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unholyhelbig · 4 months

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the oversight part 5? i love that series!

Title: The Oversight [Part 5/7]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Wordcount: 7589

Warnings: Blood, guns, general violence, empty threats, angst, and horrible grammar.

[A/n: Listen, I straight up just finished watching 'The Iron Claw' and if you value your ability to hold it together, I suggest not seeing it. But also... go see it because it's phenomenal. Oh, and Happy Holidays!, like with most things, I regret my direction on this.]

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Softly, you denied the small wooden bowl that was passed person to person, filled with numbers scribbled haplessly on strips of paper. There was a pit of guilt in your stomach for not bringing a white elephant gift- but as the honorary plus one of Darcy Lewis you succumbed to your fate. She’d drawn a middle grade number and sidled up next to you with her third vodka tonic.

You took a swallow of your own cranberry flavored drink, something that masked the sharp taste of alcohol. You were feeling fuzzy, but in the light way that would assure you’d get through the rest of party and the competitive game of gift swapping.

“Thanks for doing this,” Darcy said to you, nudging your shoulder “it was a little too fancy for my liking.”

She had stressed that she needed your presence to get through all the small talk about science. Darcy was an expert engineer but she could only go so far when it came to awkward co-workers murmuring amongst the twinkling Christmas lights and pre-paid meals. She got along well with most, but you could sense her anxiety well.

“Of course, you know I’d never turn down smoked salmon.”

Truthfully, it sounded a lot better than what your own work was planning. It took some quiet background checks and calling babysitting references, but you eventually conceded to a teenage girl that was certified in CPR and didn’t charge interest.

Your own holiday celebration at the Diner had been lackluster and consisted of much more alcohol. This was quiet and subdued, and a welcome break from the usual chaos that surrounded your life. You were more than happy to watch people tear paper from candles and blankets and ornaments.

“How much money do you want to put on Jimmy bringing some sort of magic kit?”

You hadn’t noticed the girl that hugged the side of the bar, waving down the bartender wordlessly. She was drinking something sweet and garnished with orange. She had a beautiful smile and the clearest eyes you had ever seen. Darcy smiled at her with familiarity and it eased you.

“I don’t bet on things I’m going to lose.” Darcy said with finality. “Y/n, this is Monica Rambeau.”

“It’s nice to meet you,”

Her grip was firm, and you squeezed her hand back with the same amount of pressure. Her smile widened at that before the bartender returned with a fresh drink garnished with another twirled orange peel. The two of you separated.

“So, Monica, what do you do?”

Something in science, the answer was obvious if she was at this holiday party. But she humored you all the same, turning her back to the counter and leaning close to you. There was pride in her answer, and it bloomed in her chest.

“I’m a mechanical engineer, specializing in astrophysics and astrobiology.”

“Don’t’ sell yourself short.” Darcy interjected with a watery laugh “She’s the head of our S.W.O.R.D division.”

Darcy had spoken about this before and the name rang familiar. Her company was looking at alternative fuel sources that could supply space exploration. All the while, they focused on vertical growing and bettering the community. From what you understood, this was a big deal. She was a big deal.

“Wow, that’s very impressive Ms. Rambeau”

Your voice was filled with genuine awe, but your conversation was cut short when the number sixteen was called out. Monica sheepishly pulled herself away from the bar and held her strip of paper up before approaching the table filled with wrapped gifts. She went for a medium-sized one adorned in reindeer.

“Oh wow!” She forced a smile, voice sweet like honey “A magic kit!”

The air in your room was stale and fought you as you pulled it into your lungs. You’d, at some point, kicked off your comforter and were splayed out on your sheets in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and an oversized shirt. Sweat hat soaked through both and the fabric clung to your skin.

On a blind instinct you grabbed at the gun under your nightstand, fastened by nothing more than duct tape. You could feel your heart in your throat and struggled to swallow it down again. You weren’t sure when this became second nature for you, something within the last two months of accompanying Natasha to the gun range for hours a time.

All the same, you held the tip of the weapon to the ground and rounded the corner of your bedroom into the dark hallway. You were unsettled from the dream you’d just had. The memory. Your subconscious had finally connected the woman who stood at Carol’s side. Her familiarity.

Monica Rambeau.

It was true, there was a stark coldness to her when you’d met at a Christmas party just the year before. It was only in passing and there were moments, like at the fair, when Darcy would mention her co-worker.

This changed things. Anxiety spiked haplessly, even as you diligently searched and cleared each room the way you had been taught. Keep your gun down, keep your eyes on the darkest corners of the room, ready to fire your weapon at any point. Especially if it was aimed at Natasha.

There was the slight movement of a shadow to your left and you quickly raised the gun, aiming it directly at the disturbance. Veronica stood on a chair in the kitchen, struggling to fill a glass with warm water, the only temperature that the faucet would allow.

You let out a quiet, mortified sigh before tucking the weapon into the waistband of your shorts. Your daughter blinked with wide eyes and that same guilty feeling flooded you at once, overtaking the anxiety.

“Baby,” You breathed, closing the distance between you and flicking on the overhead lights. You both flinched at their harshness but eventually blinked the shock away. “What are you doing up?”

You didn’t expect an answer, nor did you get one. Instead, you scooped her up under her arms and set her gently on the linoleum. There was water in the fridge, but she always had issues pouring it from the large jug. Ronnie was stubborn and shot you a frown at your intrusion.

“Don’t give me that look, kid.”

Her expression eased and you dumped the water down the drain before refilling the glass with something colder and more refreshing. Ronnie gulped it down eagerly, soaking the collar of her shirt with the liquid. She let out an appeased noise and wiped the rest of the water away from her mouth. She stood on her tip-toes and placed the glass in the sink.

“Couldn’t sleep, huh? Me either.”

You tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She blinked tiredly at you, your heart melting at the sight. It was easy to remember the words Natasha had trusted you with on the Ferris Wheel. Veronica would talk when she wanted to, but you had become quite good at reading her expressions and movements. Within the last month, you had stopped the long drives and the specialists. It eased you both.

“How about a sleepover?”

The exhaustion turned into joy and then combined within her look. You couldn’t help but chuckle as you scooped her up. She was getting too big for this, but you didn’t much care. You’d gotten stronger in the last few months and even if you hadn’t, you’d do the same.

With a show of dramatics you tossed her onto the bed and replaced the duvet that you’d flung off. Carefully, as Ronnie’s stare averted, you placed the gun in the drawer next to your bed. The last thing you did was prop the window open, letting out the flat air and letting in the sound of the city.

Ronnie was pulled flush against your chest in a matter of moments, though you had suddenly lost all exhaustion. You listened to the sirens, to the calls of people just ending their nights. If you listened hard enough, you could hear the horns of the boats that settled into the harbor.

“I love you so much.” You whispered into the small of her neck, “One day I’m going to get us out of here.”

Veronica didn’t respond, but the squeeze her little hand gave yours was all the reassurance that you needed.

Clint swallowed down steaming black coffee without blowing on it to cool it down. The nutty scent filled the cab of the car and warmed your nerves. He drank like your daughter did, but with the purpose of waking himself up before the sun. You never did get back to sleep and were wired enough to refuse the cup he offered you this morning.

He’d knocked on your door as the orange sun moved over the horizon. You were to accompany him to the docks to check on business. This somehow seemed less intimidating than the dinner you’d attended with Natasha.

“It’ll be easy. We have a chokehold on the harbor, we just have to check with a few of the vendors to collect their dock rent and call it a day. Everything else is done under the table. People aren’t too happy because at the end of the day, we’re the ones that take money from them. But it’s a necessary evil.”

You nodded and watched as the city went by. It was peaceful, quiet. There had been a single foster home that you stayed in that had a view of the entire skyline. You were too far away to see the bustling people and the everyday chaos that accompanied it.

There were, of course, moments of calm when you would work the early morning shift at the diner. But that would always shatter by the time you made the two minute walk from your apartment to the back door that was choked with the scent of garbage and cheap cigarettes.

“We have some invitations to hand out too. In the glovebox.”

You furrowed your brow and popped it open. His weapon (or his second, or third) sat upon a stack of manilla cards with elegant writing on them that had to be done by hand. You inspected them but didn’t’ dare separate the paper.

“What are these for?”

“Nat throws a party for her benefactors every single year. It’s real fancy, a suit and tie thing. Her renters are invited too and if they have the balls to show up, they always have a good time. She makes sure of it.”

“We’re expected to attend?”

He nodded, “It’s a requirement, really. As Natasha’s right hand. You go where she goes and once your probationary period is over, you’ll be on her like glue. Though, I don’t think that’ll be much of a problem.”

You frowned at his statement, his insinuation. Sure, you had gotten close to Natasha, had even grown to like her. She had a way of getting under your skin until it felt like she lived in it. Otherwise, you would have cut your losses long ago and let her slit your throat the first moment she met you.

There was a feeling of devotion that you felt the need to uphold. She had spared your life, after all. You’d spent the last two and a half months with her guiding you, teaching you how to obey her every word. Without fault, you would. Clint knew it, Kate and Yelena knew it. You knew it.

Instead of admitting it, you frowned and slumped further in your seat, struggling to ignore Clint’s own shit-eating expression. By the time he pulled to a stop, it had started to drizzle enough for him to flick his wipers on. The sound of them scraping against the window filled the silence.

You took careful attention to stay quiet and observe. Your gun was strapped carefully to your side and the invitations rested in your side pocket. You didn’t dare get them wet and let the ink run in a soupy mess. It had been years since you’d been out here and part of you was unsteady on the aged and slick wood.

“Sam is a cool guy. His family has hold on a good portion of the harbor. He likes to joke, so don’t pay him any mind.” Clint jabbed you with his elbow. “And loosen up a little bit, would you?”

You glowered at him and rubbed the stiff spot on your ribs but felt your shoulders lower a bit. There was a lot of weight behind this, that had been made clear to you the second you were inducted into this system.

Instead of heading directly down the long stretches of worn dock, Clint took a turn just before the asphalt ended. A small structure that looked less weathered than the rest of your surroundings rested at the lots end. The windows were thick enough to withstand the watery winds.

Clint stilled his large hand shooting out across your chest. It took you a few seconds to clock the shattered glass on the front door. Small smears of crimson pocked the shards that remained. Much like the evening before, you drew your gun on instinct, and Clint did the same.

He didn’t take care to hide your presence. Instead, he took the brunt of his large boot and cracked through the doorframe with the force of one kick. Wood splintered, raining down on linoleum and a desk that was easily from the 70’s.

You could smell the blood before you saw it, nearly sliding on the flooring. You caught yourself before that happened, heart pounding in your ears. “Fuck!”

“Jesus Christ,” Clint mirrored your sentiments.

Whoever had been here was long gone, but they’d left quite the mess. They’d torn through the filing cabinets, leaving legal papers and folders scattered against the desk and the expanse of cabin space.

You tracked the source of the pooling blood with little difficulty. A man- one that you had rightly never seen before- was laying on his back, facing the ceiling. From edge to edge of his throat was a long cut leaking an ugly red color. His stare was frosty, soaked into his sweatshirt.

It was like a car crash, something that you struggled to avert your eyes from until Clint physically grasped your chin and turned your attention to him. “Hey, you alright?”

“Yeah, yes. Good.” You answered cooly, swallowing whatever dryness was in your throat. “Who would do something like this?”

“Carol… one of her lackeys. This is an eye for an eye thing.”

Even if it was an act of revenge, this was extensive. It sent a clear message even if you didn’t’ exactly know all the specifics of the feud. Of course, you’d seen Yelena at work and even that was mild compared to the brutality of this.

The thought of Monica, if it even had been her, completing a task as unfeeling as this filled your veins with ice. You felt your nails dig into your palms, soft and stinging. There was a surge of anger, and sadness that mixed into resolution. Natasha was right to despise the Danver’s family. Any family that treated the world with this much cruelty.

Natasha was in the gym on the second floor. Large windows overlooked the backyard, and a prolonged view of the harbor. There were blue mats adorning the floor, and a few wracks meant for weightlifting.

You had never seen this part of the house before. Usually the weather permitted sparring outside, but the late summer rain had made that impossible. Sheets of water obscured your usual view, though, it wasn’t exactly trained on the windows.

Natasha had her back facing you, her breathing timed evenly with each punch she threw at an 80-pound bag filled with sand. She wore tight-fitting shorts and a sports bra that left little to the imagination. Not that you had imagined her in that situation before.

Her muscles tightened and relaxed with each movement. They were scarred in a deep orchid pink, long ago healed. At one point, she was lashed. You recognized the damage done by a leather belt and shivered at the memory of it.

Natasha was fit, she was coated in a layer of sweat that dripped across her strength. You had to be clear minded for this and the state of her wasn’t making it easy on you. Her knuckles were wrapped, and she would grunt with each thrust of her fist. For just a moment, you wished you were under her mercy instead of the punching bag.

That broke when she panted against the bag, stopping its swinging with a firm grasp on either side. “Are you just going to stand there and watch?”

Natasha had focused her green eyes on you through the reflection of the window. Of course, you hadn’t intended to gawk as long as you had. But you were leaning against the doorframe of the gym, practically drooling. You had forgotten yourself and you wouldn’t’ put it past Natasha to notice.

She turned to you, a wolfish smile on her face. “Take your jacket off. Holster too.”

You struggled to ignore the haughty expression on her face when you did exactly what she said without question, almost too eagerly, depositing them on the edge of the mat. You pushed your shoes off too, knowing not to track mud on any of Natasha’s carpets.

Her eyebrow lifted at the action. She’d moved closer during your actions, and you’d nearly run into her before noticing. Her presence was intoxicating. All-consuming.

“You’re here to tell me something,” She proclaimed “you’ve got that adorable look on your face. It’s good to know someone in this house still fears me.”

She was joking and it tugged at your heart to send that mood down to the ground before lighting it on fire. You’d expected her to be in poorer spirits after Clint had called her and let her know what had happened at the harbor. Instead, she responded in her same calculated coolness that she regarded you with now.

There was nothing about her demeanor that eased you, and suddenly, it felt like you were being scolded for a decision you had made. Even more so when she grasped your chin and forced you to look at her.

“That woman with Carol from the other night. I know her. Briefly.”

“Briefly?”

“As in, I met her at a Christmas party a few years back and… left with her.”

