to finish the work.”
The purpose of all of this, is profound connection.
We all desire to become closer to each other in one way or another. Be it collaboration or meaningful conversation, we want to know that we are not doing this alone. Sometimes we force connection in hopes that it sticks, yet the rule of inevitable change reminds us that force only brings more friction.
So where does that lead us?
Allowing.
Some call it the path of least resistance, others call it radical acceptance.
Either way you spin it, you let go, or be dragged.
It almost feels like the answer to success is in some sort of literal equation.
Allowing + Risk taking x consistency = Ultimate Contentment.
Constantly having to break through old familiar patterns to embrace the unknown can feel exhausting. Perhaps photography is where we can find the middle ground. Being able to capturing what you know and cherish and still allowing it to change in the future knowing that it lives in your mind and on your camera. A heartwarming transition into a new beginning. I recall those moments where I’ve captured strangers. A small conversation that sometimes led to full blown friendships and other epiphanies that only could’ve happened by releasing the grasp of fear.
The power of a capturing lens.
Acknowledging that your view is a valid one is the beginning stage of self
acceptance. The beginning stage of the birth of a confidence that cannot be taken away. Regardless of criticism, one stands firm in their point of view, especially when it’s a view born out of creativity. Yet there are those moments where the view starts changing. The shock of the unfamiliar begins to make us glitch in such an extreme way and we need time to readapt to the new norm. Radical acceptance comes out and stands in front of us, forcing us to acknowledge what is there. It’s only when we say “I see you” that Radical acceptance can step aside and let us through.
Why do we unconsciously force the hand of others for our own comfort?
We cultivate these connections for mutual support and somehow find ourselves gripping onto ideas that do not apply. Our perceptions sometimes do not align with others, yet somehow we ignore our intuition and insist on clashing in hopes we win some sort of secret friendship game. The Ego is the only one that understands the rules.
I’m here to learn from others while also expressing and validating my own work. I’m finally accepting that my perception of life isn’t for everyone and I have to learn how to be okay with not being everyones cup of tea. I know that it may feel a bit isolating at times and nobody ever wants to force a relationship, however I’m learning to listen with intention and remember that the melting pot that is community has its own purpose. To create, heal, destroy, learn, teach, love, bring joy to, shape etc. Everyone has a place in the pot.
The allowing.
The art of letting go and letting God. That oceanic exhale that lifts that weight off your shoulder.
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🌹 - my desired character is steve harrington :)
i’m pretty nervous when you first meet me but then i get to become less nervous and more comfortable. i love to watch movies, read and bake in my free time. i love listening to music (my top artists are queen and taylor swift if that helps). i love to give advice and just help people out whenever i can. my love language is physical touch and sometimes i love to get excited about things i’m passionate about. thank you :)) 💕
A/n: You sound like a really lovely person to be around!! I had a lot of fun writing this and I hope you enjoy! (Also I couldn't resist writing best friend!Steve for you!!)
Steve Harrington Masterlist
Love in the Form of a Cupcake
Best Friend!Steve Harrington x Baker!Reader
Tags and Warnings: No Warnings, Best Friend!Steve Harrington, Pure Fluff, Baker!Reader, Best Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, Headcanons.
Word Count: 1617
Being Steve's best friend was something that shocked not only the two of you, but anyone else around as well. You were always known for being quiet and reserved, especially in larger groups of people unknown to you, and Steve was largely the opposite – all eyes of recognition and beaming grins to even mere acquaintances – but maybe that's why you worked so well together. Your initial introversion drew him in, determined to see that shy smile just for himself, and his effortless charm made it impossible for you to even think about pushing him away. Before long, the two of you were practically connected by the hip; wherever you went, he was sure to follow.
So, it was no shock to see his maroon BMW pulling into your drive at 8pm one Thursday night, headlights shining through your kitchen windows. He had a shift at Family Video from noon to eight, and from his early arrival, you can guess that he either begged Keith to let him go early or bribed Robin into taking over.
