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actually-safer-to-kiss · 4 months

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Secretly Mine

Summary: Spencer and Reader have been seeing each other for a while without the team's knowledge

Category: Fluff

Couple: Spencer/BAU Fem!Reader

Content warnings: None

Word count: 1.5k

Eight months have passed since your arrival at the BAU. You’re an integral part of the team. Hotch has been sure to let you know. You’ve stood out with your eye for detail at certain crime scenes, outshining even some of the team’s more seasoned members. Luckily, the academy’s rumors about the Quantico team’s bond have rang true time and time again, so competition and jealousy never became an issue. It only made them respect you and even open up to you.

One person who has particularly opened up to you is the genius of the group, Spencer Reid. The secret you learned: he’s a gentle kisser. Almost childishly chaste, but nothing seemed more fitting for his personality. What was surprising was the setting of your first kiss.

New York City police invited the team to investigate the terrorist cell killing random people across the city. Their attacks grew more volatile by the time you all arrived, placing bombs on government vehicles. One of these bombs hurt Hotch, and SSA Joyner did not survive the same blast. The results could have been worse, considering.

Your team faced the problem of uncertainty regarding who (if anyone) had been injured at that moment. Spencer was with Rossi at the police station while the rest of you were on the ground. That damn terrorist organization interfered with signals and transmissions all the time, and this was no different. You, by your luck, were the most difficult to get in contact with, despite being safe at Federal Plaza. You met with the team when it was safe to do so and all targeted areas were cleared. Most of you sighed in relief. Garcia even held your face, as if to make sure you were real, alive and, breathing.

Spencer held your face too, but not in the same way. You both took refuge by the water cooler, surprisingly where no one was present in a once-crowded New York City police station. You talked about what happened, Hotch’s current condition, and how long to expect these nerves to last. Your nerves didn’t settle, though, when Spencer’s knuckles brushed your cheek as he said, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

You didn’t blame these nerves, though, when you leaned into the touch, looking up at him with a smile. “I’m glad you’re okay, too.”

Spencer was cute, obviously, but workplace relationships are highly unprofessional and even a liability, if the case they just survived wasn’t enough proof of that. You’d think (well, you knew actually) Spencer of all people would know this. He knows everything. When you had a case in Baltimore involving the Ravens, he told you their name came from Edgar Allan Poe’s most famous poem. Then he explained the detailed theories surrounding his untimely death. Spencer believes it has something to do with cooping, whatever that means, you dared not to ask. There’s nothing he doesn’t consider.

So, Spencer must have considered all the odds of professional behavior in that moment by the water cooler since his lips delicately brushed yours. It was barely a kiss at first, until he leaned in for another, to where you could feel the warmth of his mouth and felt that he could do with some lip exfoliant. The last part you didn’t care about because it was practically over before it began. Neither of you said anything about it. Instead, you stayed there for a while, not touching or talking. Then Morgan told the team to pack up and get ready to go home.

Throughout the past month, you and Spencer have shared many kissing sessions. Not at work, though, because you both still have some sense. Kissing Spencer, though, tends to not leave you with much sense. His gentleness is not a front. His touches are tender and he’s never pushed you beyond your limits. It’s a good thing then that he’s a gentleman, so he earned kisses through dinners, movies, and day trips. It was something to look forward to in between grueling cases.

And it wasn’t even off work when Spencer would bring joy to you. There was a case recently in North Carolina that shook you more than you cared to admit. You didn’t want to mention what specifically, as it’s something you haven’t spoken about in a long time, but the team picked up on it quickly. They checked on you and even asked if you needed to sit out. You powered through and came to a satisfactory (for lack of a better word) conclusion. Afterward, Spencer invited you to ice cream. It was a welcoming change of scenery, despite the ice cream place being called Jack the Dipper. It was hilariously fitting, so it really wasn’t an issue. Spencer didn’t ask about what happened or what made you feel so disturbed. Throughout the night, he just made sure to ask if you were okay.

You haven’t been okay for a while. Not because of that case, but because it’s been three months now and you are still running around with Spencer without the team’s knowledge. The team might feel cheated (and Hotch might be pissed) because they are not aware of this information, but the uneasiness of all this was starting to settle in. The fear, the worry that this might just be all for nothing. Outside of the office, he shows that he cares. He knows things about you that you haven't revealed in some time. And apparently he has done the same. Bruises from harsh kisses around your bodies linger under work clothes from a weekend in, and the team has been none the wiser. And you’re not sure if you’re as okay with it as you thought you were.

The team went out to the bar on a Thursday, celebrating a government holiday the night before (i.e. a three-day weekend). The team took shots, bet money, threw darts, and Emily ended up with the most by closing. You would’ve coughed up more cash throughout the night if you were confident in your bets.

Spencer barely looked at you. Didn’t brush your hand or even stand near you for too long, like you had the plague or whatever Poe died from. It didn’t help the feeling in your core, and neither did the walk home. Morgan drove Garcia home, Hotch with Rossi, and J.J. with Emily. And of course, Spencer with you. When J.J. drove away after boasting about avoiding a ticket on an expired meter, Spencer didn’t hesitate to reach for your hand. It was nice, and as the weather grew colder, it was a welcomed warmth. But how could it not feel at least a little sour?

His apartment wasn’t far from here, so you walked. Your hands were laced the entire time, but he didn’t breathe a word and you couldn’t tell if that should make you feel better or worse.

It wasn’t until you climbed the steps to his door that he asked, “Are you staying the night?”

You swallowed. Unlike Emily, Garcia, and Rossi, you were on the side of tipsy rather than in dire need of a toilet to bury your head into. “Sure.” You said. “If you want me to.”

“Yeah,” He said, fiddling with his key and lock. “Of course I want you to.”

He finally opens the door and turns on the living room light. You barely had time to put your purse down before his lips were on yours. They were still chapped like the first time, except you could forgive that because of the growing cold outside. His hands hold your waist, they creep to your back. You couldn’t help but lean in, away from the door he pressed you into. It was when Spencer moaned in your mouth that you broke away. Catching your breath, you try putting together a sentence. But breathing is difficult right now for both of you. Spencer’s eyes are lazy and his breath still lingers with a scent of the mint gum he spit out when he showed up to the bar.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and you think it’s the start to an actual apology. “I was trying to stay patient.” He kisses you again, softly. And you kiss him back still. He moans again. “I want you.”

You swallow again. Your throat is so dry. “Spencer, I—”

“I want to tell them.” He interrupts.

You blink, it quickens as you take in the words. “What?”

