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yooils · 9 months

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lightweight . drunk!isagi x reader. fluff. accidental proposal. short blurb + extremely forced plot.

— ISAGI YOICHI is a lightweight.

it’s a truth acknowledged by everyone close with him, really, with the way he begins his flowery proses after a drink or two– followed by a gradual descent to an emotional wreck; usually accompanied with an abundance of impulsive decisions and a self depreciating monologue of his life.

but in spite of that, he knows how to handle himself 90% of the time. (the remaining 10% is left unmentioned by all, regardless of the copious amounts of black-mail material some of his teammates possess.)

so naturally, the first time you see yoichi have an emotional breakdown in public is during a team get-together! he’s half on his knees with an abnormally flushed complexion; his eyes are starting to water from the reverie he’s found himself in, and his throat is constricted with hiccups. you've been so-called paged by his colleagues– only to find that the emergency they had mentioned afore to be your drunk boyfriend.

“i just want you to know that i love you.” is the first thing that comes out of isagi's mouth when he catches sight of you entering the bar his team had booked for the night.

the collective wolf whistles from his teammates would have portrayed the unfolding scene to be akin to an extremely romantic (read: corny) scene of a movie, if it wasn't for the uncharacteristically delirious look in your boyfriend’s eyes.

“my affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this. i just want you to know that i’m pregnant, and you’re the baby. will you marry me?”

(a few feet away, rin spits out his drink, outraged at the sheer blasphemy of one of his favourite books and movies. nagi's recording next to him, half-asleep yet still giggling at his friend's drunken antics.)

you love yoichi too, you really do– but you have to run through the list of things you love about him just to keep yourself from strangling him to the brink of unconsciousness so he stops talking.

– he's cute. he's only a little bit annoying sometimes. he does the laundry properly. he just confessed that he loved you amidst his drunken stupor even though you've never said it to each other directly before in person– and then proposed to you. and he's hot.

finally forfeiting to his boyish, drunken charms (and having had enough public humiliation for today), you find yourself and your extremely drunk boyfriend in the middle of the parking lot; with you holding him by his coat so he doesn’t escape, and him squirming around with airy sounds of discomfort which you had opted to ignore.

isagi’s leaning in close, breath reeking of alcohol and hands fumbling with his seatbelt clumsily.

“psst.. don’t tell anyone, but i’m gonna marry you one day.”

the pause in the car is deafening.

you furrow your eyebrows. he obliviously leans his cheek against the car window, unbothered by the sheer weight that his words had carried.

“wait, you don’t want other people to find out that you’re going to propose to me, so you tell the person you’re actually proposing to?”

his drunk gasp speaks volumes to you. “oh no, did i say that out loud? am i being kidnapped? where am i? is the world finally ending? but i still haven’t told (name) that i loved them…”

(okay, maybe he’s a little more stupid when he’s drunk, but you’ve grown to become a believer in the concept that drunken words are sober thoughts in the last hour. you hope.)

isagi’s eyes melt into something akin pools of sapphire stones under the lamppost-lit light. it’s been your favourite colour from the moment you met him.

“yoichi, why are you sniffing me?”

you amusedly ask, finding minor entertainment in his actions.

he’s half slumped on you by the time you stop the car by his apartment– and you realise that there’s no way of getting out of your vehicle without damaging 1.) your spine 2.) your arms and 3.) his dignity. (which really is already ruined, objectively, from the amount of second-hand embarrassment you’ve faced tonight.

“don’t wanna leave you.. smells like home..” he almost-incoherently mumbles, and you impulsively have half a mind to keep him forever-intoxicated because of how cute, despite tedious he’s become.

as a relatively simple man, isagi has always been subjected to a desire for more; especially when it came to football.

(but you, he thinks, will always be more than enough for him. and he hopes he’s enough for you too, even in his drunken haze, because he doesn’t want to let you out of his grasps for even a second).

the way you stroke his hair has his mind collapsing into a puddle of melted goo even in the air-conditioned car. you’ve rewritten his brain chemistry to make yourself the only pearl in his universe composed of mostly football, and in every life, he would let you break his heart over and over again.

once you realise that he's stopped his drunken ramblings and fumbling, the panic finally kicks in.

"yoichi, are you sleeping? we're still in the car park! i can't get out with you laid on me!"

(the next morning, he apologises after a much needed hangover pill and a reminder of what happened last night, sent to him in the form of a video by nagi.

you don't tell him that you've already seen the ring in his sock drawer.)

8.12.23

#blue lock #bllk fluff #blue lock fluff #blue lock x reader #bllk angst #isagi fluff #isagi imagines #bllk crack #blue lock crack #blue lock imagines #isagi x reader #for legal reasons i will not add an angst ending bout it being a fever dream #hallucinated by isagi #because you died from driving him home #i am so sorry for all the jane austen refernces #log– works

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pandorapromises · 9 days

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would anyone like to read a cut excerpt from the lo'ak x reader fic i'm currently working on?? i had to take it out cuz it wasn't working with the setup or tone i had planned like, this was turning out comedic and not angsty

"Oh, for the love of Eywa!" you cry, bursting into tears. This man, your muntxatan, is so, so hopelessly stupid and so stupidly sweet. He makes you want to tear out your own hair until you're bald.

You also want to bury your face in your hands but you can't because they're slimy and sticky with fruit juices. You're forced to rub your eyes with the back of your hand while Lo'ak scrambles to figure out what he did wrong.

The way your name flows out of his mouth sounds like it's him who's in pain, not you. "Please tell me why you're crying," Lo'ak begs, scooting closer to you. "What do I do? Huh? Tell me, what do I do?" His hand is warm upon your back and somewhat comforting but the tears and sobs do not stop pouring from your eyes and mouth.

"Are you hungry? Thirsty?" Lo'ak lists off every thing he can think of that might be upsetting you. "The baby? Is it being a menace again?"

The laugh that bubbles out of you comes out choked and makes your belly bounce like you're crying harder instead. This is when you realize that Lo'ak has never seen you cry before. But it's too late; now he knows his muntxate** is an ugly crier.

"Is it… the hormones?" he tries again.

"I don't even know what that is??" you croak, the tears leaving wet tracks on your cheeks. Lo'ak tends to speak in a confusing mess of Na'vi and English. Sometimes, like now, you have no idea what in Eywa's name he's talking about.

"Nevermind, forget about it. Just tell me what's wrong! Was it me? Was it something I said?" Lo'ak insists. "Whatever it is, I am very, very sorry and I will never do it again."

You take a deep, heaving breath that rattles your chest and leaves you hiccuping. Tears still fall from your eyes, blurring your vision, but at least the worst of the sobbing is over. In spite of your throbbing headache, you take another breath and get a grip on yourself.

The first thing that comes out of your mouth is, "No, I'm s-sorry."

Lo'ak frowns in confusion, scooting even closer. You're practically sitting between his legs with his hand squeezing your shoulder. "Sorry for what?"

Your hand flies to your chest, accidentally smearing sticky fruit juices all over your skin. "Sorry that it's me-e," you blubber pathetically through ugly, wet sniffling.

Now it's Lo'ak's turn to stare at you blankly with no idea what in Eywa's name you're talking about.

For some reason, this upsets you even further. "Stop pretending!" you hiss tearfully. "Don't--don't act like you don't know, Lo'ak…"

"Wh-what?" Lo'ak can only blink in utter bewilderment. He opens his mouth to speak but before he can, a loud, boisterous voice interrupts him, calling your names.

"Hey, forest boy!" Aonung shouts over the noise of the celebration in the village. He's standing on the walkway above the water with a waving Spider at his side.

"Are you guys coming to the party or not?!" Spider yells, his voice easily heard even through his rebreather.

Lo'ak rolls his eyes in exasperation and mutters to you, "Hold on, let me get rid of them." You think he's about stand and go talk to them but instead, he simply bellows over his shoulder as loud as he's able, "We're busy!! Go away!"

The sudden volume makes you jump in your own skin and where taking deep breaths failed, being startled succeeded. No longer are you a weeping, hiccuping mess.

Aonung and Spider look at each other, Spider shrugs, and they promptly return to the warrior's dance.

"Okay, so what were you saying?" Lo'ak says as he turns back around.

You shake your head and try to stand up, shoving his arm off in the process. But with your big belly, it's near impossible to do alone. You are a stubborn woman though. You push Lo'ak's hand away when he tries to help you and through the sheer strength of your will, you rise on your own two feet.

Lo'ak chants your name, each time more desperately than the last, as he stands as well. "Please, tell me what's wrong, I can help! I can fix it!" he pleads.

You resist the urge to tell him to quiet down but with the warrior's dance raging on the other side of the village and practically everyone there, there's no one on the beach to witness your breakdown.

Trying to get a handle on your racing thoughts amidst a headache is difficult and even worse with Lo'ak forcing you to look at him with worried hands. "Lo'ak, please, I'm sorry but--"

"Sorry about what? I don't understand!" Lo'ak snaps. Both pairs of eyes widen at his sharp** tone, neither one of you expecting a reaction like this from him. "Shit. Sorry. Look, look at me--" He cups your cheek and gently turns your gaze back to him. "Listen to me, okay? I can't fix it if I don't know what it is. So please, tell me what is wrong so I can make it better."

For one tense moment, all you can hear is your quick, shallow intakes of breath and the heavy drumming of the warrior's dance in the distance. You can feel, down to your bones, time slowly stretching until every blink is as long as an eclipse. Lo'ak's eyes bore into yours until the bright amber of his irises is all you can see. You know you should be saying something, anything, but how can you form words when your mind is at a standstill and refuses to move?

Lo'ak solves this problem for you. Without speaking further, he releases his hold on your shoulders and carefully wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his warm chest. He is mindful of the babe in your belly and embraces you from the side, cradling you as tightly as he can without hurting you or your child. Then when he presses his lips to the top of your head, warming the spot with his breath, all you can do is let go and melt into him. It's like being carried by the current of a river, an unseen force that is only felt.

No one speaks for a while. There is only Lo'ak's warmth, the drums, the People's song, and the sea.

But just as you feel your eyelids getting heavier, Lo'ak whispers against your hair, "Will you get in trouble if you don't finish peeling the fruit?"

Your eyes snap open. "The fruit!" you gasp.

Lo'ak chuckles as he follows you to inspect your progress and offers, "Uh, maybe you take this half and I take that--"

"No," you interject, waving him away, "you start taking the finished ones to the Tsahik**. She will be needing them soon."

Your muntxatan nods obediently and with a grunt, lifts the heaviest basket onto his shoulder. But instead of leaving right away, he hesitates, watching as you kneel back down on the sand to finish your work.

"What is it?" you ask as you start hurriedly peeling what you have left.

"Did you know…" Lo'ak falters, fidgeting in place. "Did you know that you're really… beautiful? Even with all the…"

Your hands instantly freeze in mid-motion. You and Lo'ak simply stare at each other, equally wide-eyed.

"Even with all the what?" you inquire, a little breathlessly.

Lo'ak clears his throat and nearly drops the hefty basket on his shoulder when he takes one hand to try to gesture something. Thankfully, he is quick to catch it and doesn't drop any of the fruit but you're still left with unanswered questions.

"Even though I'm pregnant and bigger than Payakan?" you ask half-jokingly. You try to continue peeling but your hands are slow and shaky.

"Yes," Lo'ak answers, a little too loudly. Then his eyes widen even further. "Wait, no! No, that's not what I--" He squeezes his eyes shut while his ears flatten against his head. "Don't say that. You are not bigger than Payakan." Then he opens his eyes and looks at you intently. "I was going to say you're beautiful even though you're crying and your eyes are all red and splotch-y."

When you don't speak or respond, Lo'ak

#papr txt #lo'ak x reader #loak x reader #lo'ak #loak

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justanotherfanwriter · 1 year

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devotion

something for @soulxmakaweek I saw the first prompt was devotion and ran with this Bad!Ending au I came up with. It's an idea I'd want to flesh out more, but I feel this is okay for a prompt week! :)

fair warning this is a one-sided soulxmaka fic, but I love when devotion turns into an unreciprocated obsession. So, expect angst.

t/w: gore, violence, murder (but at the very end)

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Maka wasn’t the same after the moon, though, to be fair, none of them were. She hid it well, the slight shift in her personality, the distant stares, her moon bathing. Soul only knew because he heard the way she cried at night when he was stuck fighting his own demons that never quite went away, tucked in the shadowy recesses of his mind, begging, pleading, to come out.

If insomnia hadn’t plagued him, he would have believed all of her heroic puffery, the way she stood at Kid’s side, proud against his naysayers, and her belief in the change they were set to make after the battle on the moon.

The way her gaze flickered to the moon was just a trick of the eye if he didn’t know the way she cried.

She lasted three weeks—and so did he—before she cried herself sick, and he found her in their shared bathroom, her head in the toilet, retching up mucus and lingering specks of black blood. No words were spoken between them as he grabbed her hair and held it for her.

She was sick until the sun came up, and when they fell back against the bathroom wall, sitting together on the floor, tired but not sleeping, she finally spoke, voice cracking, “I just want them back.”

She didn’t say their name, but he knew she was referring to Crona. It was the way she had said them as if said with reverence, referring to a god and not the monster their friend had become. No, them was not used to symbolize the thousands that had lost their lives, but the one who had sacrificed theirs for them all.

The sound of her voice pierced his heart, breaking it in two, confirming everything he had dreaded, and knew, and ignored, and he fought hard against the lump in his throat because that was how he spoke of her, and he understood what it meant.

He wouldn’t be getting what he wanted, but that didn’t matter, did it? He had made a promise a long time ago, hadn’t he? When he said they wouldn’t be like her parents. Of course, liking her had never been the plan—nothing had gone to plan—but he wasn’t the kind of guy to go back on his word.

“What? You’ve already given up?” He said to the tile floor, speaking gruffly as he swallowed his tears. He stood up, offering her his hand, “Don’t be stupid. We’ll get them back. I promise.”

“How?” She stared up at him, her hand hesitating above his own. She looked drained and defeated and every bit as heartbroken as he felt, staring down at her.

“Why are you asking me?” He snorted, rolling his eyes, envying someone trapped on the moon, “You’re the smart one, remember? I’m just the guy who saves your ass when shit hits the fan. So do what smart people do, okay?” He took her hand and yanked her to her feet, “Go read a book.”

---------------------------------------------------------

Maka took his advice very seriously. Textbooks, tomes, manuscripts, scrolls (cursed and uncursed), newspapers, academic journals, and stray internet conspiracies she had printed out littered every free inch of their apartment dedicated to the Gods, the Occult, and Madness. She worked tirelessly, leaving no stone unturned.

From the little spot she had left him at the kitchen table, he’d stare at the sheer volumes of books with wonder. They were like a fungus that only continued to grow. Even his bedroom was unsafe from them. There was a time, years ago now, when her book hoarding was a point of contention between them, and he had forced her to sell a few for extra cash. That had been before she had met Crona. Now, he wouldn’t even dream of it. Sometimes her books were the only thing that kept her going. Not even he could rouse her from her grief anymore.

As the years progressed, Maka had only become more desperate. The world around her had moved on from Madness, adjusting to their new normal, which now included witches, a few werewolves, and one black moon.

Except for him, of course.

He had a few romantic partners in the years that followed the War on the Moon in a self-antagonizing quest to be rid of Maka. It didn’t work. At one point, he was gone for two years. He left without a single word, and when he came back, he was surprised to find she hadn’t even noticed his absence, while he, on the other hand, noticed every single second.

She had smiled up at him from a circle of books like he had only popped out to run a few pointless errands, and his heart had ripped apart and stitched itself back together again in seconds. He looked around their cluttered apartment and asked if she had seen Blair.

“Uh, I haven’t,” She blinked, “but let me read you this. I think…it may be something.”

“When did Blair leave?”

Maka twirled her finger in one of her disheveled, matted pigtails, reading the passage out loud around the pencil eraser she was chewing. She didn’t bother to answer his question. In fact, she acted as if it had never been asked. The most he could hope was that the cat had made it out alive, that he wouldn’t find her buried under a pile of books.

He never did find out what happened to Blair in the two years he was gone. Instead, he sighed, pushed the kitten out of his mind, and slumped his bag down to the floor before turning to pick up the spoiled plates of food she had piled and misplaced on the stacks of books.

He wouldn’t—couldn’t—let Maka die this way. So, he didn’t leave again. He stayed.

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Kid wasn’t the only god people prayed to, though obviously, he was well worshipped. There were many gods and goddesses that had domains in this world. Some governed over concepts like death, their only absolute order in the chaos of life, other gods represented the seasons.

Some were equated to the Moon.

Maka had become the Moon’s most zealous follower. Every new moon, she paid tribute, lightening candles and whispering prayers. Swirling clouds of incense would fill their apartment, turning her into an ethereal misty mirage.

Maka didn’t make the same tributes to Kid, but this didn’t offend their Death Lord. It wasn’t uncommon for Kid to turn sacrifices, precious goods, and money away. Sometimes Death was a blessing, but he preferred letting nature run its course. He was only interested in the people that defied him.

It always boggled Soul’s mind that Kid was a friend and still his timeless enemy, but in the end, what did it matter? He wasn’t afraid of Kid. His demons lived in his head, not on a clock, whispering insane circumstances, trying their hardest to draw him back into the black room. He resisted, but nights were still hard, listening to her cry over the moon.

His friends were more supportive of Maka’s religious obsession. Tsubaki still lit a candle at her brother’s altar for the moon without fail every evening. Black*Star thanked the shadows when she was in earshot. Patty and Liz would occasionally moon bathe with her to keep her company. Kid couldn’t do much without disturbing the power balance between all things, but he didn’t chastise her when she used DWMA resources to further her research.

Soul, on the other hand, did not participate in her religious endeavors. It was his one act of defiance against her, and if his friends noticed, they never said anything.

Soul prayed to a different goddess entirely. She was a sound. A “G” note. Solid and reliable and there. If he prayed hard enough, maybe the mirage of her, the ghost of her, haunting these halls filled with books and eye-stinging smoke, would become solid again, forced out of the shadows of the moon and back into the sun where she belonged.

Thoughts of that once-sunny girl consumed him when he stared at the moon priestess on top of their apartment roof. She was whispering a mantra to the rock above them as she held her hands out in prayer. She looked so delicate, bathed in the rays of the weak moonlight that still penetrated the black shroud covering its face, that if he reached out to graze his fingertips down the spine of her back, he was afraid his hand would pass right through.

Instead, he watched her from the stairs, memorizing the lines of her, the sharp angles, and soft curves, remembering when she was once brighter than the sun.

----------------------------------------------------

There was a monk who, according to legend, knew all things. Kid had heard of him once, stating that his father had spoken of the man with venom in his voice. A rare mortal who had defied death and gotten away with it. He knew nothing more, or rather, he disclosed nothing more and, with remorse in his eyes, turned Maka away when she begged.

She, along with Black*Star, was still his best agent. Her obsession to free Crona had spurred her up the ranks of the DWMA Agents, allowing her more access to classified information. He, of course, followed after her.

When Kid turned his back on them, she cursed his name and left in a storm of rage. This wasn’t abnormal. She oscillated between denial, anger, and depression, and bargained whatever she could to gain favors, holy or unholy. Acceptance, he noticed, was never in the queue.

She pulled a few of those favors she had long since gained and found the Monk Who Knew All Things. Soul had never doubted her ability to do so, but it seemed that others hadn’t either. A group, a splinter cell of some sort, had been watching and waiting, allowing her to do the hard part and crack the code, and then swooped in at the last second to steal her prize.

It was futile on their part. Together, he and Maka cut the group of men down without hesitation, and Soul enjoyed the sick feeling of them being sliced open. The black blood sang, and the room came nearer, but he had learned to ignore its call, focusing only on Maka and what she needed.

A blood bath laid in their wake, and resting upon a rock, waited the monk. His beard was well-trimmed but long. He was old but not frail. And in his eyes was the sweetest sorrow Soul had ever beheld.

He stayed as a scythe as Maka explained herself and her righteous cause.

“Tell me,” She begged, falling to her knees. He slipped from her grasp and clattered to the ground. He no longer complained when she did that, instead mourning only the loss of her touch. He could have transformed back into a human, but because she had not requested he do so, he stayed as a scythe within hand reach.

“Please,” She continued to plead, “how? How do I free them?”

The old man thought for a moment, staring up at the Black Moon, “It used to be such a lovely sight.”

“It still is,” Maka sneered. “Now, tell me. I saved your life; you owe me that much.”

His gaze fell back to her, and he sighed, “There’s nothing a mortal like yourself can do. This is a job of a god. Of divinity.”

This chilled his blood and reminded him of a recent conversation he had with Tsubaki prior to their trip. She had grasped him by the elbow and stared at him seriously with more authority than he had ever had the pleasure of seeing in her.

“Then, I’ll become a god,” Maka hissed, nonplussed by this revelation. “Tell me how.”

“I know that look in her, Soul.” Tsubaki had stated, “I’ve seen it in Black*Star—”

“You already know,” The Man Who Knew All Things said with a sad shake of his head, “and I beg that you do not follow this path.”

“It’s too late for that,” Maka spoke softly with tears in her eyes. “I promised them I would get them back.”

Madness was an interesting concept. Power, greed, order, grief. Just about anything could drive someone mad, and with the lingering pulses of Asura still permeating their atmosphere, Maka was—had been—at her breaking point. Once a beacon of human endurance, even she had lost herself in something.

Though he was still a scythe and could not see the look in her eye from the ground where he lay, he could feel the energy of her soul through their wave link singing a broken, mournful tune. It awoke something deep in him, and his soul began to reach out, harmonizing every other broken note as something dark pounded on the locked door in his mind.

“—she is going somewhere you cannot follow—” Tsubaki had warned him.

He had no time to react when Maka snatched him from his place on the ground and brought him down on the Man Who Knew All Things.

“Maka! No!” Was all he could cry as his blade caught the old man’s neck, slicing it clean off. She let go of him, and he went flying away, innocent blood staining his blade as he again clattered to the ground.