Regardless, he uses his spare key to let himself in, his features lifting and brightening as he sees you. He walks into your kitchen, a few plastic bags in tow, and shoots you a playful smile, his right brow raising as he studies the bowl that you're currently trying to whisk.
He's more than well aware of your hobbies, one of them being baking. He can't lie either, he admires that you do so. While being the guinea pig for your newer recipes certainly has its perks – and, of course, being your best friend means he always has first dibs on anything you bake – he also finds it hypnotic to watch you when you're baking. As your brows furrow in concentration, eyes reading along an old cookbook and hands cracking a few eggs into a bowl, he can't help but sit in complete awe and appreciation. His parents and family are never around, so actually being exposed to someone who not only bakes, but bakes for him is addictively overwhelming.
He sits his bags to the side and steps behind you, snaking a hand across your shoulders and pulling you partially into his chest. He rubs little, soft 'hellos' into the skin of your upper back in the way that he always does. You're both aware that not every friendship is as physical as you are with one another, but when you accidentally let it slip from your lips that you wished some of your other close friends were more intimate with you, Steve made it his personal goal to try and fulfill that in his own way. Small, welcoming touches, head pats whenever he's proud of something you've pulled off, and cuddling together after he's rented a few movies from work to bring home to you are all regular occurrences in your friendship.
The only thing that you have to worry about? The undeniable way that his touches are different from what you have with your other friends. He's more gentle but more familiar, as if you're an ancestral china doll, passed down the generations of his family and given to him from his grandmother – as if you're fragile but also heartachingly known to him They're so delicate, a mere ghost across your skin, that it leaves you tingling and burning and goosebump-covered, yearning for more yet unsure of if he would give it to you. Unbeknownst to you, he fights the urge to keep a lingering hand on your smooth skin at all times, internally wondering if he would be taking things too far, into a territory that crosses the threshold of what typical best friends do.
Snapping you from your thoughts, his breath tickles your neck as he says, "What's on tonight's menu?"
You turn around, noting his mischievous smirk, and move a little to the side so that he can see the contents of your mixing bowl.
"Strawberry cheesecake flavored cupcakes," you say, a proud smile crossing your features and enhancing your eyes.
You don't have to tell him that this is an experimental run; he has everything you've ever made him tacked onto an ever-growing mental list. A list that he sometimes pays more attention to than the customers at Family Video.
Steve makes a noise of approval, trying not to embarrass himself too much by resisting the urge to drool – what can he say? His lunch break was forever ago – and he falls quiet as he lets you move back to the bowl of room temperature cream cheese. It doesn't take long for you to start passionately telling him about the recipe – about each and every step of tonight's baking journey – and he lets his eyes soften in admiration as he listens to you.
"–And I wasn't sure whether I wanted to follow this recipe or the one for actual cheesecake cupcakes instead of just flavored ones, but I figured making cheesecake flavored cupcakes would be a fun little twist!" Steve's heart beats wildly as you turn around quickly, animatedly moving around your hands as you ask, "It's more unique, you know?"
He nods, grinning and cheeks dusted a rosy pink, and continues listening happily to your rambling until you move away from the bowl – he assumes you've finished mixing the sugar, vanilla, and cream cheese you told him about – and face him. Your eyes flit to the bags he brought in, knowing your usual movie night is a few days overdue, and he suddenly remembers that he brought things with him in the first place.
Steve digs through the few bags he has until he comes up with tonight's choice of movie – the newest one that Robin told him was critically acclaimed; something he would tell you later on in the hopes that you would give him one of those impressed looks he loves to see – and a cassette tape that you had recognized before it was fully out of his hands.
"The new Queen cassette?"
Steve is about to nod and say something about how he fought a line of customers at the local music store early this morning for it, but you don't give him a chance because your arms are wrapped around him before he can fully process it. He's thankful that you can't see the flush that creeps up his neck while he chuckles and returns your embrace, muttering little responses to your endless 'thank yous'.
He relishes in it while he can, because you're torn from him mere moments later when the oven is dinging.
Steve zones out to the smell of strawberries and vanilla, and he isn't snapped back into reality until you ask him an unexpected question.