His hands cup your face. He brushes the messy bangs from your forehead. “I want to tell them. About this. About us. I just…” He trails off. That is not something you’re used to seeing. “I want more time with you.”

As Spencer’s words sank in, you felt a mix of apprehension and longing, wondering just what could go wrong. A lot, in fact. But you have to believe he’s being honest. Why wouldn’t he be?

And with a soft smile, you reached for his hand and met his gaze. “I want that too,” you said, feeling the weight of it finally being lifted off your chest. “I’ve wanted that for a while.”

“I know. And I’m sorry I haven’t talked to you about it earlier. I was being selfish.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“But I would. Because it’s true. But that changes now.” The look on his face, the fully sober look on his face. He’s all in. “I will tell them you’re my girlfriend.”

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orindas · 2 years

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#growing up is being 20 days away from turning 18 and sitting in bed under your baby blanket #listening to gay country music while depressed for no reason #wishing that you hadn’t had to skip therapy this week #while trying to get the fucking federal student loan page to load so that you can pay your tuition bill #for your first year of real college that you will be a second year student for #and you have anxiety about the loans you are going to have to take out #which gives you dread about whether or not you will get a job you are happy with that can sustain you #which then makes you anxious about the state of the world and how uncertain the future is #and you kind of just want to embrace the whole small town small world life and work as a barista server and later bartender #and just make the best life you can with what you have #it feels like fewer uncertainties #I just want to wear a slightly blasphemous cross earring with my dyke aesthetic and pronoun pins #I want to live life true #ajcjkcjsjdkfkdks #to quote me at work the other night I’m just our here with a rag some bleach and a dream #cecil speaks #ellis talks #megs mind #ask to tag #I’m going to finish this fucking loan stuff and then I’m going to make soemthing vaguely nutritious for lunch and eat my stupid cookies #and go to work and stop thinking

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wilwheaton · 9 months

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“This guy is so delusional, he can’t tell the difference between reality and fantasy. Vote for him!”

So Trump's defenders want us to believe that he is so delusional, he sincerely believed that he won the election. Okay, let's take that at face value. Let's presume that's true.

Countless people told him he lost. Every court he petitioned told him he lost.

And yet, he insisted he did not lose. He surrounded himself with people who told him his delusions were real, and, together, they all created the chaos and violence of his unsuccessful coup attempt.

Let’s presume that, in spite of all of that, Trump still sincerely believes he won an election he so very clearly lost. Let’s presume that he did all his crimes and incited all his violence because he somehow managed to fully believe the absolute opposite of what really happened.

... they believe a person who is this delusional and disconnected from reality is someone who should be the president.

To be clear, I’m not talking about Meal Team Six, who are fucking idiots. I’m talking about the Ivy League lawyers who serve in the Republican party, at the state and federal level; the people who are educated enough to absolutely know better.

That’s fucking insane.

“This guy is so delusional, he can’t tell the difference between reality and fantasy. Vote for him!”

What?

#fuck trump #fuck republicans #uspol

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pixiecaps · 5 months

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Heres a portion of Maxo’s ending monologue and some meta commentary.

q!Maxo: And what if I stay? At least they won’t have that planned out. How can I be so stupid? Of course, they know about the bomb. They literally know everything, see everything, its an all seeing eye, of course. They already knew about my plan.. But there’s a plan they don’t know. And it’s that I’m going to stay here. It’s over. Besides, I’m a danger to everybody, I’m turning into a code. I know now that I’m not the only one but at least it’ll be one less, right? It’s the desperation of not being able to do anything against the Federation. They always get away with it, man. They always get what they want. I don’t- I don’t know why I’m even still walking. … They’ve taken my bomb and stolen my idea and now they’re exploding it. They don’t care. At least, we found a way to escape. (Timer runs out)

cc!Maxo: (Closes game) And like that is how he dies. “Are you coming back as a ghost?” As of right now I am not thinking about returning as a ghost. (Plays sad music) Rest in peace qMaxo. Rest in fucking peace. I did all I could chat. I did all I could. … If I had reached the boat I would not have gotten on. I think what I would’ve wanted is to reach the boat, say goodbye to everybody, and die. But I suppose due to the timer the bomb blew up before that could happen. … So I’ve died. That is how it goes. This was the only thing I could do that the Federation could really not control. Killing myself.

cc!Maxo: (When a chatter mentioned the people who didn’t reach the boat) Chat I only know that I’ve died, it’s what I wanted for my lore. That I would’ve stayed there with the atomic bomb. In a fantasy world like the QSMP, of course I could revive, finally turn into a code, or whatever but for the moment all I know is that I’m dead. And I don’t have anything else scripted, from this moment on I’m dead and thats final. Thats the reality, and thats why I’m not… happy because I will for sure miss the QSMP. But since I personally take roleplay very seriously, for me there is no going back. I am dead. I cannot return as cubito Maxo. I can return as a spirit that haunts Roier once in a while, periodically, I could, I could but qMaxo is dead. It’s sad, I’m not super happy because obviously I spent a really great time on QSMP but by my own lore, man, I couldn’t do it any longer. I couldn’t handle returning to Quesadilla Island knowing I couldn’t do anything against the Federation. If I made a fucking atomic bomb and the boss of Purgatory goes and says, “Oh you have an atomic bomb? Okay. In fact, that’s a good idea. Let’s explode it, run to the boat, returning again to the island that you were in, because thats likely what will happen, and you’ll continue suffering.” I can’t do it anymore. I’ve lost Trump, my son, I’ve lost- I no longer trust people who can kill each other amongst themselves, by the lore.

cc!Maxo: The players themselves are super fun people and I’ve had a good time. What makes me feel shame is that, that I can’t roleplay with them anymore. To say it one way or another. Well, there could be things in the future the admins offer but as a player it makes me feel shame. Also, while it is true that recently I hadn’t been logging in a lot, the times I did I had a good time. I did a lot of cool things with these people.

cc!Maxo: I lost SOFIA, I lost.. everything. Everything that I’ve done, every idea that I had thought of for myself and others has been taken by the Federation. … I think that the Federation has so much control that is impossible to do anything against them. And everything you do against them they’ll use to further confuse the people. … For me I will no longer play [as qMaxo] because I am dead, that’s serious to me, I’ve decided my character has died in an explosion. Another thing is that I could occasionally log on as a spirit or something. If they allow me that then great! But if dying means not being able to play on the QSMP anymore then so be it. … This was necessary for the roleplay. … I didn’t die thinking, “Wow I found the answer.” I didn’t want to die because I found any type of answer. I died because of desperation. To say, look man I couldn’t find any answers.