It was silent as the head of the monk rolled to a stop before her, and as he transformed back into his body, she covered her mouth in horror and shock, falling back to her knees with a horrible moan before crying out mantras and prayers to her Moon and its inhabitant, pleading for mercy and forgiveness, and a way to get Crona back.

He only felt sick. He had no prayers to whisper. Maka, his beloved, dearest Maka, had just committed the worst taboo. She had reaped a pure soul, one not on the Shinigami's List, and she had used him to do so. They had defied Death himself, and Soul knew Kid would not forgive her, not for this.

He should have run, like the coward he knew he was, but as tears streaked down his own face, he stayed. He had made a promise like that to her once, hadn’t he?

Tsubaki’s voice continued to echo in his head, “—and you will lose yourself entirely if you do not resist her.”

He sucked in a breath and knew their friend was right. A decision had to be made, but unfortunately, as he looked over at Maka, he knew he had already made his decision a long time ago. He didn’t fear death, he had his own demons, and they were devoted to a girl who was devout to the Moon.

He opened his mouth wide as Tsubaki’s warning played on repeat and swallowed the Monk’s soul whole. He stood there a moment, feeling it slither down his throat. The texture was the same as always, and for a moment, he was overcome with this incredible realization that a sound soul was no different from the unrested.

Slowly, he crawled his way toward Maka. When he reached her, he pulled her shaking form into his, and she didn’t resist as he began to rock them gently, smoothing down her hair. “Shush, shush, it’s okay.” He cooed, “We’ll be okay.”

He pulled away from her slightly and pressed their palms together as if in prayer, and slowly, so, so slowly, spoke as he finally started to feel the effects of a sound soul course its way through his body. He had been wrong, mistaken. A sound soul was not the same as the unrested. The black blood consumed it with vigor, and he knew now his hunger would be satisfied with nothing less.

“I told you, didn’t I?” He said barely above a whisper, looking past the tears in her eyes, as he shifted his fingers, interlocking them with hers, “I’ll follow you anywhere.”

#soul x maka #soma week #also this is unedited lol #it's supposed to read like a stream of consciousness but still unedited

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tryst-art-archive · 1 year

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Dialect Assignment

Ou est la bibliothéque?

“Yo, Evan!” Christophe, barely a speck on the horizon, waved to Evan who was four dunes away, wondering where the library was. It wasn’t very odd for Evan to simply stop what he was doing and look about him, wondering, thinking, and sometimes (like now) frightened.

But it was annoying.

“Chrissakes,” Mikhael murmured. “Has he got issue or what? YO, EVAN. COME ON, DUDE.”

Evan glanced at them nervously, looked over his shoulder again, and began to follow their footprints, all the while thinking “Ou est la bibliothéque?” with increasing panic.

“Come on, buddy,” Christophe said, placing a gentle but firm arm around Evan’s shoulders and steering him toward the sandcrawler parked nearby. He steered Evan toward it. “It’s time to head back, dude. Nothing left in this area to take back.”

Evan glanced furtively at the rusting hunks of metal dotting the landscape, pieces of forgotten technology from a world long gone. Desert sand made it impossible to judge the size of any of the objects whose purposes were often unclear even when fully unearthed. He didn’t say anything, though his mind kept shouting with increasing volume, “OU EST LA BIBLEOTHÉQUE?”

Christophe sat Evan in the back seat and took up the place next to him with Mikhael squeezing into the small driver’s seat to drive them home. Evan’s furtive glancing continue for the better part of the trip, and Christophe kept one hand on his forearm until the panic ebbed out of Evan’s appearance; Evan had done some crazy stuff when he started tweaking out like that. Christophe wasn’t about to let Evan hop out of the sandcrawler in a fit of madman hysterics and kill himself through sheer stupidity.

Christophe was more responsible than that.

A few minutes before the return to civilization as the three men knew it, Evan shook his head violently then quickly placed it between his knees as vertigo set in. “Woah,” he said. “How th’hell did we get in the sandcrawler?” He glanced up, pale, and noted the approach of the town. “Oh, hells, I tweaked again, didn’t I?”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Mikhael mumbled grumpily.

“Looked like the Panicky French Guy to me,” Christophe said, leaning back in his seat, ready to relax now that Evan was, once again, Evan.

“What, really? Hells, I thought I’d gotten rid of that one.”

“Guess not. Better not tell the elders, though. They’ll be ticked. That goes for you, too, Mikhael.”

Mikhael waved a hand at them. “I know, I know.” Evan sighed and looked out on the sandy landscape. This used to be New York, Panicky French Guy, Evan thought. Now it’s just sand and sand and sand, and we only know it used to be called New York because we found some old records; I don’t know what a bibliothéque is and I don’t know what your world was really like. I’m not even sure what French is; I just know you are PFG, but, hell, as much as I sympathize with your pre-apocalyptic panic, I wish you’d shut up and leave me alone.

Christophe clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up, dude. Maybe the pdead-people voices’ll be helpful one of these days like your father’s were.”

Evan returned Christophe’s optimistic smile. “Yeah, maybe.”

But both smiles were forced and it was Mikhael’s snort that held the most truth.

Their hometown was a motley place, put together like a patchwork quilt with various odds and ends jutting out willy-nilly giving the place a slightly deranged look. It was something of a shanty town with most of the shanties constructed from pieces of scrap metal, glass, and stone found in the desert sand. The elders’ residence had been constructed of the best materials – Lady Liberty redesigned into a dome-shaped building of surpassing beauty, or, at least, surpassing beauty for this wasteland. But for all that the homes were made of scrap metal, they were spacious and well-constructed, warm when it was cool and cool when it was warm.

So, though it was no postcard-perfect New England village, it was comfortable, and, more importantly, it was home. It was a town where everybody knew your name, and, because you couldn’t pick who you lived with in so desolate a world, it was a town where everybody who knew your name and also happened to know about the voices in your head wasn’t going to have a fit about it.

The three young scavengers pulled up to a building beside the elders’ residence and began unloading their finds. They placed the various hunks of promising-looking materials on a two tables, one for objects that were familiar and one for objects unknown. Technicians came over to try to puzzle out the purpose of these latter objects; once the three scavengers had finished unloading, they conversed with the technicians and shared their guesses as to the purpose of the unidentified materials. After an hour’s banter, the six men parted with the three scavengers wandering downstairs to resume work on some object or other made of scrap for these three were, primarily, engineers; scavenging was just the part of the job that gave them something to do for the other part.

Presently, Christophe and Mikhael were working together on a new sandcrawler in the hopes that they could get more guys out in the desert with them, helping to find things. They had, in fact, gotten the techies to agree to taking out this second three-seat cart and scavenging… if it ever got finished.

Four months and no finished cart later, just about the whole town had a wager on about whether they’d ever have it done and operational. It was getting near to its finish, though, and the two brothers’ excitement was palpable every time they glanced at their “baby.” Evan, meanwhile, had the not-so-jubilant job of fixing everything that broke in town. Usually, the three would split up the fix-it work so they could each pursue their own, community-enriching project, but for the duration of the sandcrawler project, Evan had agreed to forsake the production of his own ideas to take on all the fix-it jobs.

What he had not realized at the time was quite how long it would take for Christophe and Mikhael to finish the project.

He was beginning to feel resentful.

Well, no. He had begun to feel resentful two months ago. Now he was just a wee bit resentful, starting on bitter.

…Oh, alright. He was bitter and resentful and generally tired of fixing Mrs. Xiegerman’s various kitchen appliances or Maude’s showerhead (which she was perfectly capable of fixing herself; it was just that she had a thing for Mikhael and kept on hoping that today was the day that he would be able to come in place of Evan).

What he liked least, however, was having to fix things for the elders.

One of the technicians shuffled down the stairs with the nervous expression that meant the elders wanted something. Evan stifled a groan. “Uh, Evan,” the techie began, “the elders’ roof is leaking and, uh…”

“And, uh, indeed. Tell their messenger that I’ll be there in a second; I just need to finish fixing my tools so I can fix everything else that needs fixing.”

“Okay.” The techie hurried upstairs to relay the message, not at all eager to make even a messenger from elders wait. After all, everyone feared the elders though the old guys acted kind enough.

There were only four elders and their personalities seemed to be strange, carefully crafted stereotypes. One a kind uncle, another a cruel ruler, a third played the fretful accountant, and the final (and only female) member was a lofty queen or sorceress with a well-disguised kindness in her who had probably had all the boys fawning over her when she was young. They were “the elders,” the rulers because they were the only old folks in town and they had seized control in the most diplomatic of ways; getting people indebted to them and making themselves generally likeable so that, once the opportunity had arisen, their grasp of power was undisputed for one reason or another. Now, the four ruled with fear, still unchallenged, with words of sugar.

Evan, like all the other inhabitants of the desert-town, did not think this was his problem and, like most who think or say that phrase, was only too wrong. Indeed, what the techie had not mentioned was that, when the messenger said “The roof is leaking and the elders want it fixed,” his actual phrase had been “The elders want Evan to come and fix the roof now” with a subtle emphasis on Evan and now.

So Evan fixed his aging tools, put them back in their toolbox, and took the box to the elders’ residence, humbly bowing before them and thanking them for the work and would they like him to do anything else while he was here?

“Why, yes. We would like to request something of you, Evan,” Vera, the lady-elder, said with a sickly sweet, smiling voice. Sweet like apples rotting in the orchard when the people have come late to take the fruit, Evan thought. He had no way to know this and realized that the thought was a stray from one of the dead-people voices that drifted out of the world before the desert and assaulted his sanity.

Genuinely surprised, he managed a startled, “Wha?”

Patrick, the kindly uncle elder, gave a hearty belly-laugh. “Why, don’t act so surprised, m’boy! A thinker and citizen of your aptitude not be asked to do something special for his town? Preposterous.”

Evan decided not to mention that citizen and aptitude didn’t exactly go together. “Well, uh, what would you like me to do?” He realized too late that he had forgotten to throw in a respectful title, but the elders seemed content to ignore his oversight. That only made him more nervous.

“We have heard tales of another community out across the dunes with technology far surpassing our one,” Vera replied. “We sent contacts to them who returned only today to inform us that this other community is eager to share knowledge and resources with us; apparently, they have had far greater trouble maintaining a healthy food supply than we have.”

“Just the luck of where you’re landed at, really,” Patrick’s smiling face noted. Good lord, was he frightening.

“What we should like,” the cruel ruler, Thaddeus, began, commanding attention, “is for you to head into the desert to meet one of their people halfway between our community and theirs at an oasis that they call Fairy’s Palette.” He sneered in contempt for such a fantastical name. “You will then go to this other community to discover what you can and bring back whatever knowledge of technology possible. You will then bring their operative here that they may learn what they can of us and our food-garnering habits.”

“There is,” Bernard, the fretful one, said, “a risk involved in traversing the desert as such, but our original visitor to this second people did bring back some of their technology which should help you in your travels; all will be provided.” But he maintained a nervous twitch that betrayed his true feelings on Evan’s chance of survival and this, Evan felt, was no carefully-crafted ruse.

But they were the elders and his life was theirs (though for the life of him, he couldn’t think of why that should be). “Okay,” he said. “Someone’ll need to help Christophe and Mikhael, though.”

“Someone will be provided,” Vera assured him. “Why don’t you pack for your journey and say farewell to those you care for; return here as soon as you can to start your journey.”

Evan did exactly that.

The journey through the desert to Silly-Name Oasis was long, arduous, and generally not fun. The days were too warm and the nights too cool; Evan took to traveling only at night for this reason. Sure, he’d go into the desert on some weird errand, but he’d be damned if he was going to die of heatstroke out here just to make excellent time ‘cause the elders thought that would be nice.

The technology from the other community was proving invaluable, if somewhat temperamental; nothing he and his toolkit couldn’t fix, though. He was forced to walk through the desert by dint of there being only one sandcrawler, but his people had long ago adapted to walking through desert sand without killing themselves so the lack of a vehicle only made his journey longer.

On a handful of occasions, the dead-people voices got the better of him, leaving him somewhere obscure with no idea how he had got there and only a compass and good sets of directions to get him back on course.

After a time, he took to narrating himself mentally and eventually out loud, which was how he found the “oasis” at all.

“Our hero plows through the desert sands, weary of leg and spirit. He pushes through the dune sands, waiting for the hidden scorpion to stab him and end it all, but always remembering too late that ‘scorpions,’ whatever they are, are something from the dead-people voices, and are dead now.”

“You hear voices, huh?”

Evan jumped at the distinctly female voice and spun around wildly, loosing his balance and tumbling down the dune he had just reached the top of, crashing into another person in the process. Embarrassed at the collision, they laughingly helped each other up and dusted themselves off.

The woman he had crashed into looked to be in horrible shape, drenched in sweat that was freezing her thanks to the chill night air and looking generally like she hadn’t had a bath in weeks. He suspected that he looked no better.

She smiled and said, “Are you from the community with bountiful food?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “’M Evan. You from the techno-people?”

“Yup.” She extended a hand. “Emily.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

They shook hands and stood at awkward social stalemate for a moment. Evan glanced at the surroundings. “Isn’t Silly-Name Oasis s’pposed to be here?”

“That’s what I was told, but I guess not. Ever think your local government’s trying to get rid of you?” She sat down in the sand and took out some sort of advanced compass device – Evan would later be told that it was called GPS.

“Most of the time,” he said, sitting across from her. “The hearing-voices thing makes them nervous, I guess.”

“Maybe,” she said. “I figured the gov’t was trying to dump me ‘cause of the visions.”

“Visions?”

“Yeah. Sometimes I just kinda… go somewhere else and I see this place with huge buildings and amazing technology and I recognize some of it because I’ve seen it in pieces and scraps when we go out scavenging, and sometime people talk to me, but I can’t hear them. Like, the day they sent me out here to meet you, I had this vision with this panic-stricken, crazy dude yelling at me, asking something. It’s a recurring vision, actually.”

“Ou est la bibliothéque?” Evan suggested.

She shrugged. “Beats me. What’s it mean?”

“Dunno. I get a recurring auditory hallucination where some crazy French guy is freaking out and yelling that over and over. ‘I just kinda go somewhere else’ and hear things like him.”

Emily had the look of someone who’d seen a ghost. “French, you say?”

“Yup. Don’t know what it is, but I’ve known the Bibliothéque Guy was French since the first time I heard him.”

“That’s really strange,” she said, “because the first time I saw the crazy, yelling guy, I knew he was French.”

They stared at each other for a while. “We’re having two parts of the same hallucination?”

“Guess so.” She shrugged. “My mother used to have visions; she got them to work for her though.”

“Same with my dad.” Evan thought for a moment. “I wonder if they had two parts of the same vision, too.”

“No way to know now,” she replied.

“Guess not.”

They were silent for a moment, each in their own thoughts.

“Well, anyway,” she said. “Now that we’ve managed to run into each other, wanna head back to my town and see what happens when they find out we’re not dead.”

Evan grinned. “I’m game.”

So they started back the way Emily had come.

They ran out of footprints.

“Bloody desert winds,” Emily sighed. She pulled out the GPS device and fiddled with it, trying to get a fix on their location. “Looks like we go that way,” she said, pointing to some far-off dunes that looked like all the other dunes.

Evan consulted his compass, realized it was broken, and shrugged. “Okay, sure.”

They walked on in silence.

“What’s your town like?” she asked suddenly.

“Oh, uh, it’s nice.” Well that wasn’t sufficient. “We’ve got pretty much everybody divided into little groups with specific jobs. I’m part of the Engineering Corps; we scavenge for parts, make stuff, fix things. I like it.”

“Who runs the place?”

“The elders. There’s for of them: one woman and three men. They’re all… pretty nice.”

“Are they?”

“Well… I mean…. I guess so.” He thought for a moment. “Truth be told, everyone’s afraid of them.”

She nodded as if she expected as much. “That’s basically how it is in my town, too.”

“Really? …That doesn’t make sense, though. Why should two separate towns that don’t know about each other develop in precisely the same way?”

Emily glanced at him, sly. “What makes you so sure our two town governments don’t know about each other.”

Evan began to offer and reason, but found he had none. “Point,” he said instead. “What do you think’s going on, then?”

“Beats the crap outta me.”

Silence settled on the land once more.

They reached Emily’s town roughly a week and a half after Evan had left home and by then the two were great friends with enough comedic material in inside jokes to last a stand-up comedian a lifetime. (They both knew of stand-up comedians through their dead-people hallucinations, though they weren’t very clear on what that meant, exactly.)

Between the time they had met and their arrival at the town, they had undergone five hallucinations which, they discovered, were totally synchronized and almost always of the same content, just different parts thereof. They took to piecing together the whole of what had been seen and heard, finally beginning to get a full view of what had been before the desert, and beginning to see that that society was really not at all unlike their own.

Their arrival at the town was nothing short of awkward; clearly not a soul had expected them to arrive, elders included, but these elders covered it well and they were “made to feel welcome” though the sensation that they were ghosts walking among the slack-jawed living made a welcome feeling nearly impossible to obtain. Even friends of Emily were too shocked by her continued breathing to feel any joy at her return; they had all of them given her up for dead, and there was no doubt in Evan’s mind that the same was waiting for him back at home.

It was only now that he began to feel very unease about the whole “go into the desert” business at all.

Over the course of the year that he spent there, the sense of foreboding only grew worse.

It was not, he would later discover, an unfounded feeling, either.

#writing archive #TrysKits work #prose #fiction #old writing #oc writing #assignments #original characters #Locust Apocalypse #Evan #Emily #00s #2007 #Age 16

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kaizokuou-ni-naru · 3 years

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The Voyage So Far: Paramount War (Part Two)

east blue (1 | 2) || alabasta (1 | 2) || skypiea || water 7 || enies lobby || thriller bark || paramount war (1 | 2) || fishman island || punk hazard || dressrosa (1 | 2) || whole cake island || wano (1 | 2)

ace’s execution is, in a way, the exception that proves the rule when it comes to one piece’s themes of blood and family. ace is set up to die for the crimes of a father he never knew and never wanted, and he does die here, but in the end he dies for the family he did choose, in the form of luffy, rather than the one he didn’t.

god do i wish we knew more about ms portgas d. rouge. with ace’s storyline pretty much wrapped it looks unlikely that we’re going to be learning more about her than what we got, which in my opinion is an absolute tragedy, because what little we do know about her is amazing and she’s an absolute badass. oda give us more female ds please.

whitebeard’s power is so cool. it might be one of the visually coolest devil fruits we’ve ever seen, in my opinion. he he causes earthquakes and tsunamis while far past his prime; he pulls the sky apart with his bare hands. this whole arc is world-shaking, and whitebeard’s power is perfectly appropriate for it.

doflamingo’s speech on justice and rightness is one of the most well-remembered quotes from this whole saga, and rightly so. i’ve always found it fascinating, myself, because he’s right. he dead-on hits how the one piece world works- the world government and the marines rule the world not because of any inherent actual goodness or justice or right, but because they won a war a very long time ago.

in a way, this reminds me of blackbeard’s line of “people’s dreams never die” from jaya. i like how oda isn’t afraid of letting his villains be right about the themes of the story, sometimes even having better awareness of them than the protagonists.

man, if i had to pick a single favorite spread out of the whole manga, it might be luffy’s marineford entrance. it’s so epic, and so completely unexpected for everyone else there. absolutely nobody was expecting strawhat luffy to drop out of the sky with a posse including two former warlords. it just makes me grin!! so much!!

it also gets followed up by a solid two pages of just people’s reactions, from smoker’s “what the HELL is he doing with CROCODILE” to moria’s immediate incoherent rage, and i just love that the world and cast of one piece is so well-established and built up that we know exactly how all of those people know luffy and why they react the way they do.

going back to what i mentioned in the last post about marineford being luffy’s conflict of interest arc, i’d say it’s also the only time where he isn’t the future king first and foremost. in this arc, before anything else, he’s a little brother.

there are a lot of what-if moments in marineford. moments where you kind of have to ask “what if this specific thing hadn’t happened, had gone differently?” would things have turned out differently? squard’s betrayal is one of them. does this change the outcome? would whitebeard have been able to survive if not for this injury? there’s no way to know. marineford is a lot of little tragedies, and they just pile up and up.

marineford has just so many incredibly striking spreads. all of the momentous moments (and there’s a lot of them, in this arc) are done full justice. this is such an image heavy post just because marineford is such an incredibly visually strong arc.

conqueror’s haki is so cool and i love the way it’s set up and built up throughout this saga, with luffy’s constant inadvertent uses of it, from duval’s bull to marigold and sandersonia to the wolves in impel down, all leading up to this moment.

i’ve heard people complain about conqueror’s as kind of a deus ex machina, but i honestly love it, it’s very cool and honestly i think it just seems to fit luffy as a power. if there was ever gonna be a character who turned willpower into a weapon, it would be monkey d. luffy.

i’m gonna take this chance to talk about garp, because this sequence of panels is heavily implied to be garp’s thoughts just before luffy punches him down, and it hurts. garp is a flawed person who makes some bad choices, and there’s no arguing that, but i think it’s very obvious he really, really cares about his grandsons, even if he never could understand them as people and that they never would have been happy as marines. and that’s just tragic, really.

the moment ace gets freed and the brief span of time where he and luffy can fight together feel so triumphant, and i think it’s one of the reasons the final tragedy of marineford hits so hard and feels so cruel, because luffy succeeds, here. he saves ace. he gives absolutely everything he had and makes it, and saves ace. the ultimate failure isn’t his. there was nothing more he could have done.

the first time i was reading one piece, i hit this page (which is also the last in the volume) and had to put the book away, take the bus downtown, wander around for a few hours, and buy myself some candy and some new books before i started feeling okay again.

the thing about ace’s death, i think, is that it’s a tragedy, but it also feels so completely essential to the story going forwards and luffy’s character growth specifically that it’s really, really hard to imagine one piece without it. there are a lot of (really excellent!) fix-fics out there for marineford, and although those are often really good and their authors super talented, i think it’s really hard for them to ever hit the same way canon does with regards to this.

i always think of this scene specifically in contrast to zoro and mihawk’s fight, back on baratie. zoro and mihawk are both people who believe in honor in battle, true victory or death, and that’s reflected in their fight, in zoro’s refusal to turn and run even in the face of imminent death, and mihawk’s respect for that resolve. whitebeard, too, is an honorable man. he refuses to turn to run, even when facing certain death.

the blackbeard pirates, however, are not.

i do enjoy how, just like roger’s, ace’s execution backfires tremendously on the marines. this was entirely a predictable outcome, too! this exact thing happened twenty years ago! the marines don’t learn. they don’t change. they’re so assured of their own rightness and power that they make stupid mistakes like holding a massive public execution after the last one blew up in their faces.