"Stevie, do you wanna help ice them?"
You have two piping bags of cream cheese icing, one in each hand, and with they way you look at him so expectantly, he would be a damn fool to deny the offer.
He's never done this before, always having been the observer rather than a participant, so you guide him with your hand over his. It takes a few cupcakes for him to finally be able to make a proper swirl on top – and even then it's still lumpy and uneven, which causes Steve to pout and you to stifle a giggle.
"It's not that bad! It took me a while to be able to make one that wasn't so..."
"Terrible? Wonky? Sacrilegious?"
You swat at his arm, jokingly commenting about how dramatic he is, and turn away to ice your separate pan of cupcakes. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him walk to the countertop furthest from you, clearly doing something he intends for his eyes only to see, and you raise a brow and look over your shoulder at him. However, before you can make any comment, he's waving his hands at you to shoo your gaze away.
"Hey, no peeking! I'm making one specially for you."
"Huh? You never told me we were doing that. I already have all of mine iced."
"Because we aren't, I am. Now give me just a second..."
You wait, rather impatiently, for him to get done with whatever he's up to, and when he turns to you, you're surprised to see a sheepish and reluctant smile hidden on his face as he places a small cupcake into your open palm. Your eyes widen as you look at the cake in your hand; it's got a messy heart made of icing on the top, with the barely legible confession of 'I love you' written halfway onto the heart, the other half hanging onto the top of the cupcake by a mere thread of luck.
When you look back up at him he seems nervous – toying with the collar of his shirt as his eyes glance from your expression to his poorly (but wholesomely) decorted dessert – and that's how you know that this means more than when you say you love one another when you go home after hanging out. This is that something more that you had been yearning for, so when you see the small fleck of icing that's somehow on the corner of his lips, you think of no better solution for removing it than pressing your lips to that very spot.
The kiss is short and sweet, but it's enough for Steve to understand that his confession is not unrequited. You two sit in a stunned silence for a few moments – still trying to process that you had, in fact, just kissed your best friend – but you're the one who finally breaks it with a gentle, loving laugh.
"Next time, tell me you need a thinner icing tip, Stevie."
#the garden🌷#lovely requests#stranger things#steve harrington#stranger things 4#steve harrington imagine#steve harrington x you#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington headcanons#steve harrington fic#steve harrington fluff#steve harrington fanfic
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[ 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐦 ] : sender has killed someone who threatened the receiver.
A boot kicks the dagger away from the Abyssian professor— is it poisoned? they wonder idly. They’ll have to check later— lilacs flicking through the shadows for another hint of silver. “Be careful,” they say quietly, though not softly, a hard edge to their tone, “not to bring back a trail next time. Or you might not be so lucky again.”
[ grim ]
“...ah.”
He thought it had been just an odd feeling of being watched- but not. It was actually real, and hadn’t it been for the quick moves of his student he would’ve been most likely dead by now. The professor watched blood pool on the ground from the defeated attacker, though the sight somehow didn’t disturb him as much as it should. It almost felt familiar in a sense.
More familiar than his mind felt comfortable admitting.
“You definitely saved my life- and I did not even see nor hear you nor this guy coming…I am genuinely grateful.” By now Lambert knew a little more about Yuri. He was aware of how he acted as a guard for the Abyss, vowing for its inhabitants’ safety regardless if they are students of the Ashen Wolves or not. The House Leader title was more than fitting for someone like him.
Inspecting the fallen attacker more closely, it seemed like the run of the mill assassin. The professor wondered why he of all people would be targeted, but just shook his head and sighed. “I must be more attentive next time, being careless simply will not do. The last thing I want is for one of you to get ambushed because I failed to keep an eye open. Forgive me, you should not have to go this far just to look out for a man like me.”
Then, he smiled gently. He reached out and patted Yuri’s head- though carefully as to not mess it up. “You truly are amazing, Yuri. You look out for everyone, and your skills are honestly fearsome. You possess a good head, and a good heart. I am proud of you.”
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