Maxo mentioned it did leave him with a sour taste in his mouth that he didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to everybody since he ran out of time. So a chatter suggested he does canonical pre recording goodbye video to everybody. He said he’d likely consider it and do it so that his character gets the chance to tell the other characters goodbye and that he’s gone.

Rest in peace qMaxo, the original founder of the Theory Bros, and someone who gave his all to escaping the island no matter the cost.

#qsmp #suicide cw

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desperate-gay · 7 months

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can you do an Alexia one. Where they Are married, reader is pregnant and alexia takes care of reader just pure fluff or reader goes to alexias game

Mama

Alexia Putellas x fem!reader

It’s well past 2 AM; the only things that can be heard are the waves crashing outside on the beach. Alexia is sound asleep next to you, but unfortunately for you, you’re wide awake because a certain someone keeps kicking. That someone not being your wife. You’re 6 months pregnant with a girl.

Both you and Alexia have talked about having kids during your relationship, so a little after your wedding, you followed through with IVF. It took a few times, so trying to get pregnant involved a lot of crying, disappointment, and anxiety about never being able to have a baby, but throughout the whole process, you and Alexia stuck together and became as close as you could possibly be. So when you began to feel nauseous and your period was late, you took a pregnancy test. You both had sat in the living room with the stick still facing down, too scared for it to be another negative, but after a while, you sucked it up, took a deep breath, and flipped it over. Two lines. Your wishes finally came true.

Now here you are, in mild discomfort and craving vanilla ice cream, but you don’t want to wake up Alexia. She’s been under a lot of stress due to all of the Spanish Federation, continuing to play football, testifying in court, and worrying about you and the baby. The last thing you want to do is disturb her sleep just because you can’t.

You move the blankets to uncover your body and roll out of bed. As quietly as you can, you tip-toe out of the room and head into the kitchen to browse the pantry for something that could satisfy your hunger, even if it’s not ice cream. You decide to settle for the graham crackers that have been sitting there for a while, and you walk over to the sink to look out the window at the beautiful view of the beach. The moon reflects off the water while the waves move up and down the shore, distracting you from the footsteps approaching you.

The feeling of hands slithering around your waist causes you to jump and let out a quiet squeak. “What are you doing down here, hermosa?” Your wife whispers, setting her chin down on your shoulder and swaying the both of you slowly. Your left-hand reaches behind you and cradles her head, pulling her even closer to you.

“Our daughter decided it was time to do some karate while I was sleeping. I couldn’t fall back asleep because she wouldn’t stop, and I was hungry.” Alexia moves back and turns you around.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” She frowns while her eyebrows furrow, making creases in her forehead. You place your hands on each side of her face and rub your thumb over the wrinkles, allowing her face to relax a bit.

“Because you’re under a lot of stress lately, and you need your beauty sleep, baby. If anything was wrong, I’d wake you up immediately.”

“But I’m your wife, and you’re carrying our baby. I’m supposed to help you with these things while you just worry about resting and taking care of pequeña.” You know Alexia will drop whatever she’s doing to help you. It doesn’t matter if she’s in the middle of a press conference or even just taking a shower; she would run to you in a heartbeat. All you want is for her to be able to take care of herself, even if it’s just sleeping without being disturbed.

“Ale, I’m okay. Our pequeña is okay. You have been taking care of us these past 6 months, and we are nothing but grateful for that, but I can tell you’ve been struggling. There was no need for me to wake you up just because I was awake and hungry. Sometimes you need to think about yourself too, baby.” Alexia tries to object, but you place a finger over her mouth, forcing her lips to stay closed. “Now, we are going to go back to bed, cuddle, and go back to sleep. We’re both tired and who knows what the day will hold.”

Your thumbs rub over the apples of the taller girl's cheeks, while hers rest on your hips. She gazes down at you with nothing but a loving look in her eyes and a soft smile, only for you to see.

“I love you.” She says softly.

You pull her face down a little and angle your head up to meet her lips. It’s a soft kiss that still tends to make you swoon. “I love you always, Ale. I can’t wait to extend our family with you.”

#alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso #lgbtq

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ghost-proofbaby · 1 year

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twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR FOUR

in which eddie munson and you absolutely hate each other's guts. what happens when your friends make a bet that you can't spend more than twenty four hours consecutively together?

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, eventual smut, upside down does not exist, minors dni

→ pairings: modern!college!eddie x college!fem!reader

→ wc: 3.8+

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

◁ previous part, next part▷

4:00 ──ㅇ──────────────── 24:00

BIRDIE created a groupchat.

BIRDIE added DINGUS, NANCE, JOHNNY, & ARGYLE 😎

DINGUS: why the fuck is my name dingus

BIRDIE: so… are we going to talk about how in love they look in that photo?

NANCE: Eddie looks like he’s going to commit a federal crime, Robin.

DINGUS: how do i change my name

ARGYLE 😎: a sign of true love my friends

BIRDIE: @NANCE SEE? he gets it.

JOHNNY: Is this chat really necessary?

DINGUS: guys seriously. how the fuck do i change my name?

—

HOUR FOUR - 7:00 PM

Let the record show that you don’t normally care about Lord of the Rings. You’d seen the movies out of obligation to your friends, nothing more, nothing less. You usually held complete indifference towards the trilogy. As a matter of fact, you’d nearly given Robin an aneurysm the day you’d informed them all you preferred the Hobbit trilogy over the original movies.

Eddie, it seems, holds a similar sentiment to Robin.

“I can’t believe you just said that to me,” he sighs dramatically, sinking into the couch and looking far more comfortable than he had previously. A bottle of cheap beer dangles carelessly in his hand. He’d decided to grab both of you one the moment this argument had begun, “You casually bring up Gandalf, and then you proceed to have the worst opinions on the greatest franchise of all time. A crime against humanity.”

“I’m sorry,” you say sincerely through genuine laughter.

You were laughing. You were sitting on Eddie Munson’s couch, in his apartment, laughing with him rather than at him. It was a fluke in the system, a blip in the Universe. You tell yourself it’s just the effects of the beer.

“What’s next? You tell me you prefer Star Wars over Star Trek? Or, let me guess, you’ve never read the books?”

He looks nice like this, at ease. This hour might be setting the track record for the longest the two of you had gone without insulting one another, and you begin to wonder why you’d never been able to hold such a civil conversation with him before tonight. The two of you might not be agreeing or seeing completely eye to eye, but there was enough agreement to keep the entire debate chugging along.

He notices your silence as you take a sip of the beer you’ve nearly polished off, smirking around the rim of it, a bit of beer lingering at the corner of your mouth. “Oh my God. You’ve never read the books.”

“I never said that!”