Natasha’s grip tightened against your chin, her thumb digging into your jaw. There was too much alcohol flowing that night and after making stinted conversation about how to disconnect two metal rings smoothly, the two of you went back to her apartment.

Before the sun came up, you left. There was shame in it, and the walk back to your own apartment punctuated with Darcy’s scolding was enough to make you forget the encounter altogether. It was one night- a fun night, but singular all the same.

Natasha let out a small noise of disapproval that sunk straight to your core. “Is that so?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Does she remember you?”

“It… didn’t seem like it.”

Her eyes narrowed, nose a short distance from your own. You could feel the hotness of her breath against your throat. How you had disappointed her. That much was clear from the lack of tenderness in her grasp. She eventually released you, trailing her fingers down the expanse of your neck.

She played with the small charm of your necklace, nothing more than a dainty gold chain with the tiniest whisper of a diamond in the center. Your skin prickled at the sensation, breath audibly catching as she worked her fingers over the length of chain.

“Well, I suppose this could be a problem. Especially with Carols violent behavior lately.”

Natasha sighed dramatically, and within an instant her nimble hand had tightened around your throat. She walked you the three steps backwards to the nearest wall. The small of your back landed with a heady thud and you used the last of your available breath to grunt out in protest.

Of course, you had seen her angry before, but it was never directed at you. Not like this. She wasn’t squeezing tight enough to injure you, not really. But the shock of the movement had made you think she would end you all the same.

“You should have come to me right away, pet.” Her grasp tightened; words growled. “And here I thought you were such a good, obedient, girl.”

Her words filled you with an immense shame for letting her down. Over the past few months, it had become impossible to be anything but perfect for Natasha Romanoff. The fact that you hadn’t connected the dots sooner was disillusioning.

The grip against your throat loosened ever so slightly as she leaned closer, her lips nearly ghosting your own. You could barely taste her, a strangled whimper escaping you. She pressed her body close. It was warm and overwhelming.

“I expect you to handle this on your own if it becomes a problem, darling.”

Before you could close the distance, Natasha pulled away from you entirely. It left you panting against the wall, wanting for something more. She knew exactly what she was doing. You craved her more than anything, and she had brought you so close to something you both wanted before denying it altogether.

Natasha sauntered, actually sauntered, across the gym and grabbed a towel from a nearby bench. She regarded you with flushed cheeks, her eyebrow raised as if nothing had just happened and you supposed that nothing did.

“Clint has told you about the party?” It took a few seconds before you found your voice, after her gentle urgings “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“Yes ma’am. He did.”

She reached for a water bottle, exchanging it’s spot on the bench for the towel. She takes three hungry swallows, and you watched the way her throat moved in response to the water. Each of her movements seemed deliberate, nearly calculated to get a reaction out of you.

“Perfect. Don’t worry that pretty little head of yours about what to wear. I’ll lay a dress out in your room.”

“My room?” Your words were squeaked.

There was a short hum in response as she gulped down another helping of water before setting it down entirely. That anger had ebbed away from her almost entirely. The fire that had been within her eyes excited you, and despite yourself, so did her demands.

“You’re so skittish. Come here. We need to work on your lead hook.”

Natasha didn’t offer to wrap your knuckles, nor did you ask. Instead, you leaned into the bag, letting the course material cut into your knuckles with a welcoming sting.

There was great thought put into any Romanoff party that was thrown. Lights were wrapped around the banister, and caterers walked through the teems of people with unwavering silver trays of finger food that cost more than your old salary for a number of months.

Back storm doors were opened to the pool, lit up and buzzing with an equal amount of people. Natasha had hired a piano player who haplessly pressed down on keys and drew a small crowd with each song that would crescendo into the dining room.

The overlapping theme was a dark forest green that reminded you much of the paint color slathered on Natasha’s bedroom walls. Something you hadn’t seen in months, but remembered so fondly. It was clear that she wanted to present a united force, something strong and unwavering in their power.

Clint was dawned with a finely pressed suit and a deep green tie that matched the shade of Kate’s dress to the very hue. She wore something silk and modest, reaching down to her heeled feet but leaving her muscular arms entirely bare.

Yelena stunned in a dress of her own, a crushed sage velvet that had a dipping neckline and sleeves that met at her wrist. By the confidence of her stride, you had no trouble believing she had chosen the outfit with the thought of how many weapons she could conceal. Her devilish smile only confirmed your thoughts.

As of you, Natasha had picked out something a little more revealing. Much like the maroon number she wore to dinner the other night, the dress she chose for you hugged every inch of your body. Its fern color complimented your complexion, bringing out the redness of your cheeks.

A slit moved from the base of your dress to the middle of your thigh. A halter neckline clung to your breasts, nearly pushing them up and out. It had been years, high school prom, since you’d worn something even close to this. You felt your shoulders flush red when you descended the stairs and struggled to blend in.

Natasha was sidled up by the mantel in deep conversation with someone who was a stranger to you. Most of the people here were. Though, their hands gave way to their high-ranking positions in the city. Few had callouses or oil stains.

She was in a three-piece suit that was color matched to your own outfit down to the shade. There were gold accents on her jewelry and the neckline of her waistcoat dipped down the tanned expanse of her skin.

Kate let out a low whistle in response to your entrance as she offered you a hand at the base of the stairs. You’d almost missed the last one due to your shameless gawking at the woman of the party. “Quite the looker, y/n. Natasha chose this?”

“Naturally,”

She chuckled softly, a small sound “Nothing if not calculating. Do you know how to socialize at one of these things?”

“Mm, as the caterer, yes.”

This seemed to amuse her more than you’d like. Katherine Elizabeth Bishop was a name that you had reluctantly googled early on in your employment. She had grown up wealthy and well acquainted with gatherings such as these. Of course, that was before her mother wound up incarcerated for white-collar crimes. The skills seemed to benefit her here, however.

Kate did everything with practiced fluidity that you envied. She plucked two champagne glasses from a nearby tray. “Only one of these, nurse it like your life depends on it. That way they won’t keep trying to shove alcohol into your hands. This is work, after all.”

You followed her lead and took a small sip of the bubbling, sour liquid. It was more expensive than anything you had ever had before and far-from-palatable. It wouldn’t be had to keep the drinking at bay.

“The man that Yelena is schmoozing over there is Billy Russo. Jigsaw. He’s in charge of the lower quarter. The Romanoff’s and the Russo’s have a cordial relationship and Yelena is much more feared than him.”

“Why do they call him jigsaw?” You whispered.

“He tends to chop people into pieces until they’re impossible to put back together. And that’s if you find all the missing parts. He has a very nice summer home up in the Poconos, so don’t get on his bad side.”

Suddenly the drink in your hand didn’t look too bad, but you held it right where it was. Clint was laughing by the window, obviously pushing his charm on a woman that you had never clocked before. She was running her fingers up his tie, tightening it before letting her hands drop.

“Barton is with Ophelia Sarkissian, the Viper. She is known for her cunning leadership. She’s got a huge organization in Hell’s Kitchen. Something called Hydra. I wouldn’t worry too much about it though because Natasha is keeping a tight eye on it.”

“Mm, cut one head off, two more grow back.”

“What?”

“Greek mythology. Hydra is a big water snake that has nine heads. Each time one was cut off two more would grow back in its place. It was practically unkillable until Hercules came through the marshes with his nephew. Hercules would slice each head off while Iolaus cauterized the wounds so the heads couldn’t grow back.”

Kate blinked at you with shock in her eyes. You simply gave her a shrug in return. People constantly underestimated you and your intelligence. Besides, when you were a child, you had a morbid fascination with Greek mythology as a whole.

She stared beyond your shoulder, lilting her head to the side.

“I didn’t realize that Natasha’s new plaything was so knowledgeable.”

Ice ran thorough your veins. Your eyes darted to the window where Clint and Mrs. Sarkissian had once been. It was vacant now, and an expertly painted hand drummed past your arm. They were sharp and sent chills down your spine as she rounded you, sidling up next to Kate.

“Trust fund kid, leave us.”

Kate drew in a sharp breath, straightening her shoulders. She nearly opened her mouth to stay something but thought better of it before shooting you a look of apology and vanishing into the crowd in the dining room.

Ophelia was intoxicating in her presence. She towered over you and wore snakeskin heels to widen the distance. She wore a tight-fitted black dress that had cuts on either side, exposing her toned stomach to the world. What she wanted with you wasn’t clear, but her hand toyed coyly with the neckline of your own dress, adjusting it.

“Word travels fast in this city. I just couldn’t wait to see it myself. Hearing that Natasha Romanoff of all people expelled her Winter soldier for a… Summer Sentient. All seasons are temporary, I suppose.”

“Expelled?”

The word had slipped from your tongue, and you quickly thought better of it when she settled her splayed hand against your shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. It was cold, unfeeling. Unlike the fire that Natasha had instilled in you earlier.

There was a demonic smile that spread across her face, both of her eyebrows lifting as she let out an exaggerated grasp. It was clear that this woman, this leader, couldn’t keep her hands to herself in any manner, including the internal affairs that she dangled in front of you like a prize.

“Oh, did Natty not tell you? She had Bucky under her thumb for years, nearly a decade. A few months back, he was just gone. There’s a lot of gossip in these streets and not much of it is plausible, but I’d put money on this one.”

Again, her fingers danced over your collarbone. “Miss Romanoff is not known for her mercy, but after beating the Winter Soldier within an inch of his life, she let him go. He ran like any sensible man would, of course. But he left a trail of blood behind him. I’m quite sure he’s somewhere out west struggling to move in an upper body brace.”

She laughed cruelly at the look on your face. There was no use in masking it. You knew that Bucky had been absent, but through your own turmoil you had forgotten all about it. Your stomach twisted in unease. What if Natasha grew tired of you? It was inevitable, really. You’ only prolonged your fate by bending to her whim.

“Ophelia,” Natasha’s voice drew your attention first, and then the heat of her touch on the small of your back. “Have you tried the lamb?”

The woman faltered, gritting her teeth “I was about to.”

“Oh, you must.” Yelena seemed to materialize out of nowhere, looping her arm around Madame Hydra herself. She pulled with intent. “I haven’t seen you since Moscow. We need to catch up!”

“I was never in Moscow.”

“That’s a shame. I can paint you a brilliant picture.”

Their voices faded away into the rest of the party. It was then that you noticed Clint by the door, his stance stiffened. Kate glowered next to him, not following her own rule and downing the rest of her drink before plucking another off the passing tray.

You stepped out of Natasha’s grasp, not wanting to be anywhere near her at the moment. Her perfume was intoxicating. Its floral scent made you dizzy and took away your ability to think straight. It was part of the reason you had been lulled this far into complicity. It scared you that you were willing to do anything for her.

“y/n,” she urged.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

Natasha’s stare hardened. She gripped the back of your neck in a movement that would otherwise be familiar, sweet, even. However, the way she led you down the hallway made your stomach drop in a feeling of doom. “Not here, Malen'kiy krolik.”

Natasha’s office was strictly off limits, but you found yourself in the warmth of it in a matter of moments. There was no wall that wasn’t adorned with floor to ceiling bookshelves, and a large cherrywood desk was at its head. It was kept neat like the rest of the house.

There was a PHD on the wall, and an associates under that. Each bore Natasha’s name. She closed the doors behind her. Without regarding you, she went to a shelf in the back of the room, pouring herself a glass of bourbon, much like the one she was drinking when you stirred in her bed.

She swallowed it back, before pouring another. This time she sipped it. Your own back was against the far wall, heart pounding mercilessly through you. Yelling at Natasha had a lot more weight behind it than you anticipated.

“You’re going to do the same to me.” You eventually whispered.

Her body stiffened, muscles tightening and then releasing before she turned to you, her eyes reddened. “What?”

“I’ve been entirely blind to my purpose here. I’ve never… I’ve never understood why you chose me. Why not go for someone who knows what they were doing? Who knew how to protect you and care for you? You had that with Bucky.”

Her eyes hardened. “Don’t you ever mention that name in this house.”

“It’s the truth, Natasha! You could have let me die, just like that, and you didn’t. Instead, you took me in and trained me, and for what? Just to throw me into the harbor with cement blocks chained to my ankles.”

“That is an entirely outdated practice and frankly, it’s insulting.” Her words were soul deep, but they barely broke your skin. “I would never do that.”

“A bullet through the head, then?”

“No.”

You were gaining traction enough to pull yourself from the wall and take heady steps towards her. If you didn’t do it now, you would never. Part of you was certain that you’d never see the outside of this room again. That she’d snap and do exactly what you were imploring her to.

“He served you for years and within a singular night you nearly kill him.” Your breath shook, you were so close to her now. “What is stopping you from doing the exact same to me?”

“No, no” She reached up and grasped both sides of your face. There were tears against your cheeks, something you hadn’t realized dripped from your chin. “Malyshka, no don’t cry.”

Everything had come to a head; the months of non-stop training, the pressure of keeping this side of your life away from your daughter, away from Darcy. A true friend that you had been lying to. And now, knowing that it could be all for nothing. It was easy to dispose of someone like you.

There was no reason to show weakness in front of the woman who was training you not to feel anything at all. Above everything, you found yourself ashamed. She still held your face within her grasp.

“He hurt you.” Her jaw clenched and unclenched, there was a fuzzy vulnerability in her green stare. “I can show mercy, y/n. But I’ve learned, not when it comes to you. Even before all of… this, there was something that I saw within you. Something that made what I did to Bucky all the more worth it.”

You breathed in a watery sniffing sound that was replaced by nothing but a whimper. Natasha softened even more, letting her shoulders fall. She tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“He was pulling back for months, and you were the final straw. I had never seen someone so resilient, someone who didn’t beg for their life but recounted it. In a moment of weakness, I let you go. I thought that training you, that making you mine, would absolve my sins but it’s only deepened them. My feelings for you have only deepened.”

Her forehead was pressed against yours, her ministrations, and God help you, her apologies were startling. Her lips were so close to yours; you could nearly taste the liquor on her breath “Natasha,”

Suddenly, she was all you could feel. Her hand was against you back, pulling you into her body to fit directly on hers. There was such a strong guiding power to her. Your shock was muffled by her mouth on yours, your whine swallowed in moments.

You melted into her, kissing back with enough fever to leave you both breathless. There were stars dancing in your vision, you lungs burning eventually pulling you both apart. She panted twice before pecking your lips once more, you nearly chased after her.