(this is why they need coby so badly, for the record, and why it’s important that he still decides to become a marine after witnessing their corruption firsthand in shells town. the marines are long overdue for a reformation, one that orients them towards real justice.)

i really, really enjoy crocodile in this saga. mostly because he hasn’t been redeemed at all, he’s still pretty much the exact same kinda awful person he was in alabasta, he’s just on luffy’s side this time, and it lets us see him in a better light, when he gets angry at whitebeard for nearly dying or when he helps luffy and jinbe escape to keep the marines from getting their way. few of one piece’s characters are truly so one-dimensional as they can seem, and i really appreciate that.

i really really love all the interactions between luffy, ace and sabo as kids. they’re so fun and bounce off of each other so well. even though we only see them together for a brief time, they really feel like siblings. (which of course only makes later events hurt so much more.

i’ve always been a little fascinated by the fact that it takes us this long to get luffy’s full backstory. it’s almost a fakeout, because we get part of his backstory in the very first chapter, and we’re kind of led to believe that’s all there is. it’s not until ace’s introduction nearly two hundred chapters in that we’re given any indication there’s more.

but at the same time, it makes sense. marineford is luffy’s focus arc, as arlong park to nami or thriller bark to brook. he hasn’t had a focal arc that’s really about him before this, while all his other crewmates have. it makes sense that this would be when he finally gets his flashback.

i think it’s cool that dragon and the revolutionaries show up at the grey terminal fire, because it’s one of the only looks we’ve gotten so far into what their actual regular operations are like. and, of course, they’re saving people. i really like this about the revolutionaries, that helping people in trouble is basically their modus operandi, when pretty much everyone else in one piece’s world mostly does saving on an incidental basis if at all.

i think a lot about how the last line of sabo’s letter to ace is also both of their last words to the strawhats.

death in one piece always feels much realer and more impactful to me than in most other series, and i think this is part of the reason why: in one piece, we are always shown the mourning. nami at bellemere’s grave, carrot grieving pedro, ace and whitebeard’s funeral.

there are fewer deaths, comparatively, than most other series, but they’re given so much room to echo. we’re still feeling the impacts of ace’s life and death in the most recent chapters of wano. it ties into the theme of inherited will and all the way back to hiriluk’s final speech, of men not being dead so long as they’re remembered.

the picture of luffy at marineford always kind of strikes me. he looks so young and so solemn, and yet much more himself than he did when we last saw him losing his mind on amazon lily. i really like it.

sometimes i just think about the sheer depth of trust and love the strawhats must have in each other to separate for two years, far longer than they were ever together, to solely dedicate themselves to improving for the sake of crew and captain. none of them even hesitate, and none of them ever doubt that the crew will be reformed at the end of it.

after all, luffy keeps his promises.

#the voyage so far #one piece #opmeta #not japanese #arc: marineford #arc: post marineford #long post

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diaryofabeautyfiend · 3 years

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This is two parts because I got carried away. I wrote this on my phone and proof read as much as I could.

Warnings: cheating, male masturbation, m/f sex, minor spoilers for “Defending Jacob”.

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Plain Gold Ring

“Plain gold ring on his finger he wore

It was where everyone could see

He belonged to someone, but not me

On his hand was a plain gold ring”

-Nina Simone

When the Barbers moved to your building every old bitty in the place was buzzing with excitement. You had loosely followed Jacob Barber’s case as it played out on the evening news. The whole thing was bizarrely too neat and tidy for your liking. You tried to stay out of idle gossip as much as possible. But, when you heard Andy Barber was interviewing for a senior position at your firm, you had questions.

Andy was brought in to interview for a position that you were also interested in. You requested a meeting with your boss and you went in guns blazing. Your poor boss was not ready for all the excitement.

“Am I still being considered for junior partner?”

“Y/n, calm down.” When he saw you winding yourself up, he popped an antacid an a few ibuprofen.

“Calm down? Calm down he says. I’ve been with this firm since I clerked for you in Law school, Stan. I’m the best fit for this role and you know it.”

“I know you are, kid. I’ve been out voted.”

It’s common knowledge that the partners don’t want too many women gunning for their jobs. They already have one token female partner. They didn’t feel the need to add another. You were infuriated. You stomped back to your office and slammed the door.

All of the work you put in. All of the late nights. You don’t have time to even date. And all for what? You had to calm down now because you were starting to cry out of sheer frustration. You took a deep breath and started going through your to do list. With a relatively light schedule you decided to leave for the day. You mumbled something to your assistant about a doctors appointment and headed for the elevator.

You saw some of the senior partners headed your way shaking hands with Andy. You pressed the elevator button furiously trying to avoid them. Could you make it down seventeen flights of stairs in your stilettos? The elevator dinged and you jumped on just as Robert called your name.

As soon as you put your car in gear, your assistant called. You sent her to voicemail. She called again. Declined. Finally she texted call me back ASAP. Emergency. Fuck.

“Caitlan I said I had an appointment. What’s the emergency?”

“Sorry. Mr. Cramer insisted I call. He’s standing by my desk” she whispered. “They want you to have lunch with them today. Maybe it’s about the job.”

“Did you see guy shaking hands with them? That’s the new junior partner. They are asking me to lunch to reject me. Fuck! Where?” You rested your head against the steering wheel.

“Commander’s at 1:00.”

“Fine.” you groaned.

You went home to freshen up and send out your updated resume. You made sure to include “Willing to relocate” at the end to broaden your prospects. You had a friend in Chicago who worked for a very high profile firm. They were always looking for new blood. You shot her a text to let her know you were looking then emailed your resume. The prospect of starting over completely made you nauseous. You would have to go through the ranks and probably waist another five years to get exactly where you were right now.

When you arrived at the restaurant the maître d brought you to the table where Stan, several other senior partners and Andy were waiting. Andy stood up to pull out your chair.

“Gentleman. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Sit down, Y/N. We wanted to introduce you to Andrew Barber.”

“Andy. Please call me Andy. It’s very nice to meet you, Y/N. These guys haven’t stopped talking about you all morning.”

“All good things I hope.” The men laughed and ordered a round of martinis. Good thing you ate a big lunch at home. No one likes a sloppy drunk girl.

“Yes. Well, Y/N, as you may not know Andy has accepted the junior partner position. We would love if you brought him up to speed on anything you’re working on and show him the ropes.”

You were seething. “Of course Mr. Cramer. Happy to.”

“Oh. Good. Let’s order huh? I’m starving.”

You were silent for the rest of lunch ordering two more martinis very dry and a salad. Dressing on the side of course. The men spoke loudly and never even tried to include you in the conversation. You excused yourself to use the restroom. Andy, ever the gentleman, stood up at the same time.

You didn’t go back. Not that it would have mattered. You ordered an Uber and checked your email. You didn’t notice Andy at the valet stand.

“I’m headed back to the office. Need a ride?” he called to you.

“No. I’m good. Thanks though.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind.” He watched you pace back and forth reading a message almost out loud.

You didn’t look up from your phone. “Shit.” You scowled looking at the screen. You dialed Caitlan’s extension. “Caitlan, Sloan Treadaway’s deposition was moved to today. I need it pushed to Monday.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I figured you would be coming back so I told them it was ok to push it up. I can call them back.”

“No. Don’t bother. I’m on my way back.”

“Looks like you can use a ride after all.” Andy was grinning from ear to ear.

He held the door and rushed around to the other side. You pulled a small bag out of your purse. You freshened your hair, popped some breath mints, lotioned and spritzed away the smell of booze. Andy thought this must be commonplace for you. It’s not easy trying to run with the guys. He could walk into this deposition piss drunk and most people wouldn’t care. You had to be perfect. He always hated that aspect of working in a big firm like this.

“Sorry. I’ll pay to have your car cleaned.” It smelled like you now. Expensive perfume and minty breath. Sweet but not sickly so. He inhaled letting his nostrils flair breathing you in. “Don’t want your wife to be pissed.”

“Lori? Don’t worry about her. She’ll understand.”

“How is she doing with her job search?”

“Doing ok. Thanks for asking. She’s interviewed with a few places.”

“She worked for a non profit right?” When he looked at you quizzically, you quickly explained yourself. “I hear things. Anyway. I know the director of a non profit organization that might be a great fit for her. I’ll pass along her information.”

“Thank you, Y/N. I really appreciate it. Stan told me you were the front runner for this position. I know how hard it is for women in this industry. I want to say how sorry I am…”

“Let me stop you there. First of all, don’t be sorry. You’re high profile and a damn good litigator. They would be stupid not to offer you the moon. You’re over qualified for this job. You didn’t come here gunning for me. I’ll be fine. Besides, a few of these old bags have one foot in the grave. It won’t be long for me.”

Andy smiled at you but still kind of felt like shit at the way the firm treated you. When you pulled into the garage you offered a quick thanks and rushed into the building to prepare.

Andy stayed behind for a bit. He spent a few precious moments breathing in your scent, letting it linger and wash over him. He hoped his clothes would smell a little like you. Stan said you were a “fire cracker”. Andy always hated that analogy. He knew by the way the group of men talked about you that he would like you. Your quick banter in the car confirmed it. Throughout the rest of the day you would invade his thoughts. He and Lori were still married but their relationship was long over. You had excited him more in a couple of hours than she had in years. When he got home he didn’t eat dinner or speak to anyone. He went right to his room where he replayed your exchange over and over. The ghost of your perfume lingered on his shirt. Both of your scents mixed together gave him a raging hard on. He kept your shirt over his face while he fisted his cock.

——————————————————————

The next morning you decided to face the day with a fresher attitude. Sometime yesterday you heard from your friend. She was thrilled that you reached out to her. She has been trying to get you out there for a while. Knowing that you had a solid backup plan was giving your hair volume and clearing your skin.

You thought you were early but Andy was already in your office waiting for you.

“Morning, Mr. Barber.” God he loved how you said that.

He scoffed, “Andy. Please. I brought you a coffee. I hope it’s ok. I got your order from Caitlan. I thought we’d order in lunch today. We have a lot of ground to cover. You should probably let your family know you’ll be missing dinner.”

“I don’t think my dead ficus will worry too much.” Your tone was dry.

“I apologize for the assumption.”

“Not necessary. Though my mother and my therapist would both be pleased to know that I look like someone who could have a family.”

You were funny. You seemed to say whatever thought popped into your head. You had one hell of a poker face though. He didn’t know if you were trying to be funny or if this was just you. When you didn’t look up from your computer screen he didn’t laugh.

As the day wore on you warmed up to him a little. You filled him in on the three big cases you were working on. You were actually going to trial on a very important case soon. He insisted you rehearse your opening statement a hundred times.

During the third run through Andy’s phone was blowing up. He finally turned it off and told you to keep going. He watched you pace around the room and coached you on your stance. “Stand with authority not arrogance.” He chided. He showed you himself then, asked if he could touch your shoulders. “Round them out like this. Good. Back straight. See?” he pointed to your reflection in the window, “It’s not menacing or arrogant. But you look like you’re in charge. You look perfect.” Hell. Was he flirting with you? By the time you looked at the clock it was 9:30.

“Fuck is that the time?” he said with a boisterous yawn.

“Shit. We should pick this up tomorrow.”

“Let’s go get a drink. I’m buying.”

You quirked your eyebrow, “I’m sure your wife and kiddo are dying to see you.”

He stacked some folders neatly on your desk and looked up at you through his lashes, “I’ll be sure to tell my therapist that I look like a guy who has a happy marriage and a good relationship with his kid.”

Your cheeks heated. The way he was looking at you made you sad but it also warmed your insides. “I’m sorry.” you mumbled.

“Don’t worry about it. We said we would stay together until Jacob went away to school. He pretends to ignore the fact that we have separate bedrooms. We put on happy faces everyday. We’re a typical American family.”

You laughed at his admission. His whole story was so fucked up. You wanted to know everything about him. “You know, I think I will let you buy me a drink.”

“Good girl.” he said in a low voice that went strait to your core. The whole way to the car you repeated a mantra in your head reminding you not to get involved with a married man. It didn’t matter how unhappy they were. But you wanted him. Every time he touched you, your insides would quake.

The bar was packed with regulars from the DA’s office and other firms. You introduced Andy around. The guy was a legitimate pro. He was so smooth working the room. The whole time he kept finding small ways to touch you. The brush of his fingers on your arm his breath against your ear when he asked if wanted another drink. Your heart nearly stopped. You stuck with him for a while until your feet couldn’t stand anymore. Every time he caught your eye from across the room he winked at you.

For the first time in a long time Andy was enjoying himself. Your friends were fun and not at all stuffy like he thought this crowd would be. You were adorable. Your laugh was cute. The way you brushed against him on purpose was cute. You were openly flirting with him the more you drank. He had a massive crush on you. What grown man has a crush these days. He thought maybe if he fucked you and got it out of his system he’d get over it.

Your friend Liz sat down at your table trying to talk to you for a solid minute before you noticed. “Sorry. I was distracted. What were you saying?” She threw her head back laughing at you.

“I said you two would make a gorgeous couple.”

“Stop. He’s married.”

“Happily?”

“That doesn’t matter. Married is married.”

“So that’s a no. He’s been eye fucking you all night. Shoot your shot, darling. We get so few in this life.” The light hit his wedding ring just right making you feel horrible for even entertaining the thought. Do not get involved. You kept chanting it in your head over and over until Andy slid in the booth next to you. He leaned over so he could talk over the din of the crowd.

“Hey, you. Wanna get out of here?”

“You don’t need to bring me home, Andy. I can catch an Uber.” That was such a ridiculous statement since you lived in the same building.

“That’s not what I asked. I said do you wanna get out of here?” His eyes were fixed on your mouth. A salacious grin splayed across his lips just knowing you’d give in.

“Andy. I….” You stuttered over your words. Your brain stopped working when you felt his warm breath on the shell of your ear. “Let’s get out of here.” Your breath hitched in your chest when he touched the small of your back. He payed his tab and lead you out of the bar.

You held hands in the car. His thumb rhythmically traced patterns on your knuckles. Every touch sent bolts of arousal to your aching cunt. It felt electric. You were ready to crawl into his lap by the time you made it into the garage. He parked in his spot and followed behind you to the elevator. You lived two floors below him. You glanced back at Lori’s sensible suv next to his car and felt embarrassed. He caught you looking and stopped you in your tracks. He took your chin in between his thumb and index finger forcing you to look at him.

“I understand if you don’t want to invite me in. I’m asking a lot of you. But I really like you, Y/N. You are funny and intimidatingly smart. And, fuck me, you are fucking stunning. I can go to work tomorrow like nothing happened. Don’t worry about Lori. Worry about what this means working together. Can you handle this?”

Your brain was no longer working and deferred to your pussy for any and all further decisions. You had not had even mediocre sex in six months. You just knew Andy was going to blow your mind. All day you have been working together so well. You challenged each other and he encouraged you when you faltered. Would this change the dynamic at work? Absolutely. Could you handle it? You’re damn right you could.

“I can handle it.”

“Good girl.” You all but sprinted to the elevator. He wouldn’t touch you until you actually got inside of your apartment and closed the door. When you did, he pushed against you and covered your lips with his.

You tasted the golden flavor of beer on his tongue as it probed your mouth. He unbuttoned your blouse and pushed it over your shoulders letting it hit the floor. He kissed his way down the column of your neck to the swell of your breasts. You panted underneath him raking your nails through his hair.

“God you smell incredible. At any point if you don’t want this….”

“Andy, shut up and fuck me.” He growled low in his throat before he picked you up and carried you to your bedroom. You could see how hard he was through his impeccably tailored slacks. You unzipped his fly and took the whole throbbing appendage in your mouth.

“Fuck, baby yes.” he hissed. You relaxed your throat muscles and swallowed him deeper. “You look so pretty with my cock in your mouth.” He moaned your name over and over soaking your panties. “Stop, honey. Let me see that pretty pussy.”

He eased you down onto the bed and undressed you painfully slow. It had been so long since he was intimate with someone, he wanted to take his time. He started with your feet removing your heels and massaging your insteps. His hands ran up the length of your legs to your skirt. He took off your panties first letting the skirt material pool around your waist. “So wet for me. So beautiful.” He slipped two fingers in between your folds hitting everywhere but your clit. He built up a tortuous rhythm that had you begging for relief. He smiled down at you watching completely fall apart. When he dipped his fingers inside of you, you were done. Your orgasm spilled out in one glorious cry. Before you could catch your breath he pulled off your skirt and unhooked your bra. His cock was weeping at the sight of you. A large hand held the back of your neck holding your head in place so you could look at him. Your eyes locked as he buried himself inside of you. There were no more words as he moved inside of you. Only breathless moans and sighs would escape your lips. He increased his pace and your orgasm started building again.

“Fuck. Andy, I’m….fuck!”

“I’m with you, honey. Come with me.” His words were your undoing. You latched your whole body onto him. He held you tight whispering praises in your ear. He kissed you slow and deep easing you back down to Earth. “You ok?”

“I think so.” You both laughed at the sight of yourselves. Sweat glistening off of your skin, lips puffy and kiss swollen. He eased off of you and rubbed your thighs to relax you. You thought he would get dressed and rush out but he crawled under the covers instead.

“Can I stay for a while?” Big arms pulled you down to his chest. He stroked your back softly to help you drift off to sleep.

“I’d like it if you did.” He pressed a kiss onto the top of your head and let his eyes flutter closed.

When dawn found you a few hours later, you were still tangled with each other. You jolted awake panicking because Andy was still in your bed. “Andy, wake up. You stayed all night.”

“I know. What time is it?”

“6:45.”

“Then we have time. Go back to sleep.”

“But Lori…”

“I told you not to worry about her. Get back on this pillow and let me hold you. Please.” The poor guy was so touch starved you guessed. Andy Barber was not a man who did well being single. He loved being in love. He longed for a connection. For passion. He knew those things would sometimes fizzle out of a marriage. But, with you, he couldn’t see that. Your fire matched his fire and Lori was the wet blanket that always snuffed him out.

He supposed that wasn’t really fair. Two people were in their marriage. He worked long hours and spent very little time doing anything but being an ADA and being a dad. He didn’t give the same dedication to being Lori’s partner. The stress of this past year pushed them further apart. He felt obligated to be with her. It was his idea to stay together for Jacob’s sake. He regretted pushing for it.

He pulled you close to his body and wrapped an arm around your waist. He nuzzled your hair and fell back to sleep. You did too.

#andy barber #andy barber x y/n #andy barber smut #defending jacob

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multiplefandomsblog · 3 years

Text

Zen w/ a blind MC [HCS]

request(s); No one request other things than idv or dr (or arcana but?) and this a a multi blog soo Zen (mm) w a blind MC nyoom

paring(s); zen x blind!gn!reader

warning(s); reader is gender-neutral, reader is blind, cussing, celebrity scandals, twinkle of angst, fluff, talks about celebrity reputation, tokenism, cringey pick up lines, the ‘beast’, implies that zen is a bit sadistic but it depends how you read it, 99.9999% sfw other than that.

note; sorry if i wrote too much!! i haven’t written for MM in a while so i just got- way too many ideas- hh

◊ When Zen first met you, he definitely, definitely used kid gloves on you. He’d pester you a lot, if he knew you were blind, he’d automatically assume you were much less capable than you were. He’d probably neutralize himself; so if Jumin were to ever provoke him or piss him off in any way, he’d kind of push his need to smack the guy down, because he didn’t want to scare you.

◊ Furthermore, he’s usually like this with everyone new, that he likes; but with you, it’s more... intense, as he now knows that you’re blind.

◊ it’s kind of like, his big strong man instinct kicks in whenever he sees you.

◊ However those are only first impressions! I promise he improves all throughout your relationship.

◊ Later on, — when he actually gets to know you better — he finds himself getting more comfortable with you; treating you less like a blind person, and more of a... ‘friend’. But he catches himself, and tries not to— which is obviously dumb, and he should’ve just stuck with the friend thing.

◊ Zen is helpful, yes. But sometimes it’s overbearing. He would do everything for you, to the point where you don’t even need to lift a finger, because he’ll be there lifting it for you. Sure, it’s nice; but he has to see that you’re very capable, just because you’re blind doesn’t mean you’re a child.

◊ You’re going to have to tell him that sometimes, you can do things for yourself, and that he should let you do your thang, chicken wang!(sorry)

◊ he’ll be confused at first; why didn’t you want his help? But he would respect your wishes, as a gentleman should. Though it would take some time.

◊ okay let’s be honest here, Zen loves that you’re blind. He has this built-in gentleman, charmer personality voodoo crap, so seeing as how you have more trouble doing things at cause to your sigh impairment, he’d definitely feel the huge ego boost every time he helps you. He loves feeling helpful to you, so praise him— but not too much.

◊ If word got out that he was dating, of course it’d be scandalous; but if word got out that he was dating someone blind?

◊ There would be ‘good’ benefits, that would only seem good if you were shallow.

◊ Zen would get ‘points’ and people would view you as a charity case that he either started dating because he would get a good reputation for it, or because he pitied you and accepted your confession — which is funny because Zen is the one who confessed to you first(that’s another story, I’ll get to it soon.)