“You never said you did!”

Your mouth is open, fighting back at the curl of the corners, unable to defend yourself because he was right. “I- Who even reads anymore?”

“Excuse me?” his voice pitches as he sits up straight suddenly, “Oh, no. There’s no way you just said that. There’s no way you don’t read.”

You shrug, and his beer is quickly set to the side.

“C’mon, everyone reads. You’ve got to have a guilty pleasure book.”

“Nope,” you tuck your bottle between your thighs, and catch the way his eyes had followed the bottle before snapping back to yours, “I just prefer the movies, I guess.”

“No one prefers the movies. You’re a goddamn liar,” he shakes his head and some of the frizzy curls fall against his collar bones rather than continuing to tickle his shoulders, “You have to read something. Romance novels, boring essays, the news. Hell, even magazines or that written porn shi-” he cuts off when you smile at the mention of magazines. “Why are you smiling like that? Stop it. It’s creepy. Do you read those porno books?”

“God, no,” you laugh. A lie - you’d certainly read excerpts from Fifty Shades of Grey he was referencing to understand what the hype was to no prevail, “Just ironic you bring up magazines. You probably consider yourself a real connoisseur, don’t you?”

He flushes crimson. His cheeks that had tinged pink from the warmth of the beer are now flaming red. “I have no idea what you mean.”

He clearly did.

“Right,” you drawl, “So which article in that Playboy caught your eye? The one about the psychological deep dive into what makes sex so great, or the interview with that one porn star? No, wait, I got it! It was totally the one that gave fifteen ways to drive a girl crazy-”

“It’s not a fucking Seventeen magazine,” he snaps, but the malice in his voice is dull, “There’s no lists on how to get the girl, it’s a porn ‘zine, Jesus H. Christ.”

“I know that, do you?” you press, reveling in the brush crawling its way down the side of his neck.

He runs a hand over his face, groaning, “I’m not even going to entertain you with an answer. Fuck off.”

“Do you just ignore all the photos of the beautiful women?” you don’t hold back your teasing, subconsciously leaning his way as your voice lilts with sarcasm, “Ignoring all those bushes? Or maybe you just prefer the Brazilian cut?”

“I liked it better when we were talking about your illiteracy,” he deadpans, staring straight ahead at his entertainment center.

“I never said I couldn’t read, just that I choose not to most of the time,” you finally pull back a bit, scared to push it all too far. You pull your legs up beneath you on the couch and move the beer that has gone warm to the table on the opposite end as his, “Sue me for trying to make friendly conversation.”

You await his expected response about how this was not friendly conversation. You start to do mental gymnastics of a way to bring up the specific model he had marked the pages of, of the eerie resemblance she bears to you and a way to push his buttons regarding it. This conversation was following your script, not his.

Or at least, it was.

“Fine. I prefer the bush, I always find the lack of hair kind of weird,” he says, throwing you off your game effectively. He stares at you with now expecting eyes, “What about you?”

You’re grateful you’d stopped nursing the beer, or you surely would have choked, “What?”

“What’s your preference?” he clarifies, not backing down, “On yourself, on partners. Whatever.”

“I- I don’t- I never-” you stumble over your words, at a complete loss for an answer. It only makes him smirk as he’s now the one leaning in closer, close enough to catch the smell of his cologne concentrated on him.

You hadn’t realized you’d adjusted the boyish smell of the apartment until this very moment.

“See? Not so fun when you’re the one getting asked the personal questions.”

He’s right – you shouldn’t dish out what you can’t handle him throwing back into your face.

“Fine,” you mimic him, squaring your shoulders, “Bush.”

“On yourself or others?”

“Myself,” there was no use in being shy now, “But also on, uh, partners. Kind of unfair to expect something from someone I wouldn’t give in return.”

He nods in surprising consideration at the notion. His face twists as if he’s taking words you’d thrown out there so carelessly to heart, as if there’s some hidden message that even you hadn’t realized was laced in the notion. For a moment, you start to believe he’s committing the words to memory before he answers you.

“That’s fair,” is all he says.

A moment of intense thought for that?

“What? That’s all you’ve got to say?” you scoff, and busy yourself with the beer again out of nerves. It’s warm and bitter on your tongue, but it’s better than looking him in the eyes. Warm, honey eyes you’d never really cared to notice before.

“Yeah,” he lifts his shoulders into an offhand shrug, “I mean, what else is there to say? Like you said, you can’t expect something from someone you can’t return.”

Another silence drags out, and this time, it’s stifling. You never thought you’d live to see the day where Eddie being quiet would bother you, but it does. The lack of words in the air is leaving too much room for thought from both of you. It’s giving you too much time to think on those warm, honey eyes and those damn dimples. Trivial things about Eddie that you don’t care to remember past tonight.

“My friend collects vintage Playboys,” you blurt out, internally cursing yourself immediately. What a stupid conversation segway.

Should have teased him about the dog-eared pages, you regretfully think as you dare to look his way.

His face is surprisingly smooth, eyebrows quirking up into the frayed edges of his bangs, “Oh really?”

You nod, “Yeah. Hell of a lot more bushes in the seventies.”

A lot less of that model you like, you silently add, once more not voicing that concern out loud.

The dimples return. Those fucking dimples. “Hm, guess I should check them out, then.”

“She collects them for aesthetic purposes,” you continue to ramble, filling the air, unsure of why you’re even defending yourself. You’re just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Eddie to dissect the small piece of your life you’ve offered, “It’s… It’s really cool, actually.”

“It sounds cool,” he agrees gently.

The other shoe is left dangling in the air, if it even continues to exist.

You think about his earlier question, of whether you really wanted to keep up a miserable act for the entire twenty four hours. If the last hour hadn’t already solidified your answer, you knew now for a matter of fact that he had a point, even if he did proceed to insult you after the question. You didn’t want to spend this time miserable. The passing of time came easier when it was like this, all rounded-edged banter and friendly words exchanged. When Eddie Munson wasn’t being an asshole and making personal digs at you, he was actually a nice person to have around.

You’d never tell him that, of course.

“It’s why I collect all that,” he motions his hand towards the shelving of figurines and trinkets, “I just think it’s cool, you know? I… Uh, I sort of lied earlier. Most of that shit isn’t that expensive. But it’s not about how much it’s worth money-wise, it’s just worth a lot to… to me.”

A glimpse of crimson, a flash of vulnerability that proves that Eddie has a heart just as you do. It beats erratically, and it can bleed just the same.