“Fuck,” she growled “you… are absolutely delicious.”

Your cheeks suddenly heated up and you hid your face in the small of her neck, letting out a small groan in embarrassment. You felt Natasha’s laugh rumble through her.

“No need to be timid, pet. There will be plenty of time for that later.” She raked her nails up your back, “Right now, I have a snake to behead.”

[Taglist🕷♡: @dumbasslesbi, @lostremind, @toouncreativeforausername @autorasexy @eringranola @mikookaaaaaao @marvelwoman-simp @pacmanmiles @mostlymarvelsstuff, @mrsrushman, @milfsandtittyenthusiast, @random-raccoon4, @ravenromanova, @mysticalmoonlight7, @ahintofchaos@cowboyboots236 @lissaaaa145, @natsxwife]

#Natasha Romanoff x reader #Natasha Romanoff x you #Natasha Romanoff x y/n #Natasha Romanoff #Natasha romanov #Natasha Romanov x reader #Natasha Romanov x y/n #Natasha Romanov x you #Marvel #Marvel Au #Mafia au #Kate Bishop #Yelena Belova #Clint Barton #bucky barnes

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a-simple-imagine · 6 months

Text

Pass Me By

Synopsis: Jordan doesn't wanna date you but no-one else can either.... based on this prompt by @poppy-metal

pairing: jordan li x fem!reader

words: 2.9k+

WARNINGS - swearing, suggestive themes, alcohol, insecurities about gender and just a hint of a toxic situationship

It's a tranquil, cosy night under the relaxing sound of rainfall rattling against the glass windows that do not open. faint moonlight bathes the room in a divine glow. this wasn't your dorm room but a place you knew all too well. from the collection of beer bottles starting to form across their desk to the joint buds in the ashtray. a guitar sits collecting dust in the corner. you've never seen them play it or so much as acknowledge it. a skateboard balanced on the shelf for decoration more than anything. The room always has this pleasant smokey cologne lingering in the air. it was a messy room. a sort of organised chaos that was so incredibly Jordan li. but you loved it. you'd drown in the ashy mix of cologne and joint smoke if you could because it meant spending time with them. it meant they wanted you here. it meant something. you liked Jordan and they liked you. although they had trouble showing it. you have had that very awkward conversation before but now you avoid any mention of it. they explained they didn't really know what they wanted and at the time, you were fine with that but now you're not too sure. now you kind of wish you could bring it up again and have a grown-up conversation but you're much too scared to face reality. because an ounce of their affection would always be better than none of it. you would rather live in the mystery than feel completely alone.

your head relaxes against their toned, slightly sweaty, chest. fingertips gliding up and down your stomach in a slow steady rhythm. it's delicate. soothing. tickles just a little bit. you could honestly stay like this forever, relishing in their affection. they feel so warm against you. it fills you with such a content, comfortable, feeling. you have been together like this for a while now, listening to them spill secrets in your ear like you're an angsty teenager's new journal. they scribble down all their hopes and dreams; their greatest fears. garnishing the page with pretty stickers and pictures so when they look back, they can't help but smile. it's silly but it makes you feel good. it was such a uniquely intimate moment. nobody knew Jordan the way you did. they didn't allow themselves to be vulnerable too often. perhaps some misguided attempt to seem cool and mysterious. but with you they did and that must mean something, right?

"I don't know," their soft voice fills the otherwise quiet room. "it's really kinda stupid."

"you don't have to tell me," you explain, moving your head to briefly look up at them. "but I'm here if you want."

a warm silence settles over the two of you. you take it as a sign that they don't want to talk about it which is fine. you would never pressure them into talking about anything they're not comfortable with. After a moment, they speak up again. "my powers are such a big part of who I am," their voice is very quiet almost like they're scared to say it. "would I still be this way without them?"

rolling onto your stomach, you finally look up at them properly. his hair is tousled and just a little messy but pretty. no matter what, it always looked pretty. even in the dim light, you can notice the dusting of pink across their cheeks. they seemed content; relaxed. "be what way?" you wonder. jordan's hand that once danced across your skin now rests against the small of your back.

"bigender, obviously."

"I don't know," they wanted an answer you couldn't give to them. identity was such a personal thing." how did you feel when you were younger?"

"I guess it's always been a little confusing,"

"Why are you suddenly questioning it?" you wonder with a slight chuckle. imitating their action from earlier by running your fingers up and down their chest.

"dunno," they shrug. "it's just a little fucked that my powers are just one more thing for people to hate me for."

without powers, Jordan never would have gotten into Godu. and if they hadn't gotten into godu, you'd probably never have met. the world can be a cruel place full of distaste and anger but as selfish as it was, you're grateful for the opportunity to know them. "you're always gonna get people who hate supes."

"yeah, but I mean like people hate that I shift. the whole bigender thing doesn't sell- it's fucking shit." his voice is louder now; firm. "add that to the whole Asian thing and I'm screwed. everything is against me."

"Jordan," you hum softly, stopping your motion. they've always been so confident in their identity. never cared what anyone else wanted from them. it was something you admired about them, so it was almost weird watching them discuss it with such uncertainty. to question something so fundamental to them. you hardly knew anything about yourself. "do you want to know what i think?"

"i guess," he huffs out. a grumpy little guy.

"I don't think it actually matters," you urge, planting a gentle kiss against their sweaty stomach. "maybe you wouldn't have been bigender. maybe you would have. maybe your powers are just a manifestation of who you were always meant to be. at the end of the day, all that matters is who you are now." you lay your head back down against their chest. "and i think they're pretty awesome." with a gentle hum, his arms slide over to hug you against them. guess they were satisfied with that answer.

"Well thanks," he says after a moment. "now if you could just convince the rest of the world to be less transphobic or xenophobic too, that'd be more useful."

"I'll get right on that,"

"parents would be happier. the powers they wanted but none of the gender shit. just their perfect superhero son."

"you are their perfect superhero son." you grin. "you're just also their perfect superhero daughter too. their perfect superhero person."

"you think I'm perfect," he teases.

"I think you're… something."

"hot? sexy? the coolest? what?"

you chuckle. leaning down to kiss their stomach but this time you gently nip the skin. "I'm not gonna feed that massive ego of yours."

"I already know you're obsessed with me," his grasp around you tightens ever so slightly. "can hardly blame you." you smile against them. they were probably right. you wouldn't admit it. "I wish they looked at me the same way."

"fuck them."

"don't talk about my parents like that." Jordan insists. "only I can say stuff like that."

"Sorry," you respond. you can hear their heart beating in their chest. one heart. one beautiful, fucked up person. you let your eyes flutter closed, enjoying the sound of Jordan li. "people put expectations on us and that's fucked. just be whoever you want."

"suppose." he mumbles softly. "sorry for being pathetic- no more talking about stupid ass feelings."

"I don't mind." you really didn't. you would listen to them talk about anything. "really."

the thing about being with Jordan is that you're never really with Jordan. it is always very hot and cold. you may find yourself in their bed naked, listening to their confessions but the very next day, they would probably ignore you. you rationalise their reaction by considering it embarrassment. they get self-conscious when it comes to being vulnerable. that doesn't make you feel better in the immediate sense but does allow you to remain hopeful for the future. you often see them around campus but you don't really talk. even if you did, they prefer to act like you hardly know each other. even just a smile is too much for Jordan Li; they prefer a dirty look. occasionally they found the time to text you back but that's hardly anything to write home about. plus you're always the one to initiate the conversation unless they're after something. your friends think they're an asshole. every time you find yourself left on read or longingly stalking their social media, they'd tell you to move on. and that's how you ended up here. at some random dorm party. apparently, the best way to get over them is to find someone new. you didn't want someone new but apparently, that's not a good enough reason to stay home. it's not a bad party. it's actually pretty fun once you relax and stop checking your phone every few minutes. but you should have known that if there was a party, Jordan Li would probably be there looking as radiant and mysterious as ever. a ghost haunting you in a crowd of drunk students. they also seemed to have a way of always knowing exactly where you are. you'd keep catching sight of them when you're getting a drink or talking to someone new. you're supposed to be ignoring them but they're making it very hard.

with a red cup full of the most disgusting beer in one hand, you're sitting on a couch listening to some random guy tell you all about himself. his name was Mike. Matthew? Matthew seemed correct. you don't remember exactly. it is so loud in here. the music wasn't even good. he was handsome though.

"so that's why I decided psychology would be better." he continues to explain his shift in major which had to do with his family. it's a sweet story. he seemed like such a genuine person. "I wanna help people but not through crime-fighting plus that'll give me a chance to work with supes and regular people."

"that's cool," you nod. it came out a little sarcastic but you never meant it that way. you had such admiration for people who wanna use their powers for good. it's not like you wanted to take over the world or anything but rather you had no clue what you wanted. it reminded you of your conversation with Jordan. you have no clue who you are or what you want. "I wish I was smart enough for that. kinda feel like I'm just here at the moment."

"that's fine too like you've got loads of time," he assures you, shuffling a little closer. a hand coming to rest on your arm along the back of the couch.

"that's true," you agree. "I don't know. we'll see, I'm not too worried like it's-"

"hey," you both look up to spy a masculine Jordan Li staring back with their arms crossed over their chest. his expression was indecipherable but fuck, did he look so good. "you gonna introduce us?" why would you introduce them? jordan wasn't part of this interaction and you hardly knew the other guy. Why was Jordan even here? they haven't spoken to you in days. when you don't respond, Matthew takes the liberty of introducing himself. you did remember his name correctly. "I'm Jordan."

"I know- everyone knows. you're in the top ten dude." Matthew is a little too eager. you would think he was the one sleeping with them.

"I am, yeah. can I just borrow," they point at you. "for a sec."

"uh…"

"I'm sorry. I'll be back." as you stand, Jordan clasps your wrist and basically hauls you up and off towards the hallway. you don't bother protesting. they were stronger than you anyway. "what do you want?"

"what are you doing?" voice firm. jordan shifts to his femme form. fluffy short hair becomes an adorable bob. a much smaller frame but arguably more intimidating.

"excuse me?" your brow furrows.

"Are you stupid ?" Jordan asks, in a slightly more aggressive tone. "what are you doing?"

"what do you mean?" you had no clue what was going on right now. "I'm not doing anything."

"that dude is like all over you."

"no, he isn't. We're just talking," you argue.

a humourless laugh. "I know you're not that fucking naive,"

"Why do you even care?" you shoot back. you would hardly consider the conversation you were having the epitome of flirting. sure, there were a few lingering glances and some touching but there wasn't anything wrong with that. at least they were actually interested, unlike Jordan. "you've been ignoring me all week." a flash of surprise across their face that quickly disappears as they turn away from you.

"I've been busy."

"That's what you always say-"

"excuse me for having a life that doesn't revolve around you," Jordan fires back snappily, scowling back at you.

"why are you mad at me?"

"oh, I don't know. blatantly flirting with guys when you know I'm right there is a pretty shitty thing to do."

"I'm not flirting with anyone, we're just talking about our majors," you clarify. "and it's none of your business anyway, it's not like we're together. I can flirt with whoever I want."

"so you admit it." a scoff leaves your mouth. wait. was Jordan Li jealous right now? the same Jordan li who couldn't be bothered to so much as smile at you in the hallway was now mad that you're talking to someone else at a party? you can't help but laugh a little and when they frown in confusion, you laugh a little more.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" you ask, a playful quirk of your brow. "is the infamous Jordan Li jealous?"

"don't be an idiot," they defend, taking a step away and leaning back against the wall. you watch them carefully before following their gaze out into the sea of other people. "why would I be jealous?"

you close the distance once more; leaning in close. you hold their gaze. such soft pretty eyes hold so many secrets. "because you like me,"

"fuck off," Jordan huffs, flinching away from you. "I don't care what you do."

this whole conversation proved otherwise but okay. either way, you were done arguing over it. you were supposed to be focusing on other people not getting wrapped up in Jordan li again. "sure," you comment sarcastically. "I'm gonna get a drink and you're gonna leave me alone." you don't give them a chance to respond; simply walking away in search of a new drink. you half expect them to follow but they don't. with a fresh red cup, you decide to return to Matthew. he seems to have found somebody new to talk to. a tall guy with very distinctive feline eyes. "sorry about that." the boy looks at you, with a confused frown and then back to his friend. That was weird. "are you okay?"

"yeah," a smirk. "I just don't fuck with other people's girls. too messy." with that said, they both walk away. other people's girls? you weren't dating anyone. falling down against the couch, you search the crowd and spot a certain guy sporting a mischievous smirk. surely not. surely Jordan wasn't that much of a dick. when they catch your eye, they start walking towards you

"you look a little lonely over here."

"fuck you." you spit sharply.

"touchy." they hold their hands up in the air to feign innocence.

"you're such a fucking asshole," you grumble. sinking further down into the plush fabric of the couch. you were pissed. not over Matthew specifically. after all, you hardly knew him. but over the fact, that Jordan was so petty. you never expected them to do something as stupid as this.

"I didn't do anything " Jordan claims, a quick shrug of their shoulders. "he was just a dick."

"you told him I was your girlfriend."

"I didn't do shit," Jordan responds casually, shifting into their femme form as they fall down on the couch beside you. you sit forward ready to leave but not quite doing so. "I just decided to come talk to you since you seemed all lonely- sorry for trying to be nice."

"you don't know how to be nice."

"ouch," a playful hand slaps over the heart. "however will I go on" they chuckle, leaning back in their seat.

"fuck you."

"Will you chill out," their hands slide over your shoulders; gently pulling you back and into their awaiting embrace. "that guy was fucking dull as shit,"

"you don't even know him," you huff. no attempt to move out of their embrace; breathing in their perfume. it was surprisingly fruity. not their normal go-to.

"maybe not." Jordan answers. "but I know you." she hugs you against her chest. warm and tight. "I know your body." their hand slips down across your waist to rest upon your upper thigh. leaning in close, her breath is hot against your neck. "that dude could never fuck you as well as I do." whispered in your ear. A tingle spills down your spine. you shift against them, feeling very hot all of a sudden. "we both know it." you swallow hard. You don't know what to say. and frankly, you're worried that if you do they'll hear the tremble in your voice. you definitely don't want them to know the effect they had on you. not right now. not when you're supposed to be ignoring them. a feather-like kiss against your neck before it presses deeper. jordan sinks her teeth into your skin and your mouth falls open. a soft sigh slipping into the air.