◊ He’s a bit of a himbo sometimes; so he wouldn’t really realize that that was what was happening. It wasn’t until a fan or a news reporter/radio host confronted him about it, had realization finally dawned on him. He would be very quick to dismiss that horrible, horrible assumption. And he’d honestly lose respect for the person he was talking to.

◊ If a fan were ever to call you a charity case, he’d definitely get mad. To assume he would start dating you for his reputation...? That’s kind of... fucked up.

◊ If you asked him about it, he would definitely get upset, and honestly a little heart-broken. To assume that he would do something like that... he finds himself doubting if he was a good enough boyfriend.

◊ So let me paint a scenario and hand you the angst.

— Since you would probably have to use Voice-over for your phone, I think something that could happen as a result of it is, as you scroll through websites and articles about Zen through your phone, the phone voices over every single title. And one catches your attention, unfortunately, it also catches Zen’s.

“Zen’s charity case of a partner, S/o-“ he would hear it from the other room, despite it being extremely fast to almost not be able to. E heard, and he would immediately go to you, following the direction of the sound.

He’d find you with your phone off, eerily silent as you waited for him to speak, having been notified by his heavy footsteps. “S/o...” he’d soften his voice and make his way to you, gently seating himself opposite to where you sat, softly yet urgently grabbing your hand as he was afraid you’d storm off, or get mad.

“I swear I would never think that of you. Believe me, okay? Not those stupid articles, half the stuff they say is all made-up— I swear, they act more than me- Mph!?“ he’s all for drama and movies, but this was real life. You were real. And both of your feelings were real too. He rambled on, and before he could finish his rant, you already had your lips on his; to his surprise, and pleasure.

“... I- I know. Thank you, Zen.”

◊ okay but imagine the embarrassment when you turn on Voice-over and Zen sends you this, just, extremely cheesy line and everyone around you could hear it. The fucking humiliation, dude, I feel for you.

— “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven? Bec-“ with a face flushed a dark red for reasons more than one, you frantically tried to lower the volume. “N- no! Stop, phone stop!” You’d probably ‘accidentally’ destroy one of your phones just to save yourself from the sheer embarrassment.

◊ If Zen were ever to leave the country for a global concert, there would be tons of calls— so many to the point it was like he never left. You would hear his voice through the phone, and it would feel like he was there... though it’s still different.

◊ Something Zen likes to do, that probably irritates you, is scare the shit out of you and sneak up behind you. The fucker would scoop you up from behind, laughing as you shrieked from the top of your lungs. You insist that it’s sadistic, and he— he agrees, with a very, uh, strange look in his eyes.

◊ Zen can be very playful, so as soon as he comes back from a shoot; no matter how tired and exhausted he is, he is always willing to hug you with all the force he has, and it makes you wonder— how? How is this man still so strong after hours of working?

◊ You don’t seem to get the chance to ask as he stuffs your face into his chest, tightly wrapping his arms around the middle of your back, so you can’t escape. He wouldn’t hug too long though, because he needs to keep the beast calm; or so he says.

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sunsetcurvecuddles · 3 years

Note

Hello you told me not to hold back so I’m gonna be ANNOYING feel free to ignore indefinitely until you’re feeling it but I’m gonna send you like a bunch of prompts cause I can’t sleep and am stalling finishing my own fic.

First one: Bobby (obviously), Reggie or Luke or friends I don’t even care, tea and blankets

lol hi have a rebuke cuddle-puddle disaster, also available on ao3 here. warning for swearing and very vague allusions to physical child abuse.

i guess we belong to each other | reggielukebobby | 1.8k words

Luke has his guitar in his lap and his writing notebook by his side even though it's late at night. He's playing his acoustic, so that he has no chance of stirring Bobby's parents from where he's sat in their studio, and though he'd never admit it to anyone, it's cold enough that he's found one of Alex's hoodies in the back of the studio, a black one Alex never wears any more, and he's bundled up in it to try to fight off the chills. He regrets storming out earlier this evening — not because his parents might be worried, he's still too mad at them for that, but because he misses his own warm bed in a house with central heating.

But it's late, and he doesn't want to bother Bobby, who's already been generous enough as it is (and is exceptionally grumpy when he's woken in the middle of the night). So Alex's old hoodie, smelling vaguely of the dusty studio and distantly of Alex, will have to do.

A noise distracts Luke from his writing. Something outside the studio, maybe an animal, but it sounded like footsteps. Cautiously, he draws his guitar closer, running through what he could say if it's Bobby's parents, his heart suddenly rabbit-fast in his chest.

A head pokes through the door.

Luke's shoulders drop with relief.

It's Reggie.

He looks a little scruffy, not like himself, because usually Reggie pays such close attention to his appearance, fusses over his hair and colour-codes his outfits and shaves with the precision of a professional painter. But he kinda looks messy, which makes Luke's stomach feel even colder than the air around him.

“Oh! Hey, man,” Reggie laughs, putting on a big smile, and it'd fool anyone else — Reggie's too experienced at this for his own good. “I didn't know you'd be here!”

“Hi, Reg,” says Luke, sounding a little distracted even to his own ears as he carefully looks Reggie over. He's not walking like he's been hurt, and there are no visible injuries. So that's something. Jesus, Luke wouldn't know what to do if Reggie turned up here with a fresh version of the bruises Luke sometimes catches him trying to hide. “You, uh — you good?”

“Yeah, for sure,” Reggie agrees easily, saunters into the studio and slumps down on the couch next to Luke. The relaxed way he moves soothes Luke's worry somewhat. “The house was just — ugh. You know how they can be.” Looking over at Luke, Reggie adds, “Hey, isn't that Alex's hoodie? I was wondering what had happened to that.”

“Hey!” Luke sputters, a little defensive. “He didn't, like, loan it to me or anything, it was just here! I found it.”

“It is cold,” Reggie concedes, pulling his flannel a little tighter around him. “Wish I'd brought my jacket, but it was in the kitchen and I didn't wanna. I dunno. Didn't wanna get in the way.”

Luke nods, puts his guitar to the side so he can press up against Reggie's side. Hip to hip, his cheek on Reggie's shoulder, links their ankles together and puts an arm over Reggie's stomach. Almost automatically, Reggie links his arms around Luke in turn.

Honestly, Luke was intending to steal some of Reggie's body heat, but after Reggie's walk outside and in such a thin layer, he thinks Reggie's probably leeching his own. Luke lets him go ahead; Reggie seems to need it more than he does.

They sit for a moment, both unusually quiet, huddling and not talking. Not so much for a lack of things to talk about, but more because any topic that comes to Luke's mind feels insurmountably complex and emotional. There’s so much stuff he can't tell Reggie — so much stuff Reggie isn't telling him. So they sit together and try to create some warmth without the need for disclosure.

Until there's another set of scuffled footsteps outside.

“Not Alex too,” Reggie sighs, at a whispered volume so that the newcomer can't hear him, “he squirms so much in his sleep, man, I can't share this pull-out with him again.”

Luke muffles a laugh with the back of his hand, but he can't help worry it's Alex, too. Things have been... okay, he thinks, with Alex's folks since he came out, but he also knows Alex hoped for better. Suspects there are things Alex isn't telling them (so they all have that in common).

But it's not Alex. Preceded by an armful of blankets that he's almost tripping on, Bobby staggers in, still in his pajamas and with his eyes almost all the way closed. “Luke? It's fucking freezing, I thought I'd—” He stops when he gets far enough in to see Reggie on the couch too. “Oh, shit.”

“Hey, Bobby,” says Reggie, voice a little nervous. “I hope it's okay that I—”

“Shut up,” Bobby grumbles, and dumps the whole pile of blankets on top of Reggie. “You guys are stupid. You're both out here, in the freezing cold, and neither of you come wake me up?”

“We didn't want—” Luke starts, at the same time as Reggie insists, “You were sleeping—!”

“Idiots,” Bobby growls, rubbing his eye with his sweater paw and yawning. He looks stupidly cute, like a little kid. “You're idiots, and I hate dealing with you. I'll be back.” Turning to leave the studio again, he turns back and adds, “Hurry up and burrito yourselves in those blankets, I swear to god. And Luke, isn’t that Alex’s hoodie?”

“He left it—!” Luke starts, but Bobby’s already gone, leaving Luke with Reggie, cackling at him.

—

By the time Bobby returns, Luke and Reggie have folded the couch out into its bed form, and are snuggling under the several blankets, giggling together as they talk about how grumpy Bobby had been.

“We should have woken him up,” Reggie snorts, “I think then he would have been less pissed.”

“I would have,” Bobby agrees, sounding somewhere between menacing and amused, as he reappears over them. His hair is all shaggy in his face. He's carrying a teapot. And cups. “Sit up.”

Luke does right away, Reggie pulling himself up a little slower. Bobby sits cross-legged at the foot of the couch-bed, tucking his socked toes under his own legs to keep warm, and pours them each a mug of what smells like peppermint tea. Suddenly, Luke can't imagine anything better in the world. When Bobby offers him a cup, he takes it eagerly, wrapping his cold hands around it and enjoying the steam wafting up to his face.

“Wow,” says Reggie softly, eyes wide, “thanks, Bobby.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Luke echoes, letting out a sigh as he takes his first sip.

“Forget it,” Bobby says, a little bitey. Luke knows it's because Bobby hates being seen as nice, so he doesn't take it personally, and he knows Reggie won't either. He has his own cup, which he drinks as though it's done something to offend him, scowling off into the corner of the studio. Reggie nudges Bobby with his foot from under the layers of blankets, and a tiny smile tugs at Bobby's mouth as he nudges Reggie back with his elbow.

After the cup of tea, Luke feels better. He feels warmer on the inside, now, and sleepy too. Reggie is starting to get that dopey, slow blink that shows he's on the verge of sleep as well. Bobby clears his throat and holds out a hand, beckoning for their empty cups. Luke and Reggie hand them over.

“Okay,” says Bobby, after a pause. “G'night, guys.” He goes to stand, but Reggie leans forward and catches Bobby's sleeve.

“Would you stay?” he asks, as if he can't help himself, as if on sheer impulse, but he doesn’t look embarrassed afterwards.

“Reg!” Luke says, a little startled. “It's cold out here, he won't want—”

But he sees Bobby's face, and he stops himself. Because he can see it in Bobby's eyes. That he does want. He’s Bobby, so he won't say it, his mouth pressed into a thin line, his gaze fixed on some point behind Luke and Reggie's heads, but Luke has known Bobby for too long to miss something this obvious, no matter what else Bobby can hide from him.

“That being said,” Luke backtracks hurriedly, “it would be warmer with you here, Wilson. I'm happy to be a leech.”

“That's all I'm good for, huh?” Bobby snorts, but he's already setting the mugs down on the floor near the side of the bed, already shuffling the teapot down there too. He hops up for a moment, and Luke wonders where he’s going, before he realises Bobby is just switching off the light. When Bobby comes back, he pauses, like he's not sure where he fits, and Luke and Reggie make eye contact for only a second before they move apart, leaving a space in the middle.

Bobby looks even less sure of himself, eyebrows knitted, jaw tight. His hands flex and one of them twists in the hem of his sweater. Luke gets it. It looks too much like it's on Bobby's behalf, like they’re doing it to make space for Bobby. Bobby’s always had trouble accepting anything that seems like it’s for his own benefit.

“I already sucked all Reggie's warmth up,” Luke explains.

“Yeah,” Reggie agrees immediately, and Luke loves him, “and you're warmer than Luke anyway, man. I wanna huddle with you. As a penguin, you would be my first-choice huddle-buddy.”

Bobby barks a laugh. “The fuck? What does that even mean?” Finally, he wriggles his way under the blankets in between them, and rolls his eyes when they both throw limbs over him right away, twining legs and arms together and resting cheeks on his chest.

“Like, if we were penguins. You know? In the winter?” Reggie says, like this is totally obvious and self-explanatory. “If I was a penguin, I'd be looking for the Bobby-penguin in the winter huddle to stick close to.”

“Aaand I'm at my capacity for dumb shit,” Bobby says, closing his eyes pointedly, but it's a scam, because his hands come to run through Luke and Reggie's hair. “Goodnight, morons.”

“Goodnight, Bobby,” they chorus. This close, Luke could almost brush noses with Reggie, has to try to focus his eyes to keep Reggie from getting blurry. Reggie sticks his tongue out at Luke just a little, and Luke grins back, links his fingers with Reggie’s over Bobby’s stomach, rubbing over Reggie’s knuckles until Reggie’s fingers don’t feel so much like icicles. When Luke uses his free hand to tug the neckline of Alex’s hoodie up over his nose, the familiar smell of the third piece of his heart soothes him right down.

The feel of Bobby’s fingernails on his scalp makes Luke’s eyelids flutter, and before he knows it he’s dopey, the world feeling blurrier and safer and cozier. Honestly, more like home than his own house would have. He no longer daydreams of returning to his own warm bed. Instead, he feels the way Bobby’s chest rises and falls with his breaths, pushing his and Reggie’s joined hands up and down. If he listens closely, Luke can hear Bobby’s heartbeat, familiar and steady.

Maybe the cold isn't all bad.

other prompt fills here :)

jatp taglist (lmk if you want to be added/removed!): @queenmolina @nickalicious @bi-reginald @malecacidd @burntchromas @jughead-is-canonically-aroace @cinnamonstickrayofsunlight @chickwiththepurpleguitar @fairylightsandrainydays @joyandthephantoms @fighttoshine @michelangelinda @queenofthequillandink

#jatp #julie and the phantoms #reggie peters #bobby wilson #luke patterson #lukebobby #boggie brain rot #rebuke #idk how else to tag this LOL #my fic #chickwiththepurpleguitar #peterpatter

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razrbladekiss · 3 years

Text

Tyrants | Chapter Four - Peril

WORD COUNT: 5.1k

WARNINGS: Mentions of death, drug use, Tig being Tig. The usual SOA shit. Sorry Donna..

She always saw the beauty in darkness. The lugubrious belle that came alongside the moon and stars and whatever else lurked amidst the murk of nighttime.

Isla was cliche in that sense.

She was cliche in the sense that she adored watching the sun set, swallowed by the mountains and high-rise buildings as the evening fell and Charming was painted black.

And maybe it was mostly melancholic because of the horrors that swathed that small town, but it was still beautiful nonetheless.

She still liked to bask in the scenery, to discern the marvel of her home, from the highest point she could access. And, sometimes, she liked to take somebody along with her so she wasn't completely alone.

"Why'd you still come up here?" Ope asked, pulling himself onto the roof as she sat with her back to the wall--puffing on a cigarette.

"Because it's quiet." She was content, comfortable with her response. "And whenever I'm looking for Jax, or Gem, or my dad--or they're looking for me--this is where we're almost always found. Just people watching, or reminiscing, or having a few minutes to ourselves away from the chaos downstairs."

It wasn't an unknown safe space--Gemma had told her that JT and Clay would climb up there during the earliest days of the club--but it was special.

Jax, Opie, and Isla spent time up there as kids, too. Because they were bastards and were always running from their fathers--and den mother--and the roof of the clubhouse was their go-to.

She never really got out of that habit. She'd spend hours up there if she could, just watching as Charming bustled beneath her. And she liked that it was separate to the garage, but everyone knew where to find her if they needed her.

"It clears your head, being up here." She added. "I have got so much shit going on right now--between work, and my personal life--but coming up here is like a refreshment, I guess."

Opie understood what she meant because he was also seeking comfort in the night. Riding through dusk, spending time alone on his bike as he cruised the streets of his quaint town, relishing in the darkness because it was strangely comforting to him.

He liked to be alone. His thoughts were brutal and they seared his brain left and fucking right, but he liked his own company.

"Wish I thought about comin' up here when I was released from holding." The man chuckled, balancing a cigarette between his lips. "Stahl grilled the fuck outta me."

"She did?"

"Yeah. She really fuckin' did." He added, grunting as smoke blew from his nostrils. "Did she get you? I know she got Gemma."

"Nope, she didn't. I don't know why, though. She interrogated everyone else. Starting to feel a little left out."

Opie chuckled, smiling a bit. "Be glad. It's obvious that she's used to getting what she wants."

"And did you give it to her?"

"Fuck no." Isla smiled. Proud. "She can cross-examine me all she fuckin' wants—I'll never sell the club out."

"They know that, Ope."

"I know." Half confidently, he nodded. "Just—Stahl made me second guess it all, y'know?"

Nobody in Charming--aside from the PD--knew where that despicable bitch came from, and nobody cared to ask.

What they did know, though, was that she had her heart set on making that town a living fucking hell as she strived to eradicate the Sons of Anarchy by getting to its members.

She'd grilled everyone she could've. She cornered Gemma when she was out running errands, leaving the grocery store with a sour taste in her mouth when Teller told her where to fucking shove it.

Same went for Jax, and Clay, and Chibs, and Tig, and...Well, all of them told her to get fucked, actually.

None of them caved. None of them wanted to sell the club out because there was no reason to.

Well, there was a reason to, but no desire to.

There'd been murders. Three, to be specific. And one of them just happened to be a police officer--which was quite unlucky, but it wasn't awful.

They hated cops.

What they hated more, however, was the idea of getting caught by them. And Clay was. Somehow, anyway.

Piney's old "friend"--Nate Meineke--needed quality, albeit illegal, guns with no traceability to attack the convoy that was transporting one of his friends from point A to point B. And it went as swimmingly as possible...

Until June Stahl was put on the case and found that idiot's phone at the scene after dropping it mid-ambush.

Clay just happened to be the last person he had called. Which then caused the investigation to point toward Charming.

They all knew the Sons were guilty of supplying those weapons. Who else would it have been? They were known for running illegal firearms without batch numbers from a quaint Californian town whose name didn't quite fit its image.

It was blatant, though nobody gave it up.

But Stahl tried her damndest to get answers. And when she didn't, she targeted the member that she saw to be the most vulnerable--after a hit went wrong and he failed to cover his tracks--and Opie just happened to be that guy.

She questioned him for hours. She practically held the man captive in that little cell until he caved. But he didn't--and he wasn't going to, either.

He was loyal. That's one of the reasons why Jax wanted to patch him back in.

"Yeah, I know." Isla got to her feet when she heard Tig yelling for her downstairs. "But you're the strongest guy I know, Ope. I don't think Stahl, of all people, is gonna get to you."

He shrugged her off, flicking the butt of his cigarette to the gravelly ground of the roof.

Opie had changed. Not much, and it wasn't very apparent, but he'd changed. Chino had changed him, she thought.

He was still dedicated to his club, still in love with the reaper and the responsibility that came with the patch--but Opie Winston lacked that flicker of enthusiasm now.

"How does your dad feel about you being back at the table?"

"Said he's proud of me."

He was a man of very, very few words. But the tone that he took--the sheer relief twined into contentment--spoke a greater volume.

Piney would always support his son, feel a sense of gratification from his involvement in the club. And, of course, Ope felt grateful to be back--but it was different now.

He'd served time for his club. Donna consistently argued that they sold him out and that he was fucking stupid for running back into the arms of SAMCRO.

But it was his brotherhood. The Sons of Anarchy were his family--his lifeline. He was nothing if not blessed to be patched back in.

"And I guess that wife of yours isn't too happy about it?"

"How'd you reach that conclusion?"

"Well," she ignored that Tig was waiting for her, standing directly in front of him. "If she was genuinely thrilled about you being back here, she'd have been coming to Gemma's dinners, and spending more time at the clubhouse with us. But she isn't, and I'm starting to realize that she probably hates me now."

His head shook. "She doesn't hate you. It's just...It's just raw. Weird being back, I think."

"She didn't even have to leave. She knows that."

Donna did know that. But there was always something about Gemma. About the way she let things slide so often, how she felt that she had Clay so pussy whipped that he'd be at her every beck and call--but, really, that was redundant. Because Gemma let him get away with fucking murder.

Literally.

"Is she gonna be there tonight?

"Of course. She wouldn't miss Jax's son coming home." He got up, reaching for her hands. "Sorry that she's been so distant with you, Isla. But she's just been stressed out--money worries and the kids and stuff, y'know?"

"Yeah, I know."

Donna wasn't traditionally a worrier. But five years worth of finances, being a single mom, and fretting over her husband potentially not making it out of prison alive, just did that to a woman.

"Anything I can do to help?"

"I don't think so." Grateful for her offering, though recognizing how damn stubborn his wife was, he conceded. "Thanks, though."

"Anytime. And if you change your mind, or need me, you know where I am--"

"Isla!"

"He is getting on my last fucking nerve today." She groaned, flipping Tig off as she looked over the ledge. "I'm coming! Give me a minute!"

"I've given you plenty of minutes! Just get your ass down here!"

"Just go," Ope chuckled, leaning down to peck her cheek. "We can have this talk another time."

Isla turned back to him, frowning. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. Go 'n talk to him--I'll see you tonight."

He was such a nice guy. So considerate, kind.

She loved him a lot.

The flouncy sundress rose to the middle of her thighs as she sauntered through the clubhouse, hearing Trager talking--rather conspicuously, though slightly muffled--to somebody on his cell.

"C'mon, Tiggy. Why'd you yell at me?"

He waved his hand to shut her up, gesturing for the blonde to follow him out of the clubhouse and toward his bike.

"Yeah, cool. K, brother--see 'ya later. Bye." He hung up and slid the phone into the pocket of his cut, swiveling to face Isla with a smile. "You ready?"

"For what?"

"The party?" Tig told her, watching confusion sweep over her face. "I'm taking you over 'cuz you want a drink and don't wanna drive home after? And that you're probably gonna end up heading home with Juice, or something--"

"Juice?"

"It always happens," he shrugged, pointing at the helmet he set out for her at the back of his bike. "We all head out, you get too drunk, you take a liking to Juicy, and you try to ride his dick."

"What?" Isla got herself situated behind him as he got on first, her arms wound around his waist. "That was one time. I've only slept with him once, and I told you it'd never happen again."

"And why is that?"

Her cheeks flushed red, the engine revving sending vibrations through her entire frame.