“That makes sense,” you offer in response. You may not get it, but you wouldn’t push his buttons on the topic. They may be nothing but clutter from your perspective, but the same could be said about the vintage Playboys your friend collects. The same could be said about plenty of things that are sentimental to you. “Doesn’t it get creepy, though? Like, you bring home a girl-”

“Or a guy,” he interjects, making you smile.

“You bring home a girl, or a guy, and you’ve just got Gandalf staring you down while you make a move. Or… Or, Darth Vader?” you squint to pinpoint another figurine, “Is that Darth Vader? Didn’t you say Star Trek is better than Star Wars?”

“Never said that,” he points at you with a tilt of his head, “I just don’t prefer Star Wars over Star Trek.”

“Have you seen Star Wars? It’s way more entertaining.”

“Have you seen Star Trek?” he counters, but it’s clearly rhetorical as he continues on, “I like both. Having a preference for one doesn’t mean I’m completely against the other. Besides, the light saber effects are fucking incredible.”

“So you prefer the prequels?” you ask eagerly.

“I guess. I mean, the original trilogy is still badass and a classic,” he stands abruptly, and you’re worried you’ve said something wrong, but he just walks over to the Darth Vader figurine to pick it up and bring it back over with him as he flings down onto the couch, now several spaces closer to you rather than opposing ends, “It’s kind of hard to beat the ‘Luke, I am your father’ reveal,” his voice dips down to a deep tone, a fairly spot on impersonation, “But it was also nice seeing his origin story.”

“Plus Ewan McGregor and Hayden Christensen are gorgeous,” you add, almost daring to lean over and bump shoulders with him. But you don’t. You keep what little space remains between the two of you.

“Of course,” Eddie rolls his eyes, “The eye candy is what gets you.”

“And the cool effects!”

“Right. Next you’re going to say you definitely watched for the plot, huh?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“And the plot’s name just happens to be Ewan.”

You bite down the grin that starts to ache your cheeks, because you’re not supposed to smile around Eddie this much. “Now you’re getting it.”

The hand holding the Darth Vader figurine suddenly thrusts out in your direction, and you find yourself jumping a bit. When you don’t take it, he waves it around a bit, raising an eyebrow, “It doesn’t bite, you know.”

“You said to not touch your shit.”

It’s a pathetic lie, you both know it. But he doesn’t know how scared you are to brush fingertips with him, how the way his arm being so close has electricity buzzing from the soles of your feet to the crown of your head. One small shift, one outreached hand, and your skin would brush his.

It would surely be nuclear. An explosion with no survivors, least of all you.

“Oh, c’mon. You’ve disregarded that rule the entire time, why start being a goody two shoes now?” he teases.

Which is fine, except Eddie teases a certain way – with his entire body. His knee knocks into yours, he leans into your space, a boyish grin spreads over his lips. You’ve seen him dance around this kind of lighthearted conversation with everyone else in your friend group except you. It’s uncharted territory, and your heart nearly breaks out of your chest from its rapid racing.

You’re just lucky that there’s two layers of jeans between your knees. The nuclear explosion will have to wait for another day.

Instead of an answer, you reach out and grab the figurine nimbly by the small leg. Your fingertips narrowly evade Eddie’s and you’re eternally grateful and his arm retracts. You poke and prod, gently wiggling the red, flexible stick that serves as his lightsaber and pinch at the edges of his cape.

In your silence, Eddie speaks, “It’s not a crazy collectible or anything, like I said. It probably would have been more valuable to keep it in its packaging, but one time Wheeler brought his little sister over while they were in town, and she wanted to see him out of the box, so I took him out. You know Wheeler, right?”

You shake your head, inspecting the figurine even closer now. It still looks brand new; you’d never be able to tell that a child, presumably, had played with the ‘toy’.

“Oh,” Eddie looks taken back, faltering slightly, “Sorry, I- I just sort of assumed that…. You, uh…. You had met Steve’s children.”

“Oh!” your head shoots up from where your nose had been nearly pressed into the figure, taking in the detailing of the chest piece, “You mean Mike? I’ve heard about him, yeah. Just in passing, though.”

There’s more for Eddie to say, it’s clear in the way his mouth falls open with the corners quirked, but then you’re interrupted by a phone ringing.

Your phone.

Steve’s contact photo occupies the screen for the second time tonight, a ridiculous photo of him scowling at the camera in a yellow jumper while holding a can of pringles in front of him, one of his hands bringing a single chip to his pouting lips.

“Let me answer it,” Eddie insists, holding out his hand as you stare down at the phone, still chiming annoyingly.

“Were they supposed to call this often?” you ask, knowing well enough that Eddie didn’t have the answer.

His hand waves in impatience, and you don’t put up a fight as you let him take the phone and swipe the answering bar, focusing instead on the Darth Vader discarded into your lap as he puts the call on speaker.

“Hello?” Eddie answers in a chirpy tone.

“How many times do we have to te- hold on. Munson?” Steve starts off aggressive, but his tone melts into confusion, “Why the hell are you answering her phone?”

“Because I’ve murdered her,” he flatly replies, but his face doesn’t match his tone at all.

He fucking winks at you. Your grip on Darth Vader tightens until you’re afraid you're about to snap it.

“Not funny.”

“Not a joke.”

“Where is she, Eddie?” Steve sighs like an irritated parent, in no mood for games, “Please tell me you didn’t manage to make her lock herself in a room again.”

“I told you. She’s gone. Sacrificed to the Dark Lord or whatever. Just got to go dump her body in the lake-”

You shouldn’t joke along with him, but you still whisper the correction of, “The canals.”

“Sorry, I mean the canals.”

Another deep sigh. You can picture the way Steve was currently pinching the bridge of his nose at the two of you.

“I heard her, you idiot. Now that we know you’re both clearly alive and well…. Where the hell is our photo proof?”

You both share a look, and you quickly mouth, already?

Eddie shrugs and mouths back, I guess.

“We lost track of time,” you finally say out loud, still locked in eye contact with Eddie. His brown eyes are surprisingly captivating, several autumn shades all woven together. Burnt orange leaves, red apples, brown sweaters. You never thought you’d be able to see a season in someone’s irises, yet here you were, picturing it clear as day. “Let us hang up and we’ll send the photo.”

Steve starts to speak, but Eddie’s thumb is quick to end the call. The moment your lock screen stares back at both of you, you look at the time.

7:41. Shit.

“Oops,” Eddie whispers as he hands the phone back over, “They really gave us quite the grace period that time.”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, quickly opening your damn camera app. “So, how do we want to do this one?”

Eddie thinks for a moment before he launches himself back to his side of the couch, and motions for you to toss him your phone.

And once again, you put your faith in him, not even hesitating this time.