"fuck…"

"That's what I thought," hummed against your skin before they pulled away. "so how about we stop playing games and go find somewhere quiet," they gently squeezed your thigh. "yeah?"

Jordan fucking li. they really were a piece of work. and your friends were gonna be oh so disappointed in you.

#gen v #jordan li #jordan li x reader #the boys #jordan li x you #derek luh #london thor

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penvisions · 7 months

Text

garnish {chapter 1}

Pairing: Chef! Joel Miller x Bartender! Reader

Summary: Summer is a time of fun and carefree days for those who are fortunate enough to not work within the food industry. You however have found yourself back in that world and so long were the days you could spend doing nothing. Along with the shift back to a world you once left behind is the figure of Joel Miller, who is as magnetizing as he is irritating that is now a part of your daily life.

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: smut piv smut, unprotected piv, dirty talk, joel miller's filthy mouth, kinda enemies to lovers?, degrading language, restaurant lingo, triggers associated with the food industry

A/N: this...this is a scary thing for me to share. this is so closely drawn from my life and the things i've experienced in my twenties (as far as the restaurant stuff goes, i was never fortunate enough to catch the eyes of someone as alluring as our dear joel). i'm fully aware that i don't need another WIP but this has been comsuming me lately and i wanted to share despite the trepidation. c'est la vie, no?

ao3 link || series masterlsit || main masterlist

“Fuck.” You moaned, the sound filling the cool air of the walk in, back arching as you tried to push back against the man who had sheathed the entirety of his hard length into you with one smooth, drawn out move so attuned to your body. His grip on your hips was bruising, the feeling of him gripping tight to your shoulder even more so, but he didn’t move.

He seemed frozen, head bowed down and forehead connected with the back of your head, hands gripping tight, chest heaving with each deep breath and brushing hot against your back. Murmured words falling from his plush lips too quiet for you to catch, but you were sure if he could safely do so, he would be praising you in that filthy way he was prone to do. His large thighs were pressed to the backs of your own and the feel of his chef pants was rough on the naked skin of your thighs where he had pushed up the skirt of the dress you had worn for your shift.

“Please, Joel, I need you to move.” You circled your hips, grinding back on the entire length of him and you could feel yourself clench. A guttural moan sounded from his lips, puffing out in a misty breath.

“What did I tell you about bein’ a good girl f’me?” The hard line of him twitched deep inside you and your knees wobbled. The hand on your waist curled around your middle to help keep you upright, lest they give out on you completely. He pulled out nearly all the way only to slam back in, it took everything in you not to scream from the pleasure as white sparked across your vision. Your teeth digging into the hands that were grasping desperately onto the edge of the metal storage shelf you were pressed up against. Trying to hide the sound in an effort to keep the secret that had become your personal life just that, something shared in moments of spiking passion and deep kisses between you and the man who enraptured you beyond anything you had experienced before.

Thoughts swirled and your mind took you back to the events that transpired to allow this type of pleasure to be something that you owned, that you took, that was given to you by the man whose hands were holding you so tightly and pounding into you so deliciously.

“I think a play on mint would be a good idea, for the paired cocktail. I could whip up a batch of simple syrup infused with it or order a case of crème de menthe. But I’ll mess around with it and get back with y’all in a few days before the order needs to be placed.” You jotted down what glasses you were thinking of, a choice between a martini glass, a coup, and a tall rocks class. You pushed your reading glasses back up your nose, the frames having slipped down the bridge as you scribbled half ideas down in your small notebook. “Chef, will the mash be sweet potato or more like the topping for the Shepard’s pie we did last fall? And the balsamic, will it be a glaze over the brussels or will they be cooked with it?”

Joel Miller’s eyes seemed to snap to you, he had offered his new rotation of dishes for the fall menu and promptly spaced out. He never seemed to pay attention to anything else in the higher up meetings for the restaurant you worked at. You had been here for a year now. Having been hired as a general bartender and then bumped up to manager around two months in. You had to do an order on the fly for the bar when it was revealed that the manager had made a faux one and pocketed the money for themselves. To say they had been fired would be an understatement. They were no longer allowed to work for any part of the company.

You don’t think you had ever met his eyes before and you were beginning to think that was a blessing in disguise. His eyes were such a warm, chocolate brown that lit up into an amber wonderland that you could find yourself getting lost in when they caught the light. It took you a moment to realize that he was answering your questions. This was the first instance of a menu change that you had the chance to ask questions. His gaze wandered over what he could see of you as you sat across the table from him, further down by the barback you had chosen to help out with keeping the tickets flowing well and running drinks when the servers were busy.

“Was thinkin’ of sweet potatoes, to compliment the lamb. It won’t be a traditional mint jelly, more of a yogurt based mint sauce topped before leaving the line.” He glanced down at the menu he had provided for the meeting. It was simple and to the point. Underneath one of the new dishes, the special due to the cost of sourcing the lamb was simple descriptors. Special: Lamb. Mash. Brussels. Mint. Balsamic.

“Sounds yummy, and the balsamic, chef?”

“Haven’t decided yet.” He grunted out, not sure what to think of you asking after the dish. Sure, he knew you needed to know the components properly for each dish of the special in order to pair it properly with a house made drink. But you were so…something he wasn’t used to seeing. You had a good balance of professional and personable, both on the clock and off. He noticed some of his cooks offering you tastes of stuff they were working on during prep hours and returned dishes that came back to the kitchen. The other servers often mentioned you helping them with rowdy or difficult tables, were more than willing to help them if they didn’t know questions asked after the drinks offered and wine selection.

More often than not, people from both the front of house and back of house would sit at the bar with you after their shifts. Idle chit chat and horror stories of the night told between laughs and knowing looks. Bonding in ways that could only happen as a result of working in such a space, of being able to handle working in such a space.

He shook his head, the thoughts of you disappearing with the movement and he shoved off from the table to slink back into the kitchen. He stopped at the threshold of the dining room, your gentle voice in his ears and he stifled a shiver at the thought of your lips close enough to whisper into them. What kind of things would you be brave enough to say in hushed tones just for him? Would you whisper filthy desires into his ears and cause heat to spark down his spine, or would you beg him for the things he wanted to say to you, the things he saw flash before his closed eyes when he would see how effortlessly you knocked out a line of tickets, or helped to expo his line during the times in which spacing out tables was only a wish.

“Gotcha. Thank you, chef.”

Despite his better judgement he turned to look back at you over his shoulder, just in time to see you smile softly at him before turning your focus back to the meeting. He almost hadn’t, unsure of where the sudden salacious nature of his thoughts had sprung up from. And his heartrate picked up as he crossed into his kitchen space.

The manager of the restaurant was pacing back and forth in front of the host stand, phone held tightly to her ear as she listened to the voice bleeding from the other line. It was summer, the season of call outs and no call no shows. As predictable as the looks of glee on servers and cooks faces alike as checks hit their accounts on a weekly basis, the tip out rate through the roof with the influx of tourists and lively people of the city. The manager prided herself in being able to provide a good base pay for everyone, ignoring the cheap cop out of matching the other establishments of the area and the country in general.

None of that $2.13/hour nonsense, she had smiled genuinely at you in your interview, the softness of her excitement allowing you to seriously consider the industry you had left a few years previously in favor of going back to school, of taking the monumental step of becoming a teachers assistant at your alma mater. But grad school was around the corner, something you needed in order to pursue your dreams.

But even that wasn’t a good enough allure to keep the younger members of society committed to their shifts, especially after a particularly busy week. The restaurant world wasn’t for everyone, and it was quick to humble people in ways that still took you off guard even after having been entrenched in it for a good chunk of your twenties.

With a long sigh, a worn-out thin smile, and the harsh placement of the phone back into the charging station atop the host stand, that’s how you found yourself in the kitchen you only drifted through previously.

“You know anythin’ about preppin’ food?” The calculating look aimed down at you as Joel stood beside you in front of a prep station was sharp, his arms crossed over his broad chest. The sleeves of his chef’s coat folded up to expose the thickness of his forearms.

“Of course, we prep the-“

“Not fruit. Food. Actual food.”

The fact that he cut you off mid reply made your jaw clench and you had to hold your tongue back from spewing a bad comment. You had never been treated like that at this job, in the entire year that you’ve been here. Everyone had always been polite and friendly and professional. Things you were in return, the kitchen even going so far as to offer you the rare dead plate or extras from staff meal you were always unable to snag any of due to your schedule. People would stay and hang out at the bar after their shifts ended, often bringing you treats on their off days to share as you frequently brought stuff for the front of house to have snacks and rounds of their favorite drinks to stay hydrated during busy hours. This often extended to the back of house as well, if you had the time and means to.

The divide seen so cleanly in other restaurants was something that you tried to eradicate here, not play into the ‘this versus them’ ideology that plagues too many establishments and allowed for more errors and unhappy customers.

That’s not to say there was the odd throwaway comment in the heat of dinner rush or particularly challenging event, but those were brushed under the table as they were harmless. But this, this animosity for someone willing to help out when it was desperately needed, was uncalled for and sparking annoyance in your chest.

You hadn’t really interacted with Joel directly. Just in passing and hardly for longer than a professional acknowledgment during staff meetings when a new dish would be rolling out and you needed to make a cocktail or wine pairing for it. To be honest, you hadn’t spoken to him out of the childish daydream of not wanting the image of the handsome man to be shattered in your mind’s eye. Guess you were right to worry about something being wrong with him to warrant him to spend what seemed like his entire life in the damn kitchen. He had a superiority complex, it seemed.

But for him to be rude and cut you off after already making it clear he didn’t want you in his kitchen?

Game, fucking, on.

“Oh, no,” You adjusted the fit of the black gloves around your right wrist before you carefully picked up the chef knife and tapped the tip of it on the cutting board. Joel’s eyes were heavy and judgmental as you did so, he probably disliked the way you had needed to get the feel of the knife before using it. But he stayed silent, the furrow of his brows and the turndown of his plush lips deepening as you quickly and efficiently broke down the chicken. Once you were done, you placed the knife along the edge of the cutting board beside the line made up of a pair of breasts, thighs, legs, wings, and the severed spine of the chicken. “I don’t think I’m any good with actual food, chef.”

The controlled expression you were holding didn’t break, even when one of Joel’s eyebrows seemed to rise without conscious thought as his sharp eyes danced from the cutting board atop the prep station to you standing at attention in front of it. The tick in his jaw was garnering your attention, an obvious show to what the man was really feeling at your little display. Despite his less than kind attitude toward you, you couldn’t help the flash of heat that flared up in your middle at the thought of sucking kisses into the cut of his jaw, right where it was showing is ire. The surrounding kitchen staff were all peering over toward your new station with wide eyes, unbelieving that you were deliberately feigning innocence in a cheeky manner toward the head chef.

He may be an asshole, he may be loud, he may be particular, and he may have high standards: but no one argued with him because of his skill set and how effortlessly he displayed it day in and day out.

“Now, I believe we prep a total of 56 for the night shift. After dissembling them, they get placed into a salt brine to allow the skin to brown and crisp easier when braised or pan roasted. With an extra 4 just in case of dishes going to the wrong table or mix ups with servers not paying attention to the available par, is that correct, chef?”

Your lips turned up in a small grin and you knocked your gaze up to catch the man’s eyes. There was a fire behind them, one you were sure he was about to unleash on you in front of the entire staff. He was known for his outbursts when really upset, whether it be from someone not listening to clear instructions or a count gone wrong and messing up the rotation of dishes that could be offered that shift. Instead, he gave you a curt nod and told you to complete the prep by time the doors were to open and walked briskly away.

You spent the rest of the evening prepping the necessary things for the dinner service. You could’ve just done what had been asked of you, but you peeked at the long list of things that needed to be done by the person who had bailed on their shift, on the job and decided that the bar would be okay on a weekday night without you.

You prepped the chickens for the evening and the chickens for tomorrow’s service so the kitchen wouldn’t be behind like it had nearly been today. You had diced in perfect cubes the pickled beets for the panzanella salad and the components for the egg salad to be combined. Portioned out the ingredients for the brine and brought them to a soft boil atop a hot plate for a new batch of pickles and prepared the cucumbers with a mandolin. Sliced and portioned out the bologna and pancetta used for sandwiches, and even sliced the other components like the provolone cheese, cucumbers, and tomatoes used on them as well.

You neatly organized and legibly dated everything before breaking down the station at the end of the night. Even taking everything out of the banes and running them through dish and drying them before placing them back in their respective locations underneath the hood. Going as far as to deep clean the cooler shelves down below, wiping them down and sanitizing the entire station before putting everything back according to FIFO etiquette and wrapping it all up for the night.

The next day, your schedule was updated with two hours of prep before your typical shifts for the bar.

next chapter

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givemeonereason · 21 days

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Meditations: First, the Friend and then, the Son

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Photo Credit: Here

Dragon Ball Masterlist Givemeonereason Masterlist

Rating: SO MANY FEELS

Plot: Krillin seeks out Gohan to get some more information about the girl who lost her "Piccolo." A warmth between friends and family.

A/N: Hello, and thank you for patiently waiting for me to write up this next installment. I kept saying I was writing and I kept pushing it aside. Depression is so real and writers burn out is really real too. I think I just overdid it.

I'm so excited and happy that this series has taken off. Seems like there really is an audience for Piccolo. And he deserves it! I'll keep it going for as long as the story needs it. Tall, green, and handsome love for all.

╒══════════════════════╕

The police speeder came to an abrupt halt outside Son Gohan estate.

When Krillin gingerly unhooked his regulation helmet and hung it from the handlebars of his unit, the elderly man who was tending to flowers in the garden was swiftly walking towards the main house.

After he disappeared through a side door a kind-looking, middle-aged woman came out to greet him.

"Good morning, sir." She bowed her head politely. "To what do we owe the pleasure of the local law enforcement?"

The formality of the situation made Krillin perk up his shoulders. "Sorry, ma'am I need to speak with Gohan. Do you know if he's around?"

"I believe he is in the library." She turned on her heel. "Please follow me."

What seemed like an endless amount of stairs for a pair of small legs, the door to the library was ajar. Gohan was buried among several piles of books, a laptop, and three mugs, which presumably had an unknown concoction of caffeine.