"Because he was too gentle." Tig's foot collided with the kickstand.

"And the little Catholic girl likes it rough."

She felt the solid gold crucifix burning a hole into her chest.

"Yes. I like it rough." He groaned, leaning into her. She swatted at his chest over his shoulder, laughing heartily. "Just take me to see the baby, dickhead."

The bike sped out of the lot and Isla was loving the thrill of being on two wheels. She'd always liked being stuck to the back of somebody's Harley--but she'd never own one herself.

Isla was like Gemma. She felt stable enough riding with somebody, but riding alone--being in control of the motorcycle--was fucking terrifying.

Jax and Opie had encouraged her to take a ride at one point, but it didn't end very well, and Chibs spent the best part of two hours trying to stitch his daughter back up whilst Gemma castigated the two imbeciles who thought it was even reminiscent of a good idea.

Weaving through traffic gracefully, freely, was appealing to her, however. But she wouldn't be caught dead--alone--on a fucking bike.

Plus, she quite enjoyed being taken places. Escorted by a member of the club. It was safe.

The wind whirred and whipped around them, and she wished she didn't make the effort with her hair tonight. It was ruined, tousled to within an inch of its life, and she dreaded the thought of having to brush the knots out in Jax's bathroom.

Still, commuting via Harley was a hell of a lot quicker and had a few more benefits than commuting via car.

But the looks that they got were piercing. Horrible. Mainly from Hale stationed beside his squad car, watching as Isla and Tig raced down the freeway.

"He likes you." He spoke over the roaring engine when he hit the first stop light all night. "He hates that you've never given him a chance--"

"He's a cop, and I'm the outlaw's daughter. I've been raised to hate his kind."

Tig nodded his approval, setting off once again when the light switched to green and all opposing traffic stood still.

At one strange point in time, David Hale had his sights set on Isla Telford. He was in love with her. Completely besotted.

And she never gave him a second glance because, for one, she wasn't interested. He hated that she was so close to Jax and Opie, but not him, and he wished that she'd push herself away from the bad guys to grow closer to the heroic law-enforcer.

But he was a control freak above everything else, and Isla was just a free-spirit. She was loyal to her friends and family but she didn't want to get tied down, and she didn't want to become friendly with a fucking cop.

The only cop she liked was crooked. And Unser was in a similar spot to her--a little too affiliated with SAMCRO, but not completely doted on. Though, they were both strangely essential fixtures, and Clay would've been lost without them.

"Juice is here." Tig taunted as he helped her off the bike, holding her hand when she stumbled over herself a little. "Try to keep those panties on."

"Can't make any promises, Tiger." Her growl was seductive, though he knew that she was fucking with him.

She'd given up rebuking his claims, instead feeding into them because, with Trager, she couldn't seem to win. He was sleazy, and she loved that back and forth.

What she loved more, though, was that he was comfortable. He was a strange man, and nobody really understood just where he came from, but Isla liked that she could make jokes of any kind around him. He was easy to get along with. Easy to love.

And, man, did she love Alex Trager.

"If you do fuck him, though, would you make a video?"

Isla stepped into Jax's front room, turning on her heels. "Who said that we haven't already got one?"

She chuckled and wandered into the party, leaving Tig with a few convoluted thoughts and even more raunchy questions.

"Fuck. Gemma taught her well." He grumbled under his breath, reaching for the beer in Half-Sack's hand.

He slumped on the couch, motioning for his usual lay to sit in his lap as he watched Juice fawn over his little blonde friend making conversation with some other random woman already.

"Yeah, totally..." she agreed with whatever the girl was saying, but her eyes were glued on Tara. Just floating around the party.

She felt bad that the doctor was alone. Despite all that she thought of her, being out of ones depth in such an intimidating setting wasn't very nice. And Isla was an empath.

"D'ya think anyone 'round here has any nail glue?"

"Gemma might." She smiled, pointing toward the kitchen.

Grateful that she managed to shake that one off, Isla weaved through the small conclave and sat beside Tara, offering a friendly face during a time of such discomfiture.

Her heart was aching, the sheer nervousness was palpable, and she knew that Tara felt the same way too.

But Isla just sucked it up. Because she wanted to talk to her, and had to be the one to initiate it.

"Thanks for coming." Her smile was wide, genuine.

She offered a beer to the brunette, hoping that she'd take it.

"Thanks for asking me here." Tara accepted it, glad that Isla remembered she wasn't particularly a wine girl like herself.

Christ. This is awkward.

"Trust me, you were the first person I asked to come tonight."

"How so?"

"Well," a little bit more comfortably, she faced her completely, "you've literally nursed Abel back to health. You've been there every step of the way. You've been the best surgeon. And, as much as I hate to say it, you helped Wendy so much, Tara. I'm really thankful for all that you've done for this family."

"It's my job." She tried to brush the comments off, but her heart definitely fluttered at the praise.

Isla never changed. She was still the sweetest soul, she thought.

"I know, but you've had it rough with this lot--with Gemma, I mean."

"She isn't anything I can't handle." Confidently, she asserted.

"I know, and I'm glad that you're able to stand your ground." Reluctant, a hand landed against Tara's palm.

She jolted a little bit, but softened into the embrace.

It was comfy, warm. Prosperous, perhaps, because it meant something. Tara not jerking away and leaving once Isla offered a friendly embrace, was promising.

They spoke about the baby for a little while, and shared a few laughs at Tig's expense. It was strange, really. To be talking to her ex-best friend was strange, but she'd missed it.

Donna joined the mix, too, and it was starting to feel like old times. Isla recognized that they'd never slip back into that routine, the dedication to one another that they'd known when they were kids--but it was nice.

The conversation stuttered and it wasn't able to flow as freely as what she might've liked, but it was a start.

To know that she had something resembling an acquaintanceship with two women she admired, was nice.

And Jax introducing his baby to his brand new home, to his extended family that were already so fucking dedicated to him, was just the most wonderful thing ever.

"What about a beer?" Clay joked, holding the bottle close to Abel. Jax laughed, though he shook his hand away. "What? Grandpa can't give him his first beer?"

"No, he can't."

"I'll take it, though. If you're offerin'." Chibs grabbed the Budweiser and twisted the cap with the leather grip of his glove.

He gestured to Isla, tipping it toward her. "Want some?"

"No, you're alright." She went back to her wine, smiling at that little bundle of happiness in Jax's arms, wondering how the hell he'd gotten to be in this position now.

But it was because of Tara. Her commitment, her talent, and sheer want to help that angel through the roughest patch that a baby could have possibly been thrust into.

How Gemma could still loathe that girl--after everything she did--was beyond her completely.

Tara was the unlikeliest hero in Abel's story.

"Why is it that every time I see you, your highlights get more chunky?" Gemma smiled at the comment, turning to see her favorite girl, flaunting the most beautiful smile.

She handed Isla the bottle of whatever wine Chibs could get this evening, unable to quit beaming at the thought of her grandson finally being at home. Where he belonged.

"I told you I'd do them for you, Gem."

"I know," she nodded, playing with a few strands of hair, "I was gonna ask you, but you've been a little distant this week--didn't wanna add to your workload, baby."

"That's super considerate of you. Are you alright?" Isla teased, holding a hand to Gemma's forehead.

She slapped it away with a laugh. "Fuck you. I'm always considerate."

"Sure you are. That's why Wendy is here, right?"

"No," her head shook, "she's here 'cuz this is her house. If I had it my way, she'd be out on her ass faster than what you could even say 'crank whore.'"

Isla wiped at her lips with the back of her hand, tipping her head toward the blonde in the living room.

"I thought you made sure she was gonna be here tonight?" Confused, she quizzed.

She was under the impression that Wendy was starting to grow on her. After she'd tried to kill her, of course.

"I did," Gem confirmed. "But only because I knew it'd be awkward between her and Tara."

Amazed, or maybe fucking horrified, Isla simply glared at her.

It should've been obvious to her--plain as day--that Gemma Teller doing a good thing was simply a bullshit facade, built in order to take away from the fact she wanted to do an inherently bad thing.

But Isla liked to see the good in people, so it wasn't. And that really was one of her mot fatal flaws.

"She thanked me for letting her stay, too."

"And what'd you say to her?" Almost as if she didn't want to know the answer, she asked.

Black nails danced along the rim of her wine glass as she leaned against the counter, watching everybody enjoy themselves as they bitched and moaned.

"That she's lucky to be alive."

"Jesus, Gem," her head shook disparagingly, disappointed perhaps.

But being surprised that the woman made a threatening comment toward Wendy, was just as stupid as being surprised at Tig for fucking another hooker during his free time.

"You've gotta keep her close, ma. She's the mother of your grandson, the woman your son did love at one point."

Ma. The word rolled off her tongue unintentionally most of the time, but she didn't hate it.

Gemma was the mother figure in her life--hell, she was the mother figure in a few of the Sons' lives--and it didn't feel weird using that around her. It was affectionate. She adored it.

"Jax never loved her," matter of fact, she retorted. "They got drunk together. They smoked dope together. They didn't love one another--"

"They got married." Isla reminded her. "They have a kid together. They have a lot of history."

"Just because they have history, doesn't mean they love one another. You've got history with him."

Her chuckle was throaty, almost a full-on splutter. "We have not got that same history--we're friends, Gem, you know that's different."

She supposed the blonde was right.

There was hell of a contrast between friends for life and friends with benefits--and Gemma knew that. She just didn't like that Jax gravitated toward Wendy when he'd always had Isla right there in front of him.

Though, she was more than aware that the pair didn't look at each other that way--she still lauded the thought of the two together.

"I still hate her."

"I know," Isla laughed at Gemma's irritability, sipping on her wine, enjoying the sight of everybody having a damn good time.

"She's checking into rehab, too."

"Really? Where?"

"Some place in Oakland, I think." Gemma added, smiling at Clay when he wandered over to the pair. "But you didn't hear that from me."

"You think she's gonna stick to it?"

"Couldn't tell 'ya." He answered for his wife, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to Isla's cheek. "She's determined though, I'll give her that."

"Yeah?" His nod was optimistic--strange for Clay Morrow. "Well, I'm glad she's working on herself, anyway. She's got potential."

"You hate her."

"I know." She didn't refute the assertion. "But I'm still happy for her."

At least somebody is.

She wasn't lying. Wendy was a good girl, a woman tortured for no good reason. And she felt for her, she really did.

It'd been a shock, finding out that she was pregnant. But it wasn't like they weren't expecting it--what with the rate she and Jax were going at it.

From the start, Isla and Gemma were worried. She was notorious for her crank habit and the girls thought she was going to kill herself before she had the chance to see her son into the world.

And that almost happened, didn't it?

The doctors at St. Thomas were fucking miracle workers--Isla was on pins and needles waiting for a call to say that Wendy and Abel were okay.

But she tried not to dwell on that, now. They were both as healthy and Abel was as happy as he could've been, so Isla was content. She wasn't pleased, but she was comfortable with the way that things were going.

Tara, however.

"No!" She yelled, backing out of the nursery. "No, fuck you, Jax."

Juice stumbled backward when she nudged him out of the way, pulling her purse from the kitchen counter.

Isla and Gemma couldn't not stare.

"Tara, c'mon!" Jax called after her, but it was too late.

The front door had been slammed shut and the party came to a complete standstill. A thickening tension was shrouding the group, and things were only just starting to simmer.

"What was that all about?" The blonde asked Juice, leaning against the island.

She didn't want to prove Tig to be right but, after a few glasses of wine, Juan Carlos Ortiz was starting to pique her interests.

He swallowed thickly, watching Clay leave the room. "He said something about Wendy--wanting to keep whatever it is that he and Tara have going on the down low so it doesn't set her off, or something."

Makes sense.

"He has a point. She's doing really well lately." He continued. "Jax would hate to stunt her progress by shoving his relationship with Tara in her face."

Isla was rattled.

Jax hadn't talked to her in days, and she wasn't aware that so much had changed. She wasn't aware that he had established a relationship with Tara Knowles.

Again.

You know what they're like--like two fucking magnets or something. They always find a way back to one another.

She was too irritated to reside in that same room as Gemma, now. Knowing the conversation she'd initiate the second that Juice left was too fucking much. So she left first, instead.

The living room was almost empty. Just Clay, Bobby, Tig, and Chibs sat around the couches as Donna, the kids, and Ope were preparing to set off.

Everything was annoying her, now. She hadn't made the effort with Donna all night, but she was pissed that she hadn't started to say goodbye to her yet.

Isla was so fucking irritated that she didn't even want to talk to Tig, or her father. So she didn't.

"Where're you going, petal?" Chibs asked, hindering her plan to keep her mouth shut for the rest of the night. He knew that she'd crack a smile at the nickname.

"I was just wandering. Not really sure what to do with myself."

"Come sit down," he gestured to the space between himself and Tig, and wound an arm around her when she met the leather. "I've missed 'ya."

"Tonight? Or just in general."

"In general. It's been a few days, love."

"I know, I'm sorry." Her head rested against his Sgt. At Arms patch, and she sighed. "Work has been so fucking busy and I feel like I haven't gotten a moment to myself this week."

Isla only worked a part-time gig at some shitty salon just on the outskirts of Charming--edging into Stockton--but she hated her job.

She hated driving into the city every morning and evening, wasting a fuck ton of her paycheck on gas when, really, there was no point.

She hated her cunt boss.

Hated her cunt clients.

She hated that nobody really spoke to her because of who her father was. And when they did speak to her, it was almost like they were scared. Of Isla.

Gemma had always promised her that there was a space at the auto shop for her had she needed it, but she couldn't think of anything worse than having to answer to Gemma and Clay every single day.

Well, more than what she already was, anyway.

"Who'd 'a thought that being a hairdresser was so demanding?"

"Me, apparently." She joked, watching Tig get up and leave the room.

It'd turned somber. A little too bleak for her liking, but she guessed that everyone felt a bit awkward after Tara stamped out and Jax sat on his porch. Alone. With a bottle of whiskey.

She hated the hold that woman had over him sometimes. The way he was so fucking devoted to Tara Knowles that she could literally slap him, scream in his face, and ruin his son's homecoming party--and he would still pine for her.

She'd never understand that.

And she didn't understand how such a lively bunch of individuals had mellowed out over the course of two hours, either.

The party had disappeared. Dissipated into nothing and the atmosphere she once lauded was completely dead in the water.

It was fucking grim, and she couldn't wait to head home.

"Can I come with you tonight?"

"Why'd you even ask? Y'know you're welcome to come home with your old man whenever you want." Chibs told her a little bit stern, though it was essentially full of love.

She just smiled up at him, a bit buzzed. But she was having a good-ish time and who was he to chastise her for drinking a little too much tonight?

"Wanna head off now?"

"Yeah--lemme just say 'bye' to Gemma."

"Alright, I'll be out front. Don't forget your purse." He reminded, knowing she was too ditsy for her own good.

Chibs helped her to her feet, letting go of her hand only to part ways for a few moments.

Her mood was perking up, now. The prospect of being able to spend a few hours with her dad after a long fucking day, was just the best.

And she'd really missed him. Missed the time they once had an abundance of. Missed the evenings that they'd spend talking, drinking, watching movies, doing the generic father daughter activities.

They hadn't had that for a while, and it was truly a blessing that it was within reach tonight.

Well. It was within reach for all of five minutes.

"Oh my God--" Gemma's cell slipped from between black nails and bounced across the table. Saturated hues were locked on Isla, and her head shook.

"What?"

"There's--there's been an accident." She managed to muster out. "Or, maybe a drive-by, I don't know, but Donna--"

"Donna?" Piney's attention was snatched at the mention of his daughter-in-law. He stood up. "What about her?"

Isla knew the answer. She knew what Gemma was going to say because it was just the usual now, wasn't it?

Being affiliated with SAMCRO just did that to somebody. Man, woman, child. They didn't fucking care.

"She's--Piney, she's dead."

#tig trager #tig trager fanfiction #tig trager fic #sons of anarchy fic #sons of anarchy fanfiction #sons of anarchy fandom #sons of anarchy #jax teller x oc #jax teller fanfiction #jax teller

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silence-burns · 4 years

Text

Please Hate Me //part 40

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on: “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine Who would have thought that babysitting a god could be so much fun?

Genre: slow-burn, enemies to lovers, smut - please go easy on me, this is my first smut

"Darling, as much as I appreciate your concern, I'm still not dead," Loki mumbled, his head thrown back.

You shushed him, lighting yet another candle and staging it around the bathtub. A shelf in the bathing chamber was full of them, just waiting to be used.

Loki sighed as the flickering flame joined the others like a lone violin bringing an entire orchestra together.

The water was a blessing made of warm touches and muscles slowly relaxing. Whatever oils and foams you added to the bath were clearly a good choice judging by the soft, fresh aroma filling the air. Loki was not sure how long he had spent in the tub, and he cared little in finding out.

Your hands worked wonders on his scalp and he couldn't help a small groan from leaving his lips.

"Someone's enjoying himself," you said into his ear, fingers washing the soap from his neck. The loose robe draped over your shoulders slowly came undone the more you moved. He kept an eye on it from under lowered lashes.

Loki wished you'd join him in the tub.

The air was heavy, and not only because of the steam fogging up the room.

"How could I not?" he asked, craning his neck to look at your kneeling form behind his back.

You put some of the foam on his nose. Loki didn't mind, and even if he did, he did nothing to stop you. He was spread lazily in the huge tub sunk into the polished, tiled floor. He took up much of the space, and looked good doing so, with the thick foam covering most of him, and only certain, oiled parts of his body rising above it like a greek statue half-submerged in the ocean.

Your fingers followed the curved lines of his arm and down to his hand, raising goosebumps in their wake. Loki's chest rose with an uneven breath.

You were glad about his magic working again - Loki spent a lot of time healing the cuts and bruises you'd earned during the day's events. You could certainly get used to having injuries wiped away so easily. And you could certainly get used to having him so close.

The robe's sleeve slid a little further, uncovering some collarbone that Loki wanted nothing more than to taste.

Violet light seeped through the windows and the light breeze from outside playing with the thin curtains. A few yellowish lights passed through them soundlessly, hovering in the air for a moment before disappearing again.

"I wish this peace could last," you said into Loki's shoulder.

"It's not like I enjoy being chased by spiders the size of a cow either. The Edge isn't always so… hostile, though, we just chose a bad time to pay it a visit."

"How many times have you been here?"

"Twice, as a part of my father's court during official visitations. The first time happened when I was a child and had read hundreds of volumes about this place. I wanted absolutely nothing more than to visit its secret treasure trove. It's speculated to contain some truly marvelous things, but no one from the outside has ever seen it in person."

"I think I can see where this is going…"

Loki felt your smile in the crook of his neck, raising goosebumps.

"It didn't take me long to excuse myself from the welcoming feast, but sadly, neither did it take long for Thor to notice my absence. By the time he caught up to me, I had already been halfway through the locks and protection spells, so we both agreed to have just one look inside, just a peek, really."

"Was it worth it?"

Loki's face lit up with the memories. "It was more than worth it, love. I only saw it for a few seconds, but the sheer aura of the collection was enough to take my breath away. The Edge is a space of high magical density, and the things that sometimes grow or appear here are one of a kind. I wish I had seen more, but I only had a few seconds before Thor waltzed into one of the traps…"

"So you overlooked some?"

"I didn't," Loki stated with dignity. "I simply didn't think anyone would be stupid enough not to notice that one. I admit I might've overestimated my brother's wits, but that's all." He raised a hand and waved it as if he were dismissing the thought.

"Wait, is that why Thor's no longer welcome here? He mentioned an old incident. So you left him there to take all the blame?"

A barely noticeable blush crept onto Loki's cheeks.

"That was not my plan. I had only recently begun training with teleportation, and in my childish pride I thought I'd manage to get us both to safety. A few miscalculations later, I found myself in that beautiful river near the castle walls, and Thor was left in the trove, where he was taken care of long before I managed to scramble to the riverbank and back to the feast. "

"Your father must've been delighted."

Loki closed his eyes. The rage of Odin on that day was something the Asgardian were talking about for weeks to come. "...you've got no idea."

You chuckled and kissed his cheek before standing up. "Don't think about him now. Focus on something more pleasant. We've earned ourselves an evening off."

Loki watched you head toward the bedroom. The robe you wore was a thin, flimsy thing that fluttered over your knees and occasionally rode higher. Despite the bath turning cold, Loki was far from feeling its chill. To think that even after almost having been killed on the same day, you were still in the mood for jokes and teasing… He was lucky. Very lucky.

There was little he could do to show his gratitude - being locked up in that suite made things difficult from a logistical side, but there were still a few ideas up his sleeve.

Loki got out of the tub, sprinkling the scented water around the tiles. A few wild faeries - strange, bird-like creatures the size of a sparrow - were chittering outside the window, apparently arguing over a dead bug's corpse. Loki eyed them carefully while he took a robe in palest shades of green, but nothing suggested they were thinking about entering the bathroom. Still, Loki made sure to close the door firmly behind him. The last thing he needed right now were third-party intruders.

The carpet was soft under his bare feet as Loki neared the chimney. Fire slid down his fingers and burrowed into the wood. You watched him, sprawled on the bed.

"Someone's in a good mood," you noticed. Light played tricks with the shadows over your face.

Loki stalked closer with a smile that made your heart skip a beat. The mattress moved under him as he laid down next to you - close enough to let you feel the heat radiating from him.

"Why shouldn't I be?" he asked in a voice low and pleasant.

"I didn't think being chased by a monster had that effect on you."

"Maybe it was the company that made it that way?"

You couldn't help the soft smile from spreading across your lips, despite how cheesy he sounded. And why should you try to stop it? You were happy. The Edge was not exactly what you thought it'd be. Its magic was stranger than you'd prefer. The investigation got more and more complicated, which made this whole situation widely different from what you'd expected. And yet, there was no denying that there were still moments of simple, unapologetic fun. There were moments of wonder. And there was the person that made everything better.