It happens naturally; you both mirror each other, drawing up your knees, your sock-clad toes bumping firmly against one another. Your back is supported by the worn arm behind you, similar to how Eddie’s is, as you face him.

He quickly angles the camera towards you, sticking a hand out into the frame while raising his middle finger. You don’t know what to do, so one hand holds up the Darth Vader as the other mimics flipping him off.

A soft click from your phone. The photo’s taken, and you’re not even sure if you were smiling.

“Trade,” he leans forward, one hand holding out your phone, the other reaching out for Darth Vader.

You oblige, and go through the same process for his photo. His white socks contrast your black ones, and the corners of his lips twitch upwards no matter how hard of a line he presses them into. You can’t look at him directly, and settle for watching him through the screen as you hit the small grey button to snap the photo.

Just as quickly as he had shoved away from you, he’s back at your side, watching you send off the photos to the group chat with a thumbs up emoji. You take a deep breath, scanning over the pair of photos until it’s confirmed that they’re delivered, and lock your phone. Your brows are furrowed in your reflection staring back at you through the black screen.

“Do you really want to keep up the miserable act the entire twenty four hours?” Eddie’s voice echoes in your mind.

No, you don’t. No matter how wrong this levity with Eddie feels, no matter how uncomfortable it is each time you remember that he’s meant to be the enemy and not someone to share laughter and smiles with, you don’t want to waste these remaining twenty hours being miserable.

“What’s up?” Eddie’s actual voice echoes in real time as you continue to stare at your reflection.

“Just thinking,” you grunt. The thought of admitting your decision to Eddie is much more intimidating than simply acknowledging it to yourself.

“Dangerous.”

Instead of quipping something rude back, you decide to be vulnerable with Eddie. You decide to crack yourself open just a small bit, just as he had done microscopically when he spoke of his collection of items. It’s a dangerous gamble, and you don’t give yourself the chance to overthink it.

“You were right, earlier,” you force the words out, fighting the way they try to cling onto your tongue and remain safely in your throat.

“About… what?” He looks distrusting, and for good reason. He said plenty of things earlier - you could be preparing to remind him of any number of rude things he’d spewed.

“About keeping up the miserable act,” you explain, turning your head to him and abandoning the phone, “You were right. I don’t want to be miserable this entire time. It… It goes by faster when we’re not about to strangle each other, believe it or not.”

You swear you see his shoulders sag in relief. “Well, yeah, I could have told you that. I did tell you that, actually.”

“Shut up,” you force a scowl, “My point is… I don’t know, maybe, we could try to- try to just- we could be-”

“Civil?” he finishes the sentence you stumble over.

You nod, “Yeah. We could be civil.”

The word feels foreign on your tongue. Civility was not something you’d ever considered with Eddie, but the last hour had proven it to be possible.

“Okay,” he nods along with you. He turns his entire body to face you, knees once again bumping as he sticks out a hand for you to shake, “Deal. We will try to be civil the rest of the time.”

“Civil,” you repeat yourself again, more sure this time, still staring at his offered hand.

An olive branch. The opportunity to work together to survive the next twenty hours. The opportunity for his bare skin against yours.

You think again of nuclear explosions and pulsing electricity, of open chests and matching scarlets, of smashing glasses against walls and ruined parties, of wounds healing over in scar tissues as they glow a gentle pink.

Civil. You wonder if that’s one of the words they’ll include on your gravestone as you reach out your hand and let Eddie’s palm meet yours.

taglist: @catherinnn @haylaansmi @gaysludge @paprikaquinn @manda-panda-monium @audhd-dragonaut @amira0303 @blushingquincy @hellkaisersangel @eddieslittlewh0re @ajkamins @prettyboy200 @munsonzzgf @blue-eyed-lion @digwhatudug @madaboutjoe @wickedslashdivine @sweet-villain @somespicystuff @big-ope-vibes @jadequeen88 @sylviin @emma77645 @notbeforelong @lolalanaie @lo-siento-ama @happy-and-alone @micheledawn1975 @aysheashea @moon-huny @munsonswrld @bambipowerblueaddition @averagestudent03 @bakugouswh0r3 @mattefic @mxcheese @bietchz @nativity-in-black @tlclick73 @stezzil @vngelis @coley0823 @folklorebau @luvmunson86 @theherothesavior @keene200213 @hargrovesswifee @m-chmcl-rmnc @cherrymedicine13 @iunaelumen777

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#twenty four hours #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #let's see if i can get it to post in one try this time

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ludaroace · 3 months

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thinking about the way ramon said “fit and pac you should know” instead of anything else and i’m probably thinking way too hard into it but

either cucurucho knows or doesn’t know and either way ramon “wins” the conversation . some of the other eggs might have been outwardly hostile to cucurucho, but ramon is the only one who did not actually answer a single question with anything substantial except for when he said “you should know”, which could be seen as a very subtle challenge to the federation especially combined with what else he said

if cucurucho knows, this is nothing other than ramon being snarky . if cucurucho doesn’t know he can’t just say that, because isn’t the fed supposed to know everything about the islanders ? which honestly, i think that’s what ramon was going for, because he’s a smart boy and knows that according to the federation, his only parent is fit . maybe spreen if they’re being technical .

ramon doesn’t lose anything by including pac if cucurucho doesn’t know because everyone else does and honestly it’s a matter of time for pac signing the adoption papers . he’s not divulging anything that’s not common knowledge

and it’s not like cucurucho could tell ramon that pac wasn’t one of his parents because that’s not true . ask anyone on the island and they would all agree that he is . hell, i think there’s a good chance ramon has called pac pai more than he’s called fit dad . cucurucho really should know, shouldn’t he ?

#qsmp #qsmp ramon #qsmp ramón #child too smart for his own good with a vendetta for the federation vs a bear go #the fed really got unlucky that ramon was raised by an anarchist war criminal who absolutely taught him to not talk to the police #and that the same child’s other dad is a genius escaped convict #if anyone knows how to deal with an interrogation it’s ramon #ramon tag

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ragingbookdragon · 4 months

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It all happens so fast. She returns from the trip she’s been on for the last few days only to be arrested and put in federal custody for exposing secrets on NEST. She’s tough, seen war zones, fought extra-terrestrial alien robots, and stood before evil unafraid, but this scares her to tears. Men she works with day in and day out, in her face, yelling at her to come clean about selling secrets and all she can do is plead innocent.

But then they start asking her where she was, and she snaps her mouth shut on the answers. They dig into her, asking her if she was meeting with a contact, who it was, where she was. She keeps silent and it’s only until they decide to charge her with treason that she offers a simple answer.