"Gohan." Krillin called out to him as he walked towards the desk, but Gohan only pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He scribbled vigorously at the notepad before him.

"Gohan?" Krillin repeated with a little more oomph. Gohan began to mumble to himself.

with the help of prefectural flora cultivation, this can provide direct resources to the habitat of-

"Gohan! Snap out of it."

Gohan shook his head and blinked his eyes a few times while readjusting his thick black frames. "Whoa, Krillin I didn't see you there."

"Obviously..." Krillin rolled his eyes.

"Gosh, how long have you been here." Gohan finished the sentence he was muttering and almost stabbed the notepad when he poked the paper at the period.

"Well, I've been trying to get your attention for a few minutes now."

"Okay, I'm sorry I'm on the verge of a breakthrough here." He picked up a large blue mug and took a swig, only to spit it back into the glass. His face contorted when he tried to wipe his tongue on his sleeve.

Krillin had picked up a book nearest him and flipped through a few pages. "Cognitive Ecology of Pollination: Animal Behaviour and Floral Evolution." Too many words. He set the book back down and crossed his arms. "This might be out of left field, but have you seen Piccolo lately?"

"Not today, no."

"No, I just mean recently. There is something fishy is going on. I don't know if you know about the girl?"

"There's a girl?" Gohan took a sip from a different mug garnished with a Satan City logo. He set that one down quickly. "Did Piccolo do something to a girl? I'm not sure I understand."

"That's what I'm trying to find out." Krillin took a seat in a wooden car adjacent to the large desk. "This is going to sound odd. Considering we've seen and experienced some very odd things in the past, this one is hard to place when it comes to weird."

Krillins folded his hands and relaxed his shoulders. "Well, here goes. Long story short; I got a report of a girl screaming on a hillside about an instrument. When I went to investigate the girl said she lost her piccolo. I put two and two together and figured she might be talking about our Piccolo. So when I went to The Hideout to ask Piccolo about this girl, he got defensive and said he did something to her. And I think he couldn't forgive himself, or I don't remember fine details."

Gohan sat for a few moments in silence thinking. "Do you know this girl?"

"Never met her a day in my life...until I spoke with her."

Gohan scratched at his hairline, pushing the rouge tuft of hair out of his face only for it to fall back down towards his eyes. "Piccolo hasn't said anything to me about a woman." His shoulders were undulated with confusion.

Before Gohan could circle the same conclusion, he spoke again. "Whatever it is, he seems to care enough about this girl. You know him. He's a pretty unfazed guy. Very serious. Not too emotional, or softish. You know what I mean."

Gohan reached out for the last mug on the desk, hesitating before grabbing the handle. He stared down at the contents swirling around in contemplation and decided against it. The mug clanked against the desk surface as Krillin's pleaded with him.

"I was kind of wondering if you would go talk to him? He practically demanded I leave The Hideout when I pressed the issue. If he's going to talk to anyone it's got to be you. You're practically his son."

The last bit made Gohan chuckle. "I don't know Krillin. If he didn't want to talk about it, maybe we should just leave it alone."

Krillin stood up and walked towards Gohan. "Could you just at least try. If he doesn't open up to you then I'll let it go, okay?"

"Okay, okay." Gohan stood up, pressing his palms against the armrests of his chair. "I'll go to talk to him tomorrow morning. I'll call you when I get back."

Krillin smiled widely. "Thanks Gohan. I just think, you know, he does.. has done so much for us that we can try and help him too sometimes. Even if he says he doesn't want it."

═══════════════════

When the morning light touched the western side of The Hideout, Gohan walked through the threshold Piccolos room. “Hey, Piccolo.”

Piccolo turned towards the similarly dressed young man, putting down the small, leather bound book in his hands on the small desk beside him. “Gohan, what brings you here this early.”

Gohan stretched his arms, his elbow popping loud enough to warrant a light echo. He laughed with some embarrassment. “Well, I guess I’m just a little rusty. I was wondering if we could spar?”

The upturned smirk told all Gohan needed to know before the two of them were passing blows hovering over the ground far below them.

One after the other, fists flying, blocking, dodging, power surging. Time was passing as the sun arched across the sky, but it only felt like moments. The adrenaline of the fight.

When Gohan began to tire slightly he landed a singular hit that propelled Piccolo back that anyone with even the best eyesight wouldn’t have seen. The super Sayain gives his all in the last throes of battle.

Piccolo gathered his equilibrium, and wiped the blood staining his lip against his forearm. He laughed as he landed on the grass below them. “You say you’re rusty, but you still got it, kid. You just got to put your mind to it.” He gently patted Gohan’s head, shaking his hair lightly.

Gohan plopped down to the ground and lay sprawling, taking in breaths. Piccolo sat down near him cross-legged. "I still think you have it in you to be the strongest, Gohan. But you've got a family now and your studies. You have more important battles to fight than just with your fists."

Gohan put his hands behind the back of his head. "I get discouraged sometimes. Everyone chastizes me for not keeping up with training. I'm 'a shame to the Sayain race,' or 'If only he could have---'" He shook his head. "Sometimes I wonder if Dad is still proud of me, even if my progress is strictly academic." He pondered on the thought. "It really doesn't matter, does it? Between Dad and Vegta there won't be anyone as strong. There won't be anyone who can't save the world." He looked over at Piccolo. "You're pretty strong too Piccolo."

Piccolo let out a deep, humph. "You are still stronger than me. And I only get involved when I am needed."

"Right. Why should we constantly have to be ready for a threat that might never come?"

"They always do."

Gohan sighed, closing his eyes. "Well, if they need me I will always be there. I won't let anything happen to anyone. Not after all the things we faced before."

The subtle sounds of nature became more apparent with this silence. The shallow sounds of breathing between them. Piccolo looked off into the near distance, his voice calm and relaxed. "If it accounts for anything, I am very proud of the man you've become."

Arms were tightly wrapped around. "Thank you for never giving up on me Piccolo."

Piccolo smiled to himself as Gohan sat down next to him. "I've been meaning to ask you something. Do you have a girlfriend?"

"A what?" Piccolo's voice turned deep again with seriousness.

"A girlfriend. You know, someone who you like and date." The look in Gohan's eyes was hopeful and sweet.

Tch- "I know what a girlfriend is. Why are you asking me this?"

"Well, Krillin stopped by and---"

"Not this again. Did that small man send you to do his bidding?"

Gohan got up and followed Piccolo when he began to walk away. He shouted, "I told him to stay out of it."

Gohan picked up his pace to meet the Namekian. "I don't even understand what Krillin was saying. But I wish you would just tell me what's going on. If not, you know he's going to get my dad involved."

Piccolo stopped and grunted. His arms crossed in defiance. Anything but Goku getting involved. Piccolo will NEVER hear the end of this. And if Goku makes a big deal out of this, it's everyone's problem.

But it's just his problem.

He stood quiet and tense. Gohan stood beside him stretching his legs and preparing to leave for home.

"I--" He started and stopped.

Hmmm, Gohan turned towards him.

"I don't even know how it happened. She came out of nowhere. Day after day, she prodded me with questions about myself. She sat with me as I meditated. She wasn't frightened of me." Piccolo was speaking so fervently and fastidiously that he was almost out of breath. "And I didn't know why or what to do. So I tried to show her that she shouldn't be so curious. I tried to scare her. I tried to stop her from coming around." His arms were tight against his chest. His chin pressed down into his collarbone.

Gohan watched Piccolo in awe. He's never seen this man act in such a way. The sorrow within the tightness of his shut eyes. The deep purple across his cheeks. Piccolo usually being a towering man, now pulling inward at his middle.

Gohan reached out and hugged him again. "Okay..." He looked at Piccolo, who bent his shoulders, which would normally be difficult to see over his shoulder pads. "Okay." Gohan's hand on Piccolo's forearm. His voice was so sweet and kind. "What did you do to scare her?"

Piccolo only took a deep breath. His booming voice was now almost a whisper. "I picked her up and took her in the air, flying. I flew and made myself out to be like another version of myself. I tried to make myself into King Piccolo." He's bent over near Gohan's shoulder, and Gohan lets him rest his forehead. "I made myself into something worth being frightened by. I didn't want her to trust so easily because she can easily become fodder like so many others have." His voice was almost nonexistent. "I could have killed her."

"But you didn't kill her, right?"

Piccolo shook his head. "But I could have."

"You didn't though. Sure, you could have maybe got your point across in a different way, but she's alright, right?"

"The look of terror in her eyes. The tears. I don't know why-- why I went--"

Gohan could hear the choked sobs before he pushed Piccolo back to face him. "Piccolo, I have known you my whole life and I've never seen you like this. You're like a whole different person. Usually, you're a very reserved guy, but I know these types of feelings. You must care a great deal for this girl. You're beating yourself up over the smallest thing." Piccolo kept his eyes closed shut, but his head lifted slightly, his arms relaxing as much as he could muster. "Hey, at least you don't explode or anything. You don't resort to your power because a lady is hurt or in danger. Blame it on the Sayain blood.”

Piccolo tried to straighten up and fix his posture. He wiped the tears that escaped from his eyes against his sleeve. Swallowing down his feelings deep into his chest.

“Piccolo, you’re allowed to have feelings like everyone else. Look at Dad, he’s an alien and he’s insane half the time.” Gohan laughed. “It’s okay to care about something for once. I know you care about me, about my family. But you can also care about something for yourself. If you care that deeply about this girl then I think you should talk to her. I think you should set things right between the two of you. Even if nothing comes of it and you just get closure.” Gohan pointed to Piccolo’s chest, pressing down into the fabric of the Namekian’s purple Gi. “If for all of us, but just for you.”

Gohan turned and started to walk away, calling over his shoulder. “You don’t need to bare the weight of this on your own. We’re always here for you. This is just a different type of fight.” He began hovering over the ground. “I have to get home before Videl gets angry.” He laughed. “Responsibilities.”

Piccolo could he his voice fading as he flew away. “All you have to do is try, Piccolo.”

Piccolo stood there, silent. The weight in his chest was still heavy. Do I care about this woman this greatly? He pressed his palm firmly against his chest, his cape flittering in the wind behind him. A heart beating strong behind his fingers. Is this love or understanding?

What I was once so sure about, I am at a loss.

Who do I want to be now?

(Just an extra reference photo here of our precious, green boy) Credit

╘══════════════════════╛

Don’t steal other people’s works! Respect creators!

Reblogs and likes appreciated :)

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Tag List:

@jadew-08, @sussybacca, @imaginarydreams, @oriistar, @mddbsf, @boogeysmoth, @stefnarda

To be added or removed from the tag list reach out through asks or messages. Please and thank you.

#dragon ball z piccolo #dragon ball super piccolo #piccolo x reader #piccolo and you #Piccolo #Son Gohan #Gohan #dragon ball fanfiction #Dragon Ball z #Dragon Ball Super #slug man #green king #Fanfiction

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vagueandominousvibes · 4 months

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DISCLAIMER: THIS IS A ROUGH OUTLINE AND AN INTEREST CHECK.

Hey guys, remember this idea I had some months ago?

I'm aware there's already a couple of LoZ cookbook fanzines out there (specifically these two based on BotW and on TotK), but as far as I understand, these both focus on re-creating recipes and presenting fanart. (They look gorgeous btw and you should totally check them out!!)

Link's Cookbook is somewhat more diverse, in that it's essentially Link and Zelda's travel journal. It's where Link scribbles down recipes while on the road, and Zelda later tries to parse and correct his spelling. It's where Zelda sketches the world around them — everything from scientific studies of bumblebees to scenic views from a hilltop. It's where they keep track of encounters and incidents of varying importance.

It is, for all intents and purposes, a scrapbook of their experiences in the months and years between BotW and TotK as they get re-acquainted and together rebuild Hyrule.

To break it down, it would essentially consist of:

Recipes inspired by the recipes in BotW and TotK

As a loose guideline, grab a recipe from one of the games and explain how to make it in real life using real life food items.

Example: Cheesy Tomato (recipe from TotK). It's described as 'a simple dish of Hylian tomato topped with delicious Hateno cheese'. (Source | Image). In-game, you need Hylian Tomato and Hateno Cheese to make this.

Based on the illustration, a real life adaptation might suggest using cherry tomatoes, Edam cheese, black pitted olives as the main components, then add a drizzle of olive oil, some black pepper, and fresh basil leaves for flavour and garnish. Who knows, you could even suggest lightly roasting the tomatoes with a teaspoon of honey to really bring out their flavour!

Vaguely connected short stories about Link and Zelda, set in the time period between BotW and TotK, related to the recipes

Depending on how many would like to participate in this, there's a few ways of doing this: (1) people sign up specifically to write short stories; (2) the writers of the recipes either (2.1) draft ideas while working on the recipes and pass them on to short story writers to finish, or (2.2) the recipe writers also write short stories to go with their recipes; (3) or a single person is tasked with tying everything together with short stories.

(No I'm not overthinking this.)

Fanart related to the recipes

Study time! Y'know when you're taking an arts class and you have to do a charcoal sketch of an apple and a banana in very dramatic lighting? That's the vibe we're going for here. Use all the colours you like, but ultimately we're aiming for sketchbook art to really complete the overall journal vibe of the zine.

So yeah! If you're interested, drop your name, discord contact, and what you'd like to contribute with in the Google form right here by the 31st of January!

#loz #legend of zelda #totk #tears of the kingdom #botw #breath of the wild #fandom zine #fan zine #zine promo #can't think of any other tags so i'll call it there #please share with anyone you think might be interested!

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squarebracket-trickster · 29 days

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OC Recipe Tag

Thank you, @touloserlautrec for tagging me way back in November shhhh

In my defense, I was waiting to do this tag until I got to a particular scene in draft 3 and was forced to research medieval English/French recipes.

Rules: Share a recipe your OC would make, either one passed down to them or one they found all by themselves. Bonus if you have an actual recipe to link! Some OCs can't cook to save their lives, but let's talk about the ones who can! :D

I think I am actually going to share a passage from my WIP instead of just a recipe. I don't think just sharing a recipe alone does justice to explaining how these foods were eaten, why these particular foods on a given day, as well as Isolde's relationship with these dishes.

A few other things to note about this passage:

At the time this particular scene takes place Isolde does not know how to cook a few of these dishes but she will learn later in her life, after the events of the story end.