"I love you," you said, hand brushing over Loki's brow.

He kissed the inside of your palm. "How convenient then, that I share this feeling."

He leaned over you, doing what he'd imagined a hundred times. He'd never get tired of how sweet your lips felt on his, moving slowly and patiently, learning every part of him. A half-breathed groan escaped him when Loki felt you open up. Blush blossomed on his face as he mapped the soft inside of your mouth with his tongue.

Your arms wrapped tightly around Loki's shoulders, pulling him further onto you, and he was more than happy to oblige. Your bodies joined, sharing the warmth and the softness, save for the thin pieces of clothing still somehow between you. Loki could feel you moving, your muscles tense and shifting with every stroke of his hand venturing over your side.

Cautiously, Loki slid his leg between yours, in a question and a plea. He wouldn't push you into anything you didn't want, so he waited for you to choose.

You felt him smile into the kiss that was stealing your breath away quite literally, as Loki settled between the legs you opened for him. With the heat rising in every place he touched, you couldn't help but nudge his hips even closer, too needy to wait.

Loki devoured every whimper you fed him like a starving man. He accepted the silent request your knee was writing on his hip, and pulled more of his weight on you, his flustered face a mirror to yours.

"Is this okay?" he whispered into the soft skin of your cheek, flushed and shining with a thin layer of sweat. His hand froze around the hem of your robe, your bare skin so close he could almost feel it, but wouldn't dare to just yet.

"Yes," said the lips already swollen, half bare without the cover of his.

Loki felt his body start at the intensity in that word, and he couldn't help but mark his thanks into your skin, and over the soft, sensitive edge of your earlobe that sent the shivers down your back and made your fingers clutch his hair oh, so tightly.

"Are you sure?"

The bastard toyed with the fabric, his knuckles brushing ever so slightly over the skin that was more than ready to be painted by his touch. He twirled it between his fingers in a manner that made you imagine all sorts of things they were capable of elsewhere.

"You really are an asshole, Loki," your voice came out raspier than you expected.

"Isn't that why you love me?"

The heavy-lidded mess you'd become looked at him in a way that made Loki's resolve melt between one heartbeat and another.

"Of course it is."

A sigh escaped him, barely audible over the blood pulsating in his veins. It sang poems he wrote down word by word over the accepting curve of your neck as he moved slowly, meticulously down, not sparing an inch of skin from his attention. It tasted like heaven and he made sure you felt it with every nip and lick he took, tasting your desire on his tongue.

His hand finally listened to your requests, and left your robe, moving it carefully away. The calloused fingers palmed at your heated thigh, drawing patterns of devotion with each stroke they made. The goosebumps he could feel made his hand shake just a little, as if he was struggling to keep it from squeezing too hard and too needily. Loki wanted to take his time on you, expressing everything that had been growing in his heart for so long, in every way his dreams had already teased him with. It'd been so difficult to stay focused and slow when all he wanted to do was devour you whole, to claw and bite his name into your very being so thoroughly no one would ever dare mistake who you chose to stay by your side, in this world and all the others.

Loki growled your name into your collarbone with lips of a heathen discovering the absolute. His hand reached in the dark, following the curve of your hip to the soft expanse of your belly. Your robe was hitched higher as he went, and you whimpered at the fabric still separating you. You fumbled with it impatiently, blinded and deafened by the only thing that mattered, by the only person who would ever matter, to the point where everything else felt irrelevant and not needed, and so annoyingly in your way.

Faster than you could notice, Loki stopped your hands with a wicked gaze and a smile that made your hips buckle. "Patience, my love, is a virtue."

"...I don't need virtues, I need you closer, and now."

Loki's mouth went dry as he let your hand slip from his grasp and slid over the soft fabric of his own robe.

With a gentleness that broke his heart into a million shards, you brushed its edge off his collarbone and then further down his arm when he didn't protest. His chest heaved slightly as you reached to his rapid heartbeat and stopped your hand there.

The muscles shifted under his velvety skin as Loki moved back to where he finished. Something ached in his chest, and his throat clenched as the kisses he trailed over your chest and stomach became more sloppy, and heated, and did wonders to the feeling rising in your core, so close to where his mouth now hovered--

The intensity of his heavy-lidded gaze was enough proof of his own pleasure. You might've wanted to say something in the moment you looked down at him, settled between your legs like he owned every inch of bare flesh, all now exposed to, and for, him. Loki smiled, holding your eyes as he slung your leg over his shoulder and lowered himself again.

A throaty curse ripped from your lips as Loki licked, and sucked, and devoured what'd been rising in you throughout that night. Your hands flew back into his hair, burrowing in the soft strands brushing over your skin like feathers.

Release rippled through your body, and you felt pleasure wash over you, over every place Loki had left his signature. One of his hands splayed over your hips, holding them in place as the other one, alongside his tongue, worked you through it until you were just a weak, shuddering mess gasping for breath on the silk covers of the bed. The velvety darkness did little to hide the sweat coating your limp body, and the blush radiating off your cheeks. The fireplace was still alive, and its light touched the few surfaces it could reach with tenderness reserved only for certain nights. The light brushed over your hand, still clutching the bed sheets tightly. It lightened up the curve of Loki's back as he let his robe fall off, exposing flesh, desire and the eyes burrowed into yours as if nothing else in the world was worth admiring. He rose on his knees, admiring his work with pride seeping out of his every pore.

It also shined over the glistening mess around his lips and chin, where saliva and your juices mixed. And it showed the bastard putting his fingers, covered in it too, straight up to that damned mouth and licking them clean.

"Thank you for the meal," he grinned, memorizing every piece of you laid out in front of him.

You nudged him with a trembling leg, already missing his touch.

"Where is mine?" you cooed softly, and watched the light flash in his eyes at the rasp and raw need in your words.

Loki stretched over you again, pushing you closer and closer to him, until there was nothing separating your bodies. His hand found its way underneath your back, holding you with both gentleness and demand, as he positioned himself where he had always wanted to be.

And as he entered where his fingers used to be just moments ago, he felt your back arch even more into him, and he drank the moan that escaped from your perfect trembling lips, and drowned in it as you moved together, nothing more than two separate beings that had finally became one, and nothing less.

The world shattered around you, blurring the edges. Your nails dug into the flesh of Loki’s back. The moment of bliss lasted as the final waves turned into shivers and then into an embrace so tight it was barely different from the heated moments. But it was all you needed right then, and so the two of you stayed together, limbs interlaced, and fingers grasping for a hold as the night darkened, and sleep finally took you over.

A/N: I really hope this wasn’t weird, I’ve never written smut in my life, so please be merciful on me! I kept the reader gender neutral through the whole series, so I did my best to keep it that way even in smut, although it was really hard.

#please hate me #loki x reader #loki x you #loki marvel #loki #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson x you #loki laufeyson #loki laufeyson imagine #loki imagine #marvel #mcu #loki mcu #loki x reader series

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atmostories · 3 years

Text

Greg Tolan x Reader

What is this bullshit you may ask? I don’t fucking know, I’ve managed to reign it in as just a one shot and thought you might enjoy reading it? Rest assured Chapter Six of Matter is coming. My heart needed a little break cos it’s hurting me lol. Speaking of hurting. . . Tags: Rape/Non Con, Gender Neutral, Sadism, Masochism, Injury, Dom/sub Undertones, BDSM Elements, Explicit Inspired by this video from @winksasleeplesseye and the lovely @kingkarate x - - - You tried not to tense when you spotted Greg coming down the corridor with his buddies in tow. Grabbing another textbook from your locker, you kept your head down, hoping that he wouldn't notice you. But of course. . .you weren't that lucky. “How's the little tulip doing today, hmm?” He asked sarcastically before snatching the textbook from your hand. He was leaning up against the lockers, making a show of flicking through the pages. You swallowed nervously, your eyes flicking down his body before you could stop yourself. At least his buddies weren't with him anymore to see you checking him out. Fuck that would have been bad.

When he turned his attention back to your direction, you lowered your head. Sometimes looking him in the eye seemed to antagonise him, other times- “Look at me,” he ordered softly. You stilled at the quiet authority in his voice and immediately obeyed him. A smirk twitched up his lips. He then purposefully dropped the textbook onto the ground. Greg crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows, expectant of you picking it up. Your cheeks flushed with heat and his smile only widened. As you crouched down and were about to pick up the textbook, he spoke again. “Oh and tie my shoelaces while you're down there.” Blood rushed to your ears. For a few moments you couldn't move, was he really asking you to do this? In front of everyone walking past? “I'm not going to tell you again.” The threat was clear, if you looked up from the floor he would probably be clenching his fists. With shaky hands you reached for one of his sneakers which was untied. You made the first knot, ensuring that it wasn't too tight or too loose. Then you carefully tied together the two loops you'd made before tying the loops again to make it extra secure. Your face was hot as you took to your feet, nerves swirling in your gut. You hoped you'd done a good enough job. “Forgetting something?” The amusement was evident in his words. You looked down, checking to see if his other sneaker was tied when you noticed the textbook was still on the floor, you hadn't picked it up. You quickly bent down and grabbed it, trying to ignore the growing embarrassment. As you stood up, your head bashed into the locker door and you grunted in pain. Your eyes were watering from how much it hurt. His expression changed into something more serious, the amusement had completely gone from his face but it wasn't replaced by pity. It wasn't that at all. For a brief second his lips parted open and you could have sworn he looked down at your mouth. “Good thing I needed this,” he mumbled, taking the textbook from your hand. He brushed past you without another word and you watched him stalk off down the corridor, somehow disappointed that he had left. - - - Over the next few days, you only saw Greg in passing, once in the cafeteria, another time on the soccer field during gym class. It felt. . .strange for him not to come find you like he always did. You didn't know what the fuck was wrong with you. It should have been something to celebrate and here you were, still wondering where he was. That must have been the self-preservation, it wasn't like you actually missed him. It couldn't have been that. For third period biology class, you got your usual seat at the back. This was the only class you had with Greg and the anticipation of seeing him again had you on edge. You shared the desk with Nick and when he sat down next to you, he mumbled a greeting and you said hi back. There was less than a minute to go before class officially started and Greg still hadn't turned up. You looked back and forth between the clock and the door. Was he sick or something? Maybe he was skipping class for once or- Your heart twinged as he strolled into the classroom. He was wearing jeans, a bright blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and those stupid fingerless gloves. Staring at his sneakers, you were glad to see both his shoelaces were tied. Why were his feet still getting closer? He was second row from the front, he was. . .he was glaring at Nick, gesturing for him to get lost. Nick immediately shot up from his chair and found an empty seat elsewhere. Fuck, fuck, why was he sitting down next to you? He flashed you his teeth in a wide grin as he sat down beside you. “Miss me?” He teased. You slipped a hand down to your chair, about to shift as far from him as possible, but he stuck out a leg, his foot wrapping around one of the chair legs to prevent you from moving. “Don't be rude,” he chided softly. Before he could say anything else, your teacher started the class and began to talk about next week's pop quiz. Suddenly your chair was yanked in his direction and you had to grab onto the desk before you lost your balance. He had just dragged you even closer to him. You focused on the blackboard behind the teacher even though you could feel his eyes trying to burn a hole into you. In the corner of your eye, you watched him slowly peel off his gloves and tried not to think about how big his hands were. When your teacher rolled out the television and turned on a documentary about photosynthesis, you were relieved that you wouldn't actually have to talk to him. With the blinds closed and lights turned off, the documentary started playing at an uncomfortably loud volume. It wasn't like you could ignore how close he was, but maybe you could relax a little. After only a couple of minutes, your luck ran out yet again. You froze in sheer panic when he grabbed onto your wrist and placed your arm on his thigh. His grip only tightened as you tried to break free. Using his other hand, he slowly pulled up the sleeve of your sweater until it was bunched up above your elbow. You attempted to wrench away your arm for the second time but he held you steady. He was completely unfazed by your desperate movements. The strength he had never felt so acute, you've never felt so weak. His fingers traced down the soft flesh of your forearm, and for a brief moment you registered pleasure. He then pinched at your skin and twisted. Somehow you managed to hold back a cry of pain. You gritted your teeth as he twisted even harder and you clenched your eyes shut. Fuck it hurt. An unsteady breath escaped you when he finally stopped. The reprieve lasted only a couple of seconds before he moved further down your arm and pinched you again. Without thinking, you reached over and grabbed his hand to try and stop him. He responded by pulling back one of your fingers, threatening to break it. “Put your arm on the desk,” he murmured in your ear. He spoke the words so softly you almost shuddered. The contrast between the comforting sound of his voice and the pain he was inflicting made you feel confused. An ache in your heart seemed to dissipate outwards before moving down to your gut, and in between your legs. When you didn't immediately comply, he wrenched your finger back a little more. You did as he asked and laid out your arm on the desk. There was nothing you could do. If you called out to the teacher, he'd just make it worse for you later. He was in complete control and you didn't understand why part of you felt gratified by it. “That's good,” he whispered, shifting his grip on your wrist. Arousal coiled in your gut and your eyes widened at the sensation. What the fuck was wrong with you? Why were you- He pinched and twisted the skin above the crux of your elbow so hard that you had to bring your hand to your mouth and bite down on your knuckle. You were able to muffle the cry that escaped you. If the TV wasn't so loud, someone would have heard. But no one did. No one knew what he was doing to you, and even if they did, they wouldn't do a damn thing. The pressure of sinking your teeth around your knuckle was almost balancing out the pain in your arm. “What did I say?” He reminded you. Turning towards him, you could still make out his face even with the blinds closed. “Please,” you begged, shaking your head at him. “Please.” He raised his eyebrows like he was waiting for the correct response. It made you think of the other day, when he said that he wasn't going to tell you again. You laid your arm out flat on the desk, splaying your fingers wide. “Don't look away from me,” he ordered. You stared helplessly at his dark eyes. He immediately resumed, he pulled and twisted your skin, continuously finding undamaged flesh to inflict more agony. A constant stream of soft grunts and whines kept bubbling up your throat and there was no way for you to hold them back. You couldn't take in a proper breath, he didn't stop. He didn't stop at all. Your eyes were watering, the tears spilt freely down your cheeks. His mouth was parted open like he was enjoying you suffer. Your toes were curled, your feet started to drag back and forth across the floor trying find purchase. He hooked his leg around both of yours to pin them against the chair and stop you from moving. Any relief you tried to seek, he tore it away. You were shaking. His fingers kept finding the most sensitive parts of your arm. It hurt so much, it hurt so fucking much. He never looked away from you. Your lips were trembling. You were light headed. You couldn't take in enough air. It was like he was tearing you apart. It was like he- A gasp escaped you when his hand reached in between your legs and he squeezed. An intense shot of pleasure ripped through you and your thighs clenched against him. Your body shook. Oh fuck, oh fuck you just came. He rubbed against you for a few moments before he pulled away. You watched him in horror, not understanding what happened, barely able to think past the throb in between your legs. He smiled at you softly. “My little tulip hmm, I knew you liked it too.”

#greg tolan #greg tolan x reader #just one of the guys #william zabka #atmo-x #watch that video #the way he says. . .sit down #fucking hell #this is the second crisis that fucking film has given me #crisis 1 was the shower scene #which i have to relive every time i see kingkarate post

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ratchedspeach · 3 years

Text

An Ever Fixed-Mark | READ ON AO3

a quick little character study about everyone’s favorite problematic duo. CW for alcohol and tobacco use. Other than that, angst abound, and not much else. Enjoy!

“I don’t feel like myself anymore.”

“How can you not feel like yourself when you don’t even know who you are?”

It’s a rare, unexpected omission - one which Cordelia Goode had not been prepared for, but her mother, apparently, had. Cordelia doesn’t look at Fiona, her eyes stay trained on a spot on the cement wall. Still, she can feel the smoke spiraling off her cigarette, and the satisfied smirk playing her mother’s features. Cordelia’s thumb worries against an ash leaf, tracing the veins and soft flesh of the plant all the way to its stem.

“I could have done without your opinion, mother.”

Fiona grunts. “Then might I suggest not saying it out loud?” She says, smoke steaming between her teeth like a serpent.

Cordelia’s thumb stops. Ash: strength, power, protector of youth, she thinks. The sapling dies - shrivels and rots in a matter of seconds. Fiona tuts, brushing past her daughter and taking the pot in her hands.

“Oh Delia,” she simpers, “always so dramatic.”

The plant hits the wastebasket with a dull thud. Cordelia thinks it should make her flinch, thinks she should feel anger, or contempt, or goddamnit something, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t, and she knows that should scare her, but it doesn’t, either.

It scares Fiona, though.

Not that she’d ever admit to it - fear is too weak, too fragile an imbalance. No, Fiona will not bend to it. She straightens her back, lips curling into something akin to a snarl as she presses the stub of her cigarette into the soft soil of another pot. Even this offense against her daughter’s most prized possessions does not faze Cordelia; and so it is that Fiona’s hand is forced.

“I need a drink; smells like shit down here.” Fiona mutters, spinning on her heels, before calling over her shoulder. “I’m not gonna drink alone.”

Fiona has never waited for an invitation to open (or finish, for that matter) a bottle of liquor, nor can Cordelia recall a time when she has been invited to join in on her nightly escapade. Were Cordelia more at home in herself, the statement would strike her as uncharacteristic. But she isn’t, and she doesn’t, so instead she merely follows her mother up the stairs into the great hall of the Academy. It’s still bright out: light pools through windows and between the crevices of the front door. Dust speckles and shimmers like snow in the air, but all Cordelia can fathom is that she should add vacuuming to the chore list. Fiona is in the study pulling the cork out of a particularly old bottle of rye; one which Cordelia is certain she’s never seen before.

“Well, are you joining me, or are you just gonna watch?” Fiona snaps as she pours the dark liquid into the second crystal glass.

Cordelia surges into motion, practically sending the whiskey sloshing onto the carpet in the fervency with which she picks it up. She stares at her mother, who stares at her own glass, and bristles under the intentness of her daughter’s pooling eyes. When Fiona finally meets her gaze, she thinks Cordelia looks like a child searching for permission. It’s not an uncommon thought for her to have about her daughter, but it strikes something in her which Fiona doesn’t expect - a sort of warmth that trickles into her stomach and burns. And so they are forced into a stalemate of sorts; each woman uncertain and protecting a secret of their own, each completely dependent on the other for their next move. It will be Fiona who acts first (as it often is), bringing the glass to her lips and swallowing the double shot in a single, unceremonious gulp. Cordelia looks at her own whiskey and licks her lips before following suit. She does not finish it, a fact which she is certain Fiona adds to the ongoing tally of reasons the woman simply could not be her own daughter.

“It’s good.” Cordelia rasps against the burning in her throat.

It isn’t a lie, though. The alcohol, though practically strong enough to make her breath fire, holds a distinct sweetness which she hadn’t expected - a smooth, buttery aftertaste that lingers on the insides of her mouth and coats her throat. She doesn’t hate it, and, well, that’s something.

Fiona pours herself another glass before gliding over to the couch and sitting. “Kentucky Whiskey. Been in this Coven since … Christ, at least since I was a kid.”

“I’ve never seen it before.” Cordelia mumbles, chancing another sip.

“Anna Leigh caught me in the liquor cabinet - yelled at me until the little gargoyle was practically blue in the face; something about finishing a three thousand bottle of tequila.” Cordelia can’t help but giggle. “She charmed the more expensive bottles in the coven’s possession after that. Only the Supreme can access them now.”

“Sounds about right.” Cordelia snorts, bringing the glass level with her eyes and studying its contents.

The whiskey is amber in color: like honey or browned butter. There’s a thickness to it, a richness even in appearance that the younger woman cannot help but marvel at.

“So,” Cordelia smiles, “how many bottles are back there, anyway?”

“Seven, I think. A couple whiskey’s, tequila that’s older than me, cognac, vodka, and a few bottles of wine.”

“Does tequila get better with age?” Cordelia’s brow furrows.

Fiona shrugs, finger tracing the rim of her glass. “Don’t know. We can try that next.”

It’s then that Cordelia realizes she is still standing, and what’s more, that were she to continue, she might topple over from the sheer volume of liquor she was about to consume. She doesn’t dare sit on the couch, Fiona having already claimed that her domain. Instead, she opts for a chair opposite her mother, and perches on the edge.

“You gonna finish that?” Fiona’s eyebrows quirk towards the liquid still sloshing between her daughter’s fingers.

“Hm? Oh, yes, I —“ Cordelia stutters, bringing the whiskey to her lips and swallowing in one fell swoop.

She tries to stifle the cough as the liquor hits her throat. Fiona, on the other hand, does not stifle her laugh. Were it not for the rare quality time that she found herself sharing with Fiona, she might have commented on the crudeness of it. Cordelia’s cheeks redden, and she holds her tongue.

“We should really go to a bar.” Cordelia scolds, mostly at herself. “I don’t know that it’s right for the headmistress to be drinking on school grounds … especially with Madison -“

“Oh Christ, Delia, you don’t really still believe she’s sober, do you? I raised you better than that”

“I … what?”

Fiona rolls her eyes, pulling a pack of half-empty cigarettes out of the inside pocket of her leather jacket. She taps the carton in the palm of her hand. “That girl is about as sober as I am.”

Cordelia’s shoulder’s tense. “How would you know? Mother, you’re never here.”

“I’m the Supreme, Delia.” You’re a drunk, is what you are. “I don’t need to be here to know that this place is falling apart at the seams.”

Cordelia catches her lower lip between her teeth in order to bite back the vitriol threatening to spill off of her tongue. Fiona takes the opportunity to light her cigarette. When she inhales, the stuttering burn of tobacco seems to mock Cordelia. Foolish girl, blind, stupid child.

“Madison Montgomery has been sober for one —“

“Day? Hour?” Fiona teases.

“One month, two weeks, and twenty-four days.” Cordelia finishes with atypical confidence.

Fiona glares at her daughter for a moment, cigarette perched between her fingers. “Alright, Cordelia. Whatever you say.”