“I was with someone, but it wasn’t for any type of secret meeting or sharing of intelligence.”

They press her over and over and over and it ends with her in a dark room, alone, cuffed to a table. It’s technically false imprisonment and cruel punishment, but she knows she doesn’t have much of a choice given the fact of how difficult a position she’s in.

She thinks of him. No doubt the rumors have already spread around the facility. She wonders if he has heard anything, if he has already said anything. She knows she can’t say anything, knows she can’t tell the entire truth—they won’t understand. How could they? They’re two completely different species.

Her spirits begin to dampen when a crash echoes outside and the roof of the darkened room is ripped from the walls. She covers her head the best she can, fear gripping her as light pours into the room and she squints as his face becomes clear to her.

“Optimus?” she breathes, and he reaches down, snapping the cuffs on her wrist like they were toothpicks before he picks her up and pulls her out, setting her down on the ground.

Guns are pointed their way, and she can’t help but hide slightly around the leg that is suddenly in front of her, guarding her. And then all of the Autobots are squaring off against the human soldiers, protecting her. Lennox somehow ends up in the middle of a multitude of aliens and humans, yelling at both sides to lower their weapons.

“Alright! Everyone put your guns down!”

There’s a breath and then the humans lower theirs followed by the Autobots.

Lennox looks at her. “You know I trust you, I know you wouldn’t do what they’re saying, but if you have a true, factual alibi, you have got to tell them. Now.”

She purses her lips, thinks for a moment, then looks up at Optimus; he gives her his own calming look and a nod. “She and I were both recently out. We were together.” He looks down again, kneeling enough that he can take her hand in his larger one. “We are navigating a difficult and new relationship between two different species.”

“Optimus,” she whispers. “I—you don’t have to tell them this."

His pointer gently brushes her temple. “If telling them our truth means it protects you, then I shall.” Optimus looks at the higher-ups she answers to. “If you mean to punish someone, then it will be me. But know this, she has not betrayed your trust and remains a trusted agent.”

It’s quite a commotion and the night ends with her job and security reinstated and a new manhunt for the double agent; she sits outside in the field, far enough from the facility that she doesn’t have to worry about being questioned anymore. The crunch of the ground comes behind her and she doesn’t look as Optimus sits down beside her on the grass.

“I am sorry that this is how things have come to light,” he murmurs, staring up at the sky. “It is not how I would have wished it.”

She sighs, not tired of him but of the entire thing. “It’s not your fault, Optimus. I think I should’ve told Lennox that I was out before we left. If nothing else, just to let him know that I wasn’t doing anything malicious.” She looks at him. “I’m sorry too.”

“It’s not your fault, my spark,” he says and shifts a leg until she is between his, his hands are wrapped around her, thumb brushing her thigh. “I should’ve done more to protect you.”

“Have they said anything since this afternoon?”

“I would not be surprised, but I was once taught to listen to all but only take few as truth.”

She leans back against him. “Thank you, Optimus.”

“Always, my spark.”

#optimus prime x reader #optimus prime x reader imagines #optimus prime x reader imagine #optimus prime imagines #optimus prime imagine #optimus prime #optimus x reader #optimus x reader imagines #optimus x reader imagine #optimus imagines #optimus imagine #optimus #transformers #transformers bayverse #bayverse transformers #transformers x reader

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morganbritton132 · 1 year

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I saw this scrolling the social media today and I just needed you to know. My fictional true love Joan the disservice cat definitely needs one.

First, thank you for this.

When I got the notification that you sent me an ask, I was not expecting four of the best images on the internet. I love these cats in their little outfits and I agree, Joan needs this.

I can picture Eddie scrolling through Pinterest, seeing little heavy metal cat outfits, and immediately taking out his credit card despite the fact that Joan has never once enjoyed him putting her in an outfit. In fact, she actively acts like she’s dying every time he does.

So, she never wears them, but…

Joan has grown up observing Ozzy and Ozzy takes care of Steve. So the natural conclusion is that Steve is Baby and he must be looked after.

Joan also has no concept of federal holidays. She just knows that there are days that Steve is not there and days that he is. If he is home on a day he’s not supposed to be than that’s bad. So, he should not be putting on his running shoes.

Since Ozzy is doing nothing to stop him, Joan insist on stepping in.

Steve nudges her out of the way as he slips his foot into his shoe, “Joan, move. You’re going to get stepped on.”

But Joan does not move because she is helping. Steve does not seem deterred so Joan insists on coming with him and if she has to wear a silly little outfit and get put in a torture device (AKA the cat stroller) than so be it.

Steve lets out a little annoyed huff and calls out, “Babe, I’m taking the cat!”

So picture it: Steve in pastel joggers since it’s chilly outside and an old but well maintained Hawkins High Swim Team t-shirt that’s tight across his shoulders. He’s got his pristine white dad shoes and his socks pulled up. Ozzy’s running beside him as he pushes the stroller, and then he’s stopped by a woman a couple blocks over who wants to see the baby.

The baby is, of course, Joan with her little fangs sticking out and her shirt that says Cannibal Corpse.

#You know those posts about dog owners vs cat owners where the dog owner will give you this big description of their pet and cat owners are #like ‘this Linda she’s orange’#that’s Ozzy and Joan about Steve and Eddie #eddie munson tiktok saga #steve harrington #eddie munson #Ozzy the service dog #Joan the disservice cat

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vicsy · 1 month

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Daniel Ricciardo and tennis – a masterpost (of sorts).

To start things off, here is a video of Daniel playing tennis that I think about way too often, especially lately, with the recent paddle mania that took over the paddock.

A few things I could note here, apart from the fact that Daniel himself said that if it wasn't racing, he'd go pro in tennis:

old school-ish (european) one handed backhand which is actually rather solid! Daniel said many times that he is a big fan of Federer (a true goat) and Daniel's technique here is pretty much imitating Roger's smooth and satisfying backhand strokes.

it is just a couple of hits but ball placement court wise in not bad - all past the half court mark, down the line, then cross court and close to the baseline.

his movement on the court itself comes off a bit wonky in comparison to regular players but I do like how he attacks the short ball (even if he swings a bit too wide but it still works).

Some assortment of interesting facts:

Apart from his love for Roger Federer, Daniel was a big Andre Agassi fan.

In 2021 Daniel and Lando stayed up to watch British teenage tennis player Emma Raducanu (who is an avid F1 fan and her fave driver is Daniel) win the US Open, her maiden grand slam tournament. This was right before the win in Monza and McLaren 1-2.