In this particular scene Isolde did not cook the meal. However, much earlier in the novel it is mentioned that she "is not very familiar with cooking meat" but she manages to do it anyway. We can assume from this that she can cook if she has to, albeit very poorly. She is at least familiar with how cooking works.

Isolde is a princess, raised from birth to marry a king. She will not have done a lot of cooking in her life but she will have a very good understanding of what ingredients are needed for what dish, approximately how long a dish takes to prepare, and she will be familiar with enough the materials required for some processes like marination and fermentation.

Lastly, this passage needs trimming. But that's a draft 4 problem. I should shorten some of these ingredient lists but I really don't want to ahhh

Without further ado:

It’s a fast day so our meal is light and without meat. There are few lakes as high in the hills as Aubemote and though the sea is near enough by horse it is still too far for fish. We fill up instead on rique-menger, a Diac recipe of apples and eggs parboiled in butter, and on pickles of white cabbage, parsley root, carrot, radish, turnip, pears, and currants soaked in a juice of honey, vinegar, mustard, and white wine slopped on a bread trencher. Saffron, cinnamon, ginger, black pepper, anise, fennel, white sugar, and salt garnish our foods – the lord and lady of Aubemote spare no expense on food, just as on their tapestries it seems, even on fast days. After our meal a pageboy brings a plate of breney to our table– hard, unleavened bread dipped in a fruit compote of currants, dates, and pine nuts steeped in red wine, vinegar, mace, and sandalwood. Another refills our cups with clarrey – white wine spiced with cinnamon, galingale, and white pepper. We share the brass cups, two ladies to each, though Lord Aubemote’s wife, of course, has her own. I am not sure which part of the meal takes more courage to eat. The rique-menger and pickles are new to me, as lovely as they are, and leave my tongue with a sour, homesick flavour. These are the dishes I should have to grow accustomed to should I have decided to go through with my marriage. I don’t know if I could ever get used to eating apples and eggs like this. But the breney and clarrey are foods like home, and their taste is all the more bitter for it.

I love when the people I tag @ me and/or link back to my post. I love it when you reblog my post with questions, compliments, words of encouragement, about my WIP, or even no comment at all. But please make your own post to complete this tag. Please do not turn my post into a reblog chain.

Ever so delicately tagging: @fayeiswriting, @sleepywriter00, @boundedsea, @writernopal, @scribbling-stardust, @winterandwords

#tag game #wipvii

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arthurrei07 · 1 month

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actverse / take on swap!sans / pt. 2

tws: mentioned v10lence, curse words, mentioned accidental drüg usage, bl00d, implied nüdity, implied minor character dë4ths, mentioned g0re.

ship: dreamberry.

(the tws are a bit violent but the story is not as bad as the tws. stay safe either way 💓)

“Dream.”

Swap watched Dream dip his pen into the ink case, cling it around in the glass and pull it back as the pitch black ink dripped on the surface of the wooden desk, and then onto the document. Dream, furiously, scribbled something on the paper; the thick liquid messing the original paper as it wetted it.

“Dream.” Swap called out again, his hoarse voice cracking as he talked. As he got no response, he budged towards Ink—yanking his own spear from his hands as Ink flinched back. His right hand fixed its grip on his spear as it nearly slipped through his bloody fingers, and Swap harshly banged the staff on the marble floor.

Dream flinched at the loud noise, his head perking up from the desk. And Swap saw the terror in his eye; absolutely stunned by the mix of green leaking from Swap’s mouth and nose as more dark green stained his clothes, black and red garnishing all over his face and well, solidified hair.

He bolted up from his place, an ear-killing screech rising from the chair as it bulged back.

“Swap? What—What in the stars?” Dream tried to get rid of his coat as he pulled it off of his backside, hurriedly scooting away from the desk.

“What in the stars? Are you fucking kidding me?” Swap left his spear down on the floor as the metal part rattled around with a loud clank and aggressively shook his hand in the air, his blood splattering onto the ground.

His orbs followed Dream as he creeped up to him, Dream’s face turning pale.

“What—What happened?” Dream’s eyes ran up to meet with Swap’s, Swap’s eyes boring back into Dream’s.

“My universe is gone, is what happened,” Swap licked his lips, his spit burning the busted wounds as his face scrunched sourly. Swap huffed out of his clogged nose, the flowing blood spilling out as it dripped onto his armor from his chin.

Dream took a full glance at Swap before turning to Ink — then to Swap again. His eyes narrowed, “Are you… influenced?”

“—He got shot by a bear tranquilizer,” Ink blurted out as Swap just started talking, earning a half assed glare from him. Ink’s voice lowered as if Swap wouldn’t acknowledge him when he talked, “…Murder got him from his butt.”

“That fucking bastard. Shot me from my butt? How dare he—“ Swap’s passive-aggressive muttering faded into something like a shrill whisper and his eyes blinked, not syncing. He felt himself wobble on his feet—almost as if he was swaying in the bare air — wind swinging him around, and he would have most probably crashed on the floor if it wasn’t from Dream.

“Alright. Let’s get you bandaged up. You too, Ink.” Dream lifted Swap onto his chest as he got him in a bridal position in his arms, carrying him out of his office.

Swap could barely make out what Dream and Ink spoke about, his ears receiving the soft whispers only as faint, passing sounds. His head pulsed with every passing moment, his eyes fading in and out of focus. He was drifting in and out of consciousness.

Suddenly, after a good while of just black, a burst of cold water hit his body, jolting him fully back to consciousness. The sudden temperature change caused him to gasp — his body coming back to its senses.

Swap shivered, teeth clattering as he and Dream made eye contact.

“I need you to bear with me until I get you clean,” Dream’s eyes darted back to the faucet, turning the switch to hot.

Right. Swap’s focus shifted on the tub, and he was literally in his own blood in it. Not only that but his body was covered in grime, sweat and dirt. Water did little to help in this situation, only causing him to groan every time it burnt his injured skin.

He could only imagine what Dream was obligated to see—and feel, since he was going to bathe him, sticky and green blood — dotted with pieces of dirt.

The whole scene was truly disgusting.

“It’s fine,” Dream said, his voice soft. He reached out for what seemed like a bottle of shampoo, getting a bit of it into his left palm as he placed the bottle down somewhere on the ground — cupping both of his hands until the shampoo separated equally.

“Alright,” Dream got closer and Swap noticed that he had got rid of all of his fancy clothes — just in his black bodysuit, “I am going to wash your head. Do you have any wounds there?”

Swap sighed, “No.”

And Dream’s tender hands started stroking his hair, rubbing and massaging his scalp. Swap felt his rock solid hair soften under his palms, and the shampoo started to foam up. Swap huffed as his pounding head relaxed when Dream rubbed his temples, his body unclenching from the firm grip.

Dream took the header, gently rinsing Swap’s hair as the blood and the foam ran down from his shoulders and down to his body. Swap groaned as the shampoo stung his wounds — and suddenly realized—oh Gods, he was naked?

A weird sense of panic took him over, but was immediately calmed down by Dream’s thumb rubbing over to his shoulder.

Dream said nothing, but Swap could feel that he was also low key embarrassed.

Next up was his body. Every time Dream tried to softly clean his wounds, Swap hissed painfully — his nails digging into his own laps.

Dream basically did what he could do as Swap kept jerking away, at least got to clean the dirt off.

Then, warm water poured down from his hair again, the dirt getting off him and down into the drain hole.

After they were done, Dream took a towel from the side, softly pressing it against his hair as he drained it. Then, he lowered it down to his body, wrapping him with it. Swap’s mind filled with the scent of Dream, and wondered if it was Dream’s towel or if he was in Dream’s chambers.

Dream gently brushed Swap’s bangs out of his eyes, and then cupped his cheeks, taking a look at his lips, “…Who busted your lips? They look—uh, fine, but—“

“—Don’t lie, Mr. Smiles and Rainbows,” Swap flinched when Dream’s thumb stroked his bottom lip, “I know that they look bad as shit.”

They shared some glances, Dream’s worried and Swap’s a bit frustrated, and Swap decided to speak up, “…Killer. He punched me because I stabbed Murder.”

“You stabbed Murder?” Dream breathlessly let out, his teeth baring up, “You stabbed Murder.”

“I am not a fragile little Nymph. I don’t play ‘pretty’ and ‘beautiful’ when someone fucks up my territory to the ground,” Swap scoffed, a pastel colored blood ran down from one of his nostrils, and he quickly sniffed it back.

“…About your universe,” Dream’s palms backed up from Swap’s face and to the tub’s edge, fingers pattering in the edge one by one as he opened his mouth to talk—getting cut off by Swap.

“—Other than Papyrus — who literally got his arm torn out, everyone is pretty much dead.”

Swap couldn’t help but gaze up at the white ceiling, his fingers slowly tracing the edge of the tub as he finally felt as if the tranquilizer had worn off, and actually struggled to take in the extent of the damage.

Alphys, Asgore, Undyne were gone. Not only them, everyone was gone.

As his breaths mingled in the warm air, his throat hurt. Swap kept his eyes rested on the ceiling, his mind still trying to process what had happened—the deaths of everybody he knew and cared about.

“…Let’s bandage you up, alright? We can talk about this later.”

“…Okay.”

Swap/Blue Sans belongs to the AU Community

Dream Sans belongs to @jokublog

Ink Sans belongs to @comyet

Murder/Dust Sans belongs to @ask-dusttale

Killer Sans belongs to @rahafwabas

Actverse belongs to me

hoped you liked it!! dreamberry are my babies 😭😭🥺🥺

#fanfic #undertale #fanfiction #dreamberry #dream sans #swap sans #blueberry sans #dream sans x swap sans #ink sans #actverse #tw implied violence #implied nudity #mentioned violence #ship #dreamtale #underswap #gay #undertale au

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erabundus · 7 months

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@haereses &&. said... flicks his temple. stares at him contemplatively, then turns away to scribble on a clipboard. "hm. no thoughts. head empty."

he blinks — out of SURPRISE more than anything else. the impact of finger against temple produces a sound, ( perhaps even one with a bit of an echo ) but the balladeer is in no mood to agonize over the specifics. not when dottore seems determined to spout NONSENSE — and to his face, no less. the least he could do is wait until he's out of earshot to make his horrid ( inaccurate ) observations ... ah, but he supposes expecting the doctor to conduct himself with the smallest amount of CONSIDERATION is clearly asking too much.

... the irony of such a gripe is entirely lost on him. or perhaps it simply goes IGNORED on purpose.

regardless, eyes then narrow. ❝ ... what exactly are you trying to imply? ❞ what does he MEAN no thoughts? kunikuzushi has thoughts all the time. ( though he's sure some particularly uninspired souls would call their quality into question. ) he's having thoughts RIGHT NOW — largely of a mildly irritated tilt, with a sprinkle of confusion for garnish. ❝ you already know what the INSIDE of my head looks like. if anything, i'm more worried about the state of YOURS ... ❞

#haereses #𝟎𝟎𝟗 : 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯. ◟ crack .◝#( scara hissing: i have thoughts! I /HAVE/ THOUGHTS!! )

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ticklystuff · 1 year

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Ignore this if you're not still doing ficlet requests! But if you are, may I request ler Tighnari with any lee of your choice, and ribs for the spot?

Thank you in advance and plz keep on writing! You're so talented and your work never fails to put me in a lee mood sjdhdbdbd

send no more, thx!

asdlkfjds i read the second part of your ask like five times tyty you are so kind <3 i decided to go with lee!aether if that's alright hehe

---

'KEEP OUT'

Hands on his hips, Aether couldn't help but snort amusedly at the tiny sign attached to the flimsy rope crossing the entrance of Tighnari's "secret" lab, which wasn't exactly so discreet due to Ghandarva Ville's lack of doors for their buildings. The blond had only known Tighnari for a few days, but surely an Akademiya graduate would be able to come up with something better than this. With a hop to his step, Aether easily crossed over the low-hanging rope, disobeying the sign that was practically made to be broken.

The room itself was filled with all sorts of flora, not that he was surprised as Tighnari was a walking encyclopedia for all sorts of plants. The various colors of petals and leaves drew Aether's attention in multiple directions and the blond found it difficult to focus on just one specimen. Instead, Aether took note of the little tags located next to most of the plants. Each tag was filled with scribbled notes, some more cramped than others, most of them illegible, yet some Aether was able to decipher.

"Benign, fresh yet bold flavor, would make a nice garnish," Aether read the notes out loud, taking a glance at the plant in question. He picked up the little pot that contained the plant, taking in the subtle citrus scent that accompanied the thin leaves. Based off of the little note, the plant seemed inviting enough and Aether picked off a piece, before setting said leaf at the tip of his tongue, only to wretch a second later and cough up due to the overwhelming taste of soap flooding his mouth. He was suddenly hit by flashbacks of Paimon purchasing an enticing looking soap bar from Marjorie's gift shop back in Monstadt that she slyly passed off as food. Aether did his best to spit out any remains of the disgusting leaf to rid himself of not only the soapy taste, but the awful memory as well, before placing the plant back in disdain. Clearly, he and Tighnari differed in taste when it came to food.

The blond continued to peruse the various plants, making sure not to taste them out of curiosity's sake. There was one plant that he would've missed had it not been for the reflected light from the skylight. The plant was the only one enclosed in a glass container and it's placement behind many fronds and vines only piqued his interest. What was so special about this plant that Tighnari needed to keep it so well contained? Granted it was a pretty plant; it had yet to bloom, so the petals were still enclosed in a bulbous-like shape. The petals themselves were a nice mix of pink and red and their translucent body almost made them look like hardened candy. If Aether had to guess what the plant smelled like, he would maybe say bubblegum. Reaching out, Aether was just barely able to lift the container enclosing the plant, before grabbing the pot itself and bringing the plant closer for examination, taking in the cute little petals waiting to blossom.

"Aether!"

The sudden call of his name made the blond jump, nearly dropping the plant in the process. Having jostled the plant itself, a few spores did escape the blossoms, making its way to Aether's nose and the blond sneezed in response, sniffling as he turned to the entrance to see a very angry Tighnari with many baskets of plants in hand. "Aha, sorry, I was just curious," he apologized with a chuckle, now that he had been caught, watching as Tighnari dropped the baskets in hand and marched over to him.