Cordelia huffs, leaning back in her chair like a petulant child. “And to think, we were starting to have a nice time, too.”

“Speak for yourself.” Fiona dabs the cigarette on the mahogany coffee table, before huffing a sigh. “Fine, if you’re so keen on getting out of here, I’ll drive —“

“No. Jesus, no. You win. We can stay.”

Fiona smirks. “Thought so.” She pours them both another drink.

Typical Delia, she thinks, always so focused on the rules. Sometimes, Fiona wonders if her daughter understands the definition of the word ‘witch’. If she does, Cordelia does little in the way of using such a gift to her advantage. I’m not drunk anyhow. And even if she was, Fiona could think of at least four ways to remedy the situation that would take little more than a flick of her tongue, or an inhale to the right part of her ribcage.

“Why are you here, Fiona?”

She isn’t shocked by the question. Christ, if anything, she’s confused why it took so long for Cordelia to ask. Still, Fiona ponders it, if for nothing else then dramatic effect. It’s true, she had shown up at Miss Robichaux’s Academy that morning unannounced. But she was the Supreme, goddamnit, who said she needed a reason to show up to her own coven?

“Why are you, Delia?” Fiona counters.

Cordelia, for her part, sets her jaw. Her cheeks tinge red, as do the rims of her practically black eyes. She pinches the skin of her left palm. She blames herself for even considering that she could get a straight answer out of her mother.

“Because you aren’t.”

Fiona rolls her eyes. “I am now.”

Cordelia shakes her head, frustration rising like bile in her throat. “But you won’t be. Not forever. This is just a blip.” And an unwelcome one, at that.

“Christ’s sake, Delia, what do you want from me?”

“I want an answer. An honest one. Why are you here?”

Fiona gives her daughter a knowing look - the kind Cordelia has seen so many times before - the kind she’s come to expect and loath. Whatever comes out of her mouth next, Cordelia knows it won’t be the truth. Not entirely at least.

“To see you.”

And oh Cordelia doesn’t mean to laugh, but she can’t help herself. It’s just too … too potently underhanded. So she does: she laughs, and hard, at that. So hard that she has to put her glass down. So hard that she thinks she might pass out. So hard that she doesn’t even realize when she starts to cry.

But cry isn’t really the right word for it.

She’s sobbing — sobbing in earnest, and she can’t stop herself. So she buckles at the waist instead, and rests her forehead on her knees, and lets herself get lost. She’s not sure why she’s crying, but Cordelia can’t help but feel a little relieved, because at least she’s not numb anymore.

Fiona pours herself one more double shot, then puts the rye back in the cabinet. She doesn’t touch Cordelia - doesn’t dare give any omission that she know she’s done this to her daughter. Yes, she has, she’s done this, and it's not the first time. Probably not the last, either. Instead she just waits for Cordelia’s wails to reduce to low whimpers, and for her back to straighter, and her hands to wipe a trail of mascara across her cheekbones.

Then, and only then, does Fiona speak: “Some headmistress.”

“You’re lying to me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Cordelia snarls amidst the bile rising in her throat. “You’re lying.”

Fiona scoffs: “Honestly, Delia, you’re so paranoid.”

“You aren’t here to see me. Torment me, maybe, but not see me.”

And, well, Fiona can’t argue with that. She’s not here to see her daughter. If she’s being honest with herself, she’s not sure why she’s here. To run away, maybe. To ignore her imminent death (which she still has not mentioned to Cordelia). To remind herself of where she came from — of who and what made her; and part of that puzzle is Cordelia.

It always comes back to Cordelia, doesn’t it?

“Fuck it, I’m going to bed.” Cordelia staggers on her feet.

She hadn’t realized she was drunk; the alcohol must’ve been waiting for her to exhale fully before it took effect. She has to use the banister to ascend the first flight of stairs. Her vision wobbles, her tongue is dry against her teeth. When she gets to the first landing, she stops. And there, silhouetted by the moon, Fiona sees the angel of death in her daughter.

“Do you remember the sonnet you used to read to me?”

Maybe it’s the slur in Cordelia’s voice, the promise of alcohol keeping this part of her daughter’s memory locked away, but Fiona nods. She thinks she might even smile a little.

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Sonnet 116.”

Cordelia’s tongue darts across her upper lip, and she mumbles something under her breath, before adding: “Your room is made up if you plan on staying the night.”

“It is?”

There’s a pause — a deafening silence. Cordelia glares at her mother in somber resignation. “It always is.”

She ascends with her back straight and a sobriety that Fiona had not expected. Maybe she really was her daughter, after all.

“Love is not love …” Fiona says to herself, eyes trained on the fading outline of her daughter.

Her palms shake. She reaches for another cigarette.

#nat writes #Shakespeare #ahs coven #cordelia goode #cordelia foxx #fiona goode #well so here is this #ahs fic #idk man where did this come from

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haikyuu-sickfics · 3 years

Note

Akaashi sickfic where he’s rlly nauseous and there’s a lot of build up. He’s trying to keep it down as long as possibly but eventually loses its

> Maybe Akashi and Bokuto are at an amusement park and Keiji throws up there? You can choose why he does.

Glowing yellow reflected off the various metal surfaces at the amusement park, their bright shine blinding those without adequate eye protection. Keiji and Koutarou both fell into the unfortunate group with melting eyes, the former squinting while the latter looked ahead without twinge.

"What should we ride first?" Koutarou wondered outloud, his eyes shimmering with glee.

Keiji thought to himself for a moment, deciding which ride would be the best on his nervous stomach. A feeling akin to anxiety nestled deep into Keiji's core, it's root remained unknown. There were no triggers present, the crowd was light and and calm, the high tempo music providing the perfect upbeat atmosphere. Additonally, Keiji was not one to be afraid of roller coasters.

So why did his stomach flip every time he thought of riding one?

"Maybe the carousel," Keiji offered quietly, subconciously gravitating closer to Koutarou.

"Sounds good to me!" Koutarou grabbed Keiji's wrist and practically dragged him closer to their day of immature fun.

---

A cold breeze fluttered the area as the sun set over the horizon, gentle pink and orange hues blanketing the atmosphere of the park. Abandonded litter skittered the asphalt, the walkways significantly less crowded as guardians carried their sleeping kids out of the park. Keiji couldn't help but feel envious for those kids, their arms stretched lazily towards the grounds as they struggled to keep their eyes open.

Truth be told, Keiji felt drained. The awful feeling in his stomach had remained promiment, if not more so after a small greasy lunch. But he was almost done. He had made it through the day and Koutarou seemed to still be in high cheers.

"Akaashi!" Koutarou dragged out the 'a' in Keiji's surname, "can we please ride the ferris wheel?"

Keiji frowned, his right hand instinctively traveling towards his stomach.

"You said the last ride would be the last one. I'm tired and ready to go home."

"I only said that cause I wanted to get you to ride it! Plus," his voice got softer, "I really want to see the sunset from that high with you."

Closing his eyes and breathing deeply, Keiji turned towards the direction of the attraction. Koutarou's excitement was contagious, an aura of happiness radiated off his body as though he was the sun. Keiji liked being around him for this reason. Fueling the happiness was one of the most rewarding activities in the world-- and Keiji would do anything for the familiar splash of yellow to infect his grey world.

"Let's go," Keiji conceded softly, walking towards the queue enterance.

Koutarou smiled widely to himself before reclaiming his spot at Keiji's side. The latter bit back a frown. Anxiety gnawed away at their midsection, with more strength and warning than normal. Going on this last ride was a bad idea. But who could say no to the charming team captain?

Well, a lot of people- predominantly Keiji- but something about being away from their responsibilities made him want to shrug off his sensible side for a day. Take a walk on the wild side, so to speak.

Or maybe Koutarou's sheer volume of dumbass-ery was finally rubbing off on him.

No matter the cause, here the two sat. Across each other in a plastic car, still warm from the previous passengers, slowly rising into the daunting evening.

The movement, though far slower than the previous attractions, affected Keiji in an overpowering way. Perhaps it wasn't the movement at all. Maybe his luck had simply run out, leaving him white knuckling the edge of his seat and practically glaring ahead.

"Are you mad that I made you come on to this last ride?" Koutarou asked, guilt seeping into his tone.

Keiji shook his head.

"I don't..." Should Keiji be honest with his upperclassmen? Lying wouldn't get him far in this situation... But maybe he could will out for a few more minutes.

His stomach turned

Scratch that. There was no willing this out, "I haven't really been feeling that good today."

"Really? Why didn't you tell me? I mean- you did look kinda constipated all day but you usually have that stoic expression so I didn't think much of it. No offense. Well I just said that you look constipated all the time there's not really a way to not take offense to that but I didn't mean it in a bad way, you pull it off. Well that sounded weird, but I meant that in a totally normal way, in a 'you always look good' way not a 'I like it when you look constipated way'; because that would be weird wouldn't it? Or maybe I'm just overthinking it. Sometimes I surprise myself with how much I think. It's like. Woah. I've been holding this in my brain without even realizing it and boom it's all coming out at once. Did you know that competive art used to be in the olympics? What did they do? Isn't art relative based off perception? How could they judge what someone elses mind created? That's why I like volleyball. It's set in stone. I'm gonna be in the olympics, you know that? I dunno when but it will happen. And everyone will look on their screens and see how awesome I am and you'll be in the stands because you don't want to continue your carreer for SOME reason. But that's besides the point. Hey, are you listening?"

Keiji had his eyes closed. The nausea was becoming overwhelming. There was too much happening at once.

The smell of food, perfume and trash.

The jerking movement of the cart.

The incessant rambling of the person seated across from him.

Everything surrounding Keiji took on microscopic form and roiled ruthelessly inside his gut. His shoulders occasionally lurched with queasy hiccups- threatening to send everything overboard.

Why now?

Of all places why did Keiji's stomach chose to revolt at the very top of a ferris wheel, the setting sun casting a blindingly painful glare into his eyes.

Did he have a migraine? Maybe. He couldn't tell at this point. Keiji couldn't keep into account everything going wrong in his body at this point. The only thing he was concerned about was finding a way to leave this ride with as little mess as possible.

"Do you have a bag, Bokuto-san."

"A bug?"

"A bag."

"A rag?"

"A. Bag."

"A hag?"

Keiji muttered curses under his breath at the futility of trying to properly communicate with Koutarou.

"This is time sensitive," he took a deep breath, swallowing a bubble of air traveling up his throat, "I don't believe I'm going to make it off this ride without being sick. So I ask you once more. Do you have a B-A-G."

Koutarou's eyes widened as he began patting his shorts in search of a valid recepticle. There was a fish net (who knows why) but that wouldn't work for obvious reasons. The only other thing which came to mind to be of use was the suveneer sinsola hat he had purchased earlier in the day to protect his neck.

Hastily, he pulled the hat off his head- having a bit of struggle with the strings and his ears, but handing it to Keiji top-down in record time.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" Keji squinted his eyes at Koutarou.

"It's that or your lap."

"I'm not going to-"

Get sick in a hat- is what he was planning on saying. But the first gag took over his body before he had a chance to vocalize the rest of his sentence.

"Not going to... what?" Koutarou smirked, finding humor in the situation.

Keiji hiccuped over the hat, averting his eyes from Koutarou and clenching his jaw in embarrassment and annoyance.

Just as their cart jerked to a top at the peak of the ride, Keiji's stomach squeezed. It was a sensation stronger than the tugs he had felt throughout the day. This time, a hot sense of urgency burned the back of his mouth and gripped his esophogus.

Coughing, his body instinctually tried to dislodge the psycological ball in his throat. In response, his stomach contents finally pushed it's way up and out of his mouth in one large wave.

A strange sense of relief came with the awful act- as if the tension which had been slowly building up finally broke. He closed his eyes and allowed the conflicting feeling to overcome him.

Spitting residue acidic spit from his mouth, Keiji leaned back against the seat rest. Drying tears cooled around his eyes, which felt achingly tired. His thighs felt warm where he allowed hat to rest, lacking the energy to lift it fully up.

He barely registered the warm body sitting next to him, let alone the hand gently squeezing his shoulder.

"You okay now?" Koutarou asked gently, his breathy voice warming Keiji's ear.

"Mn-mn," Keiji slowly shook his head no, his eyes remaining shut and face tilted toward the sky.

"And you call ME reckless and stupid, how the turn tables twisted. Why didn't you say anything? Or like, I dunno, stayed home? I would've understood... Maybe."

"Please just be quiet," Keiji mumbled, "and keep rubbing my shoulder... It feels nice."

"I'll rub it until we get you in bed," Koutarou assured, adding his right hand to Keiji's right shoulder.

"Mm, thanks."

Keiji paused.

"And sorry about the hat."

#sick akaashi keiji #tw vomit #vomit tw #haikyuu sickfic

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spencersawkward · 3 years

Text

switchblade faith//spencer reid - chapter 6

summary: one month after joining the BAU, Clea is still settling in. between solving murders and getting acclimated to DC, the only comfortable thing in her life is her friendship with Dr. Spencer Reid.

relationship: Fem!OC/Spencer

content warnings: discussion of mental illness (schizophrenia)

word count: 4.4k

masterlist

the thing about growing up in a place where there are so many dinosaur fossils is that you start to search for them everywhere. my friends and I, in elementary school, saw the enormous bones, those huge sockets where eyes used to sit. and even though there was nothing in them now, they seemed to glare back at us. if you stood right in front, face-to-face, it felt like looking down the barrel of a gun. a several-ton, reptilian gun. petrifying.

and it wasn't like there was much to do in Montana, anyway. sometimes the sheer expanse of that place, especially if we drove a bit out of town, was enough to put fear in me. like we'd been abandoned there.

when my mom got her migraines, I dug holes in the front yard. occasionally, I'd find something-- a funnily-shaped rock, usually-- and it would look enough like a dinosaur tooth that for a moment I'd deceive myself into thinking that I'd made a discovery. it didn't matter that actual remnants would be buried much, much further in the ground than I could turn with my small hands. but I liked the slight rush it sent through my body, seeing what other people hadn't. sitting back on my heels and brushing off the excess, the only thing I could hear was my breath. there's something quite serene about that, the focusing in on something which normally I would never think about. my heart pounding. and I collected my findings so that I would be able to put them together again when there were enough pieces.

but this doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things, particularly not when I'm short on time and staring at an upsettingly pathetic evidence board.

"the unsub said we needed a book, didn't he?" Spencer brings me to attention. there's an unfolded paper on the board that Hotch's wife dropped off an hour ago. he's talking to her in his office about who delivered it; we don't know anything else. all it has is a bunch of numbers written in neat black ink.

"yep." I bite the end of my pen and frown. "one that 'inspired many an adventure.'"

"then it's a book code," Reid says like it's the most obvious thing in the world. I arch an eyebrow and he continues. "each one of these sets of numbers represents a specific word. page 118, line 30, word 3." he points one long finger at a certain spot, and I follow it.

"so we just need to figure out what the words are and fill in the blanks," I lean forward in my chair, cradling a cup of coffee that's starting to grow cold. "except what book are we looking for?"

"I don't know," he shrugs. I lean back in my seat; if Reid doesn't know, we're all screwed. "the thing is that it has to be the exact same edition of the exact same book."

"that's encouraging." I sigh. the useless feeling puts me in a bad mood. we're wasting time by sitting and learning nothing. although there's nowhere to go.

I'm not sure how long we're there; hours, at least. night becomes less heavy, hues of a purplish pink sky slotting through the blinds and reminding me of just how exhausted I am. not enough to sleep. bone-tired.

Spencer crosses his arms, leans his chin on his fist and stares at the numbers like they'll suddenly make sense. and maybe they will; I don't know how his head works. some miracle that has eluded us for the past few hours might appear now. but the longer I stare, the more confused I get. instead, I start to sift through the pile of other evidence pieces scattered around the table. we could be missing something.

"you know, I can understand how this guy got our addresses and phone numbers, but there's no way all that information about JJ's butterfly obsession or Rossi's trips to baseball games would be in our personnel files." I frown. those things wouldn't be relevant.

Spencer isn't even listening to me, though. he's muttering to himself, eyes flickering over the floor.

"'never would it be night, but always clear day to any man's sight,'" he says it more loudly, then finally focuses on me. "it sounds familiar-- I think I've heard it somewhere before."

I also get the feeling that I've heard it before, except it keeps slipping my memory. a lot of rhyming poetry leaves my mind after I finish reading it, and I don't want to lead us in the wrong direction, either. he uncaps a dry erase marker and hurries over to the white board, writing "Possible Book Titles" in messy scrawl, staring at it. I watch him for a moment, the way he talks to himself as he works through his thoughts, certain words floating in the air.

"how many books do you think are published every year?" I ask. maybe if we can narrow that down, we can get a better perspective on how to proceed. Spencer doesn't even look up.

"thousands. easily." he sighs dejectedly. and then his head snaps up. "year... every year."

he spins and starts to push all the evidence bags aside on the table, scrambling to grab something. I don't know what to say about his fervent behavior. I'm speechless when he finds the baseball card. he shoves it in my face. "1963."

"what about it?" I take the card.

"if the book has to be the right volume and the right publication date, why is this from 1963?"

his eyes are enormous. wide pupils that urge me to catch onto his line of thought. for a moment, I have no idea what he's talking about. my eyes run over the baseball card for what feels like the millionth time, examining the date. I slam the thing down on the table and we look at each other.

"Rossi said 1959." I say. he nods.

"so the book must be from 1963, or it wouldn't fit the pattern," Reid straightens and runs his hands through his hair, his spine finally straightening as he takes a deep breath. I can practically sense the electric current that radiates from his body while he thinks. "I'm gonna go ask Garcia about something."

he's gone before I have a chance to respond.

...

the rest of the day gets really weird really fast. as all of us are focused on finding the unsub, I fall into a daze. I don't eat, don't drink anything other than tankards of coffee while my eyes start to burn from looking at the board.

we've finished talking on the phone to a librarian at some facility in Virginia, where the exact edition of the book we've been seeking is housed. it took about half an hour for us to go through each blank in the code with her. somehow, that prompted Spencer to think of his mom, so he called her and requested she be flown out here from Las Vegas immediately. the whole time he's on the phone, he rocks back and forth on his heels and keeps glancing at me.

I pretend to be focused on the pile of evidence, not wanting to intrude. he already told me about his mom, and I'm assuming this has something to do with her being a professor of medieval literature. it's not really my place to question it.

when he hangs up, he doesn't say anything to me. there's quite literally nothing else for us to do. I clear my throat, lick my lips, and sit a bit straighter. he's still standing with his hands shoved in his pockets.

"um," I wrack my mind for anything that would take our minds off the waiting. "do you wanna play cards?"

Spencer tries to smile. it looks more like a wince as he nods. with Prentiss and Morgan talking to the guy who delivered the code papers and Hotch and Rossi on their way to interview the parents of the missing girl (whose name is Rebecca Bryant, apparently), we're kind of aimless.

I head to the bullpen to grab my favorite deck, then return and close the door behind me. there are plenty of other employees out there bustling around, and the noise probably won't help his anxiety. he's sitting in the chair next to where I was, leaning his elbow against the table while he presses his knuckles to his temple. he looks incredibly pensive.

"here." I plop down next to him.

"thanks."

"mhmm." instead of starting a conversation, I just shuffle the deck. the only sounds are the flutter of paper against paper and the slap of the cards on the table's surface. his eyes follow the movements of my hands, the way I bend and mix them up, before eventually dealing them out.

it should be awkward, but it's not. the weight of his thoughts fills enough of the space for the both of us; I can practically hear him running through scenarios in his mind, ever.

we start to play for a couple minutes in silence, and I'm in shock when he's the one who initiates a game of war. all I do is smile to myself as the pile in the middle of the table begins. we get caught up in it; both of us are tense, and he finally slaps his hand down on the pile before I do. my hand is covering his, evidence of my defeat.

"hey!" he cheers, looking up at me with a surprised grin and dragging the pile towards him. I narrow my eyes.

"I was distracted." I roll my eyes.

"yeah?" he starts to laugh as he sets forth another card. "by what? how I'm crushing you?"

"you get one hand and suddenly you're the master, now, huh?" I can't help but giggle. he nods and smiles like, yeah, pretty much. I scoff and we continue to play. halfway through the next round, he speaks up.

"I forgot she always used to read me that poem."

"what poem?" I frown.

"The Parliament of Fowls-- it's how we figured out the book title."

the name slides into place for me at last. I must have read it in college or something, because it didn't leave that big of an imprint on my memory.

"Chaucer?" I raise an eyebrow. his head startles up from staring at the table.

"yeah." he smiles a little.

"I'm not entirely stupid." I wink before setting down another card. he makes a noncommittal noise.

he seems to get uncomfortable, shifting, then gives up on his previous train of thought. "it's kind of funny, isn't it?"

I just give him an inquisitive look.

"I should have realized sooner. nobody knows things like the fact that JJ collected butterflies except for me." he isn't looking at me, but I notice that he does seem more relaxed than before. his shoulders aren't so hunched over, and there's even a hint of a thoughtful smile on his face.

"that's sweet." I reply softly.

"people tell me their secrets all the time," he stops putting out cards. I stop, too, although he doesn't even notice that we're no longer playing the game. his back is reclined in the chair. "I think it's because they know I don't have anyone to betray them to."

my heart sinks in my chest at the implication. his tone is a bit melancholy, but there's something else in it, too, that I can't quite place. like a resigned loneliness. I want to say something, though I'm not sure what. and I don't think it would make a difference anyway. he continues on before I have to, thankfully.

"except my mom. I tell her... pretty much everything." he looks up at me when he says the last part, smiling. his eyes sparkle, and something about the low tone of voice and the way he gives up all of this at once makes me think that Spencer hasn't spent much time telling his own secrets. only hearing others', storing them away.

"I don't think anyone would mind." I reply.

"you know, I write her a letter every day." his laugh is really lovely. my heart stutters.

"I think that's nice."

"well, it depends on why I write her."