In 2020, Daniel took inspiration for his "Equality" face mask from the four time grand slam winner Naomi Osaka and called her a "strong voice" (which she rightfully was). Lewis Hamilton also considered Naomi a great inspiration in raising awareness of several social issues.

When Daniel was a kid, he would smash his racquet if he lost (that's so real of him and i do that too):

Ricciardo is widely regarded as motorsport’s nice guy. But when does the mongrel come out? "I’m a born competitor. As a kid I was a sore loser. If it was a tennis match, I’d smash a racquet or something," he said, laughing. (source)

Once Daniel was playing with his cousin and apparent he got a little outplayed, so in retaliation Daniel hit his cousin point blank with a tennis ball (which hurts A LOT). His cousin cried and then Daniel's dad gave him "a clip across the ear". Daniel also talks about it in one of the Grill the Grid videos. (big thanks to @go-daniel for finding the article and the video to back this story up!)

Daniel is childhood friends with Marcus Stoinis (an Aussie cricketer) and they grew up together playing tennis, driving to Dunsborough south of Perth and they would play tennis together for the whole day, practically hogging the court. (via this post)

Now, to the photos!

Carlos and Daniel playing a tennis match in 2013. Daniel won 6-3 2-6 7-6. It's from Daniel's old twitter post.

Daniel and Jannik Sinner in Piatti Tennis Center in 2020. Jannik is an Italian darling and current world number 3 on the steady rise to the top (i love my carrot boy so much).

Daniel on court.

Daniel attending semifinals of Wimbledon 2021.

Daniel with Juan Martín del Potro during Miami 2023 Grand Prix. Del Potro, now retired, was a prominent tennis player from Argentina, a "gentle giant" and he is also a fan of Fernando Alonso.

Daniel with Matteo Berrettini (and Francesco Carrozzini in the middle), Italian tennis player, current world number 142, during Met Gala 2023 (the way i yelled when this photo dropped omg).

It is all I have managed to gather for now but I will update if I stumble upon something new.

#daniel ricciardo #f1 #dr3 #tennis #i have this classification of f1 drivers as tennis players in my head #and despite all the Roger Federer stuff to me #Daniel is Andy Murray... i think I could try and elaborate in this one day ahahaha #mclaren #atp #jannik sinner #matteo berrettini #daniel ricciardo primer #personally i think i can destroy Daniel at tennis GET ME ON THE SAME COURT WITH HIM #diving into the Daniel lore…….

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iridescentpull · 4 months

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I'm working on a full transcription for Fit & Pac's secret conversation during their date and I've already covered half of it. Here are some of my favorite bits! (the full transcription should come out tomorrow if everything goes well, so fingers crossed!)

Fit: Um, so… This is… So remember the day I told you, like, Agent 18 and Foolish?

Pac: Yeah, they are kinda like something? The man with the uplifted pants.

Fit: That was– that was a test to see if you could keep a secret and you passed– you CAN keep a secret, ‘cause I didn’t hear anything else from that from anyone else on the island. Um.. so..

Pac: Hmm.

Fit: So… If I tell you about this, promise you will not tell anyone?

Pac: *stutters* No– yeah, yeah, no– how can I say this? –uh, my mouth is a rock– no, that’s not the word, that’s not the slang, uh *sigh* I don’t know, sorry, but I won’t tell anyone, you know? T-That’s a secret I will keep for my life, you know? It’s gonna go with me in my coffin, you know? I’m gonna keep it– I’m sorry.

Fit: Okay… okay, ‘cause I want you to know once I tell you this, there’s no going back.

Pac: Really? But, like– this sounds like really bad stuff, like, really bad. Like, a super secret-secret I can’t tell anyone? I don’t know, that sounds… I’m scared

Fit: Me too.

Pac: O-Oh… Oh my God.

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

Fit: I was sent to Quesadilla Island for a very specific purpose, yes.

Pac: Which- Which purpose it is?

Fit: So I made a deal with someone that I would come to Quesadilla Island and obtain the player data of everyone here. And in return, I’d get paid a lot of money. But, I- I… since being on the island, though, I didn’t expect to get attached to anyone like, Ramon, or you… um, and my boss gave me one year to complete my mission of obtaining all of this player data, um

Pac: So… So you’re gonna leave… You’re gonna leave.

Fit: Well, here’s the thing, Pac– even if I complete the mission, I- I’m not leaving. Because… *stutters* I-I, I know Quesadilla Island is not exactly the best place in the world, like– we’re stuck here and the Federation are assholes but like, I care about the people on this island, like you, Ramon– we have all our friends like Mike, Philza, you know? Like– Tubbo. It’s just, I’m not planning on– even if I complete the mission, I’m not planning on leaving.

Pac: No, that’s– that’s good to hear, you know Fit? You are very important to me as well as Ramon, Richarlyson, Mike, all my family here; and it’s good to know that you got my back, and I also have yours for anything you need…. But *stutters* I’m also scared, like– you made a deal with someone else? Like, it’s not related to the Federation? And, like, why do you need to handle the player’s datas, like, what’s up with the player data? Are there some hidden secrets? And you also have to deliver my player data as well?

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

Pac: Yeah, uh-huh? That’s him? You’ve been working for the Naked Slenderman?

Fit: *laughs* No, no, no– he has a very similar appearance to that. He’s like all white, but like… it’s almost like he’s hiding what his true form is. Everything’s a secret with my boss, everything’s a secret

Pac: You are kinda like mysterious too… I noticed, you know? You don’t talk much about your life, or about your goals. So it’s really nice for me to hear that from you. You know what I’m trying to say?

Fit: No, I understand. Yeah, no– I appreciate that.

Pac: You kinda trust on me, so I think that this is really serious.

Fit: Thank you–

Pac: That is something that I will remember all my life, that you trust me.

Fit: *laughs* I’m glad Pac. But listen– when I, the reason I said that you to keep this a secret is… If the Federation finds out, they’ll kill me. If the Rebellion finds out, they’ll probably also kill me! So that’s why–

Pac: Oh my God the Rebellion!

Fit: It’s, yeah, so like- but–

Pac: Amiga!

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

Pac: Do you– Do you have my player data?

Fit: No. I think I–

Pac: W-Well, can I hand out to you– can I hand you my player data?

Fit: *laughs in disbelief* Well! Well that–

Pac: Can I? Fit: –that would certainly make it easier! But um… I think– I don’t know, my boss asked me for more than just that; the emotions of people, I don’t know what he meant by that, but like– how, how we react to things on the island. Like, all the things we go through, like– pain, our joy...

#fitpac #qsmp #qsmp transcriptions #qsmp fit #qsmp pac #pactw #fitmc #hideduo #aynee rambles

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