"You shouldn't be snooping here!" Tighnari scolded him, taking the plant in hand, only to avoid another sneeze from Aether. "Oh, gross."

"Ugh, I think I might have breathed in some pollen," Aether sighed with a stuffy nose.

This seemed to catch Tighnari's attention and he turned back to look at Aether with widened eyes after setting the plant back under the glass container. "From this plant?"

Aether nodded. "Yeah, why?"

Tighnari walked back over to him and placed a hand on his forehead, glancing over Aether with concern. "Do you feel anything strange right now?"

"W-Wait, what do you mean?" Aether wasn't sure how to react. "Tighnari, you're starting to scare me."

"Well, consuming the plant or inhaling its spores will often yield many side effects."

He finally connected the dots as to why that plant was isolated. "Such as?" Aether asked hesitantly, unsure if he actually wanted to learn more.

Tighnari put a hand to his chin as he spoke. "Well, from previous observations, we've seen an increase in neural activity."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"Heightened sensitivity of the skin," Tighnari spoke as if it was common knowledge. "Tell me, is anything different?"

Now that Tighnari mentioned it, something did feel off. "The room feels a bit warmer, I think."

"Alright," Tighnari nodded to the other, seemingly calm with the current situation. "There is a much more direct way to test this. Please, lift your arms up and keep them there."

Aether did as he was told and glanced at Tighnari nervously. "How long do you think this will last? This might hold me baHAHAHACK!" Aether suddenly yelped when Tighnari started tickling his ribs and he quickly backed away, folding his arms over his ribs to protect them. "W-What was that for?!"

"It's a simple way to make a diagnosis that doesn't bring harm," Tighnari explained. He took a step forward to the reluctant blond and placed his hands on Aether's arms, giving them a slight tug. "Now, come on. Arms up again."

Aether hesitated for a moment, before doing as he was told. He screwed his eyes shut, wincing when at the feeling of Tighnari's fingers by his ribs again. "A-Ahahaha! Ehehehahaha!" he danced in place as Tighnari poked rapidly at his ribs, filling the tiny room with giggles.

"I have no frame of reference, so do you feel more ticklish than you normally do?"

"Yehehehes! Ah-HAH!!" he jumped as Tighnari began kneading his fingers into the underparts of his ribs. "Tighnaharihihihi!"

"I'm sorry, but this part is required," Tighnari told him, but there wasn't a hint of sincerity to his apology, or Aether was sure by the way the forest ranger began maliciously squeezing at his ribs now, producing the most laughter yet.

"OKAY! OKAHAHAY! STAHAHAHAP!"

Tighnari removed his hands from Aether's rib cage, returning his hand to his chin as if he were contemplating if Aether needed further "testing". "You sure you're not usually this sensitive."

"I-I'm sure," Aether panted with a nod, hunched over as he caught his breath.

"Alright, I believe you," Tighnari told him, much to Aether's relief. "Let's go over other symptoms, one of which is dilated pupils. Lift your head up for me."

Aether looked up at Tighnari with wide eyes, watching as he nodded in response.

"Alright, check," he spoke again. "Do you feel any sort of fatigue?"

"Well, you just tickled me."

Tighnari chuckled amusedly. "I suppose so. Alright, the last one we often see is an increase in gullibility."

"How am I supposed to check for-" Aether stopped himself, giving Tighnari a dumbfounded stare. "Are you serious?"

Tighnari laughed again, this time out of mockery, giving himself a few accomplished claps. "Man, you totally fell for it! You were freaking out so much!"

Aether felt an embarrassed blush begin to spread across his face, feeling the shame at full force. "That was really mean."

"Well, that will teach you next time you decide to snoop through other people's stuff."

"Well, how was I supposed to know?" Aether huffed in annoyance, placing his hands on his hips. "Is that plant even dangerous?"

"Absolutely not," Tighnari snickered with the usual sass in his voice. "That plant is a gift for someone important. It was difficult for me to obtain it, so I hid it here and placed it in a glass jar to protect it till he arrives. He's actually on his way right now."

Aether sighed, tired with the way he was toyed with. "Well, I guess it's better that it's all fake."

"Oh, well, you're still incredibly ticklish," Tighnari joked, giving Aether a few playful pokes to his ribs. "Now, come on, leave before I do feed you something bad."

Aether snickered as he avoided the pokes, hopping back over the flimsy rope, catching one last glance of the 'KEEP OUT' sign he should've obeyed in the first place.

#aether #tighnari #genshin impact #tickling

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carnivalcarriondiscarded · 11 months

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he's squeaky toy. to me.

#aough i love him so much....#i will never be able to recreate this style/design i already know #my love for him is so great that it renders me unable to draw him consistently #it took all of my willpower not to clutter this with heart scribbles #himhimhimhimhimhimhimhimhim-#welcome home #welcome home puppet show #scribble garnish #welcome home fanart #welcome home wally #wally darling #NOOOOOO I MADE HIS CARDIGAN TOO DARK. FUCK #itsfineitsfineitsfine No One Will Notice #sigh. anyway...#i love his lil ascot and bizarre hair and cat smile and-#i have decided to put Slightly More Effort into my doodles. i think it might be worth it #even if the sun is up and my wrist hurty and im tired. i have been drawing for hours und hourz #and putting that right after more hours und hourz of crocheting? Ouch My Tendons

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springsnowmango · 2 years

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Baker Inseong

Inseong who perpetually smells like freshly baked dough and always gets a mixture of flour and cocoa powder on his clothes as he works

he always tries doing flashy things with dough to entertain customers

some attempts are great whilst others force him to make a new batch of dough

he's always experimenting with odd flavour combinations and funky new designs

his bakery's display case is filled with lemon cheesecakes that look like baby chicks and molten lava cakes garnished to look like bears

he has tons of notebooks and notepads stacked away in his office, all filled with scribblings of recipes and new ideas

successful inventions make it off the page and become real sweet treats adored by his customers

and the not-so-successful ideas are promptly forgotten about and never spoken of again

like the time Inseong was hellbent on creating the ultimate sweet-savoury treat and produced "The Chocolate Tomato Tart"

cut to the bakery closing for a week as Inseong and his staff all recovered from food poisoning

as an apprentice Inseong was always tasked with standing outside the bakery and giving out free samples to entice customers in

he was a natural pro at it with his loud voice and jumping-puppy personality

he'd spot someone walking in the bakery's general direction and run up to them with no hesitation

"Hello there! Would you like to try our newest dessert? I guarantee you will love our new peach pie it's got just the right amount of sweet and sour but the cream in between the peaches and the tart is what really brings it together and refreshes your tongue..."

and people follow him even if they weren't intending to go to the bakery because he's excitement is just so gosh darn infectious

whenever the bakery owner was able to secure a spot in the supermarket for a pop-up stand, they'd always send Inseong

Inseong who starts the day all enthusiastic and mentally pumping himself up but gets tired of standing after about an hour so he sits down in the little plastic chair given to him and ends up playing with his phone

but as soon as he catches someone in his peripheral vision he shoots up like a rocket and turns the charm on to the max

and suddenly he's gotten them to buy two jars of honey apple oat cookies (they just couldn't say no to him he was so nice to them)

now that he owns his own place, he happily gives out free samples if you tell him you were undecided on what to buy

he goes in-depth about all the premium-quality ingredients and careful baking process when all the customer asked was "are your chocolate croissants any good?"

Of course they are. Everything is good here. Its fantastic.

#sf9 #inseong #kim inseong #sf9 inseong #baker au #sf9 fluff #sf9 fic #sf9 au #sf9 scenario #sf9 scenarios

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sheepwithspecs · 1 year

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Playing to Win: Chapter 2

|| FFXIV || Rated M || (2 / 5)

Ao3 Link

The Final Days may be ravaging Thavnair, but the first ripples of despair’s swan song have yet to fully reach La Noscea. While others tremble in the wake of nightmares, life on the docks of Limsa Lominsa continue as normal. The same can be said for the eternal rivalry of the Sanguine Sirens and the Kraken’s Arms, as well as their obstinate captains. But as tensions rise alongside reports of monsters prowling the coastline, they will soon come to realize that the only thing more frightening than a Blasphemy is… a confession.

"Though she has her own place, Captain Rhoswen often dines at the Bismarck in secret." -Melkoko

If you wish to see something done right, you must endeavor to do it yourself.

As a child, Carvallain had often heard his father tout the age-old adage when dealing in trickier affairs of business. It was one of the few life lessons he’d taken to heart, and it had served him well in his thirty-odd years of life. At times, however, he was reminded of the lesson’s importance in the most inopportune ways, with minor grievances that might have easily been avoided had he taken matters into his own hands. These tribulations were often too petty to quarrel over, and yet they were also just aggravating enough that he could not let them go unnoticed.

A ruined meal, for example.

On those tedious days when he was forced to meet face-to-face with merchants from across the star, Carvallain often treated himself to a delicious—albeit pricey—private luncheon courtesy of the Bismarck. Although he considered himself something of a connoisseur, the dish he ordered was something more akin to comfort food. His cuisine of choice: Ishgardian beet soup, served fresh from the pot with a soft bread roll and a tall glass of wine. A hearty meal flavored by nostalgia, the rose-tinted reminder of bygone days.

Being a popular restaurant, the Bismarck was often booked for months in advance; in order to sidestep this waitlist, Carvallain usually made an effort to speak with Lyngsath personally. The Seventh Sage provided the Bismarck with a hefty discount on a variety of culinary imports, and Lyngsath was willing to pull strings and provide the occasional bribe in return. This time, however, their respective schedules had made it nigh impossible to meet before the appointed day. Desperate, he’d hastily scribbled down his chosen menu on a spare sheet of parchment before handing it off to one of the culinarians.

Now, weeks later, he was reaping the unfortunate rewards of his split-second decision. The Bismarck culinarians had not, in fact, prepared him a piping hot bowl of Ishgardian beet soup. Instead, they had prepared him a piping hot bowl of Garlean beet soup.

“What does it matter?” Gerald had asked, upon hearing of the mix-up. “Beets are beets.”

“There is more than one variety of any given vegetable,” Carvallain had argued, angrily pushing away the offending soup. “Furthermore, it’s the principle of the matter. When a patron orders a meal from a prestigious restaurant, they are entitled to come away satisfied. I am not satisfied.”

“What do you plan to do about it, then?”

“For one thing, I will be marching over there to speak with Lyngsath on the sloppiness of his kitchen staff.” Gerald, used to his captain’s stringent demands, rolled his shoulders in a careless shrug.

“But are you not going to eat it?” Carvallain wrinkled his nose at the offending bowl, with its wine-dark puree and pale sprig of garnish. “Let me have it, then; I don’t care one way or another about the beets.”

That evening, Carvallain crossed the short breezeway between the Seventh Sage and the Bismarck. The sun hovered just above the horizon, coloring both sea and sky in vibrant shades of pink and orange. The air was lively with the clink of silverware and hum of conversation from the restaurant’s al fresco diners. Future patrons stood in a line that stretched along the upper walkways, waiting with growing impatience as they announced their reservations one by one to the attending hostess.

He ignored the “No Entry” sign on the lower door, opening it to find the Bismarck’s crowded storage room. Crates were stacked here and there in the corners, their bulky wooden shapes broken only by the rounded curve of iron-rimmed barrels at odd intervals along the walls. Aging casks of wine stood ready along the far wall, stacked up higher than even a Roegadyn could safely reach. Ropes of onions and peppers were strung from the rafters alongside large linen sacks of flour and salt.

Near the entrance to the kitchens, a Miqo’te culinarian was busy tapping a barrel of ale. He approached with a polite smile, signaling with a wave of his hand.

“Excuse me, my good madam.” The culinarian looked up at him with wide eyes, her ears perking curiously before falling back to her skull. “Where might I find Lyngsath? I need to have a word with him.”

“Oh! He’s down cellar, but…” she trailed off uncertainly, eyes darting to the archway that housed the stone staircase. “I don’t think… that is, you probably shouldn’t—”

“Never mind,” he interrupted smoothly, with all the charm and grace he could muster. “Continue with your work, my dear. I shall go down myself and find him.”

“But sir—!”

Ignoring her continued protest, Carvallain descended the narrow staircase to find himself in the cellar. The vaulted stone chamber was full of perishables, shelves of aging cheeses and great vats of pickled vegetables, rows upon rows of jars containing jams and jellies, and several unmarked boxes piled high with ingredients used in the more tongue-tantalizing dishes served upstairs. His lips unconsciously pursed at the sight of katsuobushi, remembering how he’d once foolishly passed off an entire crate to the Sirens without knowing its true worth as a stock.

At the end of the long room was another door, this one covered in baize to muffle any sounds from inside. The door stood propped open with a barrel, allowing him a clear view into the cellar’s second chamber. This room appeared to be Lyngsath’s private galley, with all the tools needed for any culinary venture imaginable. A large stone oven had been built into the outer wall, as well as a stove like the ones used in the upstairs kitchen. Shelves of ingredients and solid wooden counterpanes lined either wall; beneath a free-hanging rack of pots and pans, a stone island stood sentinel in the center of the room.

He found Lyngsath in front of the stove, his broad face creased with intense focus as he stood over a bubbling stewpot. At his side, perched on a wobbling, three-legged stool… was Rhoswen. Carvallain did a double-take, barely able to recognize her without the trademark crimson garb and tricorne. Without them, she looked as unassuming as any other Limsan native in plainclothes.

Seven hells— Carvallain quickly retreated to the shadows, preferring to observe the scene without fear of discovery. What is she doing here? The galley was a far cry from a tavern kitchen, yet Rhoswen seemed perfectly at home on her little stool. And Lyngsath didn’t seem at all concerned to host a culinary rival in his workshop. In fact, the two seemed to make quite the cozy pair. Hmm….

A gentleman of high standing would not be caught dead listening to a private conversation. It was far beneath him to pry, but he simply could not leave the restaurant until he’d uncovered the reason behind this little rendezvous. By leaning just so against one of the shelves, he was able to see both parties while still remaining hidden from plain sight, one ear poised to catch any choice snippets of conversation.

Lyngsath gave the steaming contents of the pot one final stir before sampling it with a smaller spoon. He rolled the liquid experimentally around his mouth, tongue working in his cheek before his eyes lit up in an expression of pure joy.

“I don’t know how, but ye’ve done it again! This is damn near perfect!” He laughed, his booming timbre echoing in the vaulted ceilings. “Clever girl, using apples to sweeten the broth! I’d have never thought of it, meself.”

“Pshaw.” Rhoswen dipped her head, cheeks glowing with the compliment. “Ain’t nothin’ to it, really. I learned it meself from a long-eared Gridanian farmer when we took on that job for the Botanist’s Guild last summer.” She deftly pared another apple as she spoke, peeling the skin from a slice and popping into her mouth with a satisfying crunch. “I ain’t above takin’ advice from the professionals. I reckon if they grew the damn things, they oughta know how to eat ‘em too.”

“N’ it’s paid off, ain’t it?” Lyngsath chuckled. “Just last week I had two of my best culinarians going off their heads, tryin’ to figure out the secret ingredient in the Missing Member’s braised beef. It’s makin’ me wonder, now… could it possibly be?”

“Might be.” She winked. “Then again, might not. I gather me own herbs n’ spices rather than relying on the markets, so who’s t’say I ain’t got more than one secret ingredient?”

Damn it all! Carvallain let out a low exhale, cursing his poor luck. This isn’t a chance encounter! It’s nothing more than a meeting of minds.

Clearly this was some sort of preplanned event; by the familiar way they spoke to one another, it might have even been a regular occurrence. While he firmly believed his opinions about the kitchen’s lack of quality service to be well founded, Lyngsath was in no position to hear them at present. Besides, he’d already endured countless merchants and their unending woes, with no consoling meal to bolster his mood. Any complaint on his part was not worth the trouble of fighting off that screeching she-devil. He turned to make a silent exit, swallowing back the bitter taste of lost gil.

“Y’know, lass, yer a true natural with flavors. I just don’t see why ye refuse to even think about striking a bargain with the Seventh Sage.” Carvallain froze, his head snapping towards the galley fast enough that the bones in his neck protested. “It’s a damn shame that pride o’ yers will keep ye from reaching yer true potential.”

“My pride?” Rhoswen scoffed. “Don’t make me laugh! Do ye honestly think that fop would bother cuttin’ me an honest deal? He’d have me head on a platter first.”

“Aww, ye don’t know that.”

Oh, yes she does! Carvallain sneered at the mental image of Rhoswen in the Seventh Sage, begging on bended knee for a single jar of Thavnairian ten-spice. He could humiliate her by parading her around as his personal servant, or force her to do menial tasks in the hopes of earning his favor, only to deny the request the moment his amusement finally waned. He almost wished she’d be foolish enough to try it, just to provide him with some much-needed entertainment.

“I mean, it’s a whole new era,” Lyngsath continued, oblivious of their observer and his cruel reverie. “Piracy ain’t what it used to be, after all, but ye found yer niches well enough. The Krakens have made a good name for themselves as tradesmen; I even heard that Carvallain brokered a deal with Ishgard, n’ I know good n’ well he used to avoid any mention o’ the place on principle.”

“N’ look at yerself!” he gushed, waving a mittened hand towards the stool. “Every night folks are lined up n’ down the balustrade, waitin’ to set foot in yer tavern. Not to mention this new seaborne guard-for-hire business on the side. Before long, ye’ll be up to yer neck in gil. So, why not let bygones be bygones? With yer talents and his spice, the Missing Member would be giving me and ol’ Baderon both a run for our coin!”

“Shut yer trap!” Rhoswen snapped, the blush spreading down her neck. She turned away from the open flames, fanning herself with the loose collar of her tunic. “Yer so full o’ it.”

“Full o— Why, I’m as serious as the plague!”

“Whatever. N’ anyroad,” she added, after a pensive moment, “the Missing Member was never meant to be fancy. We’re peasant folk makin’ food after our own ‘earts; that’s why everything on the menu is sourced from La Noscea, from the farm-grown ingredients down to the herbs we pick ourselves from the coastline. When ye eat, it ought to put ye in mind o’ yer ma’s food. If we started to use them fancy spices, n’ ingredients with names so long ye can’t begin to spell ‘em… it just wouldn’t be the same.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy it here.” Rhoswen picked up another apple, stripping the peel from its flesh with deft flicks of her wrist. “It’s peaceful-like, without everyone banging about n’ hollering at the top o’ their lungs. Ye can hear yer own thoughts, n’ I like that. I like helpin’ ye with all the newfangled recipe ideas ye always seem to have brewin’ away in yer head. N’ when them recipes get popular with yer customers, I ain’t never asked for recognition, on account of I don’t want any.”

“That’s true enough.”

“The fact is: I don’t come down here because I want to become a famous sooz-chef,” she declared, butchering the term in her usual manner. “I do it because I like to cook. But if Carval—if other people started to find out things like that, they’d start claiming that Captain Rhoswen’s gettin’ soft in her old age.” She scowled down at the newly cored apple, turning it over in her hand before slicing it neatly down the center. “All that to say: I wouldn’t be caught dead crawlin’ to that uppity whoreson, even if he were the last man on this star who could spare me an onze of salt.”

“Uppity, eh?” Lyngsath chuckled. “Now, now… ye weren’t saying such things when ye came ‘round askin’ for advice on chocolates not so long ago.”

“T-That—ugh!” Her face was turned so that Carvallain could not see it clearly from his current vantage point. Lyngsath could, however, and one look had him breaking into bellowing peals of laughter.

“Bwahaha! A face like that would turn milk sour—”

“That’s enough!” With a flash of steel, the paring knife was buried in a nearby cheese. Lyngsath jumped, eyes widening as he stared at her white-knuckled fist gripping the handle hard enough to hurt.

“Lass?” He ventured cautiously. Rhoswen’s expression took on a stricken appearance, releasing the handle as though burned.

“Oh… I didn’t mean t’—” She swallowed thickly, seeming to wilt on the spot. Before he could move she’d buried her face in her arms with a muffled sound not unlike a wounded animal. Carvallain all but clung to the shelf, equal parts curious and appalled as he studied the scene unfolding before him.

He’d seen Rhoswen angry before, blazing with fury. He’d seen her vengeful, willing to throw her own life away for one last bullet in a Garlean skull. But this was the first time he’d ever watched her lose control. A shock to the senses, but not in the way he would have imagined. It made her seem so… vulnerable.

The thought should have pleased him. It did not.

“Oh, lass….” Lyngsath seemed to feel the same, his gaze sympathetic as he reached out to gently pat her shoulder. “What’s wrong? Ye can tell ol’ Lyngsath. I won’t breathe a word of it to no one.”

“I hate him!” Her eyes were dry when she lifted her head, but each word drawn from her quivering lips sounded more like a sob. “He makes me ‘eart ache somethin’ fierce, n’ I hate him all the more for it!”

Her… heart? Carvallain averted his eyes, brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of the word. What did her heart have to do with anything?

“Don’t ye think it’s time to set him straight?” Lyngsath wiggled the knife free of the cheese, setting it aside. “With plain speak, not chocolates or challenges.”

“I don’t know… it just ain’t our way, I guess.” She flicked halfheartedly at the apple peelings, cheek pillowed on her fist. “Even if it was, we still gotta think about appearances n’ such. Krakens n’ Sirens, we’re still part o’ the tri… triad?” she guessed, making a face. “Y’know, the three powers. If somethin’ were to happen to either crew, the whole city-state would be thrown off-kilter. Pirates would be blasting one another off the Aftcastle left n’ right for the chance to replace us. Don’t ye think we’d have mopped the floor with those puffy-shirted man-boys ages ago, if that weren’t the case?”

Rhoswen had a point. The rivalry between the Krakens and Sirens had been kept alive for years by the very idea that neither side could ever be allowed to overpower the other—the resulting imbalance would be far too great a blow to Limsa Lominsa’s shaky hierarchy. On land and sea, both crews set their behavior by a mutual understanding that today’s loss would become tomorrow’s gain, proverbial scales in eternal equilibrium.

“Anyroad,” she sniffed, rubbing her nose with the back of her palm, “Carvallain don’t seem like the kind what wants a truce. I’ve tried to play nice with him before, but nothing ever comes o’ it. Last ‘Eavensturn I even went outta my way to charm an extra cake from some no-name adventurer, n’ what does he do? When I go to give it to him, the blighter tosses the damn thing overboard! He went so far as to laugh in me face about it!”

“That’s not something I’d have expected from a man what calls himself a gentleman,” Lyngsath agreed hesitantly. “’Tis passing strange: the Carvallain I know would never turn down a Heavensturn cake.”

“Hmph. Probably thought I’d done som’mat to it. He ought to know better, though. Say I was fool enough to kill him. I wouldn’t bother with something as cowardly as poison. No, I’d just march right up to the Seventh Sage n’—” She mimicked cocking and firing a musket, aiming her finger at the far wall with a click of her tongue. “No need for underhanded tricks. I got me honor to think about.”

“That’s so.” Lyngsath stirred the stewpot with a pensive air. “Clearly the way to this man’s heart is not through his stomach.”

“It ain’t that. It’s me.” She made a face that, in any other circumstance, might have given Carvallain cause to smile. “He won’t have nothin’ to do with me. I even went n’ invited him to that gaudy casino in the middle of the desert, n’ the bastard stood me up. Me n’ the girls still had our fun, o’ course, but… I thought after all we’ve been through, he might have at least humored me.”

But I was there! It was frustrating beyond measure to remain hidden, when he wanted nothing more than to charge into the galley and defend his honor. He seethed in silence, fingernails biting into the meat of his palms as he struggled in vain to pick apart her argument. Perhaps he had been rather hasty to dismiss her offer of a Heavensturn cake. But he had never failed to answer a challenge, written or otherwise! In this, surely, she had to be mistaken.

The letter had been very clear about when and where the duel was to take place. He had arrived accordingly, only to find the area empty of familiar faces. Then again, the noise and flashing lights of the casino had been admittedly taxing on his senses. And the crowd had milled thick around the designated meeting place. And she was so very small…. Was it possible that he had simply overlooked her? Even so, if you had but signed the note, I might have found reason to tarry overlong—

“Well,” Lyngsath remarked, sparing her a sidelong glance, “If ye ask me, I think he’s a bloody fool to ignore what’s right under his nose. A beautiful lady like yerself should have folk trippin’ over their own boots in their hurry to court ye. If he can’t see that, he must be blind.”

Court?! His jaw dropped, ears burning at the very mention of the word. Court!? What in the name of—since when was he—just who did they think—

“But ye see, the so-called gentleman likes his women refined.”

“Pshaw!” He shook his head in clear disapproval. “He might say that, lass. He might even believe it. But Carvallain is a pirate at heart, no matter what fancy term he uses to describe it. N’ no pirate worth his salt would ever be truly happy settling down with one o’ them prim n’ proper types.”

“Them refined ladies are… well, they’re a bit like puff pastries. Beautiful to look at, n’ sweet as sugar on the surface. But if ye open ‘em up n’ take a look inside, ye’ll find that they’re full of air. They’ve nothing to satisfy yer hunger, n’ soon enough ye’ll be wishin’ ye had something a bit more filling.”

“A lass like yerself, on the other hand, is like a nice meat pie. Sure, some folk might turn up their noses at the offer of old-fashioned peasant fare. Ye might even look a little plain to some, seeing as how yer not all bedecked in spun sugar and fancy glaze. But we both know there’s nothing wrong with a simple homecooked meal. Underneath that crust is all manner o’ savory bits, just waiting for the right person to come along n’ appreciate it. Yer nourishing n’ hearty where it counts. Don’t forget that.”

“Seven bleedin’ hells! Is that yer way of cheering a girl up?” Rhoswen berated him sharply. “Calling her a meat pie?!” She crossed her arms, turning away with a huff. From his hiding place, Carvallain could see that her entire face had lit up in a deep blush. Even the tips of her ears were tinged red. “No wonder ye never landed yerself a missus!”

“Don’t be too harsh with me, lass. I was only trying to help.”

“Ah, well.” She shrugged. “Don’t go worrying about me. I ain’t never been the type to lose me head over a sweetheart, n’ I don’t intend to start now. Carvallain can stick a rod up his arse if he so pleases. There are more important things to worry about right now.” The corners of her mouth tightened. “Listen: I don’t want ye wandering the coasts for a while. If ye need something n’ ye can’t find it in the markets, come see me. Aye?”

“Is something wrong?”

“Dunno.” Rhoswen stood, reaching for her cloak. “I’ve just been hearing things, is all. Might be nothing. Might be something.”

“I’ll trust yer judgment on that. And I’ll be sure to pass the message along to the staff as well; don’t need ‘em getting any bright ideas.”

Carvallain did not wait to hear more, unwilling to risk being caught in a compromising position this late in the game. He needed time to think, his head awhirl with everything he’d seen and heard. He crept stealthily back the way he had come, thoughts tangling until he could not tell where one thread began and another ended.

Rhoswen and Lyngsath, their professional relationship that seemed to border friendship. How long have they known one another? How many dishes hold traces of her influence?

Rhoswen make an effort to be nice to him, of all people. Of course I would have no way of recognizing it, why would I ever presume she could be anything more than—

Rhoswen’s heart, broken, breaking. Why should I care? Why do I care?

Rhoswen. I’ve never seen this side of her before, so animated, so… so unguarded—

Rhoswen. In the lowlight, in that outfit, did she not seem almost—

Rhoswen. No pirate worth his salt would ever be truly happy settling—

“That’s enough!” he admonished himself, shaking his head as though the errant thoughts could tumble out of both ears. The fresh air outside the Bismarck helped to revive him somewhat, though his stomach seemed unsettled and his heart pounded a heavy rhythm against his breastbone. He no longer had any heart for the sunset or the lively dining atmosphere; he hurried across the breezeway, thinking only of the waiting comfort of his airing bed.

It was only when dusk gave way to nightfall that he dared to untangle the mess of his thoughts and lay them all out at once, examining each at his leisure until he was certain he could find a perfectly logical explanation for each. Once again, pragmatism had triumphed in the face of reckless emotion.

Of course, that was only if he didn’t account for bizarre dreams of Heavensturn cakes, laughing eyes, and a very strange sabotender.

#FFXIV #Final Fantasy 14 #Final Fantasy XIV #CarvRhos #Captain Carvallain #Carvallain de Gorgagne #Captain Rhoswen #Rhoswen Leach #fanfiction #my writing #multichapter

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