"what do you mean?" this time I frown, my fingertips fidgeting with each other under the table. I hate that I'm nervous right now, worried that I'll somehow ruin the moment.

"I write her letters... so that I don't feel so guilty about not visiting her." each syllable like its own individual battle for him.

the admission is like a cement block between us, something ridiculously heavy that he has compressed and repressed until it's too solid to hide anymore. and he's avoiding contact when he says it, and the moments after. his fingertips mess around with a stray paper clip, twisting the thing into oblivion.

"did you know that schizophrenia is genetically passed?" he asks, then peeks up to gauge my reaction. schizophrenia.

"how long has she been diagnosed?" my own eyes are barely able to hold his. everything in my body wants to reach out and hug him, even though that would only ruin this. Spencer isn't a fan of physical touch.

"since before I was born," he shrugs, poking his palm with the end of the paper clip. "she was on meds but didn't get placed in Bennington until I was eighteen." this also seems to be bitter in his mouth. "you get used to it. it's just... I won't know for a while."

I nod. it likely won't manifest for a couple years with him, but that only puts a ticking clock over his head. and, judging by the way his body is sinking into the swivel chair, he senses it constantly. I wish I could tell him that he doesn't have it, that he won't have it, except I can't. there's no way for anyone to find out right now.

"I'm sorry, Spence." it's a weak thing to say-- stupid, really. I've never had a way with words. instead, I pour every ounce of my emotion into it. I don't want him to feel alone. I guess I'm sorry for that, too, along with everything else. nobody deserves to deal with that by themselves.

"it's okay," he smiles. "it is what it is, right?"

"I mean, I think it's a little more complicated than that. but yeah." wow, really fucking eloquent. he chuckles at this, though, brushing his fingers over the top of his deck of cards. he flips the top one over and we return to playing, leaving the conversation to lie open between us.

...

my body feels like it's been dragged through a corn field by the time we get back to the office. I think I'm still a little in shock, honestly. this whole day has been jam-packed with things, easily the most intense case I've had yet. my morning was occupied by a code-cracking book search, then a series of out-of-place card games with Reid, then his mother arrived and I left them to talk so as not to overwhelm her.

we rescued Rebecca Bryant-- Spencer did, I mean. it was chivalric, how he went into the house and tried to talk down her kidnapper (who happened to be her father). the guy blew himself up, and Morgan tells me that they barely got out of the way in time. I was on the main level with Hotch, trying to find Rebecca. again, Reid came to the rescue with that eidetic memory, recalling the puzzle pieces and a photograph that included an illuminated basement light. the key he received in the mail slipped into her shackles with ease, unlocking her before we carried her out onto the lawn and watched the house burn into an ash-covered shell of itself. I remember the way the smoke billowed into the air, how sparks fluttered out of the windows and dissipated into nothingness.

I stood there like a rock, Reid stumbling up next to me. his face was covered in a sheen of sweat, and his hair was curlier than usual. the heat must have ruined whatever he usually used to smooth it down.

"hey." I'd said, putting my hand on his shoulder as if to offer some kind of stability. he glanced at me with something like unease, then tried to straighten up.

"hi."

"I heard you were a hero in there."

"did Morgan say that?"

"yeah, why?" I laughed. Reid chuckled, shook his head slowly.

"he's teasing me."

"for what?" I frowned.

"pure irony. you know how he always calls me 'pretty boy' and stuff?"

"I sure do." my fist came up to softly slug him in the shoulder. Spencer stumbled a bit and my eyes went wide as I tried to right him before he fell. he made a face as he regained his footing and then I giggled. "you okay, there?"

"I'm fine." he tried to be annoyed, but he was hiding a smile.

"is Rebecca gonna be okay?" I nodded to the ambulance, where he had just spent the past couple minutes talking to the paramedics and checking her condition.

"she'll be okay-- physically, I mean."

"seriously," I watched them close the doors to the vehicle, closing her up inside before they sped off to the hospital. "two years in there."

he nodded and we started to walk to our cars to meet up with the team and head to the office. we both knew his mother was still at Quantico, probably anxiously awaiting his return after she helped him crack the case. but he didn't seem to want to talk about it, so I asked something else that was on my mind.

"do you ever go back and look at old cases?"

"old cases?" he stared at the ground beneath his feet, kicking up the gravel as a way to distract himself. I cleared my throat.

"like, ones that you guys have solved. have you ever gone back and checked to see how the victims are doing now?"

"I haven't worked here long enough for that, really." he had shrugged. I remember how the air felt in my lungs, a little bit poisoned by smoke. still breathable as I inhaled it deeply.

"really makes you think."

"what do you mean?"

"'saving' people has to be more than just sweeping them out of harm's way at the last second, right?" I put air-quotes around the word.

he thinks this over, nodding.

"sorry, I know you're tired." one look at him and I realized that the question I'd posed was one for another time. he walked like there was some unconscionable weight on his shoulders, like he didn't think he deserved his moment of glory for saving that girl's life-- and ours, probably, too.

he looks the same now, pushing the glass doors of the BAU open and immediately focusing in on the windows of the conference room, where the blinds have been lowered to make Diana feel safer. I watch as he runs up the stairs, returning to her as soon as possible.

I wonder what it is to love someone that much, that fear for their well-being that puts you on edge.

Emily places a hand on my shoulder.

"you okay?" she asks, draws my attention away from the closed door of the round table room. I smile and nod cheerfully.

"yep. just ready to go to bed."

"no kidding," she scoffs, slamming her go-bag on her desk. "I feel like I've been up for days."

"so it wasn't just me?" I laugh as I set my things in my own space. she shakes her head slowly and Morgan walks over, his own gait seemingly heavy with exhaustion.

"plans for tonight, ladies?" he jokes.

"with my couch and takeout." Emily replies. once my bag is all packed up, she and Morgan and I wander out of the office. Rossi stops us at the last minute, joining before we head into the hallway to take the elevator downstairs.

I peek once to see Hotch sitting in his office, settled in with the light on like he's been there all day. my brain almost short-circuits at the thought of doing more work in any capacity right now.

"does he ever sleep?" I ask quietly as though he can hear me from all the way over here. Rossi glances at the unit chief through the window, shaking his head slowly and letting out the kind of knowing chuckle that only older people have.

"nope."

"wait," Morgan sees our small grouping, almost does a head count as JJ emerges from her office and sidles up silently next to me while we wait for the steel doors to open. "where's the kid?"

"Spence is flying his mom back to Vegas." JJ replies right away. when I saw him disappear into that room, I knew they wouldn't leave for a while; moving her around so much can't be good for her mental state. but I guess they're eager to get her to the sanitarium, which also makes sense.

"oh, okay." Morgan shrugs. I chance a look in that direction. the blinds are still drawn. Medieval literature. huh. part of me begins to think about all the things she must know, must have passed down to Reid.

...

"I'm gonna say... three." my voice is uncertain at first, but then the flavor coats my tongue and I smack my lips. "yeah."

Spencer's nonresponse is damning. I hear the puff of air he exhales in frustration as I lift the sleeping mask up from my eyes. I got it from my go-bag; we've decided to repurpose it for the morning in the office. technically, we could just close our eyes and keep it simple, but I thought it would be sort of funny because there are two huge cartoon eyes printed on the front.

"I'm right, aren't I?" I smirk, eyes landing on his crossed arms and taut expression. he shrugs.

"I think you're cheating."

"how am I cheating?" I laugh.

"I don't know, but you are." he shakes his head as I wrap my fingers around the handle and take a sip of the coffee. we're taste-testing to see who's better at finding the sugar content. it's become a pattern of ours: I make him a cup and he makes me one and then we drop in the sugar packets while the other keeps their eyes covered. it's actually pretty fun, especially because I'm good at it.

"your turn, then." I take off the sleeping mask and hand it over to him. he slips the thing over his eyes and waits patiently for me to put the sugar packets in. I chew on my bottom lip as I decide what number to do.

as I do this, JJ stands behind my shoulder.

"nap time, Spence?" she asks him with a chuckle. I explain before he has the opportunity to slander me with more cheating accusations.

"we're trying to see how good we are at detecting the number of sugars." I pick up six packets, knowing it'll definitely overload his senses. this'll teach him to call me a liar. JJ's eyes widen.

"cover your ears, Reid, I don't want you to hear me tearing them open." I order. he obliges, and I can sense the frown on his face while I dump in the sweetener.

"okay." I mix it with the stirrer before placing it in front of him.

"this thing smells like lavender." he observes randomly in reference to my sleeping mask.

"it's got scented stuff inside the fabric." I say.

"interesting. did you know that lavender is actually proven to be much more effective than--"

"Spence, just drink the coffee. I have to go talk to Hotch about something and I wanna see how this ends." JJ cuts him off light-heartedly. I purse my lips because I was sort of interested in what he was going to say, but he takes the not-so-subtle hint and lifts the mug.

I expect him to be repulsed by the sweetness, or at least to show some kind of discomfort. however, he takes a long draw before setting it on the table. his hand clutches onto the mug, still, as he pulls the mask off.

"five. this is my usual concoction." he clenches his jaw in complete seriousness. I have to fight an enormous grin, though it just turns into me twisting my mouth to the side of my face and JJ raising her eyebrows in surprise.

"what? am I wrong?" he gets nervous, voice going up an octave as he glances between the two of us. JJ averts her eyes, smiling.

"you lose!" I cackle, throwing my hand up for JJ to high-five. Spencer looks at me like I've stolen his life's savings.

"no! there's no way--"

"I forgot how many you usually put in there and I still won." I feign an awed expression.

"it's okay, Spence. you can always practice." JJ pats his shoulder sympathetically and then leaves us, running up the stairs to Hotch's office. I'm still smirking triumphantly as he glares at me.

"don't hate the player," I sigh, throwing my hands up. "hate the game."

"well, the player also happened to invent the game, so I think I'm entitled." he counters. I snort at his quickness.

"can I try this?" I point to the mug. "I've never had one with six."

he pushes the drink in my direction with his fingertips, almost having given up on trying to fight the loss. "there were six? that's only one off."

"yeah, but you need to get it right to win, dummy." I take a sip of the coffee. it's so sweet, though, that I shake my head and set it back down. "what in God's name is that?"

"you made it!" I sort of like the way his voice gets higher-pitched when he's vehement about something. it's cute.

"I wish I hadn't." I shove it over to him, half-expect that he'll not touch it now that I've taken a drink from it. but he continues to take ingest the caffeine, undeterred. I quirk an eyebrow silently, watching him.

"what?" he asks.

"nothing," I stand up. "come on, we should get some work done. I don't want Hotch to come down here and yell at us."

#baby spence #baby spencer reid #spencer reid fic #criminal minds #fanfic #slow burn #friends to lovers

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bookishbarnowl · 3 years

Text

“I’m a person!”

The intimidation technique didn’t seem to phase the cocky teen. He smirked. “Techno, you gotta show me what’s wrong,” he goaded.

Break his leg, the AI suggested, but he blocked that out. He refused to play charades with the pint-sized terror.

In a post-apocalyptic world where the remaining survivors live in secure underground bases, Techno is a metal heart among dozens of warm, beating ones. That doesn't stop him from embracing his humanity, but it also means he has a few weaknesses others don't.

Warnings: Mild dehumanization (resolved)

Relationships: Technoblade & Tommy, Techno & Tommy & Wilbur

Word Count: 1,849

Ao3 Link: Here

Here’s a Wingdings translator if anyone wants to follow what Techno’s saying, but don’t feel like you need to, it’s not really plot relevant. Almost all of it is him threatening Tommy. :)

https://lingojam.com/WingdingsTranslator

Technoblade stormed down the hallway, mechanical limbs pounding against the floor of the bunker with resounding clangs as he stopped bothering to lighten his footsteps. Stealth was not a priority right now. He cranked up the volume on his voicebox, uncaring that no one could currently understand him. He was sick and tired of his Tommy’s ridiculous pranks, and changing his language settings while he was recharging was the last straw.

“❄︎□︎❍︎❍︎⍓︎!” he roared in his default android language, slamming doors open and shut as he searched. Other personnel quickly caught on to his current temper and promptly got out of his way, retreating to the parts of the base he’d already searched.

Yeah, faster, the broken AI jeered in the back of his head, spurring him on. He growled and tried to ignore it, but picked up the pace anyway. He was done.

He finally found Tommy and Wilbur in the latter’s bedroom, playing a video game together and bickering happily. He flung open the door with a bang and grabbed the remote, turning the TV off as they both yelled indignantly.

“✡︎□︎◆︎🕯︎♎︎ ♌︎♏︎⧫︎⧫︎♏︎❒︎ ♐︎♓︎⌧︎ ⧫︎♒︎♓︎⬧︎ ❒︎♓︎♑︎♒︎⧫︎ ■︎□︎⬥︎,” he snapped at Tommy, positively radiating anger.

The intimidation technique didn’t seem to phase the cocky teen. He smirked. “Aww, Techno, I can’t understand you. What exactly is the matter?”

“👍︎◆︎⧫︎ ⧫︎♒︎♏︎ ♍︎❒︎♋︎◻︎📪︎ ♓︎⧫︎🕯︎⬧︎ ■︎□︎⧫︎ ♐︎◆︎■︎■︎⍓︎📬︎ ✋︎🕯︎❍︎ ♎︎□︎■︎♏︎.” he replied, his face darkening. He wasn’t going to negotiate.

“Techno, you gotta show me what’s wrong,” Tommy goaded.

Break his leg, the AI suggested, but he blocked it out.

“✋︎ ❒︎♏︎♐︎◆︎⬧︎♏︎📬︎ 🕈︎♏︎ ♌︎□︎⧫︎♒︎ 🙵■︎□︎⬥︎ ⬥︎♒︎♋︎⧫︎🕯︎⬧︎ ⬥︎❒︎□︎■︎♑︎ ♋︎■︎♎︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎ ♋︎❒︎♏︎ ♑︎□︎♓︎■︎♑︎ ⧫︎□︎ ⬧︎⬥︎♓︎⧫︎♍︎♒︎ ♓︎⧫︎ ♌︎♋︎♍︎🙵 □︎❒︎ ⬧︎□︎ ♒︎♏︎●︎◻︎ ❍︎♏︎-” he broke off, gritting his teeth and distractedly registering the AI trying to convince him to commit a war crime. He crossed his arms, resentment and fury pooling in his stomach. He was not playing charades with the pint-sized terror.

Wilbur was looking back and forth between the two of them, observant enough to piece together the situation. He was also partially fluent in the android tongue, enough to probably pick up one or two keywords in Techno’s rapid-fire speech.

“⬧︎ ◻︎ ♏︎ ♏︎ ♍︎ ♒︎ ⬧︎ ⧫︎ ◆︎ ♍︎ 🙵,” Techno enunciated clearly in his direction, slow enough that he could pick it up, then switched back into his regular talking speed. “❄︎□︎❍︎❍︎⍓︎ ✋︎ ♋︎❍︎ ♎︎♏︎♋︎♎︎ ⬧︎♏︎❒︎♓︎□︎◆︎⬧︎📬︎ ❄︎♒︎♓︎⬧︎ ♓︎⬧︎ ■︎□︎⧫︎ ♐︎◆︎■︎■︎⍓︎.”

“Voice… trapped? Stuck?” Wilbur translated. “And something about death? I heard the word Tommy…” He rounded on his brother. “What did you do to him?”

Tommy was trying hard not to laugh, which only made Techno feel worse. “It was just a prank,” he defended. “Isn’t it hilarious? Go on, try and say something else,” he prodded.

Techno didn’t move, mouth stubbornly shut. Some of his anger was eating away into humiliation, which he was sure was the worst emotion in existence. He quashed the feeling and tried to get back to being infuriated.

Oooh, someone’s embarrassed, the AI mocked. Scared, even? Ah, and there’s the helplessness.

Sometimes the voice cut deeper than it had any right to. Techno growled again, the sound rumbling menacingly through his entire body as he determinedly refused to dwell on those statements. He fixed Tommy with a glare that would have most people in the base quivering in fear, but he had the audacity to grin back at him.

“Techno, you’ve gotta ask me for help if you want it fixed,” he taunted, standing up with a hand on his hip as Wilbur looked torn. “The great Blade’s gotta admit he needs help.”

That was the tipping point for Techno.

“G̵͙͊ẽ̷̮t̵̜̽ ̶̬̆r̵͉͐i̸ḑ̴͂ ̶̧̂ō̷̜f̷ ̵̼͘t̷̑h̶̽is ̵͎̾n̸̠͑o̷̦͘w̸̠̃,” he snarled, brute forcing his way through the sloppily installed language blockers in sheer rage. His eyes flashed red and the claws stored in his finger joints slid out against his will, the voice in his head cackling as oily tears started leaking from his eye sockets.

Wilbur’s eyes widened and he jumped up, grabbing a screwdriver off of the desk and cautiously approaching the crying android. Tommy looked taken aback, his expression dissolving into something more sheepish.

“⚐︎ ■︎ ❍︎ ⍓︎ ♌︎ ♋︎ ♍︎ 🙵,” Techno instructed Wilbur carefully, directing him to the detachable panel on his lower back. He closed his eyes and tried to get a grip on his emotions, retracting his claws and silencing his snickering commentator.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Tommy sputtered, backpedaling.

“Then get over here and fix it,” Wilbur told him severely. The teen hung his head and came over to help Wilbur get the panel off, revealing the computer screen embedded into the metal there that Tommy had used to hack into Techno.

Techno shivered as he felt the two of them start going through the code looking for Tommy’s software, exceptionally conscious that they literally had his entire being at their fingertips. A few malicious clicks, and he could be altered in any number of ways.

Phil had tried to help him update the security on his data so things like that wouldn’t be possible, but his system seemed to vehemently reject any permanent alterations to his code and always did a system reboot afterwards to purge the new protections. He suspected the busted AI he shared a headspace with was behind it. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to care about short-term add-ons like the one Tommy had undoubtedly used.

He trusted both of them. He did, and no amount of pranks would change that. If he didn’t they wouldn’t be behind him right now, painstakingly removing the last traces of the language blocker. But sometimes they went too far. He felt used and taken advantage of. And that was not okay with him.

As soon as they got his back panel reattached, he left, ignoring their worried questions about if he was okay or not. He needed some time alone, and there was only one place no one would want to follow him.

He made his way to the airlock and grabbed a pack, slinging it over his shoulders and grabbing a blaster off the rack on the wall. Pulling a shield down over his face, he punched his code into the computer by the exit and signed himself out, then allowed the airlock to seal behind him.

The huge door slid open with a hiss in front of him, letting him out into the wasteland. The face shield protected him from the dust particles the inexhaustible wind dragged across every surface, and his metal body meant he didn’t have to deal with an oxygen tank or protective suit like the rest of the residents in the base. He scanned the area around the base with a keen eye, clipped his blaster to his hip, and set off into the desert.

He didn’t go far, barely beyond the next hill, but it was enough to make him feel like he was the only one in the world, which was what he wanted.

Lonely, lonely, lonely, the AI chanted in his head, and he pushed it away. Solitude helped him think.

But his peace didn’t last very long. The sound of clumsy footsteps stumbling through the dirt reached his ears, and he bowed his head and internally groaned. Someone had come after him, and it sure didn’t sound like Phil. A few more seconds of waiting would tell him which of the two less tolerable options he’d gotten. He considered running farther away, certain he could outdistance whichever it was, but if it was Tommy he’d just doggedly follow. And Wilbur would feel hurt. So he stayed put.

Leave him behind, the voice commanded. Shut up, he told it.

Sure enough, a moment later Tommy all but tripped over the crest of the hill and joined him at the bottom with a little help from gravity, breathing hard through the oxygen mask and making a vain attempt to brush the sheen of sweat off a brow covered by his helmet.

“These suits are so awkward to walk in,” he started, voice coming through the speakers in the aforementioned suit with a slightly tinny distortion. It was obviously an attempt to break the ice, though a pretty terrible one since Techno had no need for the bulky garments. He took the bait anyway, might as well get this over with.

“You were still pigheaded enough to come after me in one,” he replied.

“Well, uh, Wilbur put me up to it, y’know, and Big Man TommyInnit’s never one to back down from a challenge, eh?”

“Did you at least sign out a firearm before you left?”

“Nah. Who’s gonna mess with these guns?” he cracked, flexing non-existent arm muscles. Not that you could tell through the suit. The thick fabric made even someone like Phil, one of their best scouts, look like they’d rolled in marshmallows. The corner of Techno’s lip twitched in spite of himself.

Heh, Lonely Man thinks the Stupid Child is funny- He shoved it back again. Get some more creative insults, he thought.

“If you get jumped by a monster I will laugh at your corpse,” he warned.

“You wouldn’t, you love me too much,” Tommy sniggered, punching his shoulder.

“You’re right, I do,” he responded, unexpectedly serious.

The change in mood was not lost on Tommy, and his laugh quieted. “I love you too, man,” he returned. “I’m, um, really sorry about earlier. That was too far.”

“It was,” Techno agreed noncommittally.

“I shouldn’t mess with your code.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I’m not going to stop playing pranks on you.”

He sighed. “I knew my expectations were too high.”

“But I won’t hack you again.”

“Thank you,” he said, accepting the apology. “Messin' with living code is a serious invasion of privacy.”

“Yeah,” Tommy whispered, guilt heavy on his tone. “But I wouldn’t hurt you, you know that right?”

“Of course I do,” he reassured him. He was rarely the one to initiate physical contact, but this time he made an exception, leaning over for a one-armed hug. Tommy leaned into him, but his personality wouldn’t let the silence continue for long.

“So whaddya say we go back and make Wilbur wish he’d never sent me out to reunite the dream duo?” he blurted, grin wide and looking like it had never left.

Techno didn’t bother hiding the upward quirk of his lip this time. “Let’s go beat up a nerd.”

#mcyt #dsmp #fanfic #technoblade #tommyinnit #wilbur soot #hurt/comfort #family dynamics #mobpocalypse au #first of two fics in this au #also on ao